CHAPTER FOURTEEN
With the van's steering destroyed and Coyote's medical expertise to help Newb, Bishop's mind flickered instantly to Stella. He turned to the parking lot, seeking the woman out. When she was nowhere to be seen, an icepick settled in his stomach. He hopped out of the car, his grey eyes darting from side to side.
His gaze lit on a pair of drag marks gouged into the dirt. They lessened as they were tugged around the bend of the bar. Fear and sickness and wariness punctured Bishop's thoughts as he followed them at a sprint. His fists ached from the fight, bruises mottled his body, but the last thing he wanted was Stella lost or, worse, dead. The thought spurred fire and terror in his heart.
Finally, he spotted her. She flopped like a lifeless doll in the arms of another masked man, but her eyes were half-open. Bile clawed up Bishop's throat as he noticed the rag. His mind jumped to one word: chloroform.
“Hey!” The biker charged toward the man, fist drawn back. The man dropped to the ground in a crouch, still clutching Stella to his chest. Bishop barely missed clocking him in the temple. Unable to maneuver freely, the masked man let the unconscious woman slide to the ground and he fumbled to his feet. Bishop attempted to land a right hook, grazing the man on his chin. The masked man stumbled backward, grunting from the force, but didn't fall.
His blue eyes glinted angrily at Bishop as he danced backwards. Bishop's brain cleaved in two. Half of him wanted to pursue the asshole. The other part wanted to kneel next to Stella, gather her up in his arms and make sure she hadn't suffered permanent damage. In that split second of indecision, the biker missed the man slowly reaching into his waistband. It wasn't until the black gun glinted in the light of a streetlamp did Bishop notice the gun.
Time slowed down as the man leveled the weapon at Bishop. The biker's eyes widened as his brain kicked into survival mode. Fight or flight, but there was someone worth protecting. Fight. Bishop charged at the man, zigzagging and stumbling over the loose rocks. The man's gun wavered to and fro, trying to capture the biker in its cross-hair.
Within a foot, Bishop lunged toward the man. A shot rang out. Heat and pain laced through the biker's chest, his lungs instantly locking. His eyes widened, before the blood burbled up his throat. A hacking cough erupted from his chest as he doubled over. Every breath screamed in pain. Bishop heard the gun cock again and imagined it leveled at his head.
“Boss!” Coyote yelled, rounding the corner, cellphone in one hand and gun in the other. Good ole Coyote, observant and curious and loyal. Bishop smirked up at the barrel of the gun.
The masked man's eyes flickered from Bishop to Coyote. Then, a longing gaze turned toward Stella, where she lay passed out on the dirt. A wave of anger churned through Bishop seeing the sick tenderness in the man's look. Another blood-clot cough wracked his torso. The pain made Bishop double over just as he heard the retreating crunch of the masked man's footfalls. He threw the departing figure a sidelong glance.
“Fucker, get out of here!” roared Coyote as he skidded to his boss's side. He leveled his gun and multiple shots rang out into the night. The masked man stumbled but quickly continued his way into the darkness. Bishop watched him disappear into the shadows before weakly reaching up to grab Coyote by the hem of his tee-shirt. Blood dribbled from the grey-eyed man's lips as his vice president turned toward him,wide eyed and pale faced.
“Check on Stella,” Bishop grunted as he applied pressure to his own wound. Coyote glanced down at Bishop's wound, before his gaze hardened and he nodded. Bishop watched him near Stella, kneeling to check on her. He knew he couldn't go himself. Warm, slick blood coated his own fingers, pouring out from his wound. Bishop wasn't even sure if he could convince his legs to hold his weight after all the abuse his body had been through. It was best to remain still.
Especially since the ambulance wails made it to the Rusty Bear's parking lot. Vaguely, Bishop heard the medical team curse before radioing more help.
Pain coursed through his limbs and torso, centralizing on his lungs. Bishop breathed shallowly, between searing coughs of pains. Bruises, cuts, a bullet. One hell of a Friday night, he thought as sirens screamed up to the bar.
In the dark, Bishop looked longingly to the unconscious Stella before the EMTs swarmed to his side. He barely muttered his name before darkness claimed his thoughts.