CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The plane touched down at eleven that night.
I’d fallen asleep on top of Reese, which was comfortable and wonderful and probably more than I deserved, but I figured I’d take advantage while I could. He seemed to want me with him, and I even felt a slight stirring of hope at one point. Maybe I hadn’t killed everything between us when I pulled that trigger?
Then I wrestled my head out of my ass, because I couldn’t afford to let hope distract me.
Still, there was a noticeable change in attitude toward me after we got back from the hospital. Nobody had been at Em and Hunter’s place initially—apparently they’d cleared out in anticipation of a police raid.
A raid they’d expected because of me.
The combination of my silence and the fact that I’d saved Em had gone a long way toward rebuilding the club’s goodwill, and nobody bitched when Reese announced I’d be coming with. That meant everything, because if they found Jessica, I needed to be there for her. If they didn’t, I had other, less pleasant work ahead of me.
Now it was one a.m. and I was sitting in the dark. Waiting. We’d gone to a warehouse in the middle of bumf*ck San Diego, which was apparently very similar to regular San Diego, but with more shootings and gang activity. It’d taken quite a bit to convince Reese to let me join them for the actual attack—I think he’d planned for me to hang with the women at someone’s clubhouse or something.
F*ck that.
We’d compromised when I swore to stay outside in one of the vehicles (an anonymous-looking cargo van—something I was starting to think was MC standard issue) unless they called for me. Puck stayed, too. During the time we’d been stuck out here, he hadn’t said anything to me. Not. One. Word. I hunched down in the darkness, praying for something to happen. Anything.
I still wasn’t sure who our targets were or where the rest of the men had gone—we had about thirty in our group total, a mixture of Reapers, Silver Bastards, and some other club of locals who were apparently their allies. None of them wore their distinctive colors and everything was very hush-hush. All of them had ignored me completely, except for Puck, who radiated resentment at being stuck with babysitting duty.
Fair enough, because I was starting to resent his silent ass, too.
After what felt like hours, Puck’s phone vibrated. He answered it, grunted a few times, and hung up, turning to look at me with a frown marring his handsome features.
“They need me inside,” he said. “You’ll have to come, too—can’t leave you out here by yourself. Keep quiet and don’t say, do, or touch anything. Understand?”
I felt like telling him that he was young enough to be my son, and I wasn’t f*cking stupid. Instead I said, “I understand.”
Another grunt. Some day he really was going to have to learn some real words, I decided.
We stepped out of the van and started around the side of the building. Around the corner we found a door guarded by a man I didn’t recognize. He opened it for Puck silently, eyeing me with suspicion as I followed the prospect inside.
The warehouse surprised me.
I don’t know what I was expecting … Maybe some kind of big, open space with catwalks and spotlights, and an evil genius laughing maniacally in the background.
A hairless cat or two?
Instead, dim security lights showed an interior that looked less like a crime lord’s fortress and more like a Costco. There were long stacks of boxes and bins and pallets forming alleys, some of them piled nearly to the ceiling. A perfectly normal forklift was parked near the door. It didn’t even have a machine gun mounted on the roof or anything.
Puck pulled out his gun and started down the second row of pallets, which my active imagination immediately pointed out would operate like a cattle chute. You know, the long, narrow paths they use to guide animals to their deaths in slaughterhouses?
Not a happy thought.
He crept through the darkness and I followed him like a good girl. Then I tripped on my own shoelace, somehow doing an elaborate dance and shuffle to stay upright without making a sound.
When I was stable again, I dropped down into a crouch to fix the lace. Puck kept moving ahead, oblivious, and there was no way I could stop him without making a sound. Which was worse? Making noise or getting separated?
Making noise seemed more likely to get us killed.
Sucked to be screwing things up less than five minutes into the operation. Kneeling down gave me a whole new perspective on the situation—specifically a perspective low enough to see through a gap in the pallets that was only about two feet high, and maybe eighteen inches wide. On the other side of the gap I could just make out a … Oh shit. That was a body over there—not one of the bikers, he wasn’t wearing the right kind of clothes.
There was dark black crap puddled around him on the floor.
Blood?
Yeah. Had to be blood, and way more of it than had come out of Em. This guy was deader than dead, no question. Wow. This was really happening—London Armstrong from Coeur d’Alene, Idaho, was in the middle of a gang war and people were dying … I backed away, looking ahead to see that Puck had almost reached the end of the row, still clueless that we’d gotten separated. Wasn’t that just perfect? I’d just started rising to my feet when I heard the noise.
A snuffling, whimpering cry … High-pitched, like a child or maybe a young woman. My mom radar went on point, because I recognised that cry.
Jessica.
She was somewhere on the other side of these pallets, which meant I could either run to the end of the long row and go around, or I could try crawling through that narrow little gap. But running around would take time and possibly make noise … Not only that, if I caught up to Puck, he might not let me go look for Jess, not when he had an assignment of his own to accomplish.
I’d just have to crawl through.
The only downside was Mr. McDead over there, which I had to admit was a major strike against my plan. Then I heard Jessica whimpering again, and she sounded weaker this time—no more playing around. I dropped back down and started slithering my way through the gap. It wasn’t particularly fun or comfortable, but deadly raids against notorious cartels rarely are.
The first thing I discovered when I reached the other side was that Mr. McDead’s blood was still warm—something I figured out by accidentally putting my hand in it. I could smell it, too. Metallic, with a hint of sweetness. I started to wipe it on my shirt, and then stopped, because ewww. Wondering faintly if God would strike me for defiling the dead, I leaned down and carefully wiped my hand on his shirt.
My fingers brushed a hard lump.
I froze. There was something solid under his shirt, something that had fallen down toward his left side. Giving another quick glance down the row, I didn’t see anyone, so I tugged up his shirt to look.
It was a gun.
The whimper came again, and I looked around for the source. Along the wall stretched a series of doors. They were all shut, like they were offices that’d been locked up for the night … Except for one clearly marked as a bathroom—that door had been propped open. Was she in there, hiding?
I decided to check my new gun before going in, because I didn’t want to get caught out without any bullets this time. Oh-so-carefully, I let the little bullet holder-thingy slide out of the bottom. Yup. Full of bullets, all right. Then I pushed it back up and wrapped the bottom of my shirt around the whole thing, muffling the sound as I carefully cocked the weapon.
Now I was locked and loaded, ready to go rescue my little cousin like Lara Croft herself. All I needed was Angelina Jolie’s body and I’d be set. Make that Angelina Jolie’s money—then I could outsource the rescuing and screw Brad Pitt. I felt an inappropriate little laugh try to bubble its way out of my throat, which I swallowed down brutally. Too much tension rattling around in my head.
Stop making jokes and go rescue Jessica.
Okay, then. I took a centering breath, edging toward the bathroom door. The shattering crackle of gunfire suddenly echoed through the building, scaring the hell out of me. Men shouted in English and Spanish, followed by more shooting. I scuttled across the floor and through the bathroom door, into total darkness. Then I tugged the door shut behind me—it might not provide much in the way of a barrier, but it had to be better than hanging with a dead body right out in the open. Trailing my hand along the wall, I made my way deeper into the room, around a corner.
The gunfire died down outside.
Now I heard someone else breathing in the tiny room. Jessica? Murderous cartel thug? How the hell was I supposed to tell them apart in the darkness?
“Can you help me?” a voice whispered, and I nearly started crying because my mama instincts had been right—I’d found my girl and she was alive.
“Jess?”
Silence, then a sobbed attempt at speech. “Loni? Is that really you?”
“Yeah, baby, it’s me. I’m here to save you. You’ll be happy to hear I left the minivan home this time.”
More silence.
“Am I imagining this?”
“No, Jess. I’m real, but the warehouse is full of dead people and I touched one of them, so I think we should get the hell out now, okay?”
“They’ve got me handcuffed to the pipes,” she whispered. “I’m on a toilet, so I won’t make a mess.”
Jesus Christ. I suddenly wished Mr. McDead were still alive so I could kill him again—given his position outside, he’d probably been guarding her. I assumed the bikers had taken him out, but who knew? Whoever it was hadn’t found Jess, which was the only thing that mattered. Now I just needed to get her out of the cuffs, then sneak her out of the building without getting both of us killed.
Easy, right?
“Loni?”
“Still here,” I said quickly. Another round of gunfire filled the air—time to get her loose and out the door before someone came in here and started killing us.
Speak of the devil …
Footsteps thudded outside as someone ran down the long canyon between the wall and the pallets. Then the door banged open and bright white light flooded the bathroom, blinding me. Jessica screamed as shooting seemed to explode all over the building. I scuttled backward frantically, away from this new threat, more screams filling the air. Jessica’s, but also from men outside. Men in pain, or dying.
This shit was getting real.
My back hit a wall and I found myself under a sink, blinking rapidly as my eyes adjusted to the light. Not six feet from me, I saw a short, fat Hispanic man in an expensive-looking suit stop in front of the lone stall, gun in hand. His breath came heavy and he muttered to himself as he dug in his pockets for something.
Keys.
He opened the stall and I caught a glimpse of Jess for the first time—only a flash, but I saw dried blood and her jaw was swollen. She shrieked as he reached for her, and then I heard the clatter of what had to be him fighting to open the handcuffs. Jess kicked out and the key dropped, skittering across the floor to the far corner of the room.
“Leave me alone!” she yelled.
“Shut your mouth, cunt!” the man yelled back. Then he slapped her. Hard.
She shut up.
Outside the gunfire died off, but a new noise had started up. A shrill wailing that could only be a fire alarm.
Holy f*ck. I had to end this somehow or we were both going to die like rats.
The bastard lowered himself heavily to his knees, muttering curses under his breath as he hunted for the key. His motions were desperate, and I realized I wasn’t the only terrified one in here. Good. Nice to know the bad guys got scared, too. Maybe I could use that against him.
Jessica’s frantic eyes met mine over his back. Her face was bloodied and bruised, and she’d obviously lost some weight. More than she could afford. To make things even more wretched, her hands were fastened behind her, and they’d left her on the toilet with her pants around her ankles.
Shouts sounded outside, and a loud crashing noise. Like a body thrown against the wall?
The man muttered under his breath, his movements growing more frantic. I couldn’t figure out why he didn’t just run away—was he cornered in here? If that was the case, he needed Jess alive. A hostage was his best shot to get out, although whether the club would let him go to save Jess was very much in question …
He spotted the key under one of the urinals and backed out of the stall, scuttling across the floor toward it like an exceptionally large cockroach.
I smelled smoke. More shouting outside.
Floor Man ignored it all, absolutely determined to get that key and unlock Jessica. I had no idea who he was and I didn’t care. He had the key, which meant he was responsible for her being here and that was good enough for me.
Time to end this and get the hell out of here before we died.
I rose silently to my knees and aimed the gun, just like Disturbing Field Guy had taught me. Then I took a deep breath and pulled the trigger, the explosion shattering so loud in the tiny room that my ears started ringing. Jess screamed again as the bullet caught him in the side, knocking him back against the wall. His eyes found mine and widened in surprise. Then his hand started fumbling for something that’d crashed heavily to the tile next to him.
His gun?
F*ck that.
I shot him again, this time in the chest. Another shot, catching his arm. I started knee-walking across the floor, determined to grab that key and get Jessica out. God. He was still alive. His eyes blinked, and he held up a hand, as if he could stop me by sheer force of will. His mouth moved but I couldn’t make out the words through the ringing. Smoke started curling through the air above me, filtering through the air vent. We really, really needed to get out of here.
Time to end this a*shole.
Holding my gun with both hands, I shot him point-blank in the center of his forehead. Blood and brain spattered everything in the room, including me. I gagged, trying not to throw up. I didn’t slow down, though. I couldn’t afford to, not with smoke pouring into the room, half an army waiting to kill us, and Jessica chained to a f*cking toilet with her pants on the floor.
Time to find that key. Too bad it was wedged somewhere under Fatty McDeadf*ck.
His body was heavy and limp, but I managed to roll it toward me long enough to dig through the gore and find the little key that’d cost him his life. Then I was on my feet and unlocking Jessica. She was just standing up when the door burst open again.
I raised the gun, ready to shoot.
Reese.
His eyes widened, taking in everything. My blood-spattered face, Jessica peeking out of the stall … Fatty McDeadf*ck’s spattered brains.
“Holy shit,” he muttered. Huh. Guess my hearing was working again. Yup. More gunfire in the background, along with even louder wailing from the alarm, now that the door was open.
“Hi, Reese,” I said, smiling just a tad too brightly. “I found Jessica.”
Ruger came in behind him, followed by Horse and some bearded stranger I didn’t recognize. Suddenly the bathroom was way too crowded.
“That’s Gerardo Medina,” Beard Man said. “He’s dead … Holy hell. Who shot him?”
“I did,” I snapped, waving my gun for emphasis. They all froze, and I realized waving deadly weapons for emphasis while covered with blood and brain chunks probably wasn’t such a hot idea. This struck me as funny, but I managed not to laugh.
That’s when I realized perhaps I was losing my shit a little.
“Oops. Sorry.”
Reese let out a slow breath.
“Okay, give me the gun, babe,” he said, reaching out for it. I hesitated—what if I needed to defend Jessica again? My thoughts were racing way too fast, I couldn’t think. Reese considered me warily.
“I’m impressed as hell, London. You just killed the number two guy for the Santiago Cartel in the U.S., so job well done. But much as I respect your deadly instincts, I think we’ll all be safer if you hand that gun over.”
“I’m fine keeping it,” I said, narrowing my eyes to focus on his face. Damn. Why was everything moving so fast?
“Tell me right now how much ammunition you have left.”
“Why?”
“Because if you can’t answer the question, you got no business carrying that thing around.”
He made a good point.
I handed over the gun with the barrel pointed down carefully, startled by how hard it was to keep my balance. Then he was lifting me up and throwing me over his shoulder in a firefighter’s carry. He raced out the bathroom door, smoke surrounding us and the roar of guns growing louder. Something whacked my shoulder and my arm went numb.
“Loni!” Jess screamed behind me, and I raised my head to see Horse carrying her, dangling pants and all. Then I heard someone yell “F*ck!” really loud, followed by “Get the hell outta here!”
Reese pelted toward the end of the warehouse as the whole place seemed to burst into flames. Smoke burned my eyes, and I had no idea how he was getting enough air—I certainly wasn’t. Still, we barreled down the row of pallets like a herd of wild horses until I saw Puck waiting by the door we’d used to enter, waving at us frantically.
Then we were through it and out in the night air.
Reese tossed me into the back of a van and jumped on top of me, knocking the breath right out of my body. Horse and Jessica followed, and the vehicle took off, cargo doors swinging wide as we tore down the street. From my crumpled position on the floor, I saw a pillar of flame burst through the top of the warehouse roof. Then Horse caught hold of a tie-down mounted on the van’s wall and leaned out, grabbing the doors and slamming them shut.
There was a giant, roaring whoosh as something blew up, and the entire van rocked violently.
“People have got to stop blowing up buildings at me,” I muttered, trying not to giggle. Something was wrong here … Why wouldn’t my brain work? Felt like I was looking at everything through a film of honey. I tried to push Reese off, but my arm still wouldn’t work.
“I’ll look into it,” Reese muttered back at me.
“You do that.”
He pulled me close and squeezed me, which should’ve made me feel all warm and safe. Instead I didn’t feel anything at all. I knew I should be checking on Jessica, there was something important … but I was just so incredibly tired and weak.
I don’t remember anything after that.
The garbled noises that woke me sounded like someone speaking underwater.
This made sense, because I seemed to be floating. I just wasn’t quite sure how I was floating—or why—but I definitely wasn’t on solid ground.
Lovely …
“London?”
I tried to say “go away,” but it came out more like “gwo cay.”
Huh.
“London, can you hear me? Try and wake up, sweetheart.”
I shook my head, feeling a sharp twinge of pain. It cut through the floating sensation in a way I simply couldn’t approve of. I opened my eyes to try to find whoever was making my head hurt. Maybe if I bit them hard enough, they’d stop? But identifying the culprit wouldn’t be easy—apparently he’d filled my eyelids with sand, because they were all scratchy and dry.
“I’ve got news about Jess,” the voice said, catching my attention. Jessica. Memories started to come back. Oh, sheesh. We’d gone to California and I’d killed a man. But I’d found Jess—that part was important. Jessica was alive. Then another building had exploded. I blinked, trying to focus on the face above mine.
Reese.
“Hey,” I managed to croak out. “What happened?”
“You got shot in the arm and passed out,” he told me. I frowned. I didn’t remember getting shot. Shouldn’t I have noticed?
“How?”
“I’m assuming with a bullet,” he said, voice dry. I considered hitting him, but that would’ve involved raising my hand, which didn’t seem to be a realistic option at the moment.
“Why do I feel so weird?”
“Doc shot you up with painkillers. Probably a little more hard-core than you needed, but I didn’t want you hurting.”
Guess that explained the fog. I blinked some more, trying to clear it.
“What about Jess?” I finally managed to ask.
“She’s doin’ great,” Reese said. “They’ve done a CAT scan and the shunt is fine. Aside from the finger, the only other thing wrong with her is a little dehydration and some bruises. They want her to follow up with a plastic surgeon for the hand, but otherwise it’s all good. No sign of any seizures, either. She’s actually in a lot better shape than you—girl’s stronger than you thought.”
That was a relief. The ball of tension loosened in my chest, which was very curious. Up to that moment I hadn’t been able to feel my chest at all. Probably because of the drugs, which they’d given me because I got … attacked by a bullet? Oh yeah. Maybe I should ask Reese about that, now that I knew Jess was safe …
“When did I get shot?”
“In the warehouse,” he said. “Do you remember the man in the bathroom?”
I shuddered, wishing I could forget him—I had a feeling I’d be seeing those eyes blinking at me in my nightmares for the rest of my life.
“Yes.”
“We think it might’ve been a ricochet in there,” he said. “Either that or a random hit while we were running out of the building. It’s a graze along your arm, but you got lucky. Didn’t penetrate much past the outer layer of muscle—no nerve damage. You had so much other blood covering you that we didn’t even notice until you passed out on the floor of the van. Like Em all over again. Thought I’d have a f*ckin’ heart attack.”
I frowned. “Why didn’t I feel it?”
“Adrenaline. Happens more often than you’d think.”
I blinked at him, the world finally coming into focus. Reese looked tired, his eyes shadowed with dark circles, and I had a feeling I wasn’t looking too shit-hot myself. My head was starting to throb—felt like a Mack truck had rolled right over me. I looked around, trying to move as little as possible in the process. I seemed to be in a child’s bedroom. There was a kitten poster up on the wall and a pink canopy overhead.
“Where on earth are we?”
“At a friend’s house,” he told me, scooting his chair closer. “His club and the Reapers are allies, so when you needed a place to go, he offered. We’ve had a medic in to see you, and they stitched you up while you were out. Doc said you’ll be fine, gave you a shot of painkillers before he left. He’s a friend of the club, too—won’t report anything. Jessica’s situation is a little more complicated, because she needed more tests. Got her into a private clinic. They’ll keep their mouths shut so long as they get paid enough.”
I closed my eyes again, too tired to keep talking. The bed dipped and then Reese was lying next to me. It hurt to move, but I cuddled into his arms anyway. He made me feel safe and protected.
“One more thing I should mention,” he said.
“What’s that?”
“Looks like Jessica was raped. Repeatedly. She’ll need STD and pregnancy tests.”
I closed my eyes, because I couldn’t handle thinking about that just yet.
“She’ll need a lot more than that.”
He didn’t say anything, which I appreciated. Instead he rubbed my back softly, soothing me. Why, I have no idea. I didn’t deserve his kindness—not after what I’d done.
I drifted off, waking up again when someone opened the door and asked Reese something.
“No,” he answered quietly, although I hadn’t caught the question. You need to pull yourself together, figure out what happens next.
“Anything else I should know about?” I managed to whisper, the drug fog muffling me. He gave a humorlous laugh.
“Well, apparently someone hit five drug warehouses and eight safe houses belonging to the cartel last night. No idea yet about a body count, but the cops are sayin’ almost all the leadership was taken out nearly simultaneously. They’re tryin’ to figure out who might be behind it.”
“Did all of our guys make it out okay?”
“We lost three,” he said, his voice lowering. “One Reaper and two Devil’s Jacks. Nobody you knew. And here’s bad luck for you—the cops picked up Puck and Painter last night for speeding. Found some guns in the car, so now they’re lookin’ at a trafficking charge.”
“Shit. By ‘lost,’ do you mean … ?”
“Dead.”
“Who were they?” I asked, my voice a whisper.
“My brothers,” Reese said, his voice rough. “Even the Jacks—they earned it with their blood. Now isn’t the time for crying, though. Gotta get everyone home safe first. Then we’ll remember them.”
“What about Puck and Painter?”
“Lawyer’s on his way right now,” he replied. “But probably not lookin’ so good for either of them. Both have priors. You owe Puck, by the way. He’s the one who figured out where you were. Hadn’t been for him, we might not’ve found you in time.”
I frowned.
“Surprised he bothered. I don’t think he likes me very much.”
“Doesn’t matter how he feels about you,” Reese told me. “Protectin’ club property. That’s his job.”
I had no idea how to react to that statement, so I decided to pretend I hadn’t heard it.
“Overall it was a big win for us—it’ll take years for them to recover,” he continued. “The boss down in Mexico’s already been in touch, askin’ for a truce. They’ve agreed to stay south of San Francisco, at least for now, and leave the local clubs alone. In exchange, we gave ’em a little token of our appreciation.”
“What was that?”
“Evans.”
I stilled.
“I thought you said if Jess made it through you were going to let him go.”
“No, we told him if she survived, he’d survive, and he was definitely alive when we handed him over to the Santiagos. But only an idiot thinks he can double-cross the cartel and keep breathing long term. He was dead already, just didn’t know it yet.”
Scary as hell, but I had to agree. Nate had made his own bed, and I didn’t feel particularly sorry for him at all. I yawned. Between the drugs and the drama, I was exhausted.
Reese probably was, too … But I had one more question for him. An important one.
“What about me?” I asked, my voice a whisper.
“Not sure I follow.”
“Has the club decided what they’re going to do about me?” I repeated, the words slurring. “Now that it’s all over. I’m really sorry. I know I keep saying that and it doesn’t change anything, but it’s true. What I did was wrong—you always tried to help me, and even after I stabbed you in the back, you still saved Jessica. I know you don’t trust me and you probably don’t believe me, but I’d do anything for you, Reese. For the club, too. I can’t ever thank you enough for rescuing my baby girl …”
“Babe, I think it’s safe to say you’re fine with the club,” he replied, and I heard a touch of humor in his voice. “You saved Em’s life, lied to the cops to protect us, and then killed Gerardo Medina—all in twenty-four hours. That’s impressive, honey. You know how many people have tried to take his ass out? Not only that, we all sorta got off on you kneecapping Deputy Dickhead. Don’t sweat it, okay? F*ck, Heather tried to kill me at least three times over the years. We’ll get through this.”
“I don’t think I understand bikers.”
“That’s okay, babe. You’ll figure it out.”