No. This time we wait.
One of sedan windows rolls down. Someone flicks a cigarette butt outside. The glowing red cherry smacks into the concrete, then slowly darkens.
I hear the gangbangers approach before I see their headlights: thumping bass echoes as they pass through the entry gate. It’s a troop of white SUV’s sporting gleaming gold rims.
“The fucking Lockdown Crew?” Nash says, anger sharpening his voice.
“Could be some other bangers,” I say.
But I don’t believe it.
The SUV’s kill their lights and roll up facing the sedans.
The thumping bass quiets.
A door swings open.
My breath catches in my throat. A tall, heavy-built black dude wearing a gleaming white suit steps out of the white SUV.
It’s Mr. Frederick Jones. AKA Friday.
AKA another lying, treasonous motherfucker just added himself to my kill list.
“Bastard took us for a ride, Prez,” Nash growls. “The Cartel didn’t kill him in that ambush. They wanted it to look that way so—”
“Friday could come back around to us and they’d have someone close to the MC. A rat.”
“Fuck yeah.”
“Or maybe he just didn’t die. Maybe he escaped.”
“Then why’s he here now? Either way he has to be working for them.”
I think about the power vacuum left behind in the Westcoast’s criminal underground after my MC got wiped out. And then the Stricken rising. The world collapsing. I know exactly what Friday would say in his defense. He’d smile and say a brother has to do what a brother has to do.
And he’d be right.
“Take him alive,” I say, wishing I had a way to tell Blue the same thing. “I want a chat with my old friend Friday.”
Friday lights a cigar, leans against the SUV like he doesn’t have a care in the world. But I know Friday well enough to know there’s a pack of bangers in the trucks with their Uzis raised at the blacked-out sedans.
“Come on, you chickenshit motherfuckers,” I whisper to the guys in the sedans. “Come on out and show me who you are.” The burning tightness in my lungs is back. Fuck sakes. I’d hoped being reunited with my MC would make the shortness of breath go away—
“No one’s moving,” Nash says. He’s fucking trembling with kill-lust. “They’re all waiting for someone else. Fuck sakes, Prez. Now’s not the time. Whoever’s in the sedans will be packing as much heat as Friday. We need to arm up heavier. The ambush is blown.”
“Quiet, VP,” I growl. “Let’s see how this plays.”
A few in my MC glance at one another uncomfortably.
They said they were ready to die.
How many were talking shit? Guess we’re gunna find out.
I hear an odd whumping sound in the distance. At first I think it’s the wind rattling a piece of metal somewhere in the shipyard. But it’s too rhythmic, and soon the sound grows loud enough to recognize.
It’s a chopper.
No. It’s a fucking fleet of choppers.
Coming in low off the ocean.
One of the sedan doors pops open.
Friday tosses his cigar on the ground. His crew steps out of the SUV’s. They’re all holding mean-looking TAR-21 automatic assault rifles.
Nash whistles.
“Yeah,” I whisper. “Damned expensive guns. Let’s get our hands on a few, huh?”
The world might have gone to hell, but it looks like the gun business is still booming.
An Asian man wearing crisply ironed black slacks and a grey sweater steps out of the lead sedan. Dude looks like a fucking accountant. But I’d recognize his smarmy, humorless smile anywhere.
It’s Tao Ah Hong.
Leader of the Ah Hong Syndicate.
“That little bitch,” Nash growls, tensing.
I lay my hand on my VP’s arm and point at the sky. “Let’s see who they’re waiting for.”
The choppers crest over the ships moored at the docks. They’re flying dark and nearly invisible in the low light. When they’re directly over the shipyard they turn on their spotlights.
The shipyard lights up brighter than noon.
“Down!” I hiss, throwing myself onto the concrete while a spotlight sweeps over us.
The light passes over us once more, and when it’s gone I lift my head to see nearly a dozen military Longbow Apache helicopter’s hovering over Friday and Tao. Both men are looking up, cupping their eyes against the blinding light. The choppers hover over them for a few moments, then turn in that slow, lazy way choppers do, speed to the other end of the yard, pause directly above the ships, then turn once more to face the Sin and Lockdown crew gathered in the middle of the yard.
Friday and Tao share a glance.
They look worried. Tense.
“What the fuck is going on?” Nash whispers.
Don’t know. But I’m beginning to wonder if he was right. Maybe we should’ve cleared out while we had the chance.
The choppers hover above the ships for a moment, then one of them breaks formation and makes a slow approach toward the ground. Before it’s even settled on the concrete a Hispanic man hops out. He’s built low and stocky, dressed in full army gear right down to the military-issue black leather boots. His face is pitted and craggy and oddly shiny.
He’s been burned, I realize. Badly.
“That Collazo?” Nash whispers.
“Don’t think so. Must be one of his sergeants. Likely paramilitary.”
The army douchebag ducks under the chopper’s whirring blades and takes a few steps toward Tao and Friday.
A second man hops out of the chopper.
My breath catches in my throat.
I’d recognize that arrogant stride and slick rich-guy smile anywhere.
It’s Connor fucking Lerrick.
My wolf rages at the sight of the lying Stricken prick, and thank fuck for the thumping choppers, because even with the noise the Hispanic military dude pauses and stares directly at the shipping container we’re hiding behind.
Lifts his nose and scents the air.
Now it’s Connor and the army dick’s turn to share a quick, questioning glance.
Friday’s boys sweep around the back of the SUV’s. Pull out several black duffel bags. Tao’s crew does the same. A few camo-wearing army dudes jump out of the chopper, each carrying heavy-looking duffel bags.
The two crews approach one another.
“It’s a handoff,” Nash says. “Local muscle’s picking up product.”
Tao slides up behind his crew while the duffel bags exchange hands, but I barely notice them.
My eyes are glued on Connor Lerrick. If anything nasty’s going down he’ll be in on it. The lying, double-crossing Stricken motherfucker is sure to have his hand in every honeypot possible.
Connor flashes Friday a thin-lipped, plastic smile, then takes a few steps backward toward the chopper hovering a foot off the ground.
Friday looks puzzled, then pissed.
“Something’s wrong,” I say. “Friday was expecting more face time.”
The Latino army guy reaches a hand out for Tao.
The leader of the Sin smiles and accepts the army dick’s handshake.
Several things happen at once. The army dude’s face morphs into a black-scaled and bloodthirsty crocodile in the same instant his other hand whips from around his back to empty a Glock straight in Tao’s face.
Tao’s just a Skin. He drops like a rock, dead before he hits the ground.
The Sin Crew open fire on the crocodile. It drops to the ground and races through the bullets and then it’s on, Tao’s boys lighting up a wall of firepower and Friday’s crew joining in the fun while more army dickheads drop from the chopper—
Connor leaps in the helicopter like the chickenshit bitch he is.
He’s got no plans to stick around for a firefight.
There’s a sharp, mechanical clicking sound and then I’m on my feet, screa
ming at Friday to run.
Friday whirls in my direction.
Sees me.
Surprise flashes across his face.
I’m shrieking, shouting a warning, redlining toward him. I don’t owe the gangbanger nothing. But the thought of seeing Friday, a man who was loyal to my MC for a good long while, blown into a fucking blood smear by the Stricken Connor Lerrick and a Collazo Cartel douchebag?
That doesn’t sit right.
Friday’s smart enough not to turn to see what’s coming. He takes three running strides hard right, away from his crew and convoy, then leaps into the air with all he’s got.
A rocket lashes from Connor’s chopper, flies straight into Friday’s SUV.
A rolling ball of orange flame explodes into the sky.
So much for a clean motherfucking ambush.
I hear my crew racing behind me, then the pop of machine gun fire as the Sin gathers around their sedans and opens fire at the retreating chopper.
A flash of light from the crane and Connor’s Cartel army dick crumples to the ground, half his knee blown off. So the stoner Tate can bead a long-range rifle, thank fuck.
The chopper with Connor inside peels hard right, its blades whirring dangerously close to the ground. My focus narrows to that single chopper. My spine and hips snap and rearrange and my legs grow longer and then I’m all animal, a wolf chasing down prey, moving so fast the bullets wing harmlessly over my head to punch into the concrete behind.
The chopper’s slow.
I’m gunna make it.
I’m gunna to feed on the sack-of-shit rich prick.
Then a wall of white-orange light blazes across the empty lot as the remaining Apache helicopters unleash a nightmare burst of screaming death. Rockets fly into the Sin convoy with a thundering roar, sending chunks of metal shrapnel winging across the parking lot.
One of my crew screams.
I leap over a smoldering crater twenty feet across, trying not to lose sight of Connor’s chopper.
Another round of rockets arcs down. They’ve seen us now, running, raging killers, and then the gunship’s cannon’s loose, 30mm rounds whistling over me, pounding into the concrete, tracking along the ground while what’s left of Friday’s crew make a run for it.
Those ones?
They die knowing they’re cowards.
Tate’s rifle flashes over and over from the crane. He manages to take out one of the pilots. A chopper jerks left, slams into the one beside it and they both crash into the ships below. Then one of the choppers rotates, lines up square to the crane and fires. The rocket knocks out the crane’s support girders. The whole thing hangs perfectly still for a moment, then creaks and falls toward the yard with a tortured metal squeal.
Connor’s chopper’s right in the falling crane’s path.
Sometimes you got luck on your side.
Sometimes you don’t.
Connor leaps from the doomed chopper and lands on the concrete, all wolf, mostly white fur except for a patch of brown on his back, with crystalline fangs and claws like his dead father, and I howl and snarl and there’s not a rocket made that could stop me from killing him now, my shadow-wolves fall into formation beside me and Nash barks and laughs like the mad-as-fuck hyena he is and Connor lifts his head and sees me running and for an instant I see the fear in his chickenshit eyes and I know he’s mine—
Something slams into me with the force of a cannonball.
Winds me. Makes me blink, fighting to stay conscious—
I fly sideways as whatever attacked me digs into my hindquarters. A long shriek escapes my wolf lips and then I’m scratching at the thing latched onto me, hoping to gore the creature with my claws.
My shadow-wolves race and howl and snap at my attacker.
I crane my neck back and catch a glimpse of the thing latched onto me.
It’s a huge, green-black crocodile.
Connor’s paramilitary pet.
The fucker’s easily three times as long as a man. His massive jaws are clamped on my hind leg, tearing at me, trying to rip my leg from my hip socket. I bite at his neck but the angle’s all wrong and I can’t get purchase and my fangs glance off the bastard’s thick, leathery hide.
My shadow-wolves leap onto him, biting and snapping. The crocodile arcs its back and whips its long tail, hurling the shadows off, then flicks his tail again and sends us both rolling across the concrete.
Death roll.
The words echo in my mind.
While we roll the crocodile digs its front claws into me, drawing me deeper into its powerful jaws. Something cracks deep in my pelvis. White-hot pain shoots from my hip up my chest and into my heart.
The fucker’s strong. Maybe too strong.
There’s a tremendous explosion and a blast of heat as the falling crane collides with Connor’s chopper and huge chunks of metal slam into the ground.
I shriek and howl and writhe while the croc’s jaws snap my leg-bone to shit, then suddenly my attacker jerks to the side, freezes, then takes a long, raspy and wet-sounding breath.
Sensing a moment of weakness, I snap at his face again. This time my fangs pierce the mottled hide underneath his jaw. I’m nowhere near the fucker’s neck, but it feels good to have my teeth buried in his flesh. My mouth fills with black Stricken blood. The blood-taste and pain makes my wolf mad with the need to kill; my shadow wolves return, clawing at the fucker’s eyes while he writhes and rolls, trying to buck them.
Then I see what made the crocodile weaken.
There’s a good-sized piece of shrapnel stuck in his side.
His belly’s rent open.
See? My lucky day.
But the fucker still has his teeth sunk deep into my thigh. He whips his head back and forth, tearing me open and nearly ripping my leg off. I grind my fangs into him in a fury, desperate to get to his throat. I can’t believe the fucker’s still holding on, nevermind still chewing on me.
A thought crosses my mind.
A deadly, treasonous thought.
He’s stronger than me.
I’m getting weak. I’ve lost a lot of blood.
I’m not going to beat him.
The fucking crocodile’s gunna bleed me out then let himself die. My shadow-wolves flicker and vanish. I’ve lost the strength to hold them. My vision goes blurry, then dark grey at the edges.
My eyelids feel like lead.
I just want to close my eyes.
Just for a second.
I’m cold.
I can’t think anymore.
Even the pain feels far away.
Another explosion, then another. Screams of the dying. I remember Lily and me in Tate’s mountain hideout before shit went weird. I remember how it felt to be with her. I’d never given much thought to getting laid before. A fuck was a fuck. An instinctual need, as natural as eating and sleeping.
But with Lily? It was something more.
The Skin’s have a whole bunch of unnecessary words they use.
Tenderness. Wholeness. Love.
But all I’m gunna say is…I wish I could’ve seen her once more.
Just once.
Planned out what I wanted to say.
Maybe it wouldn’t be worth shit.
Maybe she’d just try and kill me again, and this time finish the job.
But I wanted to try and tell her.
Just try and say it.
How much she means.
The crocodile rolls me on my back, shifts its weight onto me. It’s like being crushed alive by a tank. He’s gathering his strength. His jaws pulsing, muscles tensing.
Life and death.
My left eye droops closed.
Just for a moment. Just some rest.
I was wrong. About everything.
I should never have left the mountains.
The batshit-crazy old Skinwalker was wrong.
The One We Answer To? What a fucking laugh.
My right eye closes. My jaw weakens, slips from the crocodile’s so
ft underside. He looses a low, prehistoric growl of triumph, then inches his jaws up toward my hips and femoral artery—
There’s an odd lightness.
The stabbing pain in my thigh relents.
A tremendous weight lifts off me.
I’m dead. That must be it. I’m dead at last.
Fucking hell.
Maybe now I’ll finally find some peace—
As I die I glance up. See a vision. A hallucination.
A great golden-brown bear standing on its hind legs, roaring as he uses his massive paws to stretch the crocodile’s jaws wide apart. The crocodile writhes and flails, pinned under the giant bear’s legs, its body bent backward. The crocodile’s eyes widen as its jaws crack.
Its bottom jaw shears from its body.
Black blood mists the bear’s fur.
The crocodile screeches a terrible death roar. The bear leans down, clamps its huge jaws over the crocodile’s skull, then bites until the crocodile’s head explodes in its mouth.
I close my eyes. Someone’s shaking me.
Dragging me to my knees. An ugly, thick-necked half-hyena.
Nash?
“…on your fucking feet, Prez…”
I swat at Nash. Piss off, I try and say. Get the fuck off me.
Nash slaps me across the face.
Hard enough to stun.
The motherfucker.
My fucking VP. I’ll murder him.
I’ll murder them all.
I lean against Nash, use him to struggle to a stand. Look around the shipyard at a vision of hell. Burning cars and SUV’s and choppers. The crane spread halfway across the yard, a flaming wreck of twisted metal. Flickering machine gun blasts in every direction. Rockets arcing down from the choppers above.
And everywhere I look monsters are battling one another.
The sight reminds me of something. An image from eons ago. A blood-slick steppe. Armies marching—
I blink, pushing the vision from my mind. Focus on the now, I remind myself. Focus on this kill.
Connor Lerrick.
All around me Purebloods in leather MC cuts are squaring off against hideous black-blooded Stricken in military gear. All fully dropping fangs and claws and stingers, biting and snapping and snarling. To my left a few of my guys are hunched over two Stricken corpses, pulling their black hearts from their chests. Further off there’s an insect-thing slicing its way into a hawk creature. To my right there’s a lion-snake hybrid ripping off a mule’s head—
The One We Answer To: A Shifter MC Novel (Pureblood Predator MC Book 3) Page 20