Page 45

Diesel

I grit my teeth against the world-shaking pain in my abdomen as I step outside the clubhouse. The fresh night air fills my lungs, but it does little to calm my frayed nerves. Despite the ringing in my ears from the gunfire, I can still hear Rabid barking orders inside, his voice rough with fury and urgency. There’s a sudden shout, and I turn to see Goldie collapse on the floor beside Alessia as his body gives way beneath the weight of his injuries and his wounded heart.

Shaking my head, I continue forward. I’m no medic. There’s nothing I can do for them.

After a few moments, Hunter and Tank join me and take up guard posts on the property, their old soldier instincts take over as their eyes constantly scan the dark tree line at the edge of the property, alert for either a second wave of attackers or curious neighbors. I limp over to join them, and suck several more deep breaths of the cold air to steady myself. We need to stay sharp. The last thing we need right now is some Good Samaritan deciding to investigate the sound of automatic weapons-fire.

"See anything?" I ask when I reach them, already knowing the answer. They both shake their heads, but the tension that radiates off them speaks volumes. They expect the worst. And I don’t blame them — after all that I’ve been through in the last few hours, I expect the worst, too.

Inside, I can hear Havoc and Mayhem cracking jokes as they haul the bodies of Moretti's men to the back one by one. They’re going on about something about bringing out the dead, like in that old movie. I roll my eyes. Leave it to those two to find humor in this shit storm.

"Shut the hell up!" Chains yells at them. "This ain't the time for that bullshit!"

“Humor is a perfectly valid coping mechanism,” Havoc says. “My therapist says so.”

“If they steal our laughter from us, what the fuck do we have left? Don’t let the evil win, Chains,” Mayhem adds. “And besides, you have to respect the way he processes all this. Mental health matters, man.”

Rabid’s voice rises in a roar. “There’s a fucking time and place. Focus up and practice your fucking comedy routine after you take care of the dead.”

I shake my head and turn back to my brother’s. The prez is right. We need to stay focused. Even way out here, miles from town, where people know and mind their own business, someone could've heard the gunfight and some idiot could’ve gotten it into his head to call the cops to check into the commotion. The last thing we need is someone in a uniform showing up while we’ve got a clubhouse full of dead men and bullet holes.

“Nothing but trees and darkness,” Tank says. “Along with blood and spent casings. You know, there’s a part of me that loves it. Reminds me of one of my favorite cabins to get away to. It’s a therapeutic place. You could scream and scream and no one would ever hear you.”

“You’re fucking weird, you know that?” Hunter says.

“I am who I am,” Tank says. “How you holding up, Diesel?”

“Aside from the bullet wounds, bruised everything, and major blood loss?” I say, then I pause for a second. “It all fucking hurts and the only fucking bit of solace I can take from this shit is at least Dominic Rossi is dead. Thanks for that, Tank.”

“My pleasure.”

“How the fuck did you get shot, anyway?” Hunter says.

He says it blasé, as if asking me how my favorite team did last night. Which doesn't surprise me — he's seen me wounded about the same number of times he's seen me naked, which is a damn fucking lot. Not that he's some pervert; we served together, the shower facilities in the military are dire, and you learn not to be some shrinking violet, because having clean junk is more important than keeping some guy who doesn't give a shit about your private bits from seeing your cock. Hell, some guys made a game of it. Several games, actually — one was 'Whack a mole' and another one was 'the Leaning Tower.’ In both cases, moles and towers, the words were code for cocks. We weren't very bright. Still aren’t.

“Some woman and some druggie in a hunk of junk car shot him,” Tank says.

“Some woman?” Hunter says.

“Samantha,” I reply. “She left me, her brother shot me.”

“Oh fuck, I’m sorry, Diesel,” Hunter says.

“Who’s Samantha?” Tank says.

Hunter coughs uncomfortably, then, after giving me a long look and receiving a nod in reply, he says, “Someone special. She was Diesel’s ol’ lady.”

A long, long pause ensues, where Tank simply stares at me in mute stupefaction.

“Fucking hell, I’m so sorry, brother,” Tank says. Then he gives me the gentlest hug I’ve ever received. I cough and swallow as I fight back the bodily pain in order to stay in this hug. Damn, it feels good to know that I have my brothers around me, and that, as much as I fucking hurt, at least I’m not completely alone.

The crunch of gravel under tires splits us apart and I turn to see a police cruiser roll up slowly, its headlights bright and its siren lights dark. The driver's side door opens and a familiar figure steps out—Officer Maya Alvarado. Her expression is serious but not hostile as she approaches us cautiously, one hand resting on the butt of her gun.

"Evening, boys," she says, her eyes darting between us, taking in the blood and the bullet holes. "What happened here?"

Hunter steps forward and places himself subtly between me and the cop.

"Nothing to worry about, Officer. Just a minor accident and a little horseplay. We've got it under control."

Alvarado's eyes narrow as they land on me and take in my battered and bloody state.

"Diesel, you alright? Looks like you could use a hospital."

I force a grin. "I'm good, Officer. Nothing a few stitches and a bottle of Jack can't fix."

She doesn't look convinced. Her gaze sweeps over the property again before settling back on Hunter. "Anything I need to know about? Anything that could... spread to the greater town?"

She's not wrong to worry — the war between the Moretti and the MC is far from over, and won’t be over until I’m holding that motherfucker’s bleeding, severed head in my bare hands.

But she definitely doesn’t need to know that.

I shake my head at Officer Alvarado. She studies us for a long moment, her dark eyes probing, searching for any cracks in our facade. But we've been playing this game for a long time. We know how to keep our mouths shut and our faces blank.

Finally, she sighs and shakes her head.

"Alright, listen up. I'm going to call this in as some late night target practice that got a little out of hand. You boys are going to get a ticket for excessive noise, and you'll have to pay the fine at the courthouse. But that's a hell of a lot better than the alternative, you hear me?"

"Yes, ma'am," Hunter says. "We appreciate you working with us on this."

Officer Alvarado snorts. "Don't appreciate me too much. You're just lucky I was the first on scene. A few minutes later and you could've had half the department out here." She pauses, her brow furrowing. "Actually, I was on my way back from a nasty wreck out on the Interstate. Some beat-up old Sebring wrapped itself around a tree. It was an ugly situation. You boys know anything about that? The timing sure as hell seems suspicious to me."

My heart seizes in my chest. A Sebring — Jake's car. Samantha .

I swallow hard, fight to keep my voice steady. "Any casualties?"

Alvarado nods grimly. "Young male, DOA. Took a tree branch straight through the chest. Nasty way to go. But the weird thing is, witnesses reported there was a young woman, too.”

A wave of nausea crashes over me at her words. Jake is dead. After everything, the little prick got what he deserved. But Samantha... my throat tightens as I force myself to ask the next question.

"What about the woman?” I say.

“She was wounded, too. Badly. By the time we arrived on scene, she was nowhere to be found. Wandered off into the woods, from the looks of it. I hope she’s okay. There are some officers searching for her, but I can’t tell you the odds they’ll locate her.”

Alive. Samantha is alive. At least for now. I need to find her before Moretti's crew does, before she gets herself into even more trouble.

She needs me.

“Diesel, where are you going?” Hunter’s words tail me as I jump on my bike, fire up the engine, and roar off into the night without a word to the others. My mind races as I speed towards the accident scene, scanning the dark roads for any sign of Samantha. Panic floods my chest, overriding the searing pain from my wounds and the exhaustion weighing down my bones. She has to be out there somewhere. She has to be alive. I have to find her.

In minutes, I reach the twisted wreckage of Jake's Sebring, the tree still impaled through the windshield. I pull over and dismount and scream Samantha's name into the quiet woods.

"Samantha! Where are you?"

My voice echoes back to me, mocking. I stagger into the trees, branches whipping my face, my stitched-up wound stretching against its confines, coating my abdomen with a fresh layer of blood. But I barely feel it. All I want is to find her.

I search for what feels like hours, circling the area, calling for her until my voice goes hoarse. But there's no response. No sign of her. The fear of losing her forever tightens around my throat like a noose, and every passing minute weakens me, but I can't give up. I won't.

The roar of motorcycles makes me spin around. I watch as Tank and Hunter pull up and park next to my bike. They climb off and approach me slowly, their expressions heavy with concern.

"Diesel..." Tank begins gently. "She's gone, brother. You need to accept that.”

“Shut the fuck up and help me search.”

Tank opens his mouth to say something more, but Hunter gives him a heavy look.

“We’ll help you,” Hunter says.

Hunter and Tank fan out, joining my frantic search through the dark woods. We call Samantha's name until our voices go raw, but the only response is the rustle of leaves and the distant cry of a lone coyote.

As the hours drag on, despair settles like a lead weight in my chest. She can't have just vanished. Not Samantha. Not my tough, stubborn girl. If she was out here, she would have heard us by now. She would have called back. Unless...

Unless…

I shake my head violently. I refuse to let that thought take root. She's alive. She has to be. I'll search all fucking night if I have to.

But as the eastern sky lightens with the first pale fingers of dawn, even I have to admit defeat. Tank and Hunter find me slumped against a tree, my head in my hands, blood slick down my chest and seeping through my cut.

"Diesel," Hunter says quietly. He crouches down beside me and puts an arm around my shoulders. "We've looked everywhere. There's no sign of her."

"He's right," Tank adds, his usually gruff voice uncharacteristically gentle. "You need to let her go, brother. She's gone."

I shake my head, ignore the burning in my eyes.

"No. She's out here. She has to be. I can't... I won't lose her again."

But even as the words leave my mouth, a cold, hard knot forms in the pit of my stomach. It aches of the truth. We've looked everywhere. Combed every inch of these woods. And still no Samantha. No sign that she even made it out of that wreck alive.

Tank puts a heavy hand on my shoulder. "Brother, I know this is hard. But you've got to face reality. If she was here, we would've found her by now. She's gone."

"He's right, Diesel," Hunter says quietly. "I know you love her, but sometimes... sometimes you have to let go. For your own sake."

I shrug off Tank's hand and stalk away, pacing like a caged animal. They don't understand. They can't. Samantha is the only light in my dark, fucked up world. Without her, I'm just... empty. A shell of a man with nothing left to lose.

Less than that.

I’m a man who had it all and lost it all, twice.

I stare out into the darkness. I should've protected her from Jake, from Moretti, from all the evil shit in this world. But I failed. And now she's paid the price.

And I will pay it, too. For the rest of my fucking life.

Hunter pulls me to my feet and leads me toward the road. “Let’s go, brother.”

"I'm sorry, Samantha," I whisper into the dark. "I'm so fucking sorry."