His second problem was Samantha. Something was off with her. He hadn’t noticed it at first, but then he’d detected the edge in her voice, the slight trembling of her lips. Both subtle tells had increased exponentially after she read that text message. Not good. The woman was like one of those damned truffle pigs when it came to sniffing out trouble, and the thought of her pretty neck on someone’s chopping block had anger burning low in his belly and fear crawling up his spine like a poisonous spider.
And then there was problema número tres, otherwise known as the big, burly biker who had shouldered his way into the bar. He was wearing the colors of the Basilisk MC, one of Chicago’s true-blue motorcycle clubs, and the expression on his face said he hadn’t come in for a drink. He was searching for someone. His eyes were barely visible between his shaggy hairline and the dark beard that grew up over his cheeks, but they zeroed in on Samantha’s back as she made her way down the long hall leading to the restrooms, making it seem that he’d found his quarry.
Ozzie’s heart rate spiked, the feeling as familiar as breathing. The blood rushing through the injured muscles of his thigh caused them to twitch, and the resulting pain was also now as familiar as breathing. He tried to take comfort in that. Pain meant life. He should be grateful to still be alive. He was grateful to still be alive. Even if it appeared that his life wasn’t going to be anything like what he had planned or hoped.
“Heads up,” he murmured casually.
“I see him.” Christian took a slow sip of his beer as they watched the biker skirt around tables until he stopped at the high-top closest to the mouth of the hallway.
“Hard to tell what he’s packing beneath his cut,” Ozzie observed. Cut was the term bikers used to describe the jackets that sported their colors and patches. Those colors and patches not only told the world which MC the rider was affiliated with but also who the rider was within the MC and the various things the rider had done for the MC. According to this dude’s patches, he was the sergeant at arms, the enforcer for the Basilisks, and he’d killed for his club. More than once.
Well, piss, shit, and suck a potato dick.
“Judging by the size of that bulge,” Christian speculated, his accent thickened with adrenaline as he nonchalantly unhooked his heels from the brass footrail and prepared to make a move, “I should think it’s either a small sidearm or a bloody big knife.”
“Trouble brewing?” Delilah asked beneath her breath, coming over to them and pretending to wipe down the bar. “First time I’ve ever had a Basilisk in my place.”
“You still got that sawed-off back there?” Ozzie asked. One of the many things they all appreciated about Delilah was the shotgun with the aftermarket shortened barrel she was known to keep behind the bar.
A faint smile curved her lips. “Wouldn’t leave home without it.”
“Good,” he told her. “If shit goes sideways, I want you to grab that scatter gun and duck down behind the bar.”
“But—” she started, only to have Christian cut her off.
“Oy. Shut your gobs. Here comes Samantha.” When Christian got really worked up, a little Cockney slipped into his highbrow London speech.
But Samantha wasn’t coming. Oh no. She was running. Running out the door leading to the alley like the place was burning down behind her.
Ozzie’s pounding heart jumped into his throat when the Basilisks’ sergeant at arms slid from his chair at the high-top and bolted after her, reaching into the back of his waistband for the weapon he’d stored there. Reaction time for men in Ozzie and Christian’s business was faster than the speed of thought, so a split second later, they were off their stools, weapons out, and barreling across the room.
Samantha!
Ozzie wasn’t sure if he screamed her name aloud, or if that was just his soul crying out in terror.
“Stop!” he yelled, blasting through the back door and sighting down the barrel of his Beretta 92FS at the Basilisk’s beefy back. The biker had an eight-inch hunting knife fisted in his hand, and he was closing the distance to Samantha.
“I said stop!” Ozzie shouted again, plowing down the dark alley and darting around a big, blue dumpster that, from the overpowering smell of it, was in dire need of a visit from the trash man.
The pounding of his feet on the dirty asphalt sent daggers of pain slicing through his injured thigh. The agony traveled up his spine to stab into the base of his skull.
Neither the biker nor Samantha bothered to glance back, prompting him to make his intentions crystal fucking clear. “Drop that pigsticker, asshole! Or I’ll put a bullet in the back of your skull and then piss on your corpse!”
That did it. The biker skidded to a stop, slowly lifting his hands in the air. Ozzie blew out a relieved breath when Samantha made it to the mouth of the alley and escaped around the corner.
What the hell have you gotten yourself involved in this time, Samantha?
“Was the pissing-on-his-corpse bit really necessary?” Christian asked as they slowed their momentum to stalk toward the Basilisk.
“I don’t believe in pulling my punches.” Ozzie skirted around the biker so he could get a good look at the man’s face. And, conversely, let the man get a good look at the business end of his Beretta to discourage the dickwad from attempting any funny business.
The light from the street lamps in the parking lot filtered into the mouth of the alley and lit the Basilisk’s hairy face. Ozzie could see the words forming in the guy’s beady black eyes before he hissed them aloud. “Who the fuck are you?” His vocal cords sounded like they’d been marinated in years of bad bourbon.
“Friends of the lady,” Ozzie said. The sound of the biker’s heavy breathing filled the alley. His robust middle said he wasn’t a stranger to milk shakes and cheese fries, and it’d likely been years since he’d managed more than a brisk walk.
When the biker smiled, it revealed his front teeth, all of which were gold and speckled with flecks of chewing tobacco. To call the dude ugly would be an offense to the word. He was fucking ugly. “Aw, I wasn’t gonna hurt her,” Fugly said, adding a wink that set Ozzie’s blood boiling.
His finger twitched against his trigger. The day they’d pinned his SEAL Budweiser to his chest was the day killing had become a part of his life. But taking out jihadists in the backwoods of Afghanistan was a far cry from punching a fat biker’s ticket in a Chicago alleyway. Through gritted teeth, he managed, “Drop the knife.”
