by Kate Kessler
Suddenly Dash was there. Dependable Dash, who always seemed to know what to do. “Ambulance is on the way,” he said. He thrust a towel at Killian to put against Jay’s throat before pressing another against Jason’s bleeding chest. “Hang in there, asshole.”
They always called each other that. It was like their bro term of endearment or something. Sometimes when they talked to each other like that Killian would tease them and ask if they wanted to be alone. She made it sound like a joke, but she was jealous of their bond. Jealous that Dash knew Jason in a way she never would. Jealous that Jason knew Dash just as well.
Her gaze locked with Dash’s and she saw the truth there. The ambulance wasn’t going to be enough. Even if it arrived within seconds, Jason wouldn’t survive the trip to the hospital. He was so full of holes, and it was impossible to plug every one of them. Wetness soaked the knees of her jeans—his blood? It had to be, because it hadn’t rained in days. Her hands were covered in it. So were Dash’s.
In the distance a siren wailed. The ambulance? Cops, too.
Jason reached out to Dash with his other hand. Dash grabbed his fingers so tight his knuckles went white.
“Do not die on us,” Dash commanded.
Blood gurgled from Jason’s open mouth. No words came out. He was so pale now, faded. The ambulance was getting closer.
“Just hold on,” Killian pleaded. “Please, baby.”
Jason looked at her. She watched as the light left his eyes. “No,” she whispered.
It was too late by the time the ambulance finally arrived. Jason had already been dead a full minute when the EMTs came for him.
What happened next was a blur, lost in a cloud of numb disbelief. Jason had seemed indestructible, and to see him ripped apart by bullets, so easily taken down…it was like a nightmare and Killian just wanted to wake the hell up.
Dash stayed with her through all of it—her blood-soaked twin. They held to each other, neither one of them yet able to summon tears. Police took their statements and their clothes as evidence. Killian didn’t care if it was snitching; she told the cops exactly who it was in the car. She’d seen their faces—knew who they were. It didn’t matter if the cops got them or the Crows. Jason was gone, and there was no bringing him back.
He’d taken part of her with him—leaving behind the part that had lied to him, kept a secret from him that he never would have understood. She was nothing but guilt now. All her joy and hope were gone. Dead.
It was dark when Dash took her back to the apartment he and Jason shared. A few Crows were there, offering support—Danny, Arlo, Jackie, Deb, and Chel. They’d brought food, booze, and weed. They’d brought promises of retribution.
Dash took Killian to the bathroom while the others fixed plates of food neither of them had any desire to eat. He turned on the shower, took off the clothes the cops had given him, and then removed hers. They stood under the hot spray together, both their teeth chattering, and scrubbed the blood from each other’s bodies. Killian broke down into tears as her hand skimmed over the single crow tattoo on Dash’s arm. One crow for sorrow.
He held her while she cried. He cried with her, too, and when they were both done and the water was running cold, he turned off the taps and dried them both off. When they rejoined their friends, they wore their own clothes and put on the strong front that was expected of them.
It was only later, when everyone had left, that Killian got into the shower again. She scrubbed at her skin until it was raw and Dash had to apply ointment to the places where she’d drawn blood.
“I don’t feel clean,” she told him.
Dash just nodded, as if he understood. Maybe he did. Then he wrapped her up in a blanket and sat with her on the sofa. They watched mindless TV until they fell asleep. Just before dawn Killian had to fight the urge to shower once more. That feeling of being dirty clung to her for months, drove her to the brink of insanity.
And then one night she suddenly felt clean again. It was the night she bathed in Rank Cirello’s blood.
Dash dropped Killian off two streets over from the SOB clubhouse in East Hartford. It was a rough neighborhood—the sort where a beaten-up woman either got no attention at all or was simply told, “Leave him, honey.” Only one woman said that to Killian. She was old with white hair and dark skin. None of the white women she encountered spoke to her at all. They didn’t even make eye contact. Maybe they simply knew trouble when they saw it.
She’d borrowed a hoodie from Dash, so her face was shadowed, her shape mostly concealed. Still, her jeggings would give her away as female. She didn’t expect any trouble—at least not from the locals. All she had to do was look as though she had a destination in mind. The Sons could have spies around, and the whole point of her going in on foot was to have the element of surprise.
A narrow path between two old houses that had long ago been broken down into apartments provided some cover and got her off the street. Getting off the street, however, meant she was now in a couple of backyards. People sometimes didn’t take all that kindly to trespassers.
She kept herself as low and out of sight as she could, crossing dead grass and dried mud to the next yard, and then heading through another trash-littered alley to the street. She was closer to the clubhouse now, and could see it just beyond the roofs of the two run-down places. Trap houses, she figured from the looks of the people hanging out front. Most of them were pretty skinny, their skin pasty, faces sickly. She’d never had a firm line when it came to addicts. She felt empathy for anyone who had something riding them so hard they’d destroy themselves for it. On the other hand, the shit they did because of that addiction often made her want to punch them senseless.
Killian moved closer. The trap houses made for the perfect cover. Everyone would just think she was another junkie wandering around, and the houses were directly behind the clubhouse. The SOBs used to have dogs, but they got shit from the city because of noise and animal abuse. She couldn’t hear any barking, so hopefully she wasn’t going to encounter a pit bull or three.
“Did you hear the screamin’ from over there this mornin’?” she heard a kid on the step ask his companion, dropping his g’s. They were smoking cigarettes in their bare feet and shirtsleeves. It was an okay day, but certainly not warm enough for that. The kid who had spoken hugged himself with his cigarette-free arm.
“Sounded like someone getting themselves killed,” came the reply. It sounded like kilt. “Always someone screaming.”
Were they talking about the SOBs? Were they talking about Shannon? Fear wrapped tendrils around her chest and pulled tight. Her heart struggled, beating harder in response. A vein throbbed heavily in her brain, messing with her vision.
Killian had to stop and crouch down beside a shrub. Leaning against the building, she closed her eyes and focused on her breathing. In. Out. In. Out. She was going to find Shannon. She was going to save her. In. Out. In. Out. The kid was strong. She was going to be okay, no matter what. Killian would make certain of it.
She opened her eyes and pushed herself upright once again. That was better.
There was a cigarette butt on the ground. She picked it up, held it between her fingers, and then took out her phone. She held it to her ear and started a one-sided conversation with no one. Head and voice low, she shuffled into the backyard, where a few other people were doing similar things. Slowly, she made her way across the yard, just another junkie out for a smoke, lying to someone on the other end.
A decrepit wooden fence surrounded the SOBs’ backyard. On the other side was an old shed, its roof starting to sag. Killian nudged the toe of her boot against one of the boards, knocking it askew. The one beside it was loose as well, making a space big enough for a human to slip through.
That was convenient. Maybe too much so. Did the club own one of the trap houses? Both? The Sons had always been into heroin. Was she being watched right now? She looked up at the trap houses—no faces in any of the windows. No one paying any attention to her at al
l.
She didn’t care. She tossed the butt, put her phone in her pocket, and slipped through the hole in the fence. Then she righted the boards as much as possible and turned to survey the situation.
The Crows would be arriving soon. She only had a few minutes to get inside the house and find Shannon before they arrived with their diversion. The windows at the back of the house either were blacked out or had sheets hanging, which was to her advantage, as the SOBs were unlikely to see her coming. Stupid of them to think the trap houses provided any kind of protection, unless they did keep lookouts stationed there.
She climbed up onto an old plastic tub by the side of the shed, grabbed the edge of the roof, and hauled herself up onto the rough shingles. The wood groaned beneath her weight. Killian went perfectly still, barely even breathing. When the roof didn’t cave, she released her breath and began inching toward the front end. There she straightened, positioned herself, and then jumped.
Her hands grabbed the railing of the second-floor balcony. As she caught her own weight, she slipped a notch, but held on. She hissed as a splinter lodged itself deep in the ball of her thumb. Then, taking a breath, she pulled herself up, swinging her left leg upward so that her boot caught the railing as well. Establishing a foothold, she then pushed with her leg and hefted herself up and over the railing to the dingy little balcony.
It needed a coat of paint and a few more nails. Damn thing wavered a little just with her standing on it. Add a few fucked-up bikers and this thing was going to rip away from the side of the house and drop to the ground. She hoped Wex was standing under it when it happened.
The balcony door wasn’t locked. She supposed she shouldn’t be surprised, though part of her wondered if it was a trap. The SOBs believed themselves to be above fuckery. They didn’t think anyone was stupid or ballsy enough to take them on. The Crows were the same—most clubs were.
They were wrong, of course. Killian was fairly ballsy and plenty stupid.
She slid the door open as quietly as possible and then peeked around the sheet hanging in front of it. Once she was certain it was clear, she stepped inside.
She was in a large bedroom. The smell made her wince. The combination of old spunk, pot, and body odor was not pleasant. Add the musty odor of damp, moldy fabric and it was even less so. Whoever lived here needed a lesson in basic hygiene.
It was probably Wex. There was a photo of him with a couple of strippers on the wall opposite the bed. He must have paid well, because no woman in her right mind—or who had a choice—would willingly let him touch her.
She avoided a pile of clothes on the dingy carpet as she moved stealthily toward the door. She didn’t even glance at the unmade bed—didn’t want to see what sort of condition the sheets were in.
Once she reached the door to the rest of the house, she put her ear against it. All that came through was muffled noises. She turned the knob and inched the door open. The hallway was clear.
It was a big house; there were probably five or six bedrooms on that floor. Some of the club lived there on a regular basis, but others—those with seniority or families—had their own houses. Wex would be the exception, of course. Why pay for his own place when he could sleep there? Lazy bastard.
She didn’t have to check every bedroom in the hope of finding Shannon. There was one lone door at the end of the hall that had locks on the outside of it. It was doubtful that any of the Sons needed to be locked in their room under the full moon or any other circumstances, so it had to be where they housed their less-than-willing guests.
Killian moved quickly toward the door, keeping close to the wall, where the floorboards were less likely to creak and alert anyone to her presence. She turned the doorknob and carefully pushed. It eased open, revealing a dark room.
As soon as she stepped inside, the smell hit her like a ton of bricks. Jesus Christ. It smelled like piss. There wasn’t even a window to air it out.
An old mattress lay on the floor, and there was an overhead light. Blood on the sheet on the mattress. Shannon’s? Blood on the wall, too—over by the door. And a red smear on the doorframe. There’d been a fight, clearly. Someone smacked around pretty good.
“Who the fuck are you?” came a raspy, slightly nasal voice.
Killian turned. Standing in the doorway was a woman about her height, maybe a little shorter and a little bit heavier. There was no fat on her, though—it was all muscle. She showed off the cut of her arms with a tank top and the curves of her muscular thighs with tight jeans. Her dyed-black hair was pulled back in a severe ponytail, and her face and skin were stained a dark tan that had obviously been sprayed on.
“Wait,” the woman said, laughing. “Are you Killian Delaney?”
Killian lowered the hood of her sweatshirt. “Does it matter?”
“Fuck yeah.” The woman cracked her neck. “I’ve been waiting for you. I didn’t think you’d actually show up.”
“You have someone here that belongs to me. Of course I fucking showed up.”
Spray-Tan turned on the light, basking the room in a harsh glow. It didn’t look any better.
“I’ve always wanted to fight you,” she said. “I remember when you were up-and-coming. You’re the reason I started fighting.”
Killian adjusted the space between them to a comfortable striking distance. “I guess I should be flattered.”
“It’s going to be such a fucking honor to kick your ass.”
“People say that, and then they’re always disappointed,” Killian shot back. “Looks like you already had a rough round.” With the light on, she could see that the woman’s nose was swollen and bruised. Broken, no doubt.
Her smile faded a little. “Your bitch got a lucky swing, but it was only the one.”
Killian’s jaw tightened. This chick was no lightweight. She could do a lot of damage to a person, especially one who didn’t know how to defend herself.
“If you hurt her, I’m going to rip you apart.”
Another smirk. “I put her in her place. No lasting damage. It’s no fun beating on someone who can’t fight back, right?”
Once she got Shannon home she was making sure the girl learned how to fight. She didn’t care if Megan liked it or not. “Yeah,” she agreed. “Sure. So you’re here just for me, then?”
Spray-Tan nodded. “You’re not supposed to walk out of here in one piece. Your friends, either.” Killian must have shown surprise because the woman laughed. “Oh yeah, they figured you’d be coming. Wex planned it that way. By the way, there wasn’t any run to Mass. All those guys who headed out earlier are already on their way back, and when they get here they’re going to fuck you up.”
Shit. The Crows were walking into a trap. She had to get word to Dash. As soon as the thought occurred to her, though, the other woman came at her in a full-on offensive. Her fists flew fast and furious. Killian managed to block them, but couldn’t totally avoid a kick that was meant for her side but slammed into her in the thigh instead. The wound Brand had given her burned like a hot poker.
Rage pushed Killian into action, from defense to offense. Her first shot was to the other woman’s already tortured nose, followed by one to the jaw and then a shin to the ribs. Most untrained fighters would be hurting, but this woman had seen her share of brawls.
They circled each other. Killian was the more patient, so when her opponent attacked again, she was ready and calm. She took a punch to the face but blocked another, and this time when the woman swung again she grabbed her arm and pulled her in. Killian swung herself behind the woman and wrapped her arm around her neck. She wasn’t trying to choke her out—not yet—just get dominance.
“Where is she?” she demanded, giving her a shot to the kidneys.
Spray-Tan pulled at her arm, then tried to elbow her. Killian twisted out of the way but maintained her hold. “She’s gone.”
“Gone? Where?”
“Wex took her this morning. Said he was taking her to Rank.”
Killian’s
blood ran cold. She squeezed harder, and punched the woman in the head. If Rank had Shannon, then it was over. Wasn’t it? Fuck, fuck, fuck. All the panic she’d tried so hard to bury came screaming at her at once. She clenched the muscles in her arm, supporting the vise with her other hand. By the time her opponent went limp, Killian was shaking and sweating. She dropped Spray-Tan to the filthy carpet and staggered a couple of feet away, grasping for her phone. Her fingers were so numb she could barely touch the screen in the right spot.
Dash’s number rang and rang. Then she heard it—the roar of approaching motorcycles.
“Come on,” she hissed, heading for the balcony again. “Pick the fuck up.”
There was a click as the call connected. “Dash!” she yelled as she stepped outside. “It’s a—” She didn’t get to finish. The sound of hell breaking loose echoed in the air around her and in her ear. It was open gunfire.
She was too late.
Ten
Killian swung herself over the side of the balcony, shimmied down as far as she could, and then dropped to the ground. She landed on her feet, then her ass. Pain lanced through her thigh as Dash’s stitches tore and fresh blood began to flow. Her ankles, knees, and hips throbbed from the impact, but she ignored them as she rolled to her feet. Nothing was broken, so she’d take that as a win.
“Kill?” She heard the tinny sound of someone calling her name. It was Dash—she hadn’t disconnected their call.
She grabbed the phone. “D? Are you okay?”
“Yeah. We’ve got some cover on the street.”
She’d never been so glad to hear someone’s voice in her entire life. “It was a fucking setup.”
“I know.”
“You know?” She looked around the backyard. So far no one had seen her, but it was only a matter of time. She needed shelter. “How the fuck did you know?”
“Word is they moved her earlier today.”
She stopped walking. That didn’t exactly answer her question, did it? “So you brought the Crows into a trap?” He let her walk into a trap?
