I'm done being someone's mistake.
I'm watching him through the open door when he suddenly starts moving toward the van. His expression is unreadable, but there's something on the set of his shoulders that suggests he's about to say something.
Something I definitely don't want to hear.
Then everything goes to hell.
A man stumbles out from the side of the building. Older, with gray hair and a face twisted in rage. He's bleeding from somewhere, leaving a trail of red behind him, but he's moving with the single-minded purpose of someone who has nothing left to lose.
In his hand is a gun.
"KING!" he screams, and the sound is raw and broken. "You fucking killed my brother! You took everything from me!"
This must be Vulture. The Iron Eagles president. The man responsible for kidnapping us.
The man who's now pointing his gun directly at the van.
Directly at us.
Time slows down in that horrible way it does when your brain knows you're about to die but your body hasn't gotten the message yet. I can see his finger tightening on the trigger. Can see the hate blazing in his eyes.
Can see Shadow suddenly moving faster than should be humanly possible.
He puts himself between us and Vulture just as the gun goes off.
The bullet hits him in the shoulder with a sickening thud, and he goes down hard, his body hitting the pavement with enough force that I hear the impact even over the women's screaming.
Everything erupts into chaos.
The other bikers come pouring out of the clubhouse, guns already drawn. Vulture tries to adjust his aim, tries to fire again, but then bullets are ripping through him from multiple directions. His body jerks and dances like a puppet with its strings cut before he collapses to the ground in a spreading pool of his own blood.
But I'm not watching Vulture.
I'm watching Shadow.
He's on the ground, one hand pressed to his shoulder, blood seeping between his fingers. His face is pale but set in that same expressionless mask, like getting shot is just another Tuesday for him.
Like taking a bullet for a van full of women he doesn't give a shit about is no big deal.
One of the bikers, a younger guy with kind eyes, rushes over and drops to his knees beside Shadow. "Fuck, man. How bad?"
"Through and through," Shadow grits out, his voice tight with pain he's trying to hide. "I'll live."
The biker king—because that's apparently his actual road name—walks calmly over to Vulture's body. He looks down at the man who's still somehow breathing, gasping and choking on his own blood.
Then King raises his gun and shoots Vulture in the head.
Just like that. No hesitation. No remorse.
The screaming in the van gets louder.
"We need to move now," the kind-eyed biker says, still kneeling beside Shadow. "He needs a doctor, and we can't stay here."
King nods sharply. "Load up. Tank, drive the van. Beast, you're with me. Torch, make sure that building burns to the fucking ground."
Shadow tries to stand on his own, but the other biker grabs his good arm. "Don't be a stubborn asshole. Let me help."
"I'm fine, Chaos."
