Page 8 of Damron (Bloody Scythes MC #1)
Chapter six
Carly
Y ou ever see a thousand people sweating under the New Mexico sun for a taste of hope?
Looks a lot like a cattle auction, but with better suits and shittier music.
I always hated the smell of crowds—too much sunblock and entitlement, like they’re allergic to consequence.
But it was my job to soak it in, stand at the podium in my best navy suit, and pretend the future was something we could engineer instead of something that ran over you in the dark.
The city planners said the Santa Fe plaza could hold fifteen hundred, maybe two thousand if you let people press in like sardines.
We got three thousand, counting the lazy press up in the tree shade and the wannabe protesters with signs made from recycled Amazon boxes.
I did a quick scan from the riser, noting the positions—cops, security, three campaign interns already wilted from the heat, a small army of donors trying not to look bored.
The state flag flapped behind me like a nervous tick.
The opposition sent a plant, some undergrad in a fake mustache and a bucket hat who kept shouting “Money Whore” in a cracked voice.
The real whore was his education, but that’s a conversation for another day.
I gripped the podium, leaning in until the first row could see my pupils.
“—and let’s be clear. If the corporate lobby thinks they can buy my vote, they’d better come at me with more than a lunch invite and a six-figure check.
I didn’t survive three years of city council, and a divorce from the meanest bastard in Los Alamos, just to fold now. ”
The crowd howled. They loved it when I played up the ex-husband thing.
The local news always cut that soundbite for the 6 o’clock.
Everyone not in an outlaw motorcycle club hated the bastards.
A fly landed on the mic, then thought better of it and zipped off, smart as hell for a fly.
I took a slow breath and tried not to picture myself as a target.
Not that it mattered. Some mornings I’d look in the mirror and the only thing looking back was the crosshairs.
I kept the speech tight, all offense and no mercy, just the way I liked it.
My campaign manager, who still thought “optics” was a noun and not a religion, did a subtle throat-cutting gesture from stage left.
That meant: wrap up, donors are wilting, we can’t afford to pay overtime for the paramedics.
I ignored him. The crowd was peaking, and you don’t bail when you’re winning.
“In conclusion,” I said, which is a lie politicians use to wake up the narcoleptic.
“You want someone who’ll sell you a happy lie, go talk to my opponent.
But if you want someone who’ll claw through hell for this state and drag every single one of you with her, well, you know where to find me.
” They erupted, a big dumb animal of approval.
I let it wash over me and did the thing where you look grateful but slightly exhausted, a balancing act I could do in my sleep.
And then the shot rang out.
It was just a little louder than a car backfiring, but I’d grown up around enough bad neighborhoods to know the difference.
The sharp, clean crack rolled through the plaza, and I felt the bullet’s wake before I heard the whine of metal—the sound of a stage rig’s support pole catching the round that would have been my left eye.
A shower of splinters and paint flakes dusted my shoulder like cheap confetti.
Everything froze for a half-second. The crowd didn’t get it at first. They never do.
All these years of digital violence, nobody expects the real thing to bleed.
I locked my knees and stared into the chaos, eyes scanning for the shooter even as my heart thrashed in my chest like a rabbit in a snare.
Security detail swarmed, earpieces popping with frantic code.
Two big bodies slammed into me from both sides, nearly knocking the wind out of my lungs.
I tried to twist, but one of them—Tatum, I think—had my arm pinned and then they hustled me down the back ramp, heads ducked low.
But I wasn’t about to give whoever pulled that trigger the satisfaction of seeing me scuttled away like a scared rodent.
“Let go,” I hissed, digging my heels into the wood slats of the temporary stage. “Let. Go.”
Tatum gave me a look that said, in plain cop English, “Jesus fucking Christ, lady.” I returned it with one that said, “I survived my ex. Your little scare tactics are cute.”
The second bodyguard—Moreno, all jawline and tactical gel—looked to the campaign manager, who had gone full pale and was gesturing at the car waiting behind the bandstand. He then threw up on his shiny black shoes.
“No,” I said, voice loud enough to carry. “I’m not done.”
The crowd had finally realized what happened.
Panic is an ugly thing, and it spreads faster than any virus.
People shrieked, running for cover, phones out, live-streaming their own fear for the world to see.
The security perimeter dissolved like sugar in coffee.
My staff was nowhere, just a blur of ties and sensible heels.
I stepped back to the podium, even as Tatum kept a death grip on my forearm. The mic was still hot.
“You missed!” I shouted, and for a brief second the animal panic stuttered, like maybe I was bulletproof after all. “Let me finish.”
The two men hesitated, then realized that even their paychecks couldn’t overcome my stubbornness.
They flanked me, scanning the crowd with tight little head jerks, but they didn’t try to pull me again.
I cleared my throat. The quaver in my voice was real, and I hated myself for it, but if you want to lead, you have to bleed where people can see.
“Like I was saying,” I said, voice steadying by the syllable. “You can scare the city council. You can scare the old guard. But you will not scare me.”
Somewhere out there, a camera caught my face. I made sure to give it my best fuck-you smile.
“For those of you still here—” I gestured to the handful of diehards and press who’d ducked behind the first row of chairs, “—thank you. I hope you’ll stick around for the Q my knees went after my first term, same as my illusions.
I pulled the blackout curtains, sat on the window ledge, and watched the street below.
Cop cars with flashing blue lights cordoned off half the block, a layer cake of city, state, and feds all trying to out-badass each other.
I wondered which one had the shooter in the backseat, if any of them did.
More likely, he’d vanished back into the dust, a ghost with a cheap rifle and nothing left to lose.