Filthy Daddy (Satan's Saints MC #2)

by Bella Love-Wins

  He cocks his head and casually rubs his light brown beard. It’s not easy to keep quiet after hearing the attack on the Satan’s Saints headquarters was just about money to him.

  “You think it’s that simple?” Silas barks.

  I’m ready to speak up as I blow smoke out through my nostrils. I hate this diplomatic bullshit. But Silas gave an order. I keep my mouth shut.

  “You fuckers think you’re slick,” Silas continues.

  Vasquez leans forward and folds his hands. Silas isn’t afraid of him. Neither am I. No one can intimidate me right now, not with this Molly situation hanging over my head. I’ll fight if and when Silas gives the order.

  But he doesn’t.

  No one gets to say another word.

  All hell breaks loose.

  A single shot rings out in the warehouse, then a blast goes off nearby, and the men around the table are thrown out of their seats from the force of the explosion.

  With all the precautions both sides took, it makes no sense that there'd be chaos this quickly.

  I drop my cigarette, shoving my boot on it as I duck under the table for cover like most everyone in the room. What the hell? Fuck, I knew we should’ve kept our weapons. We’re all unarmed and useless, Satan’s Saints and Los Diablos alike. Neither clubs would attack now, with our presidents in here. A quick peek over the table edge, and I see the Los Diablos president in a bleeding heap on the floor. His guys drag him to safety on the other side of the warehouse behind a huge ass storage container. It looks like the fucker has been hit through the side of his neck.

  Great. Fucking fantastic. We’ve been so careful to keep our meeting safe and secret that no one secured the building? This is why the Saints should’ve had a part in setting up our own perimeter security team. To round out this fuckery. I glance over at all my brothers. None of us is hit, but so far, there’s only been one shot fired. Someone wants to send a clear message. We just don’t know who the bullet was meant for.

  Silas signals for us to start checking the area now. Cole, Axe and I go off to sweep the upper parts of the warehouse. We have nothing to defend ourselves.

  We also find nothing, and return to the meeting room where we left Silas and the rest of the Los Diablos.

  “You planned this, didn’t you,” Francisco Garcia, the Los Diablos’ VP thunders out and shoves Silas backward. “This was supposed to be a conversation about a fucking truce!”

  “Back the fuck up! We had nothing to do with this. All of my guys are accounted for right here. You can stand here and wait for someone else to get shot or help weed out these fuckers. But we need to get your President some medical help in the meantime. Anytime now, before he bleeds out.”

  Garcia gets the hint and takes a step back. “All right, fuckers.”

  “We need our weapons back,” Silas demands and turns to us. “I need two of you to sweep the second floor again.”

  “I’m in. I’ve got nothing to lose,” I say, and as soon as I do, Molly’s face flashes through my mind. She’s pregnant. Hell yes, I have shit to lose now.

  “Okay everyone,” Silas booms out. “I’m the fucking alpha dog in here, and this is how it’s gonna go. Garcia, your men need to get Vasquez some medical care. Someone needs to check anyone who was hurt from whatever exploded outside. And I need a few of your men to team up with my men and check the place.”

  Garcia nods to his men and everyone goes about their orders. I join the team that’ll check every inch of this sprawling warehouse. What I wouldn’t give for a fucking gun. It would be handy with unknown shooters on the loose. But we fucking agreed to show up for a sit-down with no weapons and became sitting ducks in the process. And now we’re moving through a warehouse with hiding places everywhere, looking for guys who are probably still aiming their sniper rifles at any fucking one of us.

  Brilliant.

  I ignore the boom sound in my ear from the crackling of all the shit that’s burning outside the warehouse due to the explosion. Adrenaline floods my veins as I try to make sense of the attack. From the neck wound on Antonio Vasquez, the sniper’s vantage point has to be on the main floor. I split off from everyone and go back there, confident that if it really did come from the main floor, the shooter will not have stuck around long enough to get discovered. Chances are we aren’t going to find the sniper, but maybe he left a trail behind.

  I pivot around a corner and look around. There’s shuffling off to my right a few minutes later. A small ping from above. I glance up with my heart clogging my throat. No shadows. Not a damn thing. And there is no noise from the other guys either, all is quiet except for the tread of sneakers on concrete. I circle the suspected quadrant of the warehouse again, tracing and retracing my steps, looking for some kind of evidence the assassin has left behind.

  Then I feel the wind knocked from me. A burning blaze of pain. I barely have the breath to shout as I fall to the floor. Everything goes fuzzy. It’s too late.

  In and out. In and out. In and out.

  Small bits of the world flashes back and forth into my brain. Every now and then, a jolt of fresh fucking pain spreads through my body. It feels like my lungs are cannibalizing themselves and there’s just not enough strength to breathe before everything goes black again, sending me into unconsciousness before it starts again.

  In and out.

  “…almost there, bro. Hang on…”

  Snippets of conversation.

  Phone static.

  Blinding white lights.

  I smell medicine. Or some kind of alcohol. There’s something bad about that…something I can’t put my finger on yet. There are hands all over me. A lot of hands. Crisp night air rushing across my chilled skin like jumping in a river in the middle of winter on a dare. My teeth rattle in my head.

  “Lay him out here…”

  “Fuck, is he…”

  “Quick…we need to be quick with this bullet wound.”

  “No! Don’t. The bullet’s still in there. It wasn’t a through and through…”

  “Fuck…”

  Out again.

  Chapter 26

  Molly

  “Do you have everything you need?”

  I glance at Silas with hot tears pushing past my lashes as I try to calm the rush of thoughts.

  “A hospital and a surgeon,” I answer, but I know that’s not happening.

  “Yeah, not gonna happen.”

  I understand how these men think and I know how hospitals operate. These bikers don’t want to be cornered by the authorities to answer questions. Simple as that.

  Thank God for Silas. He phoned me minutes after Tate was shot. I stole my mother’s keycard to the hospital’s supply room. I’ve been waiting at the clubhouse, trying to create a sterile environment. The bullet or a fragment of it is lodged somewhere near the base of his ribs. If we don’t get it out, God knows how much damage it can do down the road if it ever dislodges. I can’t leave it in there.

  “Whatever we have now, it’s going to have to do. We don’t have time to find anything else.”

  Not even a doctor.

  The MC actually does have a legitimate doctor who does favors for them of the medical variety. It’s no surprise to me that they all call him ‘Mob Doc,’ but the man lives all the way in Las Vegas. He’ll never make it in time.

  “He’s ready when you are,” Silas announces.

  I nod. “I’ll do my best.”

  Silas is pale and covered in his brother’s blood. I have to do this right the first time around. There’s no room for error. I squeeze my hands together to stop the shaking and take a deep breath.

  Silas takes a big step back. “If you need me I’ll be outside. I can’t watch this shit.”

  A battle-hardened criminal can’t watch me cut into my baby daddy’s chest cavity.

  “It’s okay. I’ll call out when it’s done. No one enters until it’s over,” I remind him, but doubt it’ll be a problem. These go weak in the knees at the sight of a surgical procedure. I
snap on two pairs of gloves, meet Silas’s wide gaze, swallow, and turn back to the temporary operation table—the pool table. He passes through all the plastic we hung in thick sheets until it looked like a cross between a serial killer’s torcher room and a meat locker.

  My stomach dips into my shoes. My hands go into fists as I survey the injury from this distance, then I close my eyes. We’ve come so far, I’m not about to accept this as Tate’s fate. My child deserves to know his father, and I’m the only one who can make that happen for both of us. Tate is face up, shirtless, and groaning, even though I doubt he’s actually conscious. It’s easier to think he’s unconscious. If he were awake, what I’m going to do to him will really, really hurt.

  I press my lips together.

  No time like the present.

  Picking up the iodine, I trace his chest with my finger, making one quick swipe around the injured area. It had to be one hell of a shot, to have a bullet move diagonally through a fifth of Tate’s lower chest and not see a full exit wound. My best guess is that the bullet is lodged in a rib. The injury needs to be opened, then cleaned and sewn up fast. But I have to get that bullet out first. There’s so much blood. He’s running out of time.

  With a deep breath, I make the first cut on one side of the bullet entry wound. Time stands still as I insert the pair of surgical steel pincers into the spot. I’m working blindly, and wish this procedure didn’t feel like a scavenger hunt. I don’t know what Tate’s chances are, and we’re out of alternative options.

  Tate’s breathing grows shallow. He flinches and moans, and his limbs seize up for a few moments. I ignore it. I have to. Ignore everything but the problem in front of us. It’s nasty and crude, but in the absence of medical equipment, it has to be done.

  Piece by bloody piece, I go by feel and remove all the bullet fragments. If all goes well, he’ll heal up in a few weeks to a month. Then I can beat him senseless for leaving himself so open and nearly leaving me to raise our child by myself. Right now, I have to save him with little more than a nursing degree’s worth of medical knowledge and my love for him.

  I do everything I can, extracting every piece of the metal fragment with the instrument and dropping them into the metal tray at his side. Every couple of minutes, I have to readjust the angle, searching carefully so that nothing is left behind. There’s so much blood, but no time to go weak about it. There isn’t time. After what seems like thirteen hours but is probably only thirty minutes, I’ve taken care of him as well as I can, given the circumstances. I can’t be positive I got everything, but I tried.

  My cramped, burning fingers clink that last fragment into the tray, and I take a long breath. “You made a mess of yourself, love.”

  Tate has lost a lot of blood. Without x-rays, we’ll never know if I got everything out. The club’s Mob Doctor is expected to arrive within an hour. There isn’t much more he can do unless he shows up with everything that’s found in a paramedic van, operating room, or both. It’s too early to move him safely, but I know they’ll insist on putting him into a proper bed. I need to close him up too. Keeping him exposed without the proper medical care is as dangerous as the blood loss and the damage from the gunshot wound. After I’m done, I call out to Silas. Cole, Axe, and Dean show up with him, and I leave the same way they came in, snapping off my bloody gloves.

  Now, it’s a waiting game.

  Chapter 27

  Molly

  Sometime in the morning, I consent to move Tate back upstairs to his bedroom. I sit in the armchair beside his bed, unable to sleep but in an exhausted haze. The world wavers with shiny patches of light and dark. Every noise is too loud. I rest my head on the back of the armchair, keeping my hand in his. Why hasn’t he woken up yet? Even Silas is surprised, as according to him, Tate has had worse injuries than this. Mob Doc is a sweet little old man. A real doctor too, not some back-alley veterinarian looking to line his pockets. Still, he wasn’t much help without equipment, not with this kind of injury. I start to second guess how thorough I really was at removing all the bullet fragments. Christ, I hope I got them all.

  I remain by his side. And I talk. Well, babble is more like it. I throw out all my hopes, fears, and deep, deep worries about the baby while he’s too vulnerable to say anything back that would deflate my little safety bubble. I tell him everything I learned about my father after thinking I knew the man and my family all these years. I talk to him about how messed up I feel inside not knowing about my father’s connection to the local MCs. I talk about carrying his baby, who I already adore. Yes, and I tell Tate I love him too. I say everything I’ve been dying to say, then lean forward and rest my head in his unresponsive hand, and wait.

  Axe knocks gently on the door jamb. “Hey, mind if I come in? I got a present.”

  I nod and wave him in. We’ve all been through hell the past couple of hours, waiting for any signs that Tate is going to recover. Aside from small groans of pain and an occasional finger twitch, he’s barely moved. I keep wishing I’d insisted on taking him to a real hospital where they can monitor his vital and have all the modern drugs and equipment to respond however his body needs it. He deserves a fighting chance. I promise myself after this is all over I’ll start researching and taking notes on the more surgical aspects of medicine. Maybe my involvement can help.

  “Yeah, sure. You don’t need to ask my permission, Axe.” I wipe my hand across my face and give him a weak smile.

  “Here.” He thrusts out a pill bottle. “I figured you could use it while you’re with us. A friend of mine helped me out.”

  A friend is code for a drug dealer, but on closer look, my eyebrows raise when I read the label. I nearly roll my eyes. It’s the same horse-sized maternal supplements my mother bought me. It’s cute, sweet even, and I promise myself inwardly that I’ll take them, even if I have to crush these suckers into powder with the back of a spoon to get them down my throat.

  “Thanks, Axe. This’ll help a lot. It’s good stuff.”

  “Only the best for my boy’s little one… and for you.” Axe clears his throat and looks at Tate in the bed. “He’s gonna be fine. You know that, right? You don’t need to be doing all this goodbye, spew your feelings bullshit. He’ll be there for you…and the baby. I won’t even have to force him or anything.”

  I sharply glance up at him, putting the pills on the bedside table with narrowed eyes. Axe has been listening in on my confessional? A slow stream of anger simmers beneath my skin but I keep it in check. Maybe he has a reasonable explanation. Though I doubt it very much.

  “It was more for me than anyone, cathartic as hell.”

  “No doubt. I hope you don’t mind that I mentioned it. Couldn’t help it. You’re not quiet. And my room’s right next door. Thin walls and all that…oh, and can I be the first one to call you an honorary Mongols MC member?”

  “You’re a mean bastard,” I say jokingly. “Christ, you heard that?”

  “Uh-huh, but don’t worry. I won’t hold it against you.” He clears his throat. “But…in case you ever doubted it, that stubborn son of a bitch loves you too, Molly. I promise you that. The past little while, he’s been different. He’s been good, faithful and shit. Long before that night, we all found out about the little one. For this guy, the baby’s a major dealio. Sure, he still acts like a clown and an all-around douchebag, but that’s because his head didn’t catch up with his heart. It’s a man thing. We’re stupid like that. Anyway, what I’m saying is don’t confuse his silence for not caring. You know the shitty hand he was dealt early in life. Trust me when I tell you this is his once in a lifetime shot to be in a real family. He’d give anything to have that, even if the fucker will probably take a whole lifetime to admit it.”

  I nod but can’t say anything. Not without crying again.

  Axe rubs the back of his head. “Okay, it looks like this spewing feelings thing is contagious. I’ll be downstairs getting my made for TV drama sounding ass a drink.”

  My heart pounds in my ears
. I know now that my fear of rejection’s nothing compared to the terror I faced when I thought Tate might die.

  “Okay…and thanks.” Axe nods, saluted, and is on his way out the door when I add, “But, Axe?”

  He swivels in the doorway, rubbing his beard with his hand, and his eyebrows raise in question. “Yeah?”

  “If he’s a dick and doesn’t want this baby, I’m kicking his ass when he gets better.”

  “I’ll be right beside you with the shotgun. Promise.”

  We share a light smile before he leaves. With a sigh, I turn my attention back to the pale man lying half-naked in bed. Even unconscious and bleeding, he’s eye candy to me. Which probably makes me a bad person, but I can always blame it on the baby hormones.

  After a few hours of waiting and light sleep, Tate stirs on the bed, his fingers twitching around mine.

  I lean closer to him. “Tate?”

  He stirs even more, and my heart starts to race. I can’t take my eyes off him. I’m almost too afraid to hope. My gaze moves from the steady rise and fall of his chest to his fluttering eyes. Suddenly he blinks, and immediately I turn into a teary-eyed, blubbering, ugly-crying baby. I can’t contain the relief as my whole body sags into my chair. He might just make it.

  “Tate, can you hear me? Are you okay?” I ask, and it comes out all hyphenated with whimpers and sniffled inhales.

  He groans and winces, and his body twitches on the bed. I snatch up the water glass by his bedside and tip it to his lips. After a couple tries, he works his throat enough to get some liquids down.

  “Let’s try this again,” I soothe. “Can you speak?”

  “Stop asking me shit,” he whispers, then he lets out a huge breath as if he’s run a marathon, and makes a pained noise.