Chapter Four
IT DIDN’Tmatter whose shit it was, the minute it hit the fan, everyone got their share of it.
“What the fuck!” Bass yelled as he gunned the van through the salvage yard. Behind them, enraged Albanians boiled out of the supposedly empty warehouse like armed bastard ants. A big gray-haired man pulled a fuck-off gun out of the waistband of his jeans and fired after them. A bullet pinged off the roof of the van, and the next one punched out the back window in a spray of safety glass. “I thought they weren’t supposed to be here.”
“They fucking weren’t. The Cossacks double-crossed us instead. Goddamn Russians, can’t trust them to stay bought,” Sonny yelled back at him. He slid around the back of the van as Bass took a hard left, sideswiped a junked Chevy, and scraped along a stacked pile of crushed cars with a raw metal-on-metal screech. “Watch where you’re going, asshole.”
Bass veered away from the crushed cubes and hit a pothole deep enough to make the suspension crack. He clenched his hands around the steering wheel and threw a quick, risky glare over his shoulder at Sonny.
“You want me to slow down?” he asked.
Sonny braced himself against the side of the van. “Just get us out of here,” he spat as he pulled off the balaclava. His lip was split, blood smeared over the salt-and-pepper stubble on his chin, and a bruise had puffed up around his eye. The Albanians had obviously not been glad to see him. “Before they—fucking hell!”
Sonny threw his arms up over his face as Bass swung his attention back to the road ahead of him. It was about as clear as any road in the maze of junk and junkers. Then he caught a glimpse of movement out of the corner of his eye, just before the big black Jeep crashed into the side of the van.
“Shiiiiit,” Bass swore between clenched teeth as the door crumpled in toward him. The window broke, cracks spiderwebbed from one side to the other, and the seat belt cut into his shoulder as he was thrown to the side. Pain flared in his chest, a hot jab across his collarbone and head. He fought with the wheel as the van was shoved toward the wall of stacked cars on the other side. The steering had locked.
“Do something,” Sonny yelled.
“Trying to,” Bass said through gritted teeth as he reached over to grab the handgun from the passenger seat.
He broke the window with his elbow, and chunks of glass scattered over the polished black hood of the SUV as he aimed the gun at the dark-haired man behind the wheel of the Jeep. A distinctive three-pronged scar raked down the left side of his face from cheekbone to jaw. His deep-set eyes widened as he saw the gun pointed at his forehead.
Bass tightened his finger on the trigger and, at the last second, jerked his arm to the side. The bullet shattered the windshield, and the scarred driver braked at the same second. He yanked the steering wheel, and the SUV scraped to the side. It gave Bass just enough room to squeeze the van through the gap.
Two of the Albanians had gotten to the gate and padlocked it shut. They were stationed in front of it with crowbars. Bass skinned his lips back from his teeth in an adrenaline-sharp grin, hit the gas, and drove for the gates. The red needle of the speedometer juddered from twenty toward eighty, and Bass kept his foot on the pedal.
The two men in front of the gate held their ground longer than he would have. Twenty feet. Twelve feet. Their nerve broke at six feet, and they flung themselves out of the way. The van didn’t bump over anything, so Bass assumed they made it. He didn’t have time to check as the van bust through the gates and blew them off their hinges.
“You crazy bastard,” Sonny muttered from behind him.
Bass just laughed. Adrenaline was a better high than whiskey and the hangover easier to ride out. He drove over the bent frame of one of the gates in the road and screeched around the corner. The Albanians tried to follow in their glossy matched SUVS, but Bass had too much of a head start on them. He left them in the dust of the badly lit alleys and dead-end streets.
“Fuck,” Sonny muttered.
Bass pulled off his balaclava. His hair was plastered to his head with sweat, and the back of his neck itched with it. He tossed it and the gun into the passenger seat. “What?”
When he didn’t get an answer, he reached up to angle the rearview mirror until he could see into the back of the van. Sonny was slumped gracelessly in the back, his legs sprawled out in front of him. A screwdriver jutted out of his thigh like the world’s worst-timed erection. Blood welled up around the injury and puddled under him on the bare metal.
That was the other thing about shit. There was always more of it to go around.
SONNY LAYon the pool table, propped up on his elbow, and sucked on a bottle of whiskey. The screwdriver was still jammed into his leg, which was roughly bandaged with a couple of T-shirts someone had grabbed from the back office. He groaned and swore between gulps of liquor, and the worn green baize was smeared with mud where he’d kicked it in frustrated pain.
“What the hell happened?” Shepherd growled. He grabbed the collar of Bass’s cut, the heavy vest they’d given him when they gave him his shot at membership, and shoved him back against the bar. Under other circumstances Bass wouldn’t have minded the position. The president of Corpse Brothers Motorcycle Club was a big fair-haired man with broad shoulders and a nasty streak—just Bass’s type. Unfortunately he’d never been into being roughed up, and far as he knew, Shepherd liked chicks with big tits and loose morals. He was also an asshole.
Shepherd hauled him up onto his toes and got into his face. “It was supposed to be an easy job. Clean and simple. In and out.”
Bass glared back at him. He did good glare. He’d learned it from the best. “Yeah, well, that’s what I was told too,” he said coldly. “Instead we got there and found a dozen fucking Albanian gangsters already tooled up and pissed. So maybe I ain’t the one you need to talk to.”
He shoved Shepherd roughly away from him, and Shepherd fell back a heavy booted step, clenched his scarred hands into fists, and narrowed his pale eyes. The potential for violence fizzed in the air.
Bass wiped his mouth on the back of his wrist and waited warily for the first punch to be thrown. He’d only be back in town a couple of months. Old friends, old charges, and old debts had gotten him a few jobs with the Brothers, but he wasn’t one of them, not yet. If Shepherd’s lead on the Albanians’ schedule had come from inside the club, it was easier to put a demonstrative beat-down on the hired help. Bad Info Brother would get the message, but there’d be no grudges within the chapter.
Not that Bass planned to curl up and take the kicking. He might want an in with the Brothers, but he’d never heard of a punching bag who got patched into a club. He balanced his weight on the balls of his feet and cracked his neck as he waited. He flicked his eyes from Shepherd to the other bikers sprawled around the bar as they waited for their cue.
“Fuck sake,” Sonny spat as he pushed himself halfway into a sitting position. “Pissed off as those Albanians were when we walked in? Someone ripped us both off, Shep. Again. This time the only reason we know that is cause Sebastiani is a crazy bastard and got us out of there. Quit fucking with him and get me patched the hell up.”
It took a second, but Shepherd finally grunted reluctant acknowledgment. He rubbed his knuckle along his unshaven jaw and nodded slowly.
