I whirled around, seeing him take on two of Roach’s men.
His brother was a few yards off with his own assailant.
And for just a second, I appreciated his surprising speed, his utter lack of acknowledgment of pain as the man landed blow after blow. He just kept going, kept fighting.
Fighting.
Like I needed to do.
So I could get to Dylan.
I flew to my feet, noticing Liam on the ground, a plug to his temple.
I’d been so close to unconsciousness that I hadn’t even heard the gunshot.
Saint’s gun was right there on the ground, knocked by one of the guys, I assumed.
I went for it, aimed, and caught the guy closest to me in the gut.
He went down hard, screaming, clutching his stomach.
Maybe the shot itself wouldn’t be fatal.
But the infection he was gonna get from it?
He was a goner.
He just didn’t know that yet.
Saint abandoned the guy he was fighting, leaving him to me as he went toward his brother.
I saw the flash as the guy I was approaching reached for his gun.
He was fast.
But he had shit aim.
The white-hot pain ripped through the side of my arm.
Blinding.
But motivating at the same time.
My aim?
It was a hell of a lot better.
He was dead before he hit the ground beside his yowling buddy.
I didn’t spare them another glance.
And as a gunshot rang out at the side, I knew Saint and Syn had won their fight too.
I ran toward the clubhouse door.
“They have Dylan,” I roared back to the brothers.
Then I kicked the fucking door in.
