Rush: (Retribution MC Romance) (Carolina Bad Boys Book 5)

by Rie Warren

  Listening like my ears were on high alert, I tracked right behind the Steele brothers, their steady guard. Tuck, Tail, and Cole took the rear, and we moved as one silent body through the hall—each room quietly opened, quickly cased, and closed shut in our wake.

  Until we reached the motherfucking epicenter of action.

  The bar.

  Which looked like a down-and-out hooker had puked up all over it. Empty needles on tables. Empty bottles rolling on the floor. Empty-headed losers looking up like all WTF?

  And that particular stench?

  I almost gagged. Before I reached for my knife because the shakedown was suddenly on.

  Boomer rammed the first man out of his seat into the nearest wall. And big Boomer’s rage had to hit the redline when the crooked-toothed, crazy-eyed cunt nutted him, forehead to forehead.

  I didn’t catch the end of that brawl because an assclown with waaay too much fumes fueling his fight rose unsteadily and tackled me across the floor. We went skidding, smashing bottles, overturning tables, slamming against walls until the doorway caught my shoulder and halted our slippery slide.

  I’d lost my blade somewhere along the way, but I still had my fists.

  That was when the ape on top of me pulled out a mean-looking pistol and shoved it against my temple.

  Chapter Nineteen

  And Fuck You Too

  OH, MAN. THE FURY fired by Diablo’s ultimatum found a nice handy target when the drunk asshole held his gun against me.

  Blow a hole through my brains?

  He could try.

  And die trying.

  Oh yeah. Nonlethal force.

  I’d do the next best thing.

  Raising my torso off the floor, I bucked Hillbilly Bullshit off me. His gun flew through the air, and the assault of my fists on his flesh was music my ears.

  Nice song.

  I dug right into it. Pursuing the Missing Link into a corner, I boxed him in.

  Bashing his face with hammer-style fists until his cheeks swelled, his lips cracked, his eyes bruised, I lashed out one last time.

  That final connect slumped him near to dead at my feet.

  Finally.

  Some goddamn retribution.

  Not enough.

  The rest of the fray had stilled around me.

  I blew at my swollen fists, spinning around. “What?”

  “Jesus, Handsome.” Tail kicked the unconscious dude.

  “He was asking for it.” I shrugged. No apologies.

  “Hoping for the long kiss goodnight via your knuckles?” Brodie worked his fingers through the sculpted whiskers of his blond goatee. “Thought you were all peaceful and happy and shit.”

  “And clearly killer.” Boomer looked me over, head to toe.

  “Yeah. That.” I shrugged. “Had some aggression to work off.”

  “You don’t say.” Tucker looked down at the pile of man I’d pretty much destroyed.

  Fucker deserved it.

  Tension ramped through me. Not one bit appeased by the waster asshole bleeding on my boots, I grabbed my blade and made for the door.

  Ringing shots echoed down the damp, darkened hallway.

  We raced toward the ricochet sound, our boots pounding louder.

  The first man we came across was dead, slumped over a desk piled high with cash.

  So much for nonlethal force.

  Slamming to a stop, we discovered Bo and Ronnie, with Slade, Walker, and Hunter keeping guard as the big bad Marine dried her tears, covered her in his shirt, lifted her in his arms.

  I almost bent over from the waist, winded not from the fight, but from instant relief.

  We’d done one good thing.

  We’d found Doc Ronnie.

  She was safe.

  Alive.

  Then I looked beyond Bo to the dead body on the floor. Blood pooled beneath him.

  That nonlethal measures thing again. Apparently Bo hadn’t gotten his own memo because that twisted, mangled form was nightmare-level.

  Ronnie, her takes-no-shit-’tude a little diminished, whispered, “Are you all okay?”

  Bo snuck his head to her neck. “Yeah. You don’t worry about us. I got you now. Got you forever.”

  We formed a line in the hall as he carried her out.

  Jesus.

  Then shots started cracking, whistling toward us, pinging way too goddamn close for comfort.

  During our dicey retreat, Coletrane took a bullet to his shoulder, barely slowing his footfalls as we escaped that motherfucking hellhole.

  We’d made it through the building to the fenced-in enclosure when Walker swung back, his grin gleaming so evilly you could see it in the swallowing darkness.

  Never mind we were still being pursued, he looked downright gleeful.

  Hunter glared at him. “What now?”

  “Brought my party trick.”

  “Not sure we want that many civilian casualties. I’m a friggin’ police detective, remember?” Hunter growled.

  Oh yeah. Walker and his best buddies: C and 4. He had to be packing the explosives.

  “Who said anything about casualties?” He pulled a remote from his pocket and jabbed the button before anyone could stop him.

  Off to our right, a squat building went up like dry tinder. The big bang rocketed through the night and the blaze hit the skyline like sheets of white and red and orange lightning sent in reverse.

  “BOOM. You’re welcome. That was their gun-stores. And you know how I like my diversions.”

  “Yeah. The last one was my Tahoe,” Hunter grumbled some more, but he couldn’t stop shaking his head as if to say this fucking guy.

  We hurried to the opening in the fence as the MC members who’d been hot after us stopped to stare at the blazing bonfire of their ballistics hoard.

  At the fence line, Bo halted his steps. “I’m not done here yet.”

  “How much more done do you need to be?” Cole asked, blood from the bullet wound in his shoulder dripping down his shirt, but he didn’t complain about the pain.

  Bo handed Ronnie over to Slade, hushing, “I’ll be right back, babe. Gonna make sure you’re safe once and for all.”

  He ordered Boomer and Cole to head off with Slade, and his face collapsed for a second as soon as Ronnie couldn’t see him.

  Putting his flinty mask back in place, he turned toward the losers who looked a little pissed right the fuck off we’d torched their illegal arms.

  Too bad they still had their handguns on them.

  Walker, Hunter, Brodie, Tucker, Tail and I joined ranks behind Bo, and no one questioned his decision. Not when it came to his woman.

  His face deadly, his Beretta raised, he said, “Your Prez is dead. Your club is killed. You really wanna be next?”

  When the goons lowered their weapons, one by one, so did Bo. “Good choice.” He sneered. “I should fucking rip your throats out, but lucky for you I don’t get high off death anymore.”

  He continued to lay down the law in a steely, brooks-no-shit tone, telling the dickholes to stay away from Ronnie, out of South Carolina, and off his radar, or he’d end all their lives singlehandedly.

  I believed him.

  They did, too.

  Even Walker looked impressed.

  When we regrouped at the fence, Tucker whistled for the man-eating dogs. “Baby! Queenie! Lady! Cleopatra!”

  Jesus Christ. Talk about a dog and pony show.

  “You already named them?” I asked as the four formerly foaming-at-the-mouth canines answered his call like he kept Beggin’ Strips hidden in his pockets.

  “You’re taking them with?” Hunter skinned back his hair in his hands, watching with a frown.

  “Yeah. They’re cute. Bringing them home to Chucktown.” The barrel-bellied man leaned over to rub their collective muzzles.

  Starting up the hillside, Hunter mentioned, “You know what’s not cute? I think you almost singed my pubes with that explosion back there, Tonto.”

  “Look at
it this way. You won’t have to manscape that shit again.” Brodie sniggered.

  “Dude. I’m a man. I don’t fucking manscape.” Hunter looked insulted.

  “What if JB asked you too?” Boomer cut in.

  Brodie was all over that, grinning like a jackass-in-a-box. “Why? Did Rayce ask you?”

  “Hell no. I’m a man, and she likes it. Just making conversation.”

  “About my pubes?” Hunter squinted at big man Boomer.

  “You fucking started it.”

  The stupid jokes alleviated the tension of the past twenty-four hours, but by the time we reached the bikes and Bo’s Hummer, the mood went seriously south.

  No one could smile, considering what Ronnie had gone through. We didn’t know if she’d been hit, abused, or . . . worse, raped.

  We circled around, our backs turned, while Bo helped her dress in clean clothes he’d brought for her. And we all pretended we couldn’t hear Bo’s quiet gentle words as he stroked her bright red hair, trying to make sure shock didn’t set in.

  I had nothing but respect for the man. Nothing but total admiration for Doc Ronnie. And my emotions were anything but amused when he lifted her into the SUV with all of us watching, silent and somber.

  I wanted to get back home to Shy immediately as my heart climbed up into my throat.

  Chapter Twenty

  Bad Juju

  BY THE TIME WE returned to the hotel we’d checked into earlier and parted company with Bo and Ronnie at the elevators, the lady doc looked a lot more than shell-shocked even though she braved a smile.

  We’d spend the night here—let Bo take care of her—then peel out for Charleston in the morning.

  The mood still hadn’t lightened much when the rest of the guys and I reconvened at the bar later. Hunter and Walker had patched up Coletrane, and he was a shade of pale I’d never seen before.

  Almost funny, he looked ready to sick up from getting stitched up, considering he was a tattoo artist and covered in ink and piercings. But not funny enough to make a joke.

  Shit had been real at Iron Nails.

  Never been so glad to see the back of an MC before.

  Assholes.

  We downed a few drinks before heading to our rooms. I shared with Tail, only hoping he didn’t try to dutch oven me sometime during the night.

  “You texting your girl?” He looked over from his bed after we’d each done whatever in the bathroom and bedded down.

  I curled my palm around the phone, shooting off another message to Shy. “Yeah.”

  “Send her a kiss from me.”

  “Dude. I’m gonna send you a knee to the groin.” I removed a hand from the screen of my phone long enough to flip him the bird.

  “Damn. This is good. Handsome finally tied down.” He chuckled, folding a pillow in half behind his head. “You snore?”

  “Yeah. Like a freight train. You should probably sleep in the lobby.”

  “So you can sext Shiloh in private? Hell no. I live to torture my brothers.” He reached over to turn off the light beside his bed, then roughly added, “That was some shit with the doc though, huh?”

  I slid my phone off. “Yeah. First Ashe then JB and Rayce. Now Ronnie. Jesus. Our women seem to get caught in the middle of all the bad juju.”

  “Well, you make sure to keep that sweet girl of yours safe, right?”

  I blinked at Tail, but he’d rolled over. “Will do.”

  “And remember I got your back, bro.”

  “Double that.” Here I thought we were having a sentimental moment, but seconds later the fucker was already snoring.

  ****

  Bo treated us to one last surprise the following morning. With his lady finally legally clean and free from her nightmare past, he decided to take her home to her family in Santa Fe. To visit her folks and siblings she hadn’t been able to contact for nine years.

  We stood by the lobby doors, all the Retribution MC dudes, seeing the couple off for their flight.

  Ronnie hugged and thanked each and every one of us. Bo stood beside her, doing the same with back slaps and fist bumps and gruff words.

  And for a moment, as they got into the taxi, everything was all shiny happy people.

  My phone buzzed in my pocket, the ringtone I’d set specifically for Shy.

  I answered with a, “Hey, baby. What’s up?”

  “I don’t want to alarm you.” She sounded a little bit breathless.

  I cranked the phone in my fist. “Now you are alarming me.”

  My immediate thought was Diablo had somehow gotten to her.

  “I’m in the hospital.”

  And that was ten fucking times worse. Because I was two states away, and I couldn’t get to her quickly enough.

  Swallowing hard, I forced words out of my mouth. “Are you okay?”

  “Who is it?” Tail narrowed his eyes at me.

  I shook my head, turning my back. “What is it, Shy?”

  “I have an infection from one of the prosthetics. Trust me, my oncologist is just being extra cautious.”

  Oncologist. Of course.

  I slammed my fist against the wall but kept my voice as calm as I could. “I’ll be there in a few hours. Tell me where you are and what room.”

  Jesus. I didn’t even know her oncologist’s name, or if she had physical therapy, or when her next checkup was. From that point on I was gonna be glued to the woman’s side.

  “Okay. You don’t have to come—”

  I cut her off immediately. “Yeah. I do. I want to. I wish I was there right now.” My eyes squeezed shut. “I’m coming to you, Shy.”

  Ending the call, I tried to take a deep breath. Air shuddered into my chest and skittered back out.

  “What’s the deal, man?” Brodie asked.

  I swiped my hands down my face. “Shy. She’s in the hospital.”

  They all started in at once, their words coalescing into sound I couldn’t decipher.

  Speaking through the questions, I lashed out. “She has bone cancer.” I rubbed my knuckles against my eyes. “Y’all don’t know, but she’s an amputee because of it. She’s got an infection.”

  Brodie’s jaw clenched.

  Boomer pulled his lips between his teeth.

  Big badass Tail looked about to shed tears.

  The rest of them swore quietly under their breath.

  Tucker rolled up. “Damn sorry about that, son.”

  “Fucking hell.”

  “Our girl Shiloh going through that shit?”

  I gave a watery laugh. “Correction. My girl Shy.”

  “Damn it all.” Brodie seemed to take it the hardest, and crazy as it was for the cracked-in-the-head dude, his icy blue eyes were damp. “Fucking sorry, man.”

  “Don’t be treating her any different next time you see her.” I firmed my stance. “She’ll probably cut your balls off if you start acting like you pity her.”

  “One class act lady.”

  “Respect.”

  “Shiloh rocks, Handsome.”

  “I gotta jet. Now,” I said, making for the elevator so I could grab my shit from the room.

  The MC dudes hustled right along behind me.

  “You don’t think you’re going without us, do you?” Tail asked, shoulder to shoulder with me.

  “I don’t need an armed escort.”

  “We did it for Ronnie. We’re doing it for Shiloh.” Boomer punched the button for the elevator, telling it like it was.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Maximum Pain

  I COULDN’T RACE BACK to South Carolina fast enough. That one call from Shy had shaken my shit up. Would anything ever be easy for one of our women?

  During the high-speed ride from Jacksonville to Charleston, I couldn’t shake my Retribution brothers either. They met my every tight turn, ripped their throttles to keep up with me, and punched down as the road spread before us. Brodie became my constant shadow, Tail flanking my back.

  My head in the crapper several hours la
ter, I rolled up to the hospital parking garage, all in a lather.

  The dudes roared their bikes to a stop beside mine, easily taking up four spaces in the dungeon of the building with Tucker parking Bo’s Hummer across the way.

  “I made it safe and sound. Y’all can go now.” I started digging out my phone to get Shy’s room number, stomping toward the elevator, almost breaking into a run.

  Tail hustled beside me. “Yeah. Don’t think so. Your old lady’s sick, so we’re gonna be here for her just like we were for the doc.”

  A crazy amount of emotions collided inside me. These fucking guys. Who had wives, kids, fiancées, almost-baby-mommas—and not to forget the four Doberman bitches leaving nose prints on the Hummer windows as they watched their new daddy’s every move. In response to Tuck’s on-the-road SOS, some friends of his pulled up just in time to take over dog duty.

  All of us were dusty and sweaty, tired from the road and our previous night’s raid, but my crew was sticking right beside me.

  For Shy.

  I nodded, because my voice wouldn’t work anymore.

  “Besides”—Tucker rubbed his belly—“I got dibs on her Jell-O if she hasn’t eaten it.”

  “Yeah. Y’all are the wind beneath my wings and all that shit,” I muttered.

  We bundled into the elevator, possibly scaring the shit out of the well-dressed, middle-aged couple headed up.

  “How do.” Boomer dipped his head with a smile, trying to play the friendly, but only serving to highlight the scars near his mouth and on his dark eyebrow.

  The couple shrank back, the woman clutching her purse to her chest.

  Tail bent forward. “Hey, we ain’t gonna rob you. This dude’s girlfriend”—he thumbed a finger back at me—“has cancer. Just here to visit her.”

  “Oh!” The lady’s mouth popped open. “Our daughter has cancer too.”

  As soon as her fingers flitted to her throat to tangle in the double strand of pearls I recognized her.

  Fuck me.

  Great first—not really the first—impression to make on Shy’s folks—Thomas and Justine.

  I slid forward. “Mrs. Lockhart? Mr. Lockhart? It’s me. Maxwell Rush.”