“Aiming for windows. Hoping to hit someone.”
I stare across the compound.
At the houses.
At the windows that could’ve had any number of our people behind them.
The blood on the gravel suddenly feels a lot heavier.
“Where are they now?” I ask.
“Tied up in the basement,” Crusher says. “Waiting.”
“Maverick ever figure out which one shot my woman?” I ask.
“Yep,” Crusher replies. “But Skip’s already been down there getting his pound of flesh.”
My eyes narrow.
“He’s the one who fired at Eli,” Crusher continues. “But since the shot missed, Skip said he’s only warming the flesh for you.”
I nod once and start toward the clubhouse.
The gravel crunches under my boots as I walk, and I purposefully look at the spot Abigail was shot. The blood on the ground. Fucker’s going to die.
The clubhouse door creaks open, and the familiar smell of smoke, leather, and whiskey hits me like it always does.
Tonight it smells different.
Heavier.
The hallway leading to the basement stairs feels longer than usual.
Darker.
At the bottom, I can already hear it.
A wet thud followed by another one.
Someone’s groaning, but Skip’s voice cuts through it.
“You should really thank me,” he says conversationally. “Tank would’ve been much less polite if he got here first.”
Another thud as I step into the room.
Two men are tied to chairs under the harsh overhead lights.
One of them is already slumped forward, blood dripping steadily onto the concrete.
The other one is breathing hard as he takes hit after hit.
“You shot at my pretty boy,” Skip says. “You missed, by the way. But that doesn’t matter. You still had his head targeted in your fucking scope.”
Skip swings with all his might and hits the man so hard that the chair topples back and to the floor.
Skip stands over him, rolling his shoulder like he’s warming up for another swing.
He glances over when I walk in.
