Page 23 of Viking (Dixie Reapers MC #24)

Sticks and Flicker responded immediately, laying down suppressive fire toward the unseen shooter.

But in their haste to cover Lincoln, they exposed themselves too much.

The next burst of gunfire caught them both -- Sticks took a round to the shoulder, spinning him back against the wall with a pained grunt.

Flicker went down clutching his thigh, blood seeping between his fingers.

I reached Lincoln first, dragging him behind the meager cover of the tire stack.

His eyes were open but unfocused, blood bubbling from his lips with each labored breath.

Twenty years old. Just joined us last month.

The knowledge sat like lead in my gut as I pressed my hand to the wound in his chest, feeling the wetness pulse between my fingers.

“Stay with me, kid,” I urged, but I knew it was no use. The bullet had caught him center mass, probably tore through his heart. Nothing to be done.

Lincoln’s hand found my wrist, his grip surprisingly strong. “Did I… did I do good?” he asked, blood staining his teeth.

“You did good,” I lied again, because what else could I say to a dying boy? “Real good.”

His eyes fixed on something beyond me, beyond the compound, beyond this world. The grip on my wrist slackened. And just like that, Lincoln was gone.

A cold fury replaced the hot rage I’d felt earlier.

I eased Lincoln’s body to the ground, then turned to assess the situation.

Sticks had managed to drag himself and Flicker behind better cover.

Blood soaked the sleeve of Sticks’s shirt, but he was still conscious, still firing his weapon one-handed toward the shooter’s position.

“Tank!” I shouted across the compound. “East side, need suppression!”

Tank didn’t hesitate, directing three brothers to shift their fire. I used the opportunity to dash to Sticks and Flicker’s position.

“How bad?” I asked, quickly checking Flicker’s leg. The bullet had torn through the meat of his thigh, missing the artery by an inch.

“I’ll live,” Flicker grunted, his face pale but determined. “Until Pepper sees me. Then I may die by her hand.”

Sticks nodded toward his shoulder. “Through and through. Hurts like a motherfucker, but I’m good.”

“Stay put,” I ordered, then keyed my radio. “Wire, status?”

“Two vehicles mobile, heading out,” Wire said. “Three attackers confirmed retreating on foot through the east woods. In addition to the twelve we’d spotted in the SUVs, it looks like they had nearly a dozen more on foot.”

“Let them run,” I decided. “Focus on securing the perimeter and tending the wounded.”

The gunfire had already begun to taper off as the attackers withdrew. Within minutes, an eerie quiet fell over the compound, broken only by the groans of the injured and the barked commands of brothers organizing the aftermath. The battle was over. We’d held our ground.

I moved through the chaos with mechanical efficiency, directing brothers to secure the perimeter, check for any remaining threats, gather the wounded.

Doc, our medic and newest patched member, was already working on the more seriously injured, his hands steady despite the carnage around him.

The dead -- both ours and theirs -- would wait.

“You all right, Doc?” I asked, as I drew closer to him.

He gave a brief nod. “Nothing I haven’t seen before.”

He’d come to us from Birmingham and a club that was now long gone. When he’d approached and asked to prospect, Savior had immediately put in a vote to patch him in as the club medic, and it had been a unanimous decision.

When I was certain the immediate danger had passed, I returned to where Lincoln lay.

Someone had covered his face with his Prospect cut, the leather bearing our colors a fitting shroud for a brother who’d died defending them.

I knelt beside him, gently pulling the covering back to look at his face one last time.

He looked younger in death, the hard edges of trying to prove himself softened into an almost peaceful expression.

“I’m sorry, kid,” I murmured, closing his eyelids with my thumb. “You deserved better than this.”

I replaced the cut over his face, then stood, my body suddenly heavy with the weight of command, of responsibility, of loss.

Around me, brothers moved with the subdued efficiency that follows battle -- checking weapons, treating wounds, securing prisoners.

We’d won, but victory tasted like ash in my mouth.

There would be time later for grief, for vengeance, for sorting through what we’d learned about Operation Ghostwalk and the men who’d come for Kris’s family. But right now, there was only one place I needed to be.

I crossed the compound at a jog, ignoring the pain in my side where a boot had connected with my ribs, the sting of split knuckles, the bone-deep exhaustion that threatened to overtake me now that the adrenaline was fading.

My house looked untouched from the outside, the barricaded windows and multiple locks having done their job.

The key trembled in my hand as I unlocked the door, then used a trick only I knew to shove aside the security bar Karoline had put in place. Inside, the house was dark and silent. For one horrible moment, I feared I’d find it empty, that somehow they’d been taken despite our defense.

“Karoline?” I called, my voice rougher than I’d intended.

No answer. I moved down the hallway, checking rooms as I went, heart pounding harder than it had during the firefight. The bathroom door was closed. I tried the handle. Locked.

“Karoline, it’s me,” I said, forcing my voice to gentle despite the fear clutching at my throat. “It’s over. You’re safe.”

I heard movement inside, then the click of the lock disengaging.

The door opened slowly to reveal Karoline, her face pale and tear-streaked, Athena clutched against her chest. For a long moment, we simply stared at each other, the reality of survival sinking in.

Then Athena reached for me, one small hand extending from the safety of Karoline’s arms.

“Viking,” she said, her voice small but clear.

Something broke inside me at the sound of my name on her lips.

I stepped forward, gathering them both into my arms, feeling Karoline’s body shudder against mine as she finally allowed herself to release the fear she’d been holding at bay for Athena’s sake.

The child wedged herself between us, one arm around my neck, the other still clutching her stuffed rabbit.

“You’re hurt,” Karoline whispered, her fingers hovering over the cut on my cheek, the blood on my shirt.

“Not mine, mostly,” I assured her, though it wasn’t entirely true. “We stopped them. They’re gone.”

“For good?” she asked, her eyes searching mine for the truth.

I couldn’t lie to her, not now, not after everything. “No. But we’ve bought time. Time to figure out what Kris found, what they’re so afraid of.” I tightened my hold on them both. “Time for us.”

Athena’s small hand patted my cheek, drawing my attention. Her solemn eyes studied me with that unnerving perception that made her seem older than her years.

“Stay,” she said, just that one word, but it carried the weight of a question, a hope, a fear.

“Yes,” I promised, meeting first her gaze, then Karoline’s. “I’m staying. We’re all staying. Together.”

Karoline’s eyes filled with fresh tears, but there was something else there too -- determination, strength, and something that mirrored what I felt in my own chest.

“Together,” she echoed, and in that single word, I heard the answer to the question I’d asked in the hallway before the world exploded around us.

I held them both tighter, my family found in the aftermath of violence and finally allowed myself to breathe.