Page 28 of Damron (Bloody Scythes MC #1)

Chapter fifteen

Damron

Y ou never realize how much noise the world can make until someone brings war to your doorstep.

Suburban nights have their own breed of silence—a distant lawnmower, a barking dog, the slow wash of sprinklers on automatic timers.

At Carly’s temporary rental place, you could stand in the living room and hear the click of the fridge every hour, the whisper of central air through the registers, the faint hum of her campaign laptop left open on the kitchen counter.

The most dangerous thing in this neighborhood was a low cholesterol warning on the HOA newsletter.

So the first sign of trouble wasn’t the roar of motorcycles.

It was Nitro’s eyes, catching something in the glass door that nobody else did.

A red glare, then the vibration—just a hint, like a small earthquake starting in the bones.

He was already at the window, the radio pressed to his mouth, before anyone else was on their feet.

“They’re coming,” Nitro said. “Whole pack. Not ours.”

He didn’t have to explain. The Bloody Scythes in the house—all six of them—were instantly vertical, grabbing shotguns, carbines, even a fucking pool cue.

Augustine sprinted down the hall, yelling for the girls to bunker in the laundry room.

I took a second to check my pistol, racked a round, and glanced at Carly.

She was standing by the stairs, arms wrapped around her ribs, face pale but eyes dead steady.

“Basement,” I said. “Go.”

She shook her head. “You’ll need me. I know the house. I’ve stayed here before.”

“No arguments,” I growled.

“Thank you, Damron.”

“For?”

“Forgiveness.”

I shrugged. “To honor, love, and protect,” I said.

She nodded and checked the slide on her own piece—a tiny Sig that looked like a toy in her hands—and moved to the kitchen. I wanted to drag her by the hair, but there wasn’t time.

I joined Nitro at the window. “How many?”

He flicked the blinds, eyes hard. “A dozen bikes, three cars. They’re staging by the school playground. Full colors.”

The engines got louder, a rising wall of thunder that felt like it was coming up through the foundation.

I heard shouts, the sound of glass breaking, and then the world turned red-white as the first Molotov hit the front of the house.

The window by the entryway went up like a barbecue pit—fire everywhere, oily black smoke already roiling into the air.

Nitro kicked the coffee table over for cover.

I yelled for Augustine and the prospects to take the side windows.

Nitro dropped to a knee and started shooting through the mail slot, because Nitro never did subtle.

Bullets started tearing through the siding, shattering picture frames, chewing drywall into powder.

I caught a glimpse of the street: bikes parked like cavalry, headlights aimed at the house, shapes moving behind the flare.

I counted at least fifteen men in cuts, two with rifles, the rest with pistols and bats.

Someone tossed a flashbang through the busted living room window.

“Down!” I shouted. Nitro ducked behind the overturned table.

The grenade rolled into the middle of the room and went off, not with a Hollywood boom but a white-out crack that erased sound and light together.

My ears filled with sand and blood. I fumbled for the pistol, blinked until my vision reset, and crawled for the front hall.

More shots. Then the back door caved in, two Dire Straits bikers storming through with pistols up, faces painted in black stripes like football goons.

I put a bullet through the first guy’s eye, watched him jerk and spin.

The second fired wild, took out a cabinet and part of the refrigerator.

I crab-crawled forward, wrapped him by the knees, and tackled him onto the tile.

He was bigger than me, but not smarter. I drove my thumb into his windpipe, felt it collapse, and rolled off just as Augustine put two more rounds into his chest.

“Got the back!” Augustine screamed, voice already raw.

The kitchen filled with smoke. I staggered to my feet and saw Carly crouched by the island, gun shaking but pointed true. She was bleeding—a slice down her arm from flying glass—but she didn’t even blink.

“You okay?” I barked.

She nodded, then looked past me. “They’re coming around the side.”

I didn’t ask how she knew; her place, her rules.

I grabbed a shotgun from a dead man’s hand, racked a shell, and took position behind the stove.

The window over the sink shattered, a Molotov arcing in and splattering flames across the granite.

Carly ducked, dropped to her belly, and I fired through the window.

I heard a yell, then a gurgle. Another silhouette ran past, then dropped as Nitro, now outside, picked him off from the yard.

Nitro was an artist with a rifle. He never fired more than twice in the same spot, and he always aimed for the joints.

I saw him take out a guy’s knee at fifty yards, then calmly reload and wait for the next target.

I covered him as best I could, blasting away at anyone who got too close to the windows.

For five minutes, it was pure fucking chaos—gunfire, fire, the smell of burning insulation and the copper tang of blood.

Every few seconds, I yelled to check on the club.

Augustine was still up, moving between cover, herding the two prospects like a sheepdog.

Seneca was already wounded, dragging one leg, but he kept his shotgun tight and his head lower.

Then everything went quiet.

I pressed against the wall, breathing fire, and listened. The bike engines had died. No more shooting, just the crackle of flames and the sound of glass dropping out of window frames. I moved to the foyer, checked the hall. Carly was gone.

“Carly!” I bellowed.

Nothing.

I felt the dread then, the old cold beast in the gut.

I kicked through the debris, shouting her name, checking every room.

Smoke was filling the house, pouring through the vents, and the carpet was already on fire in three places.

I heard a scream from the upstairs, but it wasn’t hers—just a dying man from the other club, choking out his last. In the garage, I found the bodies.

Four Dire Straits, one still twitching. Nitro was there, blood on his face, a knife in his left hand and a pistol in the right.

“They got the girl,” he said, breathing hard. “Ghost himself. They went out the back, toward the school.”

“How many?” I said, already moving.

“Two, maybe three.”

I tossed him a nod. “Put out the fires. Or don’t. Nobody needs to remember this house.”

I sprinted through the backyard, past the burning pool shed and into the alley that ran behind the subdivision.

There was a trail—a bloody smear on the concrete, and a strip of torn fabric caught on a fence.

I followed it, lungs burning, feet pounding.

At the end of the alley, in the shadow of the school’s chain link, I saw Ghost. He was older than I remembered.

The years had thickened him, given him a gut and a limping gait, but his arms were still roped with muscle and his eyes were pure ice.

He had Carly by the wrist, dragging her toward a waiting van, the Dire Straits prospect covering them with a sawed-off.

“Let her go!” I yelled.

Ghost grinned. “You got the balls to say it, St. James. But I always knew you didn’t have the sack to finish.”

I raised my pistol, took a breath, and shot the prospect in the throat.

Ghost spun, using Carly as a shield, then hauled her behind the van.

I closed the distance in a dead run. Ghost fired at me through the van’s rear window, shattering it but missing by a mile.

I ducked left, hit the ground, and came up shooting.

The van was a shitshow—bullet holes, blood spray, the stench of sweat and panic.

I could hear Carly screaming now, raw and animal.

She was fighting him, biting, clawing, doing anything to get free.

I rounded the van, gun up. Ghost waited for me, crouched behind the rear tire, knife in one hand, pistol in the other.

“This ends now,” I said.

He smiled. “It ended a long time ago.”

He fired first. The bullet grazed my cheek, hot and sharp. I put two in his shoulder, but he didn’t drop. He lunged, swinging the knife. I blocked with my left arm, felt the blade cut to the bone, but kept my gun hand steady. I grabbed his wrist, twisted, and we went down together in a pile.

He was strong, but I was meaner. I headbutted him, shattering my own nose in the process, and rolled him onto his back. He kneed me in the ribs, hard enough to crack something, but I locked my arm around his throat and squeezed. The world went red, then black, then red again.

He fought. Of course he did. Old men like Ghost never quit.

He slammed his head back into my teeth, spat blood in my eye, and clawed at my bandaged arm until I thought I’d lose it.

But I didn’t let go. Not until his eyes rolled back and his limbs started to twitch.

Not until I heard Carly, somewhere behind me, scream my name like it was the last word on earth.

I staggered upright, swaying. Ghost was still.

I checked his pulse, found none, and stood over him for a second, breathing like I’d run a marathon through hell.

Carly ran to me, hands shaking, blood on her face and shirt. “You’re bleeding,” she said, voice barely a whisper.

I looked down. She was right—I was shot, stabbed, and probably concussed. I wiped my mouth and tasted copper.

“Get Nitro,” I said. “Tell him it’s done.”