Page 43

Diesel

“Easy, brother. Let's get you inside."

Dull, heavy words barely pierce the thickening red haze surrounding my brain. I nod. Maybe.

The clubhouse doors slam shut behind us as Tank hauls me across the threshold, with his big hands locked in a tight grip under my arms. My head lolls to the side while the room spins in a bloody blur, like an out-of-control circus ride. Throbbing pain radiates from the bullet wound, and hot sticky blood soaks through my cut.

"Diesel. What the hell happened?" Bishop's voice cuts through the fog as he rushes over. I try to focus on his face, but it swims in and out of view. I’m grateful for that — he’s an ugly son of a bitch and looking at him would probably push me over the edge into oblivion. Hell, death would be a fucking mercy.

Tank grunts as he drags me over to one of the leather couches.

"Fucker got himself shot. You the doc?"

“Oh, he got himself shot? Tell me something that isn’t fucking obvious.”

“I ain’t telling you any more shit unless you’re the ranking officer here. Are you?”

“Tank, you asshole, Bishop’s fine.” Hunter’s voice pierces my consciousness and I stir, looking for my friend. I see a faded outline that might be him storming toward us. “Get that fucking stick out of your paranoid ass, you son of a bitch. What the fuck happened to Diesel? Was it Moretti’s men?”

“No, it was some woman and some druggie in a beat-up Sebring.”

The mention of Samantha sends a fresh wave of pain lancing through my chest that has nothing to do with the bullet hole. I groan.

“A fucking Sebring?” Hunter says. “God damn. Hold on, Diesel. There’s no fucking way you’re allowed to die because of some asshole in a fucking Sebring.”

“Samantha,” I murmur.

“That the woman’s name?” Tank says.

“Might be. What’d she look like, Tank?” Hunter says.

“Pretty. Kind eyes. Chestnut hair. Like she might like Nancy Meyers,” Tank says. “Meaning not Diesel’s type at all.”

“That’s her,” Hunter says.

“Samantha…” I murmur again. I steady one hand on the ground and try to prop myself up.

“Shut your mouth and hold still, Diesel,” Bishop murmurs. He kneels down next to me and starts cutting away my shirt to get at the wound. "Jesus, Diesel. You're damn lucky, you know that? Looks like it went clean through, missed anything vital. Although with the risks you keep taking, your luck is bound to run out soon. So stop getting fucking shot, you asshole."

The pain threatens to drag me under, but Tank's voice cuts through, hard as steel.

"Watch your fucking mouth, doc. Diesel may be an asshole, but he's our asshole. Everything he does, he does out of loyalty and love for his fucking family. You'd do well to remember that."

Bishop pauses in his ministrations and slowly rises to face Tank.

"Who the hell are you to lecture me on loyalty? I've patched up more bullet holes for this club than you've had hot dinners."

Tank towers over Bishop, his massive frame practically vibrating with rage. "Name's Tank. I'm the one who dragged Diesel's bleeding ass in here to your ungrateful backside. And I’ll be the one who beats some sense into your thick skull if you don’t show some goddamn respect."

"Easy, Tank," I rasp out between labored breaths. "Bishop, relax. Tank’s alright... known him... a long time. He's just... stressed is all. Cut him some slack."

"Tank's with us, Bishop," Hunter chimes in, placing a hand on Tank's boulder-like shoulder. "We go way back with him. Served with him for years. We can vouch for him."

Bishop glowers at Tank a moment longer before returning his attention to my wound, not bothering to hide his irritation. His anger finds its way into each time he threads the needle and cinches the stitches in my side. "Fine. A friend of Diesel's is a friend of the club's, even if he is a fucking asshole."

Tank crosses his arms, his jaw working as he stares Bishop down.

After a dismissive snort, Bishop resumes his work and continues to probe and prod and tend my wound. I shiver as I realize that the man has spent an exorbitant amount of time with his digits inside me. All sound fades to white noise beneath the pulsing throb from my bullet wound.

But then another sound pierces through the haze—a phone ringing behind the bar.

I turn my head slowly, painfully, to see Molly standing frozen, the phone pressed to her ear. Even through my fading vision, I can see the color drain from her face. Something's wrong. Very wrong.

She hangs up the phone abruptly, her hand shaking as she sets it down. When she turns to face us, her mouth is wide, her eyes wider.

"We need to call Rabid and the others back right now," she says, her voice quavering. "Wherever they’re going, it's a trap. The clubhouse is the target. Moretti and his men are on the way here right now."

The words hit me like a sledgehammer. Moretti. Coming here. To our sanctuary. Our home.

Bishop and Tank stop arguing instantly, their heads snapping toward Molly.

"What?" Bishop barks. "What the fuck are you talking about?"

"There’s no time to fucking explain, you pigheaded bastard," Molly says. "You need to listen to me: call Rabid now and we all need to get ready, or else we are going to die."

“Give me something for the pain. Give me some fucking adrenaline. Now,” I say, grabbing Bishop by the arm. The club’s worst fucking enemy is coming and I refuse to die splayed out on my ass after being finger-fucked in the abdomen by Bishop. “Do it.”

Bishop jabs a needle into my arm and icy fire courses through my veins. A jolt of energy hits me like a thunderbolt, momentarily dispelling the pain and fog.

I grit my teeth and force myself upright, my legs shaky, but they hold.

Tank grabs my arm to steady me. "You sure you're good for this, brother?" His eyes bore into mine, assessing.

"No fucking clue, but I have to be. This is my fucking family.”

Bishop is already on the phone, his earlier argument with Tank forgotten in the face of this new threat. "Rabid, it's Bishop. You need to get your ass back to the clubhouse now. Moretti is on his way here. It's a fucking setup."

Rabid's curses radiate from the other end of the line. Bishop's face is grim as he listens, his free hand clenching and unclenching at his side. The air in the clubhouse has turned thick and heavy, like a gathering storm. Molly moves behind the bar with quick, efficient movements, pulling out guns and ammo. Hunter helps her distribute the weapons, his jaw set in a hard line.

Tank takes up a position by the window, peering out into the gathering dusk.

"How long we got?" he asks, his voice a low rumble.

“She didn’t fucking say,” Molly says.

That word. She . Fire runs through my veins and I throw a weighty glance at Molly. She answers with a shake of her head — now is not the time.

Anger and adrenaline war inside me. Samantha. The thought sends a fresh wave of pain and betrayal lancing through me until I shake my head and slap myself across the face. I can't think about that now, can’t think about her. I have to focus on the threat bearing down on us, the danger to my club, my family.

Bishop hangs up the phone, his face ashen.

"Rabid and the others are on their way, but they're across town. It'll take them at least 20 minutes to get here."

"Fuck," Hunter spits out. "We might not have that long.” He pauses, his head cocked. “You hear that?"

My eyes go to the window, searching, while vibrations rattle glasses and herald the cavalcade of fucking vehicles — cars, trucks — that approach at high speed and peel into the parking lot of The Noble Fir. My heart hammers against my ribs as I raise my gun. This is it. Our worst enemy is at our doorstep, and we will either emerge victorious or die defending what's ours. There is no middle ground.

One by one, they encircle the building; one by one, windows roll down, and the muzzles of weapons emerge. There’s just enough time for me to yell, “Get down!”

Then all hell breaks loose.