Page 30 of Ruin (Hell’s Mayhem MC: Maine Chapter #2)
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Kolton
Another week passes before the Iron Runners strike.
They’re smart about it; coming to the bar late into the night when we’re drunk and ready for bed.
It’s rare for me to stay here so late because I don’t like hanging around these guys more than I have to, and I haven’t stayed late since Anastacia has been with me, but something told me to stay tonight. A gut feeling. I’m glad I listened.
They bust in through both doors at the same time.
Every girl in the place, except Trudy, screams their lungs out and runs for the hills.
One girl catches a bullet to the head, which causes the others to scream louder, as if that’s going to make anything better.
The brain matter is going to be a bitch to clean up—thank fuck we have a prospect to do that shit now.
If he makes it out of this alive, that is.
I saw him somewhere a little bit ago, but I don’t know where he wound up.
Hopefully not with a bullet in his head .
Guns aren’t our thing—they’re for weak men.
It’s why we don’t deal in them, and why half of us don’t want to.
It takes barely any talent to shoot someone a few feet away.
A bit of aim, a little pressure on the trigger, and bang.
That’s it. But to beat someone to a pulp with a bat, or your fists?
That’s talent. That’s strength. That’s not what pussies choose.
However, only a dumb man would take a bat to a gunfight, which is why we have guns hidden around the place—in case of a situation like this.
We all dive toward the closest one, yanking open drawers or ducking under tables to pull them from the tape holding them in place.
I was sitting at the end of the bar, as I usually do, so I duck around it and grab the gun taped to the side of the small fridge that’s beneath the bar top.
Trudy is grabbing the one under the sink.
I’m thankful it turned out my finger was only dislocated. It healed well, and I was able to take off the makeshift splint this morning. Hell, even if it were still on my finger, I’d tear it off so I could shoot right.
A few shots go off, and I can’t tell who’s guns they are, but I peek around the corner and catch an Iron Runner in my line of view, so I take aim and fire, getting him right in the throat.
Blood spurts from his neck, his hand coming up to grasp it but it does nothing to stop it.
I got him right in the carotid; he’ll be dead in seconds.
I pop back around the bar to take cover, and find Rhino back here now .
“How many?” I ask.
“Saw four.”
Two more shots go off, and I jump up, aiming and scanning the room.
I spot a dickhead that doesn’t belong here and shoot.
He moves at the very last second, but I don’t miss.
His nose explodes off his face, and he jerks backward, gun falling to the ground as his hands come up.
He trips on a chair, going down when someone else gets off a round that hits him right in the chest.
I drop back down, glancing at Rhino. “There are four now,” I tell him.
He nods. “Maybe more coming in. I’ll go to the back.
” Rhino crawls toward the back door. An Iron Runner rounds the bar, jerking around to aim at Rhino when he spots him, but I get him first, right in the gut.
Rhino gets one in next, right between the eyes.
He gets to his feet and runs through the door that leads to the hallway and out back.
That door is supposed to be locked at all times, and there’s no handle on the outside. So how the fuck did they get in? Especially so quietly.
There’s a gunshot, a thud, a snap and a yelp. Bet that was Shark breaking a bone. He likes to do that. He, too, got his name for biting someone. Runs in the family, I guess.
“All clear!” Ghost yells, and I get to my feet, both hands trained on the gun—just in case we missed one or more come in .
Spam has one of the guys in a chokehold, Bullseye and Tank standing in front of them like two well-trained Rottweilers.
If Coyote were here, he’d handle this interrogation, but since he isn’t, my brother, the VP, will take over. I look around the room, wondering where the fuck he is, when he walks out from the hallway with a meat cleaver in hand, Rhino trailing behind him.
“Crowbar got them into the back door,” Rhino says. “It’ll need replacing.”
And a deadbolt. Maybe two.
Shark walks toward Spam and the Iron Runner who’s still in a hold. He picks up a bar stool on his way and drops it in front of them when he gets there.
“Grab his arm,” he demands.
Bullseye doesn’t hesitate to grab the guy’s arm, slamming it on the stool and holding it in place.
Shark looks at me and says, “Tourniquet.” He turns his attention to Spam, and without a word, he loosens his grip.
Then he gives the Iron prick all of his attention and says, “I’m not going to ask why the fuck you’re here.
Quite frankly, I don’t give a fuck. What I am going to do is leave you with a reminder of why you don’t fuck with the Hell’s Mayhem.
” He rears the cleaver back and brings it down on the guy’s wrist, cutting his hand clean off.
It falls to the floor with a low thud. The guy screams. Blood puddles out.
His eyes roll to the back of his head, and he passes out .
“Better hurry up,” Shark snaps at me, just as he walks out the front door.
I spot the belt on the prick’s jeans, go over and yank it off before getting it on his arm to stop the bleeding. I don’t know how I became the closest thing to a doctor in this club. Being smart fucking blows.