by Naomi West
“Me either. I was drunk.”
“Were you sober for any of these?”
“Hell yeah. The scales, for sure.”
She ran her hand across his chest and then up, seeking his collarbone. “Right here,” she murmured, tracing the shape of the scales.
“Yeah. I was goin’ for something deep.”
“You’re a justice man?”
“It ain’t even about justice, necessarily. It’s about balance.”
“How so?” she was genuinely curious.
“I guess I’m always kinda lookin’ for balance in the people I hang with. Kong’s calm balanced out my mom’s crazy. Deion’s sense of humor, it balances out Kong’s seriousness.” He paused. “And you … maybe you kinda balance out me. And how rough I am.”
“Rough?”
“Yeah. Just, like … I know I can be a dick. And I know I do a lot of stupid shit. But when I’m around you, I try to be less of a dipshit.”
“That’s kind of sweet.”
He held her closer.
“But I don’t think you’re a dipshit,” she whispered. “You help me survive, Jax. I … I need you.”
A soft hitch in his breathing. “I need you too.”
Warmth flooded her. She snuggled closer to him, trying to stave off the fear that was trying to creep in again.
“Tomorrow…” she murmured.
“Hey,” he whispered. “Don’t think about that now. Let’s just have tonight.”
Katrin closed her eyes. Beside her, Pistol’s breathing gradually slowed, and she drifted in a haze of wonder and desire and a hope that probably should have been killed a long time ago, but that still burst through her, growing stronger with each soft breath.
It’s going to be okay. We’re going to fight this.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Pistol woke in pain. His shoulder throbbed with agony, and he was disoriented for a moment — overheated and aching. Then he realized he was twined with Katrin in the emergency blanket, in a cave in the desert, and he smiled.
There were worse places to wake up.
That had been hot as hell last night — watching her ride him, watching her lose herself in pleasure, watching her full breasts bounce and feeling her clench around him as she experienced orgasm after orgasm. He wished they could go for round two — his dick was certainly up for it — but he knew they couldn’t hang around here much longer. Not with limited food and barely any water.
He stretched, and immediately wished he hadn’t as rays of pain shot up his injured arm. He felt strange as hell today. Probably because he knew he had to figure out a way to confront a fucking psychopath without devastating said psychopath’s daughter.
Katrin blinked awake beside him. Stretched, kicking the blanket off. It was early, judging by the light outside, but it was already hot.
“Mornin’,” he said.
“Morning.” She smiled sleepily, rubbing her eyes with the heel of her hand. “You okay?”
“Fine,” he lied. “My shoulder’s better.” He sat up. With the natural light coming in, the cave looked different — desolate, with its gray floor and scraps of rock and the dust that hung thick in the air. “I should go into town and try to find some help.”
She blinked and propped up on her elbows. “Are you going to look for my father?”
He glanced at her. Saw the concern etched in her beautiful face. He’d done this to her — made her worry, put her in unsafe situations. No more. He would end all that today. He would make Rialto a safe place to bring her home to.
But he couldn’t look her in the eye and tell her he was going to kill her father the second he saw the bastard. Couldn’t tell her that, depending on what he found when he got into Rialto, this could turn into a dangerous revolt. That if he and the surviving Souls fought back against Smith, they’d almost surely die.
So he said, “I’m not making any moves yet. I’m just going to check the clubhouse and see if I can get some weapons. Find out how closely your father’s men are guarding the place.”
“And if they’re guarding it pretty damn closely?” She stared at him, arching an eyebrow.
“Then I won’t do anything stupid,” he promised. He stood and stretched, more carefully this time. Grabbed his clothes off the floor of the cave and started to dress.
She began packing things back into the emergency kit.
“You can stay here and relax. Eat something.”
“No way. I’m riding with you.”
“Uh-uh. No way am I dragging you into this.”
She looked up. “You could barely stay on the bike last night. You can’t ride now.”
“Kat, I’m fine. I know what I’m doing. I don’t want you to get any more involved than you have to.”
She sighed, half laughing. “You’re so stubborn.”
He grinned. “Get used to it.” He snapped his fly.
She leaned back on her hands. “I’d rather go with you. I can help. It’s pointless having me stay out here alone.”
Pistol yanked his jacket on, trying not to grit his teeth as he moved his shoulder. “I’m just going to scout things out. Then I’ll be back and we can plan our next move together.”
He knelt and kissed her, relishing the sweet taste of her mouth, the lingering scent of shampoo in her thick hair, the softness of her body as she leaned into him, their bodies melting together.
“I’ll be back as soon as I can,” he said when they parted, feeling a stab of guilt at her anxious expression. “I’m going to get help, Kat. You know we can’t stay out here. And I’m not gonna put you in danger when it’s not necessary.”
She nodded. “I know. But I ... I don’t think we should separate.” She gave a smile that looked forced. “I’ve seen horror movies, you know.”
He returned her smile with a confidence he didn’t feel. “This isn’t a horror movie. Promise. I’ll go see what’s up in town, and then I’ll come right back.”
He turned and started toward the bike, but she caught his arm. “Pistol—”
He turned back to her. Her lips parted like she was about to speak. He waited, sensing this was important. But then she shook her head. “Sorry, I ... I just hate this.”
“I know,” he said softly. “Why don’t you eat some of the food from our stash? Keep your strength up.”
He gave her another quick kiss then got up on the bike. His shoulder throbbed like fuck, but he’d live. He started the bike, and programmed the GPS to remember their current coordinates. Then, with a last glance at Katrin — beautiful, with her long dark hair whipping in the breeze, her arms crossed under her breasts — he roared off across the sand, toward the road.
###
He was exhausted by the time he reached Rialto. Man, the blood loss really was fucking with him. He felt woozy as shit and not at all ready for whatever he might find waiting for him at Blackened Souls HQ.
He grimaced as he dismounted behind a church a couple of blocks from the clubhouse. He knew he needed to prioritize getting weapons. If he could somehow make it into the clubhouse — fat chance of that; it was the number one place Smith would be guarding — he’d look through some of the secret caches there, see if there was anything left. If not, he’d hit up the gun shops in town. He wasn’t thrilled about that prospect — who knew how deep Smith had his claws into the business owners in this town. He whistled softly as he approached the clubhouse from the back, making sure to stay in the cover of the trees and bushes.
The place looked dead empty — dark windows, the garage closed, and a ghostly air of abandonment. Pistol crept up to the side, behind some yew bushes, and stood on the central air until to peer through a window. No sign of life.
He opened the window as slowly and quietly as he could. Hoisted himself up on the sill, nearly shouting in agony at the strain on his shoulder. He could feel the wound starting to seep again, but he ignored it. He pulled himself into the filthy bedroom Bones and Hap shared.
There were beer bottles and
dirty socks all over the floor. A pile of something unidentifiable in one corner. He smiled wryly. And Katrin thought he was bad?
He crawled a few feet across the floor, then got to his feet and headed out into the hall. If he could just get to the basement, he ought to be able to scrounge up some weapons.
He tried not the think too hard about what this silence meant. Did it mean all the others were dead? Where was Kong? Had he known about the set up? It was hard not to blame Kong for leading the Blackened Souls into this mess. Pistol allowed himself a few moments for another pang of grief to wash over him. Deion — always smiling, good-natured, going with the flow. Ready with a quick joke or a word of advice.
Pistol’s world had changed when Deion arrived at the clubhouse. Pistolhad finally felt like he had abrother— as opposed to a group of men he was supposed to trust, supposed to work with, but whom he frequently treated with all the contempt of a sullen teenager. Once he’d felt that brotherhood with Deion, it had opened him up to bond with the other Blackened Souls. To truly allow his club to become his family.
He remembered Deion walking into the clubhouse — tall, lanky, with an easy smile on his face. Pistol had been at the kitchen table nursing a beer, shoulders hunched defensively, not at all sure he wanted to meet this newcomer.
Kong had introduced them, and Pistol had barely looked up. But Deion had slung himself down at the table across from him and started talking up a storm. Shooting the shit, easy as you please. Then he’d taken out a deck of cards and started dealing, and before Pistol quite knew how, he was playing Texas Hold ’Em with the bastard.
Rage flared in him, twining with his grief. How many of those brothers were left? Had the only family he’d ever known been destroyed before his eyes? He debated, not for the first time, texting the others — the ones who hadn’t gone on the mission last evening. But there was a strong possibility Smith had either killed or imprisoned the remaining club members. If Smith had control of their phones, Pistol risked giving himself away.
He ought to at least text Kong. Or call. But how could he be sure Kong hadn’t had anything to do with Smith’s plan?
He was startled by a sound from the back of the house. He crouched, heart pounding. Someone was coming through the back door. Multiple people. They were loud, laughing. Glass shattered. He heard the sound of items hitting the floor, breaking.
“Nothin’ good here!” someone shouted. “The boss already checked.”
“Well,” said another voice, “He told me we’d better fuckin’ check again. Thoroughly.” More glass breaking. The crash of pans in the kitchen.
“You feed the dogs yet?” asked a third voice, deeper than the others.
What the fuck? Dogs?
“Why feed ’em?” asked the first voice. “When we’re just gonna put ’em down?”
Pistol felt queasy. He had a not-so-funny feeling these guys weren’t talking about actual dogs.
“Hey, there’s Doritos,” someone said.
“We don’t need Doritos, asshole,” said the deep voice. “We need their guns and their fuckin’ drugs.”
Pistol listened as the voices moved into the meeting room. He heard something — a crowbar, probably — smashing against the gun safe. Then the whoop as the men finally got the safe open. He could hear the guns being passed around.
Shit. He was now in this house with who knew how many men who had, not just their own weapons, but the Souls’ main stash as well. Should he try to go back out the way they came? He didn’t stand a damn chance of confronting them and winning, not without a weapon.
Before he could decide, footsteps approached the bedroom.
Shit. Shit shit shit.
Pistol looked around frantically, searching for a place to hide.
“I’m gonna check back here,” yelled one of the goons. Y’all get the prisoners ready for transfer.”
Prisoners?
Pistol’s heart leapt. Did that mean some of the Blackened Souls were still alive? But if so, for how long? He needed to find out, but now he was trapped like a fucking animal.
The man outside the bedroom door had paused to laugh at something his buddies were saying, but now a floorboard creaked and the knob started to twist. There was no time to think. He had to get out of sight, now.
Feeling ridiculous, like a little kid playing hide and seek, Pistol got on his knees and crawled under one of the beds.
This was awful. This was so fuckin’ stupid. He’d be found within seconds. But it was too late to change course now. Just had to pray.
He froze as the door flew open and the goon barged in. All Pistol could see were dirty jeans cuffs and a pair of dusty leather work boots. The man stormed through the room, pulling out dresser drawers and hurling them on the floor. He ransacked the closet, tossing clothes onto the bed. Pistol figured he only had thirty seconds at best before the asshole hunkered down and peered under the bed. He prepared to attack. At the very least, maybe he could knock the fucker out, then bolt out the window.
But …the prisoners.
There were prisoners somewhere in the house. And who else would Smith’s men be holding hostage besides the remaining Souls? Pistol needed to find his brothers, help them. He could hear the goon shifting, grunting, breathing hard.
He flinched as the goon pulled up the mattress and shoved it down one side of the box springs. It landed with a massive thwap on the floor, obscuring Pistol’s vision out one side.
He jolted as the blade of a knife pierced the fabric of the box springs near Pistol’s head, then made a giant slash. For the love of fuck, what was the guy expecting to find here? Pistol curled away from the slashed place, holding his breath and praying the guy couldn’t see him. Blood pounded in his head, and it was all he could do to keep from panting in agony as the new position wrenched his injured shoulder.
The goon slashed again, tearing the fabric nearly right above Pistol.
There was nowhere else to go. Next slash, and he’d have to try to grab the guy’s wrist and take the knife.
And then what? You think he ain’t got guns, too? He’ll blow your fucking brain out before you can say Jack Robinson.
In the couple of seconds of inaction that followed, he felt a strange connection form between himself and the goon. Both of them breathing hard, predator and prey sensing one another, preparing for the bloodbath.
Then, one of the other men called from down the hall, “Diaz! Van’s here, c’mon. We gotta go.”
The van?
Pistol heard Diaz shift and call, “All right. Christ.” Diaz remained in place for a couple more seconds, and Pistol wondered if he was going to finish tearing the bed apart.
But Diaz stepped away and crossed to the door, calling, “Nothin’ good back here anyway.” He left the room.
Pistol breathed out a long sigh of relief. As soon as he judged that Diaz was far enough away, he rolled out from under the bed, brushing off dust and lint and old condom wrappers. Diaz had ostensibly destroyed the place, but really, it didn’t look much different from before.
Pistol made for the window and crawled out, landing in the side yard. He crept toward the front, hiding behind a yew. A windowless white van had pulled up to the garage, its engine running. And as Pistol watched, one by one, five Blackened Souls members were led to the van, their wrists tied behind their backs. Pistol could make out Kong, Ford, Viking, Jackson, and Rhino. Ford looked like he was about to try to break free from the goon who accompanied him and launch a rebellion, but given the amount of heat the goons were packing, he must have decided it wasn’t worth it.
Good call, Ford. They got you cornered.
Ford got into the van when it was his turn, but not before spitting at one goon’s feet. The goon clobbered him in the side of the head and shoved him into a seat.
The garage was too full of bikes and gear for the van to have pulled inside, but the loading process was taking place close enough to the garage that the action was likely hidden from the neighbors. Not that the nei
ghbors would have questioned anything they saw going on at the clubhouse, at this point.
Diaz had come outside too to supervise the loading. But once all the Blackened Souls were in the van, another good said to Diaz, “All right. You and Moreno finish searching the place. Then meet up with us when you’re done. You got one hour, or we start the party without you.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Diaz waved a hand dismissively. “I’ll be there.”
“Cool.” The goon clapped Diaz on the back. “Find us somethin’ good, okay?”
“See ya at the boss’s house,” Diaz said.
So they were going to Smith’s house. Pistol wasn’t sure exactly where that was, but Katrin would know.