Page 54

“Poppy!”

Walker’s voice slices through the chaos. I spin, and he’s there—barefoot and shirtless, his leather cut slapped on over bare skin, a Glock in each hand. His grey-blue eyes find me behind the bar, and the raw, animal fear that flashes across his face before he locks it down hits me harder than any bullet could.

“I’m here!” I shout. “I’m fine!”

“Stay down!”

He’s moving before I can argue, sliding low along the wall toward the front door where Crimson has taken position. Saint is already there, his VP patch covered in plaster dust, bleeding from a gash above his eye but grinning like a maniac as he feeds shells into a shotgun with practiced, mechanical efficiency.

“Twelve outside,” Crimson calls. “Maybe more behind the building.” Seems my count was off.

Savage appears from the back hallway, fully dressed like he never slept at all, a rifle in his hands and murder in his eyes. He takes position beside Saint, and the four of them—Savage, Saint, Crimson, and Judge—form a line at the front of the clubhouse like a wall of flesh and fury.

The firefight erupts in full. Sound becomes meaningless. There is only the thunder of gunfire, the shriek of rounds punching through walls, the wet, awful sound of bullets finding flesh. Plaster rains from the ceiling. Bottles explode behind the bar, and I feel the sting of glass in my forearm. I yank the shards free with my teeth and wipe the blood on my shirt.

A Saint comes through the side door, and I don’t think. The blade is in my hand, and then it’s in his throat, and he’s staring at me with wide, confused eyes as red bubbles froth between his lips. He drops, and I pull the blade free, wiping it on his cut as I step over him.

No hesitation. No mistakes.

The air is thick with gun smoke and the copper reek of blood. A prospect—the same one from the quarry, the one with the spiderweb tattoo crawling up his neck—breaks through the front window. He’s inside the clubhouse now, inside our space, and his eyes are wild and locked on me. The rifle in his hand swings toward my chest. I see his finger tighten on the trigger.

Time doesn’t slow. That’s a lie people tell. Time doesn’t slow, it fractures. Splits into a thousand sharp pieces, and each one cuts.

The shot is deafening. I wait for the pain, but it doesn’t come because I’m not hit. Crimson is.

He steps between us, that massive wall of a man, and takes the round in his right shoulder. The impact spins him halfway around, his rifle clattering to the floor, and he drops to one knee with a grunt that sounds like it’s been dragged up from the bottom of his soul. Blood blossoms across his cut, dark and spreading, and his face goes grey beneath the beard.

It only takes a moment for him to find his feet once more. His left hand finds the prospect’s rifle barrel and shoves it upward as the kid fires again, the round burying itself in the ceiling as Crimson headbutts him. The crack of bone on bone is sickening, wet and final. The prospect crumples. But so does Crimson.

“Crimson!” Saint’s voice shreds through the noise. He’s across the room in three strides, dragging his brother behind the bar. “You stubborn bastard, you stupid...”

“I’m fine.” Crimson’s voice is a rasp. His eyes are glassy, unfocused, and blood is pooling beneath him, thick and black in the dim light. “The girl.”

“I’m here,” I say, dropping to my knees beside him. My hands press against the wound, and the heat of his blood soaks through my fingers instantly, hot, too hot, pulsing with each weakening beat of his heart. “I’m right here. Keep pressure.”

“Harlow!” Savage’s roar cuts through the gunfire. “Where the fuck is Harlow?”

“Coming! I’m coming!”

Harlow crashes through the kitchen door, bag slung over her shoulder, blonde hair yanked into a messy ponytail. She slides behind the bar on her knees, hands already gloved, and her face—God, her face. Professional and controlled. But beneath it, terror. Real, raw terror she’s burying beneath training and years of practice.

“Move,” she orders, shouldering me aside.

Her hands replace mine on the wound. She works fast, scissors cutting through cotton, exposing the entry point. Her fingers probe, and Crimson hisses through his teeth.

“Through-and-through,” Harlow mutters. “Missed the subclavian by a fucking millimeter. Lucky bastard.”

“Doesn’t feel lucky,” Crimson grinds out.

“Shut up. I’m working.” She presses a trauma dressing against the wound, wraps it tight, and her eyes flick to mine. Hard. Steady. “Keep pressure here. Don’t let up.”

I obey. My hands find the dressing and press. Crimson’s blood pulses against my palms, relentless.

The gunfire outside thins. One last burst—crack-crack-crack—and then silence. Not peace. Just the ringing absence that follows violence, the kind that makes your ears ache and your teeth hurt.

“Clear!” Walker’s voice, raw and hoarse, calls out.

“West side clear!” another brother calls.