Just a few drinks, something to take his mind off things. He could use some time with the guys too, blow off some steam.
Spotting the lights marking the clubhouse grounds in the distance, Repo could already feel some of the tension in his shoulders lifting. Rolling to a stop at a red light, it was tempting to run it, since no one was around to see, but his luck? There was a cop lurking in the shadows just waiting for some idiot to come along and try it.
He wasn’t about to press his luck. Getting a ticket would just darken his mood more than it already was. It would be a downward spiral from there.
Headlights rolled up behind him, and Repo glanced in his side mirror. Being on a motorcycle had one major drawback: other drivers. He was always on alert, making sure to watch his ass from every angle in case some idiot who wasn’t paying attention attempted to take him out.
The car was one of those super expensive models, quiet as a ghost, jet black, and pristine, reflecting the streetlights like still water.
Something about that car, in that moment, on that night made Repo uneasy. He couldn’t put a finger on why, but he trusted his instincts, and they were firing on all cylinders.
When the light turned green, he shifted into gear. Lifted his feet off the ground. Started rolling. As soon as he began picking up speed, he heard the car behind him do the same. But that wasn’t what worried him.
It was its body language. Like people, cars could communicate their intent by the way they moved, and this car was following too close and closing in too fast.
The instant Repo felt like prey, he revved the engine and shot off, intending to put some distance between them, but whoever was driving the car did the same.
Fuckin’ A. He was being targeted.
A dozen questions and possible answers raced through Repo’s mind, but he didn’t have time for any of them. The clubhouse was just down the road, within his sights. All he had to do was reach it.
It became apparent about twenty yards away that he wasn’t going to.
The first opening the driver of the car got, they took it, pulling up alongside him. Garrick glanced over once, and only once, seeing the passenger window silently fall.
And that’s when he heard the gunshots.
***
The party was going strong. Sometimes, it seemed to Blake that it never ended. With his son, a new wife, and a baby on the way, he was fucking tired. But club business was priority because the club was as much his family as, well, his family.
So, despite it being a weeknight, and despite him having to be on the construction site in the morning to oversee expansion of a new project, he was at the compound making sure everything was copacetic with his brothers.
It’d be a long-ass day. But at least they didn’t have any problems to speak of. Yet. He was well aware that could all change in a heartbeat. After the last several months, following the drama with Ricky Cruiz and having to rebuild his home while shaking off the local heat, he was beat but thankful to be regaining some kind of normality.
He’d been working too long and too hard gaining the Spartans’ respectability and earning trust with the locals to see it all go to waste over a POS with delusions of grandeur and a thirst for expansion.
Which was why, even though the head had been cut off the snake, Blake was keeping an eye out and an ear to the ground.
There was always—always—someone looking to slide into leadership positions when there was a vacancy.
And Cruiz had left one hell of an opening.
It was just a matter of time before the Spartans would have to dispatch another bastard who had his eyes set on their turf, but hopefully, that would take some serious time.
For now, Blake had his players in place, and he was determined to enjoy some downtime. He’d spent half the night after work going over paperwork with Country, making sure he understood everything inside, discussing shipments and partnerships and making sure everyone who needed paying got theirs.
Being the president of the Spartans was about as involved as running his own business. There was always something to do, someone to check, places to be.
Good thing he had his brothers to lean on for support. Country, Repo, Taco, and Moose…they were his boys. They got shit done, and he never had to look over their shoulders to make sure it was done right. They understood the business and acted, never complained.
It was a partnership forged in years of blood, sweat, and tears. Unbreakable.
He didn’t know what he’d do without them.
“We good then?” Blake asked, rubbing his tired eyes.
Taking a drag off his cigarette, Country released a steady stream of smoke on a weary sigh. “All good, man.”
Blake stood and clapped palms with his right-hand man. “Good, because I need to get out of here before my brain melts. What time is it?”
Country checked his watch, a flashy silver thing that took up his entire left wrist. “Just after one.”
“Shit. I told Gabby I’d be home by eleven.” He’d promised her a late dinner, just the two of them, followed by some quality time together. She hadn’t called to remind him, which either meant she was respecting his responsibility to the club, she was pissed off and giving him the silent treatment, or she’d fallen asleep and didn’t even realize he was late.
He was praying for the latter.
“Damn, not even married for a month and she’s already carrying your balls around in her purse.”
Blake scowled. “She doesn’t carry a purse.”
“My bad. On her keychain, then.” He smirked. “Just fuckin’ with ya, man. What you two have is a beautiful thing. Besides, my Talia has me by the short and curlies too. And she knows it.” He checked his phone, then holding it up as if to prove something, he gave it a shake. “She’s been blowing it up for the past hour.”
“Guess we’re both going to be doing some groveling tonight.”
Country’s eyes glittered, and when he spoke, his Southern accent was thick and heavy. “I don’t know about you, but I definitely don’t mind spending some time on my knees.”
“TMI, brother. TMI.”
“Oh, come on, you know you love eating some pu—”
Gunshots rang out in the distance, but nearby enough to instantly put an end to the festivities. The music was cut off, and the laughter and boisterous conversations dulled to a low murmur as everyone tried to decipher where it’d come from and how seriously they needed to take it.
Another round of shots followed by rubber peeling on asphalt had Blake and Country running. Brothers and prospects joined them. When they broke out into the parking lot, it was just in time to see the tail end of a black sedan flash by, but that wasn’t what caught and held Blake’s attention.
Jesus. Christ.
“Holy shit,” Country breathed in disbelief. “Is that…”
The horror that washed over Blake had only been felt one other time in his life: When he’d almost lost Gabby to that psychotic Cruiz and his garbage cronies—all dead now, thank fuck.
But this…this was…unimaginable.
The black mass lying in the middle of the concrete was half machine, half flesh and blood. And a lot of that blood was leaking out onto the compound’s pavement, a garish, crimson stain continually spreading out from its source.
Men burst past him, rushing to the fallen’s aid. Still, Blake couldn’t process what his eyes were seeing, what his brain was telling him. He knew though. Even though his feet refused to move, in the back of his head, he knew.
Repo.
They’d fucking killed him.
TWENTY
“Where are we going?”
The black bag over his head didn’t allow any light to penetrate. That made knowing anything next to impossible. All his senses were heightened, his ears registering the acceleration and deceleration of the engine, his body moving with the force of each turn taken. The scent of the driver’s cologne, even from his position in the back seat, was cloying.
&nbs
p; But none of that was anything compared to the gunshots that had rang out in his ears, the echo inside the car near deafening. He’d have hearing damage, that was certain.
That was the least of his worries though. He had to survive tonight.
“Just—just tell me where you’re taking me,” he repeated, desperation making him bolder than he ought to be. It could work in his favor as easily as it could earn him a bullet in his head. There was just no telling with these people.
They were loose cannons.
“You’ll know when we get there,” Manuel, that arrogant asshole, said quietly from beside him.
He’d done his duty, what he’d promised. He’d watched that apartment day and night, kept an eye on all activity coming and going. Once the Spartan brothers had ridden out, leaving behind the one that looked like some Kris Kringle wannabe with an eye for murder, he’d made the call.
Manuel and his people had shown up faster than expected, making him wonder just how close they had been all along.
And the bastards had been fully prepared to just leave him there to rot without so much as a thank you for the hours of work he’d put in on his end.
So he’d demanded his due. He wanted to see the boss. Tonight. No more dicking around.
He hadn’t really expected Manuel to bend, but he had.
Sneaking down to the car was easy. The wait not so much.
They’d begun planning a break-in when the white-haired behemoth stormed out of the whore’s apartment and jumped on his bike.
Making their job a whole lot easier.
But then Manuel had yanked a bag over his head, ensuring he couldn’t see a thing. He’d wrestled for all of two seconds before the threat of a gun’s hammer next to his ear sucked the fight out of him.
“Sit back and shut the fuck up,” had been the warning. And he’d done exactly that.
Even without sight, though, he was able to deduce what had followed. The Spartan’s VP was dead. They’d wiped him out, and soon, the rest of the Spartans would follow.
Behind his veil of black, he smiled with grim satisfaction. He’d delivered the prize, and now he was finally going to get what was due him.
***
Ginger raced into the ER like her ass was on fire. Panic had her blood running cold and her heart speeding like a race horse. Her thoughts were focused solely on Garrick.
And she couldn’t shake the horrible feeling that she was too late.
Someone had shot him. That’s what Blake had said when he’d called. His voice… God, she could still hear it. That eerie, flat voice of his telling her that Repo had been shot and to get down to the hospital quick.
He’d hung up before she could ask him if he was still alive. But that voice…
It said so much.
Fear—no, terror—made her run faster. Thoughts of how things had been left between them plagued her with every footfall. She wove her way down the brightly-lit halls at breakneck speed, slamming into people left and right. But she didn’t give a damn.
She needed to get to him.
“Where is he?” she cried when the brothers came into view.
Heads popped up, and even from that distance, amid the bright fluorescent lighting, Ginger could see dozens of bloodshot eyes staring back at her.
That scared her even more—brothers didn’t cry.
They got even.
A few of the men got up and faced her, creating a wall with their bodies. The hell they were keeping her away from him, though. She’d cut them down where they stood without a second thought. Ginger’s jaw set as she slowed to a brisk walk and balled her fists, prepared to fight her way through them.
“Get out of my way,” she told a couple of the prospects who dared to step forward.
“You can’t go back there—”
“You don’t make the rules,” she snarled.
“You can’t—”
“Let her through.” The men made an opening and Blake stepped forward, his expression grim. His wife, Gabby, was right behind him. She’d been crying. And it looked like she was barely holding back more tears.
A ball of emotion climbed into Ginger’s throat, threatening to choke her. “Is he…is…” She couldn’t say the word. Couldn’t bring herself to utter the one word that could change everything.
Because the moment she’d heard Blake’s voice on the other end of that phone, the guesswork was over. In an instant, her heart and mind aligned, and she knew exactly what she wanted.
God, please don’t let me be too late.
“You made it,” Blake said with obvious relief as Ginger marched right up to him and crashed into his chest.
She didn’t cry though. As much as she wanted to, Ginger didn’t shed a single tear. She choked those sons of bitches back and swallowed them down, determined to stay strong.
“How is he?” Tell me he’s alive, she pleaded in her mind as she pulled back and looked up into the piercing gray eyes that held so much wisdom and compassion, they reminded her of why she’d wanted him all those years ago when they were just kids.
Blake’s rough, calloused hands rubbed her arms as if to soothe her, but she recognized the nervous gesture for what it was. “No word yet. They took him back to surgery.”
“So, it’s bad,” she said, her voice hoarse. Ginger cleared her throat and stepped back. “Tell me everything that happened.” She had to know, had to understand how something like this could have occurred.
One of the prospects vacated his seat and Blake waved her toward it. Legs feeling weak, she smiled gratefully and sat.
Crouching down in front of her, Blake had a look that told her he wasn’t going to mince words.
“We’re not sure on all the details yet. None of us were there, but it was a hit. That we do know.”
“But who would want Garrick dead,” she questioned. But considering his history, the question probably should have been who didn’t want him dead. She’d heard stories about how he wielded a knife. They didn’t call him Repo for nothing.
“I don’t know, but I doubt they were targeting him specifically. It was more likely the whole club, and he just happened to be in the wrong place at the right time.”
“An act of war?” She couldn’t believe that either. They’d just put that monster Cruiz in the ground. No way a new leader could have sprouted up and organized his people that fast.
It occurred to her that if she hadn’t acted like a brat and locked him out, ran him off, then he would be okay now. It was hard to convince herself that some of this wasn’t her fault.
“Looks like it. But we need more details first.” Blake’s hand cuffed her knee, his eyes full of sympathy as he met her watery gaze. “Don’t go blaming yourself for any of this. It’s not anyone’s fault, okay? We’re going to find out who did this, and they’re going to pay. I promise you that.”
Ginger looked away, toward the stark white double doors that separated her from Garrick. “You don’t owe me any promises. I’m not his woman.”
Blake’s fingers squeezed her knee. When he spoke, his voice was stronger than before. “Yeah, you are, Red. Whether you’re ready to accept it or not.”
He was right. Damn him, but he was. Ginger wasn’t ready to say it out loud, not yet, but Garrick had claimed her, and she knew there was no getting out of it. She didn’t want to. Not anymore. Maybe she never had. But knowing and giving voice to it were two totally different things. Right now, she was choosing to ignore it. But her heart knew—it always knew.
Blake stood, and Gabby stepped up to his side, sliding under his ready arm easily. They were perfect together. Not too long ago, before all of this, Ginger might have been irritated by that.
She couldn’t seem to summon a single fuck now, though. The idea of losing Garrick superseded all of it.
“When the doctor comes out, you’ll be the first to go back and see him,” Blake said, his tone brooking no argument.
She wasn’t planning to anyway.
Ginger nodded her h
ead once. Then she sat back, her eyes never once leaving those doors.
He was going to be okay. He was going to come through it just fine and be the pain in the ass he always had been. And things were going to change.
From there, hours passed, the slow ticking of the clock on the wall torture. The brothers alternated between pacing the floors and holding up the walls. They made coffee and food runs, but no one ate, everyone too worried to feel hungry.
Ginger nodded off a few times, always waking up with a start. Then she’d stare at those doors again, willing someone to come through with news. Something, anything, just to ease her mind a little.
By the time a doctor did finally emerge, they’d been waiting for so long, no one moved at first. Just stared. Until they realized who they were looking at, and then everyone was on their feet.
“How is he?” Ginger was the first to ask, taking the lead. And just as if she really was Garrick’s ol’ lady, everyone stood behind her—a wall of solidarity.
“Are you the next of kin?” the doctor asked her.
“She’s his wife,” Blake interjected, knowing Ginger wasn’t one to lie, even about the important stuff.
The doctor looked her over briefly, his gaze questioning, but one look at the force standing behind her and he didn’t try to argue. “Your husband’s surgery went well. He lost a lot of blood, but we gave him a transfusion, and he’s responding well. He was shot multiple times, the majority of which were in the extremities. It’s a good thing he was wearing his vest. It saved his life.”
Ginger’s eyes widened, and she fought a wave of dizziness from the overwhelming relief. He’d been wearing a vest. Thank God. Garrick was many things, but he wasn’t stupid.
“Can I see him? When can we see him?” she asked.
“We’ve moved him to ICU. He’s resting now, but I’ll allow one visitor to go back.”
It was obvious who that visitor was going to be, but out of respect, Ginger still looked to Blake to confirm. He simply tipped his head in agreement.
Vigor: A Spartan Riders Novel Page 13
