Gasping for air like a fish out of water, the first thing I saw was a bloodied knife stuck into Ratbag’s heart. His eyes were glazing over as I held him in my arms. It's not my bullet that mowed my friend down. Thank fuck!
“No, Ratbag. Don’t you die on me, motherfucker,” I breathed, my eyes fucking misting over.
“Ryder. Brother . . . I love y . . .”
The light in his eyes dimmed as if someone had blown out a candle. Sweet mother of God, was Ratbag dead?
I put my ear to his mouth, listening for his breathing, but there was nothing.
Nothing.
Chapter Forty-Six — Harrison
The sound of a single gunshot rang out into the quiet of the Sunday afternoon. Fuck, what was happening just over the wall? Savage and I were still arguing about when we should send in the troops to ambush the weapons deal that was going to go down in less than thirty minutes when we were both stopped in our tracks.
Screams and shouting did not bode well. I ran toward the window, eager to see outside. I couldn’t believe my eyes when a man, dressed in black, skimmed over the wall, carrying a sack over his shoulder. No, it wasn’t an inanimate sack; it was a child. A fucking child.
How the fuck did that just happen?
“Sav,” I shouted, “a fucker just scooped a kid from the compound. We gotta stop him.”
“What? Fuck!” Savage yelled as he jerked the door open and ran outside, his gun already in his hand. I followed in his tracks, hoping we could catch the fucker. In all of this fucked up mess, I didn’t want another kid hurt. Fuck no.
We ran in the direction we’d seen him go just in time to see him jump into a black van that stood at the end of the driveway.
“Get the plate number,” Savage yelled. But there was none. Of course there wouldn’t be any plates. These guys knew what they were doing.
There had to be something I could do to stop them. I ran as fast as I could toward the van, removing my gun from the holster. My lungs burned as I drew level with the van and caught a glimpse of the driver’s face. His head was shaved and adorned with large tattoo swirls. For a split second his eyes met mine, widening in surprise when he saw me. A snarl unfurled from his lips.
Tires screamed as the van pulled away, leaving a trail of burning rubber in its wake.
Planting my feet wide, I aimed at the van and shot at the wheels. He started swerving across the road, making it difficult to get a clear shot, then the van disappeared around the corner.
I knew that face. My brain went into overdrive trying to process the information. Then it struck me: Cobra! The fucking president of the MC. How was it even possible? What the fuck was going on? Why the fuck would Cobra Malone kidnap a kid from his own compound? It didn’t make sense.
At that moment a few men came tumbling over the wall. They weren’t as graceful at landing on their feet as the dude in black had been. They fell to the ground, cursing and screaming as they got up and ran toward us. I recognized Ox and Hammer. Where the hell was Knox? Why hadn’t he come over the wall yet?
“Fuck. Why didn’t you stop the van?” Ox roared at me, inches from my face so that I could smell his repugnant garlic breath. This man was nearly as big as Savage. He looked as if he wanted to snap me in half like a twig, his eyes bulging out of his head as he stared me down.
Before I could even attempt an explanation, the big gates next door swung open and the next minute a black SUV screeched out. As it got closer, I recognized Knox. He was covered in blood. Fuck, had he been shot? He screeched to a stop next to me. His eyes were bugging out of his head and his jaw was set tightly. The grim expression on his face was murderous.
“Get in, Summers. Now.” I didn’t have time to stop and think. I jerked the door open and drew in a breath. Lying on the back seat, blood pouring from his heart, a dagger still stuck in it, was a man I recognized as the Australian dude we were wanting to deport soon.
He looked stone-cold dead to me. One less fucking illegal immigrant. One less criminal.
But the blood . . . I fought down the bile that rose in my throat and looked away. I needed to control this feeling I got every time I saw fucking blood—especially in front of Knox. I swallowed down the bitter taste, wiping the sweat off my forehead.
“Where are we going?” I asked, trying to hide my queasiness and make sense of what was going on. Even though I didn’t look back, the smell of blood still filled my nostrils. It wasn’t a strong scent, but I’d been so immersed in it when Amy got shot that I’d never forget it. Blood always evoked memories of that day and turned my stomach . . . it was the one part of my job I really sucked at, because I was exposed to copious amounts of blood on a regular basis, yet it never got any better. My reaction to it was always the same.