Page 44

Diesel

Bullets rip through the clubhouse walls like they're made of paper; they shred wood and shatter glass, and a crystalline rain of pain spreads in a torrent through the clubhouse. Molly and the other civilians dive behind the bar, taking shelter behind the thick, polished hardwood. I dive behind a table just as the front window explodes inward and jagged shards erupt. Pain sears through my side, but I ignore it. I hold my gun tight and a single image in my mind — an image of death, of putting as many bullets from my gun into the heads and hearts of Moretti’s men.

"Take cover!" I bellow over the deafening gunfire. "Hold the fucking line!"

Hunter and Tank are already returning fire, their guns blazing as they crouch low behind overturned tables. Bishop scrambles across the floor and takes up position behind a support pillar, his face a mask of concentration as he lines up his shots, like the cautious son of a bitch he is. Chains and Havoc come barreling out from the back room, shotguns in hand. They dive behind the pool table and start blasting away, the boom of their shots joining the cacophony.

I pop up from behind cover and squeeze off a few rounds, for the muzzle flashes in the parking lot. A scream tells me I hit my mark, but there's no time to celebrate. The barrage of incoming fire is relentless and with each second, the walls disintegrate more until they resemble a morbid honeycomb.

"Goddamn Moretti," Tank snarls as he reloads. "Fucker brought a small army!"

"And look who's leading the charge," Hunter shouts to me. "That ugly piece of shit look familiar? It’s Dominic fucking Rossi."

I risk a glance out the window and my blood burns. Hunter’s right — striding across the parking lot, gun held in a loose grip, smile on his ugly fucking face — is Moretti’s righthand man: Dominic Rossi. The son of a bitch who got his fucking rocks off beating the shit out of me while I was their hostage.

“He’s mine,” I call out. “I want that motherfucker’s head.”

I see Hunter grab Molly's arm and yell something in her ear over the deafening gunfire. She nods and sprints toward the back, shotgun in hand. Hunter lays down suppressing fire as Molly reaches the hallway and waves the other women over. Valeria, Claire, Eden, Julia, Stacy and the rest make a mad dash through the flying bullets and splintering wood. Molly blasts her shotgun at the front windows, giving them cover. One by one, they disappear into the back rooms to relative safety.

But Alessia stays put, hunkered down behind the bar.

Her face changes, darkens, sets into an icy steel. She pulls an engraved silver revolver from her thigh holster and checks the cylinder. Hunter yells at her to get to the back, but she just shakes her head, jaw set with determination. With a muttered curse, Hunter takes up a defensive position in front of the hallway entrance, guarding the way to the women.

And then it's just us against the flood of Moretti's army.

Bullets ping off the pool table, chipping away at the wood. Chains grunts as a round grazes his arm but keeps firing. Havoc pops up to take a shot and a bullet whizzes by his head, missing by less than an inch. He drops back down with a curse.

We're putting up a hell of a fight, but they keep coming, pouring through the shattered front of the clubhouse like a swarm of fucking locusts. For every one we drop, three more take his place. Bullets are chewing up every inch of the main room now. It's only a matter of time before they flank us. Over the din, I hear Rossi barking orders to his men, directing their fire. The sadistic fuck is enjoying every fucking second.

Something cracks the table I’m sheltering behind and a splinter of wood slices across the skin behind my ear. I reach up, feel blood, in exactly the spot of my old tattoo commemorating Brandy. Fuck .

Not as if it matters.

I don’t need any fucking remembrance for her — I’ll be seeing her soon enough in the afterlife.

"Pin them down!" Rossi shouts. "I want them all dead!"

The hail of gunfire intensifies and several of Moretti's men advance through the front, using overturned tables as shields, their sheer numbers pushing us down, suppressing us. Bishop grunts as a bullet catches him in the shoulder and spins him around. He slumps against the pillar, blood seeping between his fingers as he tries to staunch the wound.

"Bishop's hit!" I yell.

"I'm alright," he growls through gritted teeth. "Just a scratch. A fucking flesh wound."

A barrage of bullets shatters a mirror behind the bar and glass rains upon Alessia. She ducks and shields her face. When she rises again, there's a determined glint in her eyes. In one fluid motion, she vaults over the bar, and her twin revolvers blaze as she charges forward.

"Alessia, no!" I shout, but she's a whirlwind of gunfire and fury, spinning and firing with deadly precision. Two of Moretti's men go down, center mass shots, before the others even realize she's there.

But it's a suicide run.

There's too many of them.

Bullets rip into her — one in the shoulder, another in the hip, another in the leg — she jerks like a marionette with clipped strings, blood sprays, and she hits the ground, hard.

“Hunter, Diesel.” It’s Tank’s voice. I turn and see him, blood streaming down his face from a gash on his forehead. He gives me a nod, as if to say it's been a hell of a ride. I nod back, my throat tight.

This is it.

I check the ammo, steady my grip on my gun, and whisper a prayer. “See you soon, Brandy. I’ve missed you.”

Then the sound of roaring motorcycles cuts through the gunfire, and grows louder with each passing second. I risk a glance toward the shattered, gaping cavities in the front of the bar that used to be the windows and my heart leaps; Rabid and the rest of the MC pour into the parking lot, their engines smoking, their guns drawn.

Chains whoops and fires his shotgun, a dead shot catching one of Moretti’s men in the face, cleaving half his head in two. "The cavalry has arrived, motherfuckers!"

Our brothers dismount and charge, organized death taking Moretti’s men from behind. Mayhem is first through the door, submachine gun blazing, his face twisted in a snarl. Rabid and Goldie are right behind him, firing as they advance. Ranger and Tractor storm in from the side entrance while Bones and Hammer crash through the shattered front windows.

The tide turns in an instant as our reinforcements slam into Moretti's men from behind. The fuckers are caught in a crossfire now, bullets coming from every direction. They fall back, trying to take cover, but there's nowhere to hide.

A scream cuts through the roar of combat as Goldie spots Alessia lying motionless on the floor, blood pooling beneath her. He goes berserk. With an anguished howl, he throws down his gun and launches himself at the two nearest Moretti soldiers. He grabs one by the throat and snaps his neck with a savage twist. The other swings his rifle butt at Goldie's head, but Goldie ducks under it and drives his fist into the man's face, shattering his nose. Goldie hammers blow after blow into him until the man goes limp, then batters him further, turning the man into nothing more than battered meat.

I see an opening and I'm moving before I even realize it, vaulting over my shattered cover and charging straight for Dominic Rossi. He sees me coming and swings his gun around, but I'm faster. I slam into him like a freight train, driving my shoulder into his gut. We hit the ground hard; the impact forcing the air from his lungs in an explosive exhale.

I'm on him in an instant, straddling his chest, snarling with rage. I rain blows down on his face, left then right, putting all my weight behind each punch. His nose shatters beneath my knuckles; his busted teeth slice into my skin; his eyes spin in their sockets and his exhales leave his broken mouth in bloody clouds. Still, I don't stop. I can't stop. This is the man who tortured me, the monster who took sick pleasure in my pain, the motherfucker who deserves to die at my hands.

Rossi bucks beneath me in an attempt to throw me off, but I clamp my thighs tight around his torso. He flails for his dropped gun, but I kick it away and it skitters across the floor like a fleeing cockroach.

"You're fucking dead," I growl as I wrap my hands around his throat. I squeeze with all my strength. His windpipe compresses beneath my fingers, and his eyes bulge. His face turns purple as he scrabbles frantically at my wrists.

I lean down, bring my face close to his, and I smile.

A bullet whizzes by my ear, so close I feel its heat, and I look up to see one of Moretti's soldiers taking aim. There’s a crack.

I flinch.

And he falls, dead.

Hunter’s voice brings me back to reality. “I always got your fucking back, brother.”

In that moment, Rossi surges beneath me and bucks me off. He whirls and slams a fist into my face, then follows with a kick that turns my vision black.

I stagger, slump, limp.

Another blow sends me to my knees.

Rossi looms over me, fist cocked back for a killing blow. I brace myself, determined to stare the fucker in the eyes as he ends me.

But the blow never comes.

A roar of pure fury cuts through the air, and suddenly Tank is there. He slams into Rossi like a raging bull and they hit the ground in a tangle of limbs, grappling and trading blows. Tank takes a hard punch to the jaw but shakes it off like it's nothing, his eyes blazing with a ferocity I've never seen before. He hammers his fists into Rossi's face, one after the other, grunting with the effort, laughing with the joy of having at his mercy the man who hurt the people he cares about the most: his family, his brothers. Rossi tries to block, to shove Tank off, but Tank is relentless, merciless, unstoppable.

"You fucking piece of shit," Tank snarls. He punctuates each word with a bone-shattering punch that ricochets Rossi’s head off the floor. "You tortured my brothers! You threatened my fucking family!"

Rossi's face is a ruined mess and blood pours from his shattered nose and his gaping, ruined mouth in a thick deluge. His eyes are swollen shut, nothing more than bleeding, spongy sockets. But still, Tank doesn't let up. He straddles Rossi's chest and rains down blows with brutal intensity.

Rossi makes a gurgling sound and his struggles weaken.

"Who—" Rossi croaks.

Tank leans in close, his eyes hard as flint. His voice is cold and remorseless.

"I'm the thing you’re going to see before you go to hell."

With that, Tank delivers one final, crushing blow that wrenches the sickening crunch of bone from Rossi’s limp, bleeding body, and the monster’s head falls back, lolling at an unnatural angle.

Tank rises to his feet, chest heaving, knuckles dripping crimson. He meets my gaze and gives a curt nod. It's over.

“Thank you,” I gasp.

“My pleasure,” he says.

Around us, the tide of the battle has turned. Moretti's men are faltering, overwhelmed by the unexpected reinforcements. The sound of gunfire dies out as the last few attackers are driven back or cut down. We've won. Against all odds, we held the line. The clubhouse is in ruins, riddled with bullet holes and soaked in blood, but it's still standing.

As I struggle to my feet, pain lancing through my body, I survey the aftermath. Broken glass and splintered wood litter the floor, and the air is thick with the acrid scent of gunpowder and the coppery tang of blood.

Then my eyes land on Goldie. He kneels beside Alessia, cradling her limp form, his shoulders shaking with silent sobs, blood seeping from several deep, wicked wounds in his chest, his back, his abdomen. Bishop is beside him, face grim as he frantically works upon Alessia’s injuries while blood seeps openly from his shoulder.

We won.

This is what victory feels like — bloody, painful, empty.

But as I look around at the carnage, at the price we paid, I feel only an ache in my chest, a growing void. Samantha's face flashes through my mind, her soft smile, her warm eyes. She's gone. Everything that truly mattered, I've lost.

Hunter places a hand on my shoulder and pulls me from my bleak thoughts.

"We survived, brother. I know there’s a lot going through your head right now, but don’t lose sight of that. We survived, and as long as we’re alive, we’ve got a reason to hope."

I nod. I don’t trust myself to speak past the lump in my throat.

"Diesel?" Tank’s brow furrows with concern. "You alright?"

“No.”

“No? What can I do, brother?” He says.

I swallow. Fuck, it hurts. “There’s someone I need to find.”

“Moretti? We’ll find him soon enough.”

That’s not the name I’m thinking of. But to speak the truth about who I really want to find is too hopeful for a man like me. I don’t get hope. I don’t get love.

The best I get is revenge.

“Yeah. Moretti. I’m going to find him and kill him.”