“I’ve heard about you, Dirk, but you don’t know shit about me. So, let me enlighten you on something. I don’t just tuck my tail between my legs and run. Regardless of what y’all think, Sinner’s Creed don’t run shit. Now, why don’t you turn around and walk outta here, before your little brother over there has to spend the next few weeks spoon-feeding you.”
I’m ready to put his head through the pool table when I’m caught off guard by Shady’s commotion. When I see him make a dramatic scene trying to get over to me, I know his sarcastic, smart-ass, goofy fucking tactics are fixing to have us brawling. And I can’t fucking wait.
“Dirk! Dirk!” Shady is serious as fuck, pushing his way through the crowd toward me. He’s made a huge circle through all of them, shouting my name and mumbling excuse mes like he is trying to prevent me from doing something stupid.
“One minute,” he mouths to the SA, who looks just as confused as everyone else. Shady grabs my arm and turns me so that my back is to the group. I fight hard not to push him away, but I know there is an underlying meaning to his ridiculous fucking behavior.
“Six are packing heat, others just knives and wrenches. Dude in the back, far left, has a couple of broken beer bottles. I don’t know about SA, couldn’t get my hands on ’em. I got one in the chamber, ten in the clip and a .380 on my ankle.”
He pauses long enough to look at me, and the excitement dancing in his eyes has me smirking for the first time in days. “If it turns into a gunfight, I can get us out the door, but we gotta leave on foot. That’s plan A.” He looks back and I glance over my shoulder, watching as he holds his finger up before turning back around.
“Plan B, we leave alive and come back later. Do it the smart way where the odds aren’t so against us. Your call, brother. I’m down for whatever.” And he is.
If there was a shoot-out tonight, chances were two of the bodies on the floor would be ours. I’d let my personal shit interfere with my club life, and now a brother’s life was at risk. So was my club. If a war broke out between Sinner’s Creed and Death Mob, Dorian would come knocking on our door. We couldn’t afford the heat with the Underground. I couldn’t disrespect my patch. I couldn’t shame my club. And I couldn’t bury Shady with his blood on my hands.
“Plan B,” I say, and no sooner than the words are outta my mouth, the SA is talking. By the time he speaks the first word, I know our plans are about to change.
“Saylor Samson. Maybe you should just run on home to her. From what I hear, she needs you right about now. She sure is sweet too. She tastes just like oranges.”
I’m still turning around when Shady makes his first move and puts a bullet right between the eyes of the SA. Guns are drawn and shots are fired in a matter of seconds. I duck behind the jukebox, using it as my shield as Shady finds cover behind the pool table across from me.
When I hear the first click of an empty clip, I nod and Shady fires over his head while I stick mine out and focus on the remaining targets. I pump two shots into one of them while Shady’s reckless aim, used only for a distraction, drops three and has the remaining diving for cover. He keeps shooting while I reload, then stand, exposing myself, dropping two more while making my way to where Shady is.
The sound of Velcro while Shady unstraps the gun from his ankle is the only noise in the room. I only have a few rounds left, but I slide out the clip and push it back, making it sound like a full reload.
“Ready?” I ask Shady, my hushed word barely audible over the pounding of my heart in my ears.
“Yeah.”
I nod and we stand together, guns drawn, and face a room with several sets of hands in the air.
“Stand up,” I command, and they do without hesitation. They look like they are ready to die, their chins held high in the air with pride written on their faces. Shady scans the bodies on the floor, looking for signs of life and not finding any. I see legs moving behind a table and jerk my head for Shady to check it out.
“Gut shot. He might live.” For the first time, I realize the president and vice president are not here. And four of the five standing are Prospects. I look around the room and find that almost all the bodies on the floor are wearing brand-new patches. Their leather isn’t worn, their threads aren’t dirty, and none of their faces match the ones from the other night—other than the SA.
“What’s his rank?” I ask Shady, who pushes the man to his side despite his painful cries.
“Patch holder.”
“What’s his chances?” I hear the man yell in protest as Shady checks him out.
“Aw shit, he’s good. Lost some blood, but it didn’t hit nothing important. You want me to finish him?” Shady’s nonchalance shouldn’t be comforting, but it is.