Dare to Lie

by Jen McLaughlin

SCOTTY

  I sat on the leather chair in the clubhouse, the one that was in the corner with the wall at its back, and rested my AR-15 on my lap. My shoulder still ached a little bit, but I refused to acknowledge the weakness. My head was pounding, my eyes hurt, but my heart was as calm as the sea on a warm summer day. We were going to war, and I might end up getting my fool ass shot, but I’d already lost the one thing in my life I’d actually wanted to keep.

  Nothing else mattered.

  The hurt laced in her voice had sent a knife of pain through me, but if nothing else came from our failed romance, at least she’d reminded me of what I was fighting for all along. I wanted to be a good guy, and to do that, I had to take down the bad guys.

  Starting with Bitter Hill . . .

  And then the Sons of Steel Row.

  Right and wrong had to be black and white from now on. The Sons, brotherhood and loyalty aside, were not the good guys. They sold guns to people who had no business having guns, which in turn got good people out there killed. They had to be stopped.

  And I’d help, if asked.

  Chris leaned on the wall next to me, resting his hands against the gun slung across his chest. His gaze skimmed over the room, which was filled with Sons. They were all here, ready to wage war. Even the older members, like Chris’s asshole father, were present. “You’re looking awfully pensive over here. Anything going on that I should know about?”

  I hadn’t told him about what happened with Skylar, Tate’s ultimatum, none of it. He didn’t need to know. “Nah, man. Just thinking. How’s Molly?”

  And the baby?

  “Okay.” He rubbed his jaw. “She’s home and resting, with a guy to keep her safe.”

  I cocked my head. “A new recruit?”

  “No, a legit bodyguard. An ex-SEAL. We hired him.”

  I whistled through my teeth. “Damn.”

  “I’m not fucking around with her safety again.” He ran his hand through his hair. “I might keep him around indefinitely, after that attack.”

  “Hopefully once this is over, you won’t need a guard on her.”

  “Yeah.” Chris stared at his father, looking like his mind was somewhere else. Back home with Molly, probably. “How’s your place? Do you need help repainting or refinishing the floors to get rid of the bloodstains?”

  We’d told everyone the attack had taken place at my house, so Tate didn’t have to tell everyone he had a sister. It was best for all involved. “Nah, I already cleaned it up. Thanks, though.”

  “At least we match now,” Chris said, touching his nose.

  I pressed my finger to mine, too. “Yeah, we do.”

  Tate came over to us, his AR-15 held against his shoulder. He had dark bags under his eyes, like he hadn’t slept for a week. He frowned at Chris, then focused on me, his gaze falling to my shoulder. “Are you sure you’re ready to do this, Donahue?”

  “I’m sure,” I said, my tone even, meeting his stare. There was no way in hell I was sending Chris out there alone, knowing what I knew now, and Tate was fully aware of where I stood on that matter. “My arm is fine, sir.”

  “And I bet it’ll feel even better after we take these assholes down,” Chris interjected.

  “Yeah,” Tate said dryly. “Revenge always looks nice on paper.”

  I frowned at him.

  Brian came over, nodding at us once. “You ready, boss?”

  Tate headed for the door without a word.

  “Guess that’s a yes.” He grinned at us. “And you guys? You ready to kick some ass?”

  “I was born ready,” Chris said, cracking his neck. “The second they attacked Lucas, I was ready to take them down.”

  Hopefully I was the only one that noticed Chris didn’t meet Brian’s eyes as he spoke. His guilt over his part in this whole mess was written all over his face.

  I stood. “Let’s do this.”

  We headed for the door together, following the rest of the crowd. Everyone—Tommy, Brian, Frankie, Tate, Chris, Gus, even Pops O’Brien and every other damn member of the Sons old enough to fight—started to leave the building, intent on putting an end to Bitter Hill. The young recruits were left behind to protect the families of the men fighting.

  I let out a soft breath, pulled my phone out, and shot off a quick text to Agent Torres, who I had listed in my phone as Ricky. It’s supposed to rain for the Red Sox game tomorrow night.

  That was code for “the shit is about to hit the fan.”

  I’ll bring an umbrella, he replied quickly.

  That meant they were on the scene, hidden in plain sight, and had our backs.

  Mine and Chris’s.

  “We’re all set.” Chris, of course, knew all about the DEA’s involvement in this attack. I tucked my phone away and rolled my shoulder, wincing. “Here’s hoping all goes as planned.”

  He frowned. “Are you sure your shoulder is up for this?”

  “Yes.”

  He gestured to my wound, which admittedly still stung like a bitch. “Maybe you should just sit this one out. Go to my place and hang with Molly.”

  “No.”

  A muscle in his jaw ticked. “Fine. Just make sure you don’t get us both killed with your stubbornness. Molly will be pissed if I come home in a body bag instead of the Mustang.”

  We settled into his car, and waited for the vehicles in front of us to go. There were fifteen heading for the Bitter Hill clubhouse. Fifteen. The Sons had too many members to get away with less. Six of them had already left, and each one would go a different way to avoid suspicion.

  Two more cars pulled out onto the road. Shortly after, another two left, going different ways. Everyone was under strict orders that if some people didn’t make it, for whatever reason, the attack was still supposed to happen. That way, no matter what happened, Bitter Hill would go down tonight. The contingency plans had contingency plans.

  And yet . . .

  I couldn’t shake the uneasiness that settled at the base of my neck. I looked out the window as another group of men left. Ours was last in line, behind Pops O’Brien. Then it was Tate, Tommy, Frankie, and Brian—who were all in one truck together. I’d argued that keeping all the lieutenants so close was asking for trouble. If someone attacked the last part of the procession, the Sons’ entire leadership would be in jeopardy, but Frankie and Tate hadn’t listened to me.

  Brian beeped his horn impatiently. “Yo, Pops! Let’s go!”

  Chris’s father came out of the clubhouse with his best friend, flipped off Brian, and headed toward his pickup truck, swaggering cockily even though his truck was blocking us in. We were all waiting on them to get out of the damned way so we could go.

  “Do you see these jackasses?” I asked Chris, gesturing at his pops.

  “Yeah.” Chris watched his dad, too, his jaw tight. “Jesus, could he go any slower? I’ve seen a fucking snail move fast—”

  A boom filled the parking lot, and I jerked back in surprise. Pops O’Brien fell to the ground right outside Chris’s door, spitting out blood as he collapsed to the ground.

  For a second, no one moved.

  We just stared, because what the fuck happened?

  But then another boom filled the silence of the night, and Pops O’Brien’s best buddy fell, too, his brains exploding out in a spray of skull and brain matter all over the window of his truck.

  That was enough to snap me the hell out of it.

  Bitter Hill was here. And my backup wasn’t.

  “Shit.” I threw my door open to take cover, and aimed my gun toward where the shot could have originated, breathing heavily, trying to find the sniper since we were all just sitting ducks here. The rest of the Sons remaining in the lot did the same, taking shelter and aim.

  Chris didn’t move, just stared at his dead father, his knuckles tight on the wheel. Pops O’Brien had
been an abusive son of a bitch who’d made Chris’s life hell, but seeing your father killed in front of you?

  Yeah, it was bound to make a man need a second to recover.

  But a second was all he had.

  “Chris!” I shouted.

  He shook himself, his eyes blank. “Yeah?”

  “Move.”

  He threw his door open, stepped over his father’s body, and lifted his gun, his hands as steady as ever, taking cover with me, behind his car.

  Brian backed his truck up next to us, squealing his tires, giving us cover on either side, and then jumped down beside us. Tommy, Tate, and Frankie all jumped down, too. “It’s coming from up high. A roof, maybe.”

  “Can you see the shooter?” I called out, heart racing, blood rushing.

  Another shot boomed, hitting the side of Brian’s truck instead of us.

  “Second window from the left, third floor,” Chris called out.

  Tommy slid into position beside us. When another bullet grazed by us, narrowly missing his head, he cursed and fired off a spray of bullets. The gunfire stopped abruptly, and I let out a breath of relief. “Got him. We need to—”

  Another shot boomed from behind us, and Brian fell back, clutching his shoulder, his blood blending in with the red of his truck. “Son of a bitch.”

  “Shit.” I whirled and squeezed the trigger, aiming for the sound. I was pretty sure it had come from the roof of the empty warehouse next to our clubhouse. “Brian?”

  “I’m alive,” he growled. “But it’s my shooting arm. I’m out.”

  “Then stay down,” Chris said, sliding in front of him.

  I did the same, resting my finger on the trigger, guarding the man who had once been my brother. “We’ve got you. Be our eyes.”

  Tate crept closer, gun aimed at the building to our left, breathing heavily. “Brian?”

  “I’m alive,” he called out. “They got my shoulder.”

  “They’re fucking with us,” Tate said, his hair sticking up and his shirt showing a line of blood on his forearm. “They have us surrounded, and we can’t find them. They waited for us to be alone, and now they’re picking us off one by one.”

  I cleared my throat. “This hits a little too close to home for comfort.”

  “Yeah.” Tate looked at me. “It’s almost like someone tipped them off to our plan, and they executed it before we could. They’re trying to take out the leaders.”

  Which was why I’d suggested we split up. Tate probably hadn’t trusted me out of his sight—a mistake he was paying for now. I glanced past him. “Where’d Tommy go?”

  “He’s on the other side of the truck, scoping out that building.” He cocked his head to the right. “Frankie’s with him.”

  Another shot, and an older member who never joined in fights anymore fell to the ground, staring sightlessly up at the sky. For the life of me, I couldn’t remember his name. Don? Dan? Tate growled, stood, and fired off three shots. At the same time, I saw the glint off a gun on the rooftop where I’d been aiming earlier. “Get down!” I called out, firing off shots.

  He didn’t hear me. Just kept shooting, his anger having apparently turned him into a reckless leader. The asshole was going to get himself killed. He stepped even more out of the cover, pulling the trigger again. “Tate!”

  Skylar’s face swam in front of me, and I locked eyes with Chris, who shook his head. I ignored him, because if Skylar lost her brother, she’d have no one left.

  I threw myself at Tate.

  He hit the ground hard at the same time a bullet buzzed right over us, shattering Brian’s driver’s-side window. I heard it whizz past my head, almost putting an end to all my lies for good. Tate’s eyes were wide, his cheeks still flushed with anger.

  “Roof!” Brian called out. “Eight o’clock!”

  Chris turned, aimed, took a breath, and pulled the trigger before I could pick my gun back up. I’d dropped it while saving Tate’s life. The shooter fell off the roof, hitting the pavement. “Thank you,” Tate said after a moment’s silence.

  I nodded once, not meeting his eyes, and pushed off him.

  Tate rolled to his knees, handing me my gun.

  Chris aimed for the same roof again. “I saw another guy up there. Check the other roofs. I’ve got this one.”

  We all repositioned ourselves accordingly. I stayed where I was, even though I had worse cover here than where I’d been before. I felt too exposed on the end like this, but I wanted to keep an eye on Tate and make sure he didn’t pull another stunt like the last one.

  I took the left.

  Tate the right.

  Tommy, wherever he was, hopefully had the last shooter covered, if he could still hear us. But we had no way of knowing right now whether he was still alive and fighting. Too many men had fallen. “Tommy?” I called out.

  No answer came.

  “Frankie?” Tate yelled.

  Again, no answer.

  “Shit,” he muttered.

  Chris squeezed off a shot. A thump, and then an AR-47 fell from the roof. Another one down. We all knelt like that, circled around Brian, watching for any signs of life.

  None came.

  Tate tightened his finger on the trigger, and another Bitter Hill guy fell from the roof, landing on the ground with a thump.

  Brian grinned. “Do you think they’re all gone?”

  Chris fired off a shot, and an answering boom filled the air at the same time, echoing through the darkness of the night. Pain seared through my thigh. I clutched it, glancing down, and saw blood painting my fingers red. The sniper must’ve been aiming for one of us when he was taken down, and he’d fired off one last shot . . . at me. “Son of a—”

  “Scotty!” Chris yelled, his voice strangled, as he tossed his gun aside and crawled to me, his face pale.

  “It’s fine. I’m fi . . .” I pressed on my wound harder, frowning because the blood showed no signs of stopping. “Shit.”

  Tate came over to me, gun still raised at the enemy, eyes on the roofs surrounding us. “Are you okay, Donahue?”

  Chris pushed my hand aside, cursing, his face pale. “Damn it. That’s an artery. They nicked an artery.”

  Laughing, I fell back, the world spinning. “Of fucking course they did.”

  Chris grabbed my phone out of my pocket, punched in my passcode, and dialed. I was in too much pain to be impressed by the fact that he’d figured out my code at some point.

  Brian sat up more, still holding his shoulder. “What are you doing?”

  “Calling 911.”

  “What?” Brian grabbed for the phone weakly. Chris lurched back, easily holding it out of reach. “The hell you are. You can’t call the Boys here. We’ll just bind it good, and take him to Doc—”

  “We can’t wait that long.” Tate ripped his shirt off and wrapped it around the wound, pulling it tight and applying a painful amount of pressure. When I groaned, he shot me a concerned look. “Do it. Call them.”

  Brian’s jaw dropped. “But—”

  “He’s going to die if we don’t do it,” Tate growled, pressing harder. “Everyone else can clear out, but he needs help, and I’m not letting him die here.”

  Brian frowned. “I’m not leaving you.”

  “Clear out,” Tate barked, still fussing over my leg. “That’s an order.”

  Chris talked quietly into the phone, his back to us. I had a feeling he’d called Agent Torres instead of 911. Smart move. They’d get to Steel Row a hell of a lot faster anyway.

  But at the rate I was losing blood . . .

  It wouldn’t matter anyway.

  Brian struggled to stand, holding his shoulder. “They’re going to arrest him, and you.”

  “I’ll be fine. I have no record. I’ll tell them I heard the shots from my office down the street, and cam
e running to help.” He lifted his chin, glaring at his right-hand man. “Go. Find Tommy, and Frankie, and get the hell out of here. Now.”

  Brian staggered away, calling out for Tommy.

  I tried to catch my breath, and failed.

  The world started simultaneously spinning and fading away.

  “Don’t you die on me,” Tate growled, pressing on my leg even harder and slapping my face gently. “Scotty. Skylar will kill me if I let you die.”

  I choked on a laugh, because she didn’t give a damn about me anymore. “I really do love her,” I said, the world rapidly fading away. “I . . . I . . .”

  And then everything faded to black.

  CHAPTER 22

  SKYLAR

  I rubbed my face, blinking away the exhaustion trying to claim me. Rubbing my forehead, I tried to focus on the TV, but there was no use. I stood up and paced toward the stairs, glancing up them at Tate’s bedroom door, which had been shut ever since he staggered home covered in blood, shot me one look, said, “Don’t leave,” and then walked up the stairs into his bedroom.

  That had been three hours ago.

  He hadn’t come out since.

  There had been something in his eyes that told a story of the things he’d seen, and done, and that were going to haunt him for a long time. God help me, I didn’t want to know what those things were. That emptiness in his eyes stayed with me long after his bedroom door shut behind him.

  And even though I tried to pretend I wasn’t worried about another red-haired man in my life, I couldn’t help it. I needed to know if Scotty was still breathing. I glanced down at my phone, unlocking it, looking at the last text I’d sent. Are you okay?

  I’d sent it to Scotty shortly after Tate had come home, despite my better judgment. He hadn’t opened it yet. Hadn’t read it. That could mean a million and one things. Or nothing at all.

  The bedroom door swung open and Tate stood at the top of the stairs, wearing a pair of sweats and a loose white T-shirt. His hair stood up like he hadn’t even bothered to run a comb through it after he’d showered. His jaw was tight, and there was determination in his eyes. “We need to talk.”