Chairs scrape. Boots pound. The bar erupts into motion — Sons spilling toward exits, shoving each other, firing suppressing shots every time Molly or I poke our heads up. I laugh. The air changes — panic has a smell, and right now, the room stinks of Sons.
Behind the bar, Molly keeps pressure on my shoulder with one hand while holding the shotgun with the other like she was born with it. Then she shifts her grip, and I place my hand back over the wound. My vision’s hazy, but even through my half-lidded eyes, I can see she’s a bloodstained stunner.
Fuck, I’m in love.
The doors slam open, boots run toward them. Through the more-sporadic sound of gunshots, I hear Midnight’s voice exhorting his men to obey. To stay. To kill.
“You keep down,” she snaps. “Don’t be a fucking idiot hero… again.”
I shove myself up anyway, dizzy. “No. Not a fucking chance.”
“You fucking idiot,” she says and jerks her chin at my wound. “You’re leaking.”
I grit my teeth and push past the pain. “I’m not letting him get away.”
Her eyes flash. “Evan, no…”
“Midnight took my sister. Midnight tried to kill you. I’m going to fucking end him.”
I don’t wait for permission. I climb over the bar and stumble into the open, boots slipping on spilled liquor and blood. The world tilts. My shoulder screams, a stream of blood soaking down my chest. I ignore it. Behind me, I hear Molly curse and let loose some cover fire — aboomthat sends a Son sprawling and the others running.
I ignore it all.
Because I seehim.
Midnight is near the front, moving with brutal calm through the chaos, barking orders like he’s directing traffic. His men scatter around him, breaking toward the door. He’s still got his gun out, still in control.
My vision narrows until there’s nothing but him.
He raises his gun to aim, and I raise mine and fire first, sending him ducking behind a table as I charge toward him. He tries to rise again, and a blast from Molly’s gun sends him lower once more. Another attempt at firing back blasts apart the top of the table he’s sheltering behind, a retort from Molly’s shotgun that reminds him with brutal efficiency that this is her house and willalwaysbe her house.
The sound of motorcycles grows closer.
Cursing, Midnight leaps over the shattered remains of the table, firing wildly as he sprints towards the door.
I fire, the recoil of the gun sending pain blasting through my shoulder. I miss.
He bursts into the parking lot, joining the tide of Sons running to their bikes.
I shove through the wrecked doorway into the daylight — cold air slamming into my lungs, filling me with frigid fire — and the parking lot is a war zone: club bikes screaming down the road, less than a mile away, followed closely by police lights flashing between trees, all while Sons of Sorrow flee on theirs like rats to the sewer.
Midnight mounts his bike, the engine howling to life, tires screaming and throwing up scree as they whip him forward.
I lunge and barrel into him from the side in a tackle, shoulder pain exploding bright-white through my skull, and we both hit the gravel hard while his bike goes whipsawing to the side.
His gun skitters. We land in a heap. Fists flying, faces bloody and snarled. He roars and slams an elbow into my ribs. My breath leaves in a grunt. I grab his cut and hurl him to the side and then leap upon him, fists flying.
“You motherfucker,” I rasp. “You’re dead.”
Midnight’s eyes are pale and dead in the daylight. He smiles like he’s been waiting for this his entire life, even as I bury a fist in his face.
“You’re gonna die out here, Gator,” he laughs. “Then I’ll go back inside and finish your little fire-crotch bartender. Get myself a taste of that cunt if it’s the last thing I do.”
He drives a fist into my wounded shoulder, and I see stars. My body goes numb and my teeth clack together so hard I taste blood. Another punch snaps me back into consciousness. I roar and headbutt him in retort. The front of my skull smashes intohis nose. There’s a crunch — raw, wet, visceral — and his blood sprays my face.
He staggers, goes limp for just a moment, then recovers — he’s solid, mean, strong. Forty-something years of a vicious life dedicated to muscle and malice. He claws at my throat, tries to crush my windpipe, and I wrench away, coughing, grabbing handfuls of his vest, his hair, anything, all while I throw fists that bash his face and result in nothing but a bloody smile.
“I’m going to love watching you die, Gator,” he says, laughing and spitting a tooth and a gob of blood into my face. He swings again and catches my jaw. My head snaps sideways, hits the ground, and gravel scrapes my cheek. My shoulder throbs like it’s on fire, while my strength bleeds out the gaping hole and the thirsty gravel of the parking lot drinks it up.
