There are a lot of men out here hiding in the dark, I realize as I take another shot and hit a man in the chest. I can hear gunfire to my right, from above in the branches. There are a hell of a lot more men here standing for Mile Wide than there are Wolves.
But then, they don't have me, and they don't have Smoky, and they sure as shit don't have Glacier.
The crazy psychopath moves up behind me, kneeling down with his back to mine as he lifts up the crossbow he had strapped to his back, and takes a shot into the darkness of the green canopy above us. Seconds later, a body tumbles from above, crashing into the wet earth with a sickening squelch.
With Glacier behind me, I know I've got the luxury of peace, calm, time to take my shots. I aim carefully, adjusting the muzzle of my gun as the men behind the trucks move around in the wet black of night. Most of these assholes are just firing off whatever rounds are in their magazine like quantity over quality will win their little war for them.
I wait carefully, making myself breathe, making myself forget about Lyric. There's a chance that I'm wasting my time here, chasing ghosts. She might not be in that house, might be on her way to Ukiah or San Francisco or Mexico for all the fuck I know.
But I can't think like that.
Now is not the time for messy mistakes.
One of the men finally realizes there are snakes in his grass, refocusing his attention on Glacier and me, shouting something that I can't hear over the roar of my pulse and the groan of the downed bobber's engine.
It's Clayton fucking Moore.
“Shit,” I curse. “We gotta move.”
Glacier and I rise as one and swing around the front of the truck. My finger tenses on the trigger, but before I can pull it, the psycho next to me is tossing his crossbow hard, hitting Clayton's arm and knocking the man's shot wide.
“Out of bolts,” Glacier explains as I fire a round into Clayton's chest and watch as he stumbles back and fumbles under his cut for another weapon. Fucking body armor. But that's okay; I got me some too. “You want to check that house out?” he shouts over the roar of weapons and blood. Some of the Mile Wide motherfuckers have finally pulled their heads outta their arses and noticed us standing back here.
One of the men turns towards me and I cap him in the center of his throat. I get no satisfaction from it, not a goddamn lick. But I can do this, and I can do it well.
It's not everyday you see some thirty-two year old take the mother chapter's presidency; there's always a reason for everything.
“Cover me,” I tell Glacier as he steps forward and takes a shot to his right arm. The bullet grazes a bloody path along his tattoos, burning his skin but passing by him without causing permanent damage. It's got to fucking hurt, but the man shows nothing in his ice blue eyes.
I take that moment to dive behind him, working my way towards the strangely quiet house. Shouldn't there be people taking cover in there somewhere? As I get a little closer, my back to the forest, my attention split between Mile Wide and the house, I realize the front door is partially ajar and I can hear gunfire from inside.
Shit.
It must be those FBI douches. Got to be, right?
I hear a sound behind me and turn just in time to stop a man in a red t-shirt and Mile Wide vest from shooting me in the bloody back. Fucking coward. I open the cylinder on my revolver and dig into the pocket of my cut for some extra rounds, loading the empty chambers with militaristic precision. When I refocus my attention back on the fight, I see Smoky and Mug, Dober, some dumb prospect kid that we'll have to patch-in ASAP after this crap.
My movement toward the house has been noticed, and several men take fire through the dark in my direction as I duck behind the trunk of a tree and wait out the spray of bullets. Can't pierce the wood of the thousand year old tree at my back though, not by a long shot. When I spin around the side, I hear Glacier shout something at me and then Clayton Moore is just right there.
I snap my arm up and hit him in the soft spot of his inner elbow, breaking the aim of his gun and forcing his round to fly into the trees. He retaliates by hitting me square in the face with the palm of his other hand as I grab his wrist and loose his hold on his weapon. I drop mine a second later when his hand reappears with a knife, slashing messily at me as we fall into the mud.
Clayton fights like a man possessed, something I can't for the life of me figure the bloody hell out. I've met the president of Mile Wide all of a half-dozen times in the past ten years, none of our meetings particularly personal. But this, this is a fight with passion.
I knee Clayton in the bollocks and roll him off me, reaching into my cut for the semi-automatic I tucked into the right shoulder holster.
I level the gun on his head.
“Tell me about Landon,” I say, my breath coming in rough pants, mud stuck to the side of my face, the back of my hair, soaking my pant legs up to my waistband. “Tell me how much the cartel paid to get him to go rogue on us.”