My brothers nod.
“You feeling good, Trigger?”
“I’m good.”
“How fuckin’ good, ’cause I need you to bring your inner fuckin’ psycho, brother.”
A slow, rictus grin spreads across his face, making him look every bit the psychopathic little shit I want in the shadows. “Oh, he’s here.”
“Good.” I glance at my other boys. “We take the guns, coke too if we can get it, but I don’t want anyone riddled with bullets for a little powder. Got it?”
“Yep,” Tank says.
The others nod.
I point to Killer. “You, stay close to the van. If it all turns to shit, I want a fast getaway.”
“You got it, Prez,” Killer says.
“Alright, let’s fuck up some Russians, boys.”
Everyone piles in the van. It’s a tight squeeze with how big Tank, Raphe, and the rest of my boys are, and someone’s AK-47 is digging into my arse, but we make it work.
Killer throws the van into gear, fanging it down the drive and through the chain-link gate. Tyres squeal against the concrete and the scent of burning rubber fills the van as he turns the vehicle and reverses it through the corrugated iron doors. We all lose our footing, but recover fast enough to throw open the van doors and start shooting motherfuckers left, right and centre. A stray bullet hits a bag of coke and white dust billows over the workers.
One by one we file out, take aim, and fire. Bodies fall. We spread wide. The acrid stench of gunpowder, chemicals, and blood fills the room. I take shelter behind a palette and aim at Ryzhanov. His bodyguard throws himself in front of his boss and the bastard’s other muscle ushers him out of the building. Fuck!
Trigger—the fucking psycho—steps out from behind his cover and just fires at everything beyond us that moves. He’s already been hit. Blood pours out of the wound in his bicep, but he doesn’t even fucking notice.
“Trigger!” I glance at Tank to make sure he’s still breathing and seeing this. He meets my gaze for a split second and steps around the shelving unit he’s using to take cover. The workers who haven’t run for their lives are firing back, and thank fuck their aim is shit. I raise my gun and shoot two more, riddling their bodies with bullets. “Trigger! Get your fuckin’ arse back here!”
He ignores me. Tank dives forward and yanks Trigger off a Russian whose face is being rearranged by the kid’s fist. As if nothing happened, Trigger lunges to his feet, shooting a worker woman dusted in coke who was merely heading for the nearest exit. Jesus Christ. If the Russians don’t get there first, I may well put a fucking bullet in this little shit myself.
The screech of tyres is barely audible above the sound of gunfire, and I know Ryzhanov is getting away. The people here mean nothing to him. This isn’t his crew. He won’t be crippled if everyone in this warehouse dies, but we will be. With one last glance at the men left standing, I fire my machine gun and the bodies fall.
My ears ring, and coke balloons in the air, softly falling upon the dead like snow. I glance at my brothers. Crazy is on the ground, pummelling his fist into someone’s face. Kick, Tank, Raphe, and Killer don’t appear to be missing body parts or have holes in their vital organs, so I’d consider that a win. Trigger, on the other hand, is bleeding not just from his bicep, but his thigh and shoulder too. “Trigger!”
He glances at me with a glazed over expression.
“Get in the van. Kick, go put some fucking pressure on his wounds and make sure he doesn’t bleed to death, yeah?”
“You got it, Prez.”
“The rest of you, get the guns,” I demand. Sirens wail in the distance. “Now!”
We pile the guns into the van. Crazy and I climb in the front alongside Killer, while the rest of my boys sit in the back. Killer slams the pedal to the floor and speeds away.
I glance over my shoulder at my brothers as I slide my phone from my pocket and dial the Butcher. Everyone’s accounted for. A few of us have taken hits—grazes, surface damage mostly—but none are bleeding as bad as Trigger.
Fucking crazy arsehole. I’m starting to think I made a mistake invoking his inner psycho. The last thing we need is more men down for the count.
Ryzhanov got away. He’s still on the streets, which means he’s still a threat to my club, to my livelihood, to my wo—he’s still a threat to Raine.
Fuck! I slam my hand on the dash as quiet settles over the van. I need that Slavic motherfucker dead.
RAINE
THE GUTTURAL ROAR OF seven engines shake the clubhouse walls as the boys pull into the lot. Ivy bites her lip and squirms in her seat. The dog on her lap lifts his head and yawns.
“Daddy’s home,” she purrs, and it’s not hard to see why Tank fell in love with her—or why she was the favourite among the MC’s ... girls.
Indie laughs. “Ew, please tell me you don’t call him daddy?”
“I call him whatever he wants—makes no difference once his fat cock is inside me.”
I giggle and glance at my empty glass. How did I manage to drain it dry again so soon after Raphe’s wife, Charmaine, refilled it?
“Uh-oh. Raine’s blushing again,” Indie teases.
Ivy laughs and rolls her eyes. “She needs another drink and a good, hard dicking from Prez.”
A vicious laugh comes from the door and we all turn. Mia stands in a black bodycon dress and heels, her make-up and hair as perfect as ever as she clutches a tumbler to her chest.
“Pour me a drink.” She slides her glass on the table beside me. “And while you’re at it, do us all a favour and stop throwing yourself at my husband.”
“Excuse me?” I frown, unsure why she’s directing her commands at me when she seems perfectly able-bodied.
“You heard me ... help.” She sneers as she says the last word and fire ignites in my veins.
“Give it a rest, Mia.” Ivy glares at the woman. “You’ve never tried to act like Jett’s old lady before. Why start now?”
“Ivy!” Charmaine admonishes.
Mia turns a wicked smile on Ivy. “Shut your trap, slut. Or can you only do that when a brother’s dick is in your mouth?” She leans against the counter, looks her up and down, and then addresses the rest of us. “It must be so awkward for all of you knowing this little club whore has been with every man in this clubhouse.”
I stand abruptly, my chair falling to the floor behind me. “Don’t you dare speak about her that way.”
“What are you going to do about it, help?”
I take a deep breath through my nose and close my eyes, resisting the urge to slug her pretty face with my cast, but I can’t. I need this job. At least until this awful lockdown is over and I can start looking for something else. I need to pay for Josh’s care, and no matter how much Jett may claim to dislike his wife, you don’t hit the Prez’s old lady and expect to still work in the clubhouse.
Mia’s smile is wide, her teeth gleaming as she laughs at me. “That’s what I thought.”
“What the fuck is going on here?” Jett says from the doorway, his voice cold and slick as ice. I swallow hard and meet his gaze.
“Just making friends with the girls is all,” Mia says.