CHAPTER FORTY ONE
Led into the basement of the bakery with zip ties tightly looped around their wrists, the Seven Tribesmen had been forced to their knees on the dirt floor. It didn't take a genius to realize the Devil Spikes had double-crossed them. The White Knights weren't involved, and the Demons weren't out to get the Spikes. Bishop grunted as another boot slammed into his side, pain throbbing across his ribs. At least two were fractured—if not outright broken. Somewhere to his right, Howler groaned in pain as he slowly bled out.
“Stop his bleeding, you fucking fucks!” Crow snarled, as he hovered over Howler. A rifle butt knocked Crow off his knees and onto the ground.
To Bishop's left, Bulletproof spat on one of the captors after dodging an ill-timed kick. He didn't dodge the second one.
Rage flamed under Bishop's thoughts, but it was dampened when he realized he had no clue how to keep his brothers alive. The Spikes and the Demons had played them. It was his fault. He fought to trust the Spikes, just to get revenge—now bile climbed up his throat.
“How's it feel to be the dogs, now?” The Demons' head honcho, High Roller, slammed another boot into Bishop's side. Bishop grunted and partially lifted off the ground before he settled again. He blearily listened to the man's monologue. “We worked too hard and called in too many favors to get our asses on top to let you fucks flush it down the shitter.”
High Roller knelt down and grabbed Bishop by his hair, craning his head backward and leering into his face. Bishop glared at him through one blackened eye, waiting for the spittle. High Roller slammed his knuckles across Bishop's jaw, adding to the patchwork of bruises.
“Even now, you look at me like I'm shit,” High Roller snarled, as he switched the safety off on his gun. He cocked the weapon and poised it toward the Seven Tribesmen. The muzzle weaved and wobbled, falling on Bishop's brothers. “Maybe I should knock you off your high horse a bit, asshole.”
Red tinged the edges of Bishop's sight and tension tightened along his muscles, as the urge to throw himself at High Roller careened through his head. He glanced at the other men who ringed around the Seven Tribesmen. It would be suicide to consider attacking High Roller. Besides, the man had been beating on them and threatening them for a good half hour now.
Suddenly, the door slammed open. Metal crunched against rock, the sound resonating through the pipes between the ground floor and basement. Bishop jolted, sitting straighter. High Roller glared at the newcomer. Buck-Fifty stood in the doorway, eyes wide and face pale. “The feds are here.”
“What?” High Roller's eyes widened before a snarl overtook his face. He spun to Bishop, his eyes full of murder. “What did you do?”
Bishop only glared in return. He hadn't done a damn thing and High Roller knew it. Faintly, he recalled the scrawled note on the paper he took from Stella that read, We got the warrant. He hadn't thought much of it at the time, but it may have just saved his life.
“They've got a warrant, sir.”
“Fuck,” hissed High Roller. He paced away from Bishop, running a hand through his scant hair. Turning sharply to Buck-Fifty, he curtly ordered, “Show 'em around. They won't find us down here.”
Buck-Fifty raised his eyebrows. “You sure, sir?”
“Did I fucking stutter?” High Roller, who was a good three inches shorter than this lad, advanced on the young man. He peered into Buck-Fifty's face, a snarl curling at his lip, causing Buck-Fifty to cringe backward. The promise of retribution hung heavy and thick in the air.
Buck-Fifty shook his head savagely before darting out of the room. His footfalls disappeared down the long, dark corridor. Sluggishly, Bishop's brain stewed and stirred. The FBI was upstairs. Was it Stella and her partner? Or someone else? Bishop's heart deflated a bit, picturing an unfamiliar set of agents bumbling about the bakery.
“You're a lucky bastard.” High Roller grunted as he lowered his gun. Bishop glanced up at the man as he holstered his gun and wandered away from the huddled hostages toward a table pressed firmly against a wall. He picked something up and turned, an evil gleam in his eye. A pair of gardening shears snipped twice as High Roller said, “Can't shoot any of you, yet. But that doesn't mean I can't have my fun.”
A jolt of fear ran through the Seven Tribesmen as they all registered the implication. Just as the first howls of discontent started in an attempt to get attention, High Roller had his men at the ready. Duct tape slapped across the mouths of the Tribesmen. High Roller advanced threateningly, his eyes flicking from member to member.
Nausea clenched at Bishop's gut as his hackles raised. His muscles tensed and his wrists strained at the zip tie. He glared violently at High Roller as his mind clambered for a way out of this predicament. He prepared to hurl himself at the shears if they dipped toward one of his brothers. Deep down, he hoped the feds upstairs would be smart enough to find the basement. His men needed to be saved, with or without him.