Page 17 of Jagger’s Remorse (Iron Veins MC #1)

"Leaderless dogs bite harder," Squirrel counters. "They've got nothing left to lose."

"What about Sombra?" Scarlett asks. "Any movement from them?"

"Nothing concrete. But our contacts say they're shopping for local allies."

"Three Devils would be perfect for them," she muses. "Desperate, angry, familiar with our operations."

"Which is why we're tripling security," Squirrel concludes. "Questions?"

The prospects shift nervously.

One of them—Rocket, I think—raises his hand tentatively. "Where do you want us during the party?"

"Watching the back entrance," Digger assigns. "All three of you. Nobody gets in without going through the front."

They exchange glances. Something passes between them.

"Problem with that?" I ask.

"No, sir," Rocket says quickly. Too quickly. "Just want to do right by the club."

After the meeting, I pull Squirrel aside. "Those prospects are jumpy."

"Noticed that too." He lights a cigarette, takes a long drag. "But they came with good references. Prospected for the Denver chapter before transferring here."

"When?"

"About a month ago."

Right after we took out Butcher. The timing itches at me.

"I'll have Poncho dig deeper," Squirrel decides. "For tonight, we keep them where we can watch them."

The party's in full swing by ten.

The warehouse thrums with music, laughter, the clinking of beer bottles. Brothers and their old ladies fill the space, celebrating our success.

Scarlett's wearing my crow pendant and her new property cut over a black dress that ends mid-thigh.

Every time she moves, the leather shifts, showing glimpses of toned legs and the knife strapped to her thigh.

Every brother in the room notices.

Every old lady too.

She's currently on the makeshift dance floor with Mel and Tina, learning some line dance that involves a lot of hip swaying and laughing when she misses a step.

Hammer comments, appearing at my elbow with two beers. "Your woman's fitting in."

"Seems like."

"Never thought I'd see Raven teaching her to dance."

I follow his gaze.

Sure enough, Raven's correcting Scarlett's footwork, actually smiling when Scarlett deliberately fucks up the next step, throwing her arms up in frustration.

"People change," I say, accepting the beer.

"Or she's that good at manipulation."

I look at him sharply.

He holds up his hands. "Just saying. Girl went from prisoner to VP's old lady in record time. Some brothers are wondering."

"Let them wonder. Long as they keep it to wondering."

"Course." He takes a pull from his beer. "For what it's worth, I think she's good for you. Haven't seen you this... settled."

"Settled?"

"Happy, then. Whatever you want to call it. Not waking up in a cold sweat. Not drinking yourself to sleep. It's good to see."

Before I can respond, I notice the three prospects near the back exit again.

They've been huddled together for the last twenty minutes, throwing nervous glances around, checking their phones.

"You see that?" I ask Hammer.

"The prospects? Yeah. Been twitchy all night."

"Probably just nervous about their first big party," I rationalize, but my instincts are screaming.

"Maybe." Hammer doesn't sound convinced. "Want me to go check on them?"

"No. But keep eyes on?—"

The lights cut out.

Complete darkness swallows the warehouse.

For a heartbeat, there's confused laughter—someone thinking it's a prank.

Then the explosions.

The exits blow simultaneously, doors flying off hinges in showers of splinters and twisted metal.

The blast waves hit like punches, knocking people down, shattering windows.

Flash-bangs follow, blinding white light and concussive sound that turns the world into chaos.

My ears ring, vision spotted with afterimages, but I'm already moving.

"Scarlett!"

No response. Or maybe there is, and I can't hear it over the explosions and sudden eruption of gunfire.

In the strobing muzzle flashes, I see them pouring in.

Three Devils cuts. Sombra colors.

United in their hatred.

"Iron Veins! Time to pay for Butcher!" Someone screams.

Bodies slam into me—can't tell friend from foe in the dark.

I strike out, feel cartilage crunch under my fist. Someone screams. Not Scarlett.

I pull my Glock, fire at the muzzle flashes near the main entrance.

Return fire splits the air where I was standing a second ago.

Emergency lighting flickers on—dim red that makes everything look like a horror movie.

Bodies writhe on the floor. Blood looks black in the crimson light.

I scan the crowd, looking for her.

There—by the overturned pool table.

She's herding Raven, Mel, and Tina behind cover, standing between them and four attackers.

Blood already soaks her left shoulder—knife wound from the look of it, deep and ragged.

But she's still moving, still fighting.

One attacker lunges with a machete.

She sidesteps, catches his wrist, and redirects the momentum.

Using his own weight to flip him, driving her knee into his kidney as he goes down.

The machete clatters away.

She scoops it up, buries it in his neck without even hesitating.

Another comes at her with a crowbar.

She ducks under the swing, comes up inside his guard.

Her knife—where did that come from?—opens his femoral artery in one precise slash.

He drops, spraying arterial blood across the concrete.

But there are too many, and she's protecting the old ladies, limiting her mobility.

While she's engaged with two, a third circles behind, using the chaos as cover.

He raises a .45, aims at Raven with steady hands.

I'm too far away. Can't get a clear shot through the melee.

"No!" Scarlett must have eyes in the back of her head.

She spins, throwing herself between them.

The gun fires.

The sound cuts through everything else, sharp and final.

She jerks, staggers.

Blood blooms across her right shoulder, through and through from the look of it.

She's still standing, but barely.

Something primal roars to life in my chest.

Not rage. Something older, deeper.

The thing that lived in men before we learned to be civilized.

Before we learned to temper violence with mercy.

I move through the attackers like death itself.

Efficient. Brutal. No wasted motion.

A throat opens under my knife, spraying hot across my face.

A skull caves under my fist, brain matter and bone fragments painting the wall.

A spine snaps in my hands with a sound like wet kindling.

I don't use the gun—too impersonal. This requires touch. Requires them to see their death coming.

Later, Hammer will tell me he's never seen anything like it.

That I moved like something possessed.

That grown men backed away rather than face me.

That I smiled the whole time.

I don't remember most of it.

Just red haze and the need to reach her.

Just the feeling of bones breaking and the warmth of blood and the absolute certainty that anyone between me and Scarlett needs to die.

When I finally get to her, she's on her knees, one hand pressed to her shoulder, the other still holding her knife.

"Hey," she slurs, looking up at me with glassy eyes. "Ruined the party."

"You didn't ruin anything." I drop beside her, hands already assessing damage.

"The paperwork," she insists, swaying slightly. "The Nevada contracts. Are they safe?"

Of course, that's what she's worried about.

Not the bullet hole, not the chaos around us—the fucking contracts.

"They're fine. Stop talking."

"Bossy." She tries to smile but winces. "Always so bossy."

Raven appears at my shoulder, pressing a bar towel to Scarlett's shoulder.

Her hands shake slightly, and there's blood in her gray hair—not hers. "The crazy bitch saved my life," she says, voice shaking. "Took a bullet meant for me."

"Just returning the favor," Scarlett mumbles, listing sideways. "You gave me a dress."

"That's not the same thing, you psycho."

"Sure it is. Do you know how hard it is to find—" Her eyes roll back.

"Scarlett!"

"Move!" Doc pushes through, medical kit in hand. "Get her on the table."

I lift her, trying not to jostle the wounds.

She's too light, too pale.

Her blood runs between my fingers, hot and slick.

Around us, the fighting continues, but our brothers are rallying.

The surprise is wearing off, and I hear Poncho's roar, Hammer's war cry.

"Jagger!" Squirrel appears, blood splattered across his face, some his, most of it isn’t. "Three prospects are missing. The ones who were acting squirrely."

Rocket. Wharton. Quill.

The pieces click with sickening clarity.

"They let the fuckers in."

"Has to be. Disabled the alarms, probably opened the back entrance." His face is granite. "When I find them?—"

The promise in my voice makes him step back. "You won't. I will."

"Already on it. Joker and Mouse are tracking. Focus on your woman."

Doc works on Scarlett, hands steady despite everything going on around us.

I've seen him dig bullets out of brothers while under fire, but never seen him move this fast.

"Bullet went through clean," he reports. "But she's lost a lot of blood. The knife wound's deep, too. Nicked something important."

"Will she?—"

He looks between me and her. "She'll live. But she needs a hospital. I can’t handle this with what little supplies I have."

I shake my head, immediately shooting down the idea. "That’s too dangerous. They might have people waiting."

Doc is quiet for a minute, "Then I need supplies. Real supplies, not just field kit shit."

"Make a list. I'll get whatever you need."

There’s more gunfire outside.

The attackers are retreating, but slowly.

This wasn't just a hit—it was a statement.

We're vulnerable. We can be touched. Our women aren't safe.

"Poncho's got six down," someone reports. "More injured. They're pulling back."

"Let them go," I order. "Focus on our wounded."

But my eyes don't leave Scarlett.

She looks small on the table, surrounded by blood and broken glass.

Too still. Too quiet.

Raven hasn't left her side.

"She's tougher than she looks," Raven says quietly.

"I know."