Connor was counting on it. He wanted to take the whole fucking crew down. “What about the other units?”
“Rented to civilians. You gotta go in easy, brother.”
There was no easy way to go in. It was broad daylight, and he meant to kill them all. “Okay. Thanks, man. How’s my mom?”
“She’s awake. The women are in with her now. She’s worried about you and Hooj.”
That made Connor smile a little. His mom was always looking out for everybody. “Tell her I’ll be back soon as I can. I’m gonna make this right.”
Another pause, and then Bart said. “Okay, brother. Keep me looped in.”
“I will.” Bart was the head of the club now. For now. Until his dad was back on his feet. Only until then.
Connor hung up and shared the news with his brothers.
When he was finished, Trick said, “We can’t go in hot, Con.”
“They burned my parents. My dad might be dying. My mom got hurt. Did you see her? I want them all dead.”
“Brother, I hear you. Now you hear me. If you want to go now, before noon, in an apartment building, then we need to try to do it quiet.”
“Nobody on Mission Street ever called a cop in their lives,” Diaz added. “We don’t gotta go in that quiet.”
Trick turned on him. “It’s more than that. How many people live in that building? You think the Aztecs are going to give a shit if kids get caught in our crossfire?”
“So what’s your plan?”
Lakota stepped up and flipped his dagger in his hand. “If we can get the jump on them, we can do it quiet.”
Connor sat down on a metal chest in the locker and forced himself to think. They were planning a battle in an apartment building. If they could go quietly at all, it would only be at the beginning. They might be able to take down any posted guards. Once inside, though, it would be chaos. No way to avoid it.
Trick had his phone out. “Here’s the street view of the building. Six units. Three floors. So two units each floor. One door into the front of the building. One back door, but there’s a balcony on the back of each unit, with fire escapes.”
Connor took Trick’s phone and studied the images. “We need at least two guys at the back. That leaves us with four going in the front. Do we know how many Aztecs there are?”
Trick added, “And do they have families? Kids? What’s the outside number of people we need to be ready for? And what are we doing with the women and kids?”
Diaz answered that. “They got one still locked up, but if they brought Hugo in, there’ll be seven members. Esposito’s kids are grown—his boy is a member. I don’t know about the others.”
Standing back up, Connor moved to the back of the locker. “Keep sharp out there.” It wouldn’t do to be seen pulling weapons out of a self-storage locker. “We go in with small arms and suppressors. And we suit up.” He heaved a stack of Kevlar vests out of a chest he’d uncovered. “We deal with what we find. We try to keep our bullets where they belong. But I’m not taking the weight for what those shitheads do to their own people. Let’s shut the fuck up and move.”
~oOo~
It was a couple of days before Halloween. The weather was warm and bright, the cloudless kind of day that got boring in Southern California. Kids were in school, and people who had jobs were at them, so the street was quiet. A few cheap, indifferent Halloween decorations sat on porches, were taped to doors and windows. But this wasn’t the kind of neighborhood where people let their kids trick-or-treat. This was the kind of neighborhood people took their kids away from to trick-or-treat someplace safer, with better candy.
They pulled their bikes up around the corner from Mission Street—not too far for a quick getaway, but far enough that their engines wouldn’t announce their arrival. They were already suited up and armed. Connor gestured a reminder of the plan, and they headed out.
Demon and Muse would cover the back. Connor, Trick, and Diaz would come through the front. Lakota would keep watch, guarding the large front window, in case somebody came through that way.
Connor led the way up the front, tight to the buildings to keep their profile low. About two doors from their target, as he scanned the street with one eye, he pulled up short and gestured for the others to stop.
Trick was right behind him. “What is it?”
He nodded to a late-model GMC truck parked directly in front of the building they were up against. Trick looked, then looked harder. He turned back to Connor, frowning. Then his head swiveled hard back to the truck.
“Fuck me. Is that…?” There was a sticker on the rear passenger window of the extended cab. A Maltese cross.
“Yeah. Fuck.” That was Moore’s truck. If Moore was here, then Pilar was, too. Those two were joined at the goddamn hip.
Diaz leaned forward. “What’s the holdup?”
“Con’s old lady might be in there.”
Connor shook his head. No. Not his old lady. Maybe that was the way they’d been headed—who was he kidding; yes, they’d been headed that way—but he was shutting that shit down. It had never occurred to him that it might be he who’d be the one who couldn’t deal, but he couldn’t. Watching that footage, seeing that her brother had fucking burned his parents’ house down with them in it, burned their whole neighborhood, and seeing the look in her eyes, the way she’d tried to protect her brother, even after what he’d done, that she had chosen that piece of shit over him—he couldn’t deal with any of it.
And now she was here. To protect her brother. From him.
So he shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. Let’s move.”
~oOo~
They got to the door of the apartment without incident. An old woman had stepped out into the hall and then, seeing them, had stepped right back in and locked her door, but otherwise, as far as they knew, they hadn’t been seen. Connor had called Muse; he and Demon were in place.
It was go time.
He could hear music and talk beyond the door. He checked the seams around the jamb. It was possible, if you knew what to look for, to make a good guess about how many locks on a door were actually engaged. Connor knew what to look for. This door had three locks, but only one deadbolt appeared to be engaged. With the assumption that a chain guard might also be engaged on the other side, he stepped back and aimed his heavy boot.
The door came in on the first kick; the whole jamb tore away. Connor made quick, instinctual note of the scene: nine men, including Moore and Hugo, and three women, one of whom was Pilar. No kids he could see. Without taking any more time, he fired at the nearest head, a grey-haired Aztec with a scaled wing inked on the side of his face. The man fell dead, and Connor prepared for chaos.
For about thirty seconds, chaos happened. They had caught the Aztecs unawares, and by the time those men had their weapons out, the Horde had already ended three of them.
Then Esposito grabbed Pilar and shoved his gun into her face, the barrel pushing savagely into her mouth, and Connor threw his free arm out to stop his men. “Hold!”
He cared. He shouldn’t—he should let whatever was going to happen to her happen, as long as he got to her brother, but he cared. Hugo had hurt his family, his parents, and Pilar was here, had chosen her brother over him. But he couldn’t turn off his heart. He loved her like he’d never loved anyone. Even now. Even here at the scene of her attempt to betray him. He wouldn’t forgive her, but he couldn’t stop loving her. He felt rent in two.
Now, Esposito laughed crazily and wrapped his hand around her throat, still shoving the gun against her lips, and Connor saw that she’d been bound—her hands were tied behind her back. “Hugo, hermano, you’re a popular guy.” He looked at Connor. “You here to save him again, too? His sister thinks she can bargain him back out. Or are you looking for his head? He did a good job for me, I gotta say. I’m thinking he’s due for a promotion already.”
Pilar struggled harder, and Esposito squeezed her throat more tightly. She uttered a pained, stilted groan. Unable
to stop himself, Connor took a step toward her, and Esposito grinned, sliding one hand from her neck over her shoulder to grab a breast and squeeze.
Pilar’s pain and tension was obvious, but Connor forced himself to keep his focus on her captor, who leered as if he had won something. “Or maybe it’s her you’re here for. Maybe you just want this fine piece of ass right here? She’s got her mother’s looks. Dios mio, Olivia was somethin’ else. Shame she got caught in the crossfire. I meant to make her mine.”
Hugo and Pilar both reacted to that. Pilar stopped struggling, and Hugo turned and faced Esposito. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Again, Esposito laughed that madman laugh. “You don’t got much upstairs, do ya, Hughie?” Again, he directed his attention to Connor. “You boys drop your guns right now.”
Connor was in the lead, a step ahead of his men. He hesitated, trying to make his brain ignore Pilar and take the fucking shot right now.
Esposito nodded, and a blast exploded. Trick flailed backwards and landed, unconscious or at least badly dazed, on the floor. At the same time, Hugo flew forward, toward Esposito.
“NO!” Connor shouted, but then the room went stormy with gunfire, and he was driven to the floor. A bullet caught his arm, slicing through as he fell downward. Diaz landed on top of him and then rolled off, firing.
When Connor came up into a crouch, Pilar was on the floor. Hugo was on the floor. Trick was down. Moore, too.
Esposito pointed his gun at Pilar. Still in his crouch, his dominant arm hot and numb, Connor didn’t think, he didn’t aim. He brought up his weapon and fired. The shot caught Esposito in the leg but didn’t knock him down. Connor stood and fired twice more. As Esposito finally fell, Connor felt like he’d been punched by the fist of God. He landed on the floor again, and the world spun and faded.
“Con!” Diaz was one his knees at his side, pulling at his shirt. “Can you get up?”
Connor had been shot in the vest, low on his ribs. Fuck, that hurt. “Yeah.” He struggled to his feet and saw Trick doing the same, his hand clutching at his chest. “You good, T?”
“Yeah. Jesus, that hurts.”
“We whole?”
Muse and Demon were in the apartment now, too. Demon nodded. “Yeah. You and Trick took the brunt. All hail Kevlar.”
No shit. But Pilar was still on the floor. Fuck! Forgetting the pain in his ribs, he climbed over Aztec bodies and dropped to his knees at her side. He snatched his blade and sliced the tape holding her wrists together, then rolled her over, checking for the bullet wound. Her head was bleeding, and at first he thought his heart was going to stop dead, but it wasn’t a bullet that had made her bleed. She had a gash over her temple and cheek. Esposito had hit her with the gun, not shot her with it.
“Thank God. Come on, baby. Wake up.” She didn’t, and he clutched her to his sore chest and looked around. All the Horde were inside now. The two Aztec women were cowering in a corner; Diaz was talking to them in Spanish. Moore had sat up; he’d been hit in the shoulder. His wrists had been bound, too; they still had the torn tape stuck to them. Hugo lay on the floor in the middle of the room, not far from Esposito’s body. His eyes were open and unseeing. A small, singed hole marred his cheek. He was dead.
All the Aztecs were down. When one moaned at Muse’s feet, he aimed down and ended the man. And then all the Aztecs were dead.
The entire gang lay dead at the Horde’s feet, on the floor of this shitty apartment. All but Sam, the one who was locked up, facing charges for rape and murder.
“We need to clean this up.” Trick’s voice was still strained, and he hadn’t managed yet to stand straight up.
“Yeah, we do. Lakota, call Bart. We need the service up here. We need the van, and we need J.R. at the clubhouse. We got wounded. Trick, can you ride?”
“I’ll manage. Let’s get Cordero and her buddy some help.”
When Trick said her name, Pilar stirred and struggled in Connor’s arms.
She opened her eyes, and Connor felt a painful rush of relief and love. He knew that he would forgive her, after all. He loved her too much not to. “It’s okay, baby.”
“Connor? Oh God, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m sorry. I didn’t know he was…I didn’t know.” She turned her head then and saw her brother’s body. “Hugo? Oh, no, oh Hughie! Hughie!”
Pushing away from Connor, blood dripping down her face, Pilar crawled to her brother and picked up his head. Connor saw then that the back of his skull was gone, but Pilar didn’t seem to notice or care.
She didn’t cry. She rocked him, moaning, “Lo siento, Nana. Lo siento, lo siento.”
Connor didn’t know much Spanish, but he knew enough to understand that she was apologizing to her grandmother. And then he thought he understood everything else. Why she’d been so protective of her shitty brother, why she’d tried to save him from Horde retaliation. She hadn’t been trying to save him. She’d been trying to save her grandmother the pain of losing him.
Still on his knees, he went to her and wrapped his arms around her. “It’s gonna be okay, baby.” He should have said he was sorry, that was the thing you said when somebody lost a loved one, but he wasn’t sorry. The only thing he was sorry about was that it hadn’t been his bullet that had ended the bastard.
No—he was also sorry that Pilar was hurting.
He tightened his hold around her, meaning to offer her comfort, but she fought him.
“It’s not okay! My God, it’s not! This is going to kill her. He was my responsibility, and I fucked everything up.” She looked up then and saw her friend. “Fuck, Moore! God, you’re hurt!”
“I’m okay. Help’s coming.” Moore looked pale, but he was clear and coherent.
Setting Hugo’s head gently down on the floor again, she pushed Connor off again and went to her friend.
Connor sat there alone in the middle of the aftermath, his fists clenched, his ribs aching, blood running freely down his arm, and he watched Pilar check Moore’s wound. He fucking hated that guy.
~oOo~
After J.R. had him stitched and taped up, and he’d spoken at length with Bart, Connor went to find Pilar. She was with Moore—fucking of course she was. J.R. had already stitched the cut on her face, and he was wrapping Moore’s shoulder up.
“I talk to you, Cordero?”
She turned at his voice, and she frowned when she saw his arm. “You were hurt, too?”
It was the first she’d noticed. “Just a scratch. I’m fine. I need you, though.”
He took comfort in the fact that she came right to him. She wrapped her arms around his waist. He winced and groaned, and she flinched back. Scowling at him, she lifted his t-shirt. “Jesus! What happened?”
“Caught a bullet in the vest. Cracked a rib or two.”
“You got shot?”
“The vest caught it. I’m okay. But I need to get back to the hospital. I want you with me. Please. I haven’t seen my dad yet.”
She looked back at Moore, away from him, and Connor almost said fuck it all. He could not deal with that shit. But fuck, he needed her. So instead, he reached out and grabbed her arm, glad for the way the pulling pain in his ribs gave him focus. “Jesus Christ, stop picking people over me. Fucking stop it.”
She turned back to him, her eyes wide. “What?”
“Your brother, your job, your grandma, your friend. When am I first?”
“Connor, you are first. I love you. But you’re not only. I have other things in my life.”
He was sore and tired. He was angry and afraid for his parents. The part of him that saw the big picture knew he was behaving like a petulant brat, but if ever there was a time for him to come first on the list of things in her life, he thought it should be now.
Or maybe not. Her brother had just been killed. Her grandmother hadn’t been told yet. Her friend had been hurt and was in the middle of the Horde clubhouse, which wasn’t necessarily the most welcoming place for him, especially since Connor had had a drun
ken gripe or two about the guy.
So, okay. If she said no, he’d find a way to deal. At least until things calmed down again and they could talk it out like grownups.
They still needed to talk about everything that had happened today. Later, though. After things calmed down.
But she didn’t say no. “I love you, Connor. If you want me at the hospital, then I’ll be there. Let me just tell him that I’m leaving, okay?”
Fire & Dark (The Night Horde SoCal Book 3) Page 25