Later on, I would be grateful that the Hovas had yelled it and not us. It gave more credibility to Jerome that we had conducted a fair trade and gotten ambushed.
But at the moment, I couldn’t think worth a shit. I just had my back up against the van as Patriot, Butch, and Axle fired toward the barely visible Saints.
“The fuck did they know we were here?” Axle roared. “Someone fucking sold us out!”
“Kill them all!” Butch yelled.
I kept catching my breath as the three of them opened fire.Someone fucking sold us out... someone...
I had the same feeling the night my father died. Someone in the club is...
Someone in the club is a fucking rat.
I could never levy such an accusation without some serious, compelling evidence. There was almost literally nothing worse than to sell out like a rat to an opposing club or to the authorities. Interclub violence and even death were painful, but it didn’t help the enemy like a rat did.
But I couldn’t shake the fucking feeling...
“Hey!” Axle yelled. “You done taking your piss break or are you gonna help out?”
Goddamnit.
God fucking damnit.
Goddamnit!
I roared, grabbed my gun, and turned and fired.
I saw the Saints from afar, hiding against pillars and from behind their bikes. I fired, fired, and fired some more. I was exposed, but I didn’t give a shit. I had a stupid kind of adrenaline going right there, the kind that kept a man in harm’s way purely for the sake of making a point.
“What the fuck, Lane?!” Patriot roared, but his voice was a distant echo.
At the last second, I felt someone yank me down.
Which was a damn good thing, because my arm and shoulder, rising up in surprise, wound up taking a bullet that would have been intended for my head if I hadn’t gotten pulled down.
Time had seemed to slow when I was unleashing my rage upon the Saints, but now that the battle had stopped, time sped back up, and I realized just in how much pain I was in.
“Jesus!” I yelled.
“Let’s get the fuck outta here,” Axle growled. “Patriot! Cover me and Butch!”
Patriot stood back up, laying suppressing fire as the two of them headed for their bikes. Patriot then yanked me as Butch and Axle created a distraction, allowing the two of us to grab the bags of guns, hurl them in the van, and then speed off.
Just like that, the shootout had ended.
But my God, what the fuck had happened?
As the adrenaline wore off, the pain in my shoulder intensified. I didn’t think I’d ever gotten shot in my life, and the brute impact of the fire in my arm was unlike anything I had ever experienced in my life.
“Jesus,” I grumbled. “That... this is fucking painful.”
“Aw, you got your first battle scar,” Patriot said. “Wrap it up, you’ll be fine. Use your shirt. Probably not a good idea to use your jacket.”
With some severe grunting and a grimace, I got my shirt off, tied it around the wound, and yelled to the fucking heavens as I tightened it.
“So,” Patriot said as I gritted my teeth to not show the pain. “How do you fucking feel right now, huh? First battle in a year, first time facing up to the Saints like that... quite a world of difference, huh?”
“A lot easier when you don’t get... shot!” I yelled as I tightened my shirt for the last time. “Fuck!”
