“Damnit!”
I had about eight rounds in my pistol, plus another magazine, but there was no way that was going to provide us anything other than a delay of a minute or two for our deaths.
“Father—”
“Get inside,” he said. “I’ve got a gun. I’ll lay down suppressive fire while you make a run for heavier weaponry.”
“But—”
“Do it, Phoenix,” he said, his voice far too calm. “You need it more than me.”
“Goddamnit!”
But then he rose without waiting for me to agree and provided cover fire. Acting on instinct alone, I rammed my shoulder into the door, smashing it off its hinges, and went to the armory. I found a machine gun inside, rushed back outside, and laid down a wave of fire. I hit one of the Fallen Saints, and the other five drove off. They left with almost too much haste.
“What the hell...”
And then I listened a little more closely, and I could hear with some horror what was to come.
This initial wave of Fallen Saints had meant to launch the initial ambush, to surprise us and try to dwindle our numbers before the real calvary came. And when they did, it didn’t matter if I had a handgun, a machine gun, or an RPG—the two of us were fucked.
I rushed back over to Father Marcellus, who had his hand over his right shoulder.
“Father—”
He pulled back his hand briefly before clamping it back down. He’d been hit. It didn’t look great.
But, honestly, I didn’t panic. He hadn’t gotten hit in a critical spot. His throat, heart, and other organs were spared. He was bleeding, yes, but it wasn’t throbbing out like it would have if they’d hit an artery. I was sure he’d have to go to the hospital, but if ever there was a spot to get shot, it was probably the ass or where he’d gotten hit.
“Really wish the rest of the club was here now,” I said as the sound of more bikes came.
“My son,” he said, straining against the pain. “They will be.”
“Sure better—”
And that’s when an explosion came—but not near us.
Near the group of approaching Fallen Saints bikers.
I looked back over our chair and watched with awe as about a dozen Black Reapers charged in, decimating the ranks of Fallen Saints. As soon as the threat was neutralized, they came forward, using their bikes to form a wall against further attacks, and hurried over to the two of us.
“Are you all right?” Lane said.
He’s asking if I’m alright.
Perhaps there’s hope for peace between clubs yet.
“I’m fine,” I said. “Father—”
“Shit.”
Perhaps.
Lane brushed past me and went to the chaplain. Butch followed and came to me.
“Glad you’re OK.”
I just heard that, right? I just heard that? Butch said he’s glad I’m OK?
