by Joanna Wylde
“I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” I told her. “Painter should’ve been in touch—he promised he’d let me know how Duck was doing. Now I’m worried that something’s gone wrong.”
Sherri nodded slowly.
“If he was stupid enough to be doing yard work, it’s a possibility,” she admitted. “You want to run out there?”
I looked at the phone again, then thought about my daughter.
“I don’t want to leave Izzy, but I’m concerned.”
“You go check on this Goose guy—”
“Duck.”
“Whatever. You go check on him and I’ll keep an eye on Izzy.”
“I shouldn’t be leaving her—she just had surgery this morning.”
“You do remember that I’m an emergency room nurse?” Sherri said. “Not only that, I’ve known her half her life. She’s as safe with me as she is with you. Probably safer, because I have more emotional distance. If she gets scared, I’ll snuggle her. If she has a complication, I’ll handle it. She probably won’t even wake up while you’re gone.”
I picked up my phone, dialing Painter again.
Still nothing.
“Yeah, I think I’ll go,” I said finally. “Painter should’ve called.”
“Git,” she told me, flapping her hand at me. “Scoot. Skedaddle. I’ve got you covered.”
• • •
Duck lived out toward Rathdrum, in an old house that’d seen better days. He had about twenty acres, most of it prairie. I’d gotten the address from London, who’d told me to call her once I figured things out.
It’d rained that morning and, just my luck, the driveway was a full-on mud pit. Painter’d parked his bike near the gate, next to the rusty old Chevy Duck drove when he couldn’t ride. Eyeing the muck, I decided to follow his lead, pulling in next to him.
As I stepped out, my faded Converse squooshed down into the loose earth. Ick. Painter was gonna owe me for this.
So was Duck.
The house was set back far enough from the road that it took me a good ten minutes to walk there, including the time I lost falling on my ass, trying to get back up, and then falling down again—this time on my face. I checked my phone. Still nothing. If I got up there and found Painter and Duck sitting on the porch sharing a beer, they wouldn’t need to worry about his catheter wound killing him.
I’d do it with my own bare hands.
The house came into sight, and I was about twenty feet away when I heard the shouting.
“When it’s time to kill him, I want to do it!” a woman yelled. What the hell—was that Deanna?
A strange man’s voice answered from the back of the house, although I couldn’t make out the words. Holy shit. Pulling out my phone, I sent London a quick text.
ME: There’s something wrong here at Ducks house. I don’t know what yet but I think you should call Reese
Silencing the phone, I slipped it back into my pocket, then started working my way around the house toward the back. It didn’t take long to find a window, which thankfully had been left open a crack. Dropping down, I crawled forward through the wet earth, then slowly raised my head to peek inside.
Ah, fuck.
This was bad. Really bad. Like, pissing-your-pants bad. Painter was sitting in the center of Duck’s kitchen in a wooden chair, hands cuffed behind his back. His legs had been tied to the chair’s legs and there was a ragged bandanna gagging his mouth. Beyond him, lying across the floor, was Duck. His eyes were closed and there was a massive bruise forming on his face. Even worse, I saw a dark stain near his groin.
Blood or pee.
I had the feeling it was blood, although there wasn’t enough for a full bleed out. Not yet. That could change any minute, though. I looked at Painter again. This time his eyes met mine. He gave his head a fast, hard shake, then jerked his chin at me. The message was clear—he wanted me to get out. I lifted my hand to my ear, pretending it was a phone, letting him know I was calling for help. Dropping back down, I pulled out my cell and sent London another message, copying Reese.
ME: Painter is being held prisoner in Ducks house. I’m outside looking in. Duck is down. Send help NOW
The door from the dining room to the kitchen crashed open, and then a big man I didn’t recognize walked into the room, followed by Deanna. She looked different somehow—tougher. She walked with more swagger and held a gun. Standing over Duck, she casually kicked him in the balls.
My breath caught as I watched the stain, waiting for it to widen—how much abuse could his artery take?
“I’ve been wanting to do that for a hell of a long time,” she said. The big guy stepped over to her, pulling her in for a hug.
“Sorry, Talia girl,” he said. “I know it wasn’t easy.”
“God, his breath was so fucking bad in the mornings, Marsh,” she said, sounding strangely childish, a whiny little girl. “I swear, blowing him was better than kissing him.”
“It’s over now,” he replied, giving her another squeeze. Then he let her go, stepping back over to Painter. He reached out, slapping his face so hard it rocked the chair. “You fucked me up, Levi. Five fucking years I sat in a cell because of you. I already killed your friend, and now it’s your turn. You got no idea how much I enjoyed cutting him up. I’m gonna have so much fun playing with you.”
With that, he pulled out a pocket knife and flipped it open, slowly slicing across Painter’s forehead, right along the hairline. Blood welled to the surface, sliding down his face. Fuck, fuck, fuck! No way I could sit here and watch them kill him. Like hell.
“Thought I might start by scalping you.”
Talia grunted approvingly, and I dropped down below the window, wondering what the hell I should do—Reese would send help, but how long would it take? Most of the guys were out of town . . . Should I call the cops?
No. Painter didn’t like cops. But Painter was about to end up dead. But hell, even if I called the cops, would they get here in time to save him? If only I had some kind of weapon . . . like the gun hidden on his bike. Could I save him and Duck with it? I wasn’t sure, but I did know one thing—I wasn’t going to save them by doing nothing.
I scrambled along the side of the house, slipping in the mud every few feet. Then I was off and running toward the parked vehicles. The mud sucked at my shoes and I fell twice along the way. None of it mattered. Time was passing—way too much time—and for all I knew they were already dead. After what felt like a year, I finally reached the bike, skidding to a stop next to it. At first I couldn’t find the latch because my fingers were all muddy and numb from the cold. Then it fell open and I was grabbing the gun. With shaking hands, I pulled back the slide, thankful I’d taken the self-defense classes after Todger’s attack last year.
You can do this.
Grabbing the extra clip, I started back toward the house, praying it wasn’t too late. By now I was completely covered in mud, and I’d lost one of my shoes. None of it mattered, though. All that mattered was getting back in time.
Saving them.
But how?
Somehow I forced myself to slow down, to creep toward the window without making any noise—it wasn’t easy. Adrenaline sent my heart racing and my lungs pumped hard. Every breath seemed louder than the last, but I forced myself to calm down. Focus.
Pretend you’re at the ER, running a code, I told myself. You’re cool, you’re professional. Nothing can touch you.
The thought soothed me.
Reaching the window, I peeked up slowly. Oh God. Painter’s face was a mass of blood. Head wounds bleed a lot—don’t panic! Marsh stood over him, casually stretching like a man after a hard day’s work. Then he glanced over toward Deanna.
“You want to do the next one?” he asked. She shrugged, and I tried to read her expression. If anything, she looked almost bored.
“I think you should just shoot him,” she said, pulling out her gun. “I know you like to play with them, but we don’t have a ton of time. His bitch will pr
obably miss him sooner or later. We should get out of here—they’re waiting for us up by the border.”
“Five years, Talia. Five years I’ve been waiting for this moment. Cut me some fuckin’ slack, okay?”
“Whatever,” she said, pouting. “Want a beer?”
“No,” he said, turning back to Painter. “I want to cut his face off.”
I clutched the gun tighter. Should I try to shoot him? But there were two of them, and Deanna—no, Talia—had a gun, too. Would I cause more harm than good?
Talia started toward the fridge and I saw something move on the floor near her foot.
Duck.
His eyes were open, and he was tracking her. Catching my breath, I watched as the old man struck faster than a snake, catching her ankle and jerking her down to the ground. The gun went flying and he dove for it, raising it smoothly. It went off with a roar and Marsh was down.
Like, down—as in the top half of his skull was just missing.
Talia screamed, rushing toward Duck. She started kicking him as she fought for the weapon, and as I watched in shocked horror, the stain on his pants started to grow.
Rapidly.
Blood was pouring down his leg, running across the floor. A flood of it—bright red arterial blood. He didn’t even seem to notice he was bleeding out, he just kept fighting until his body sagged to the floor, a sinking ship in a sea of red. Talia wrenched the gun out of his hands, raising it triumphantly as she shot him in the chest. Then she whirled around to Painter, raising it for another shot.
I raised my gun faster.
My first bullet caught her in the shoulder, shattering the window between us in an explosion of glass. The second went wide, and the third hit her leg. The fourth punched through the floor about six inches from Painter’s foot, and I nearly dropped the gun, shocked by how easy it would be to accidentally kill him.
Talia was screaming and moaning, rolling around on the floor. Darting around the back of the house, I reached for the door, praying it wasn’t locked. It wasn’t, thank God—about time we had some good luck. Running into the kitchen, I launched myself at Talia, slamming her head into the floor as hard as Todger had slammed mine.
She went quiet.
I stood warily, looking for the gun she’d dropped—it’d skittered across the floor, stopping next to the stove. Grabbing it, I threw it out the shattered window, into the mud. Then I stumbled over to Painter, pulling the gag out of his mouth.
“Are you okay?” I gasped, running my eyes over his knife wound. Didn’t look serious, thank God.
“Yeah, it’s just one cut,” he said. “That was amazing, Mel.”
“I’ve got to get you free—do you know where the handcuff keys are?”
“Tie her up first,” he said. “For all we know she’s got another gun. Then check on Duck.”
Duck was deader than a doornail—I knew that without checking. The old man was toast the minute his artery blew, I thought with professional detachment. I’d freak out later, but right now I had work to do.
“Duck’s gone,” I declared flatly. “He bled out—nobody survives that. What should I tie her with?”
“There’s probably some rope under the sink,” he said. “Duck keeps shit like that down there.”
Crossing the kitchen, I had to wade through Duck’s blood to reach the sink. As I passed, I knelt down for an instant, checking his pulse out of habit even though I knew it was pointless.
Nothing.
Not a surprise. Taking a deep breath, I pushed away the emotion, pretending he was just another patient in the ER. We lost them every day—if I shut down every time it happened I’d never make it through a shift.
Under the sink was a tarp, some rope, a big box of black garbage bags, duct tape, and a hacksaw. I blinked. Don’t think about it right now. Don’t think at all. Just take the rope and tie her up. I grabbed what I needed, moving back toward Talia’s still body. I tied her hands first and then her legs before checking for a pulse.
It was there—faint, but definitely present.
Ripping open her shirt, I examined the bullet wound on her shoulder, then looked around for something to apply pressure. A towel, a cushion. Anything.
“She can survive this,” I said tightly. “But we’ll have to get her to a hospital fast. It’ll be hard to get the ambulance back here, but—”
“No,” Painter said. I stilled, turning to him. Blood still ran down his face, and his eyes were cold—like some monster out of a horror movie. “Look at what she did to Duck.”
Following his gaze, I stared at the old man lying dead on the floor.
“Think about it—killing him wasn’t enough for her,” he continued. “First she fucked him, used him to lure me out here. You saw them—they planned to torture me, and they already admitted doing it to Gage. If we call an ambulance, we’ll have to explain all this, and I don’t know how it’ll end.”
I looked back down at Talia, watching as more blood oozed out. If I didn’t do something very soon, she was going to die.
Could I sit back and watch?
Duck had given his life to save us. She’d wanted to shoot Painter—she’d been bored by his suffering. Closing my eyes, I tried to think. Tried to figure out what I should do . . .
“If she survives, she’ll come after us again,” Painter said softly. “What about Izzy?”
No, he was wrong. She wouldn’t hurt an innocent little girl, would she?
She might.
I stood slowly, backing away.
“Do you know where the handcuff keys are?” I asked, swallowing. “I should get you loose.”
“Probably in Marsh’s pocket,” he said, wincing. “You’ll have to hunt for them.”
Stepping over to the big man’s body, I reached down and dug my hand into his jeans. He smelled like iron and meat, with a whiff of shit. God, how many times had I smelled that in the ER?
Too many.
I found a set of keys, pulling them out. “These little ones, here?”
“Looks right,” Painter grunted. I crawled over to him, and a minute later his hands were out of the cuffs. Looking around, I found Marsh’s knife and handed it to him. He sliced through the ropes holding his feet, and then he was free.
“Fucking hell,” he muttered, standing slowly. “Come here.”
I fell into his arms—covered in blood and mud—as my burst of adrenaline started to fade. What a mess. What a huge, disgusting mess, and I had no idea what we were supposed to do about it. Painter rubbed up and down my back, soothing me.
“You did good. It’s okay,” he whispered. “We’ll figure it out. I need to call the club.”
“I already did,” I told him. “I mean, I texted them. London and Reese.”
“They’ll send someone,” he said. “Let’s go outside and wait. It’s going to be okay, I promise.”
Moving slowly, we walked back through the house and out onto the porch. Less than five minutes later, a Jeep Wrangler turned off the main road and started down the long driveway toward us.
“That’s one of Reese’s rigs,” Painter said. “It’s them.”
The Wrangler pulled to a stop in front of the house, and the two Reaper prospects jumped out, both of them carrying guns. Right behind them was London. Not the version of her that I knew, but a woman you wouldn’t want to mess with.
“What happened?” she asked, her voice clipped.
“Duck is dead,” Painter said, sounding as exhausted as I felt. “So is Marsh—he used to be the president in Hallies Falls and he’s the one who attacked Gage. Long fuckin’ story. His sister, Talia, is inside. I don’t know if she’s dead or not. The bitch called herself Deanna, and the whole thing was a setup. I didn’t recognize her with the dark skin and the kinky hair. I mean, she looked like a black chick. Hell of a disguise, but when I met her five years ago she was definitely white. No fuckin’ idea how she pulled that off.”
“I’ll go check on her,” one of the prospects said. I tried to remember
his name, but drew a blank. Everything seemed blank.
Shock.
“Mellie, are you hurt?” Loni asked, coming up to us. Her voice was softer now, gentler. I shook my head, thankful to have Painter holding me up.
“No, I’m fine,” I said. “But I think I’m a murderer now. Or maybe not. Either way I need a shower.”
Loni and Painter shared a look, and I was struck again by how hard her face was. Tough. Loni had layers I’d never seen before . . . Looking at her now, I could see her as a badass.
“Boonie is on his way,” London said quietly. “Reese and the others, too. We’ll handle this. Painter, can you take her down to the road, drive her out to our place? You can get cleaned up there, then go home to Izzy.”
“I can stay and help you,” he said. She shook her head.
“No, Mellie and Izzy need you more right now. I’ll keep Reese posted—I’m sure he’ll want to talk as soon as he gets back. Go get cleaned up. It’ll be fine, I promise.”
God, I hoped she was right.
PAINTER
We buried Duck that night.
Cremated him, actually. Reese and Boonie talked it over, and the verdict was that all the bodies needed to disappear, along with all the evidence. No way we’d be able to get a real death certificate for him, let alone bury him in a cemetery.
We took him and the others out into the forest and burned them, then buried them in two separate places, Talia and Marsh sharing an unmarked grave. We rolled a big rock across Duck’s, though, pouring out a bottle of whiskey over it for good measure.
Then we took his colors back to the clubhouse and hung them on the wall in the chapel.
We figured he’d understand.
EPILOGUE
TWO AND A HALF YEARS LATER
MELANIE
I lifted my arms, trying to stretch out my back. I could definitely tell I was older with this pregnancy—things were creaking that hadn’t creaked with Isabella. Not only that, I had a fraction of the energy.
Only two more weeks, then you get your body back again.
Well, except for the midnight feedings, lack of sleep, and general volume of poop to clean up. Grabbing my tablet, I walked into the living room, settling down on the couch. Izzy was over at Reese and London’s place. Painter was working on a mural in the baby’s room. It was a boy. I was pretty sure Painter already had a tiny baby Reapers cut made up for him. He’d bought him a little motorcycle ride-on toy, too. I kept pointing out that we had a good year before the kid would be big enough to use it, but Painter didn’t care. He had baby fever. Seriously. I’d even caught him reading What to Expect When You’re Expecting and taking notes.
