For the briefest of moments, Ian's eyes meet mine in the rearview mirror. He knows more than he's telling, but we don't have time for me to grill him, so I let him keep his secrets. Usually when Ian doesn't want to tell me something it's because either his father or brother are off doing something I'll disapprove of. In this case, he's right to be tight-lipped. If I had my way, Jim would be laid up in that damn hospital bed still.
Ian turns the corner off the street and down the empty road toward the entrance to the docks. We all have our guns in hand and safeties off. Mindy's in position to open the doors when Ian stops. We went over this, so I refuse to be nervous. My family is to descend on theirs, never taking our eyes off them. Since we know basically nothing about where we are or what's about to go down, that's the extent of our grand rescue plan. We've worked with less in the past, and that was with fewer people. It's not much, but it's something to keep me steady.
"Get ready." Ian's hard voice carries through the van. He starts to say something about how we women are backup and not front line, but the deafening sound of a gun blast masks his words. We all jump, terrified but at the ready. When Ian brings the van to a stop, Mindy flings the doors open, and we all pour out almost at once. My hands shake as I survey the scene before me. No more than fifteen feet from the entrance, I stand struck with horror.
The warehouse has a large pull-down steel door that's rolled up right now, exposing the interior to the outside. I creep up toward it, my family at my sides.
The bikes come to a screeching halt around me, and before I know it, Wyatt's blocking my view, telling me to stand down. I don't listen, though, because he husband and my son are in there. Voices scream at us, some in English and others in Italian. I back off Wyatt and take it in. There can't be more than ten or eleven of Mancuso's men in the room. They're standing in a line, facing us, guns out. In the center, in front of them, is Duke, bound and gagged to a metal folding chair. But that's not what sends a chill down my spine. It's the sight of a man with a gun to Ryan's head. Jim stands behind the man, a pistol in hand, pointing it at the guy's head.
We get closer, telling Mancuso's men to stand down. Not surprisingly, they don't. Negotiations continue, with Michael taking lead. The man with the gun on Ryan won't listen to reason, citing his loyalty to Carlo. I fall back, behind Michael this time, not knowing what to do, but trusting in the club to make it better. Nobody is standing down. But then the man with the gun on Ryan sets it all in motion. He cocks his gun, the barrel pressed into my son's head.
"No!" Jim shouts. He fires off a shot, hitting the man between his shoulder blades. Jim's wearing a pair of blue hospital scrubs with no shoes, and he stand uneasily on his bare feet. The thrust of the shot knocks the wind out of him, and he fights to suck in air. The man in front of him stumbles backward into my husband, and they both sink to the ground in a hard crash. My feet take off for my man, but Michael pulls me back, holding me in his suit-clad arms.
"Let me go," I plea. A guttural scream emanates from my lungs as I kick at my youngest son. I should stop fighting, but I can't stop myself. I should do a lot of things, and all I can do is scream and cry.
"We got this. It's okay," Michael says.
When I finally calm down enough to see what's happening around us, I suck in a deep breath and watch as all the pieces fall into place. Our senior ranking club members have Mancuso's men dropping their weapons and going back to their single file line. Torque frees Duke from his restraints. The prospects and old ladies are keeping watch on the warehouse's entrances and exits. A veritable wall of people now separates Jim from the Italians. Ryan's moved into action and pulls the man who attacked Jim off of him. In his right hand, he holds a small knife. It and his hand are both covered in blood. And in this moment I know. It's not his, but Jim's.
My man lays motionless on the concrete floor. Ryan hovers over him, holding his head up with one hand and trying to make him more comfortable with the other. With the Italians under control, Ian puts his gun away and crouches beside his father. It's all so surreal. Mindy, Alex, and Holly stand with their backs to Jim as directed by Grady. I've seen this before. This is similar to what they did when Chief was shot.
But Chief died.
As if finally catching on that this is really happening, my body responds to my desperate need to be with my man. I shove my way past Diesel and Elle, who stand in front of Jim, trying to tell me that I don't want to see him like this. But of course I do. I drop to the pavement and pull him into my arms just like I did the night before. I don't even look for the wound this time. Ryan's already got something to soak up the leaking blood and keep pressure on it. That bastard hit him in a near identical place to where Mike stabbed him last night. Fuck.
"Don't worry, momma," Jim says, his words slow and slurred. "He just grazed me."
"I know, baby." I won't fight with him in this moment even though I can see that it's anything but just a graze.