TWENTY
“Where are we going?”
The black bag over his head didn’t allow any light to penetrate. That made knowing anything next to impossible. All his senses were heightened, his ears registering the acceleration and deceleration of the engine, his body moving with the force of each turn taken. The scent of the driver’s cologne, even from his position in the back seat, was cloying.
But none of that was anything compared to the gunshots that had rang out in his ears, the echo inside the car near deafening. He’d have hearing damage, that was certain.
That was the least of his worries though. He had to survive tonight.
“Just—just tell me where you’re taking me,” he repeated, desperation making him bolder than he ought to be. It could work in his favor as easily as it could earn him a bullet in his head. There was just no telling with these people.
They were loose cannons.
“You’ll know when we get there,” Manuel, that arrogant asshole, said quietly from beside him.
He’d done his duty, what he’d promised. He’d watched that apartment day and night, kept an eye on all activity coming and going. Once the Spartan brothers had ridden out, leaving behind the one that looked like some Kris Kringle wannabe with an eye for murder, he’d made the call.
Manuel and his people had shown up faster than expected, making him wonder just how close they had been all along.
And the bastards had been fully prepared to just leave him there to rot without so much as a thank you for the hours of work he’d put in on his end.
So he’d demanded his due. He wanted to see the boss. Tonight. No more dicking around.
He hadn’t really expected Manuel to bend, but he had.
Sneaking down to the car was easy. The wait not so much.
They’d begun planning a break-in when the white-haired behemoth stormed out of the whore’s apartment and jumped on his bike.
Making their job a whole lot easier.
But then Manuel had yanked a bag over his head, ensuring he couldn’t see a thing. He’d wrestled for all of two seconds before the threat of a gun’s hammer next to his ear sucked the fight out of him.
“Sit back and shut the fuck up,” had been the warning. And he’d done exactly that.
Even without sight, though, he was able to deduce what had followed. The Spartan’s VP was dead. They’d wiped him out, and soon, the rest of the Spartans would follow.
Behind his veil of black, he smiled with grim satisfaction. He’d delivered the prize, and now he was finally going to get what was due him.
***
Ginger raced into the ER like her ass was on fire. Panic had her blood running cold and her heart speeding like a race horse. Her thoughts were focused solely on Garrick.
And she couldn’t shake the horrible feeling that she was too late.
Someone had shot him. That’s what Blake had said when he’d called. His voice… God, she could still hear it. That eerie, flat voice of his telling her that Repo had been shot and to get down to the hospital quick.
He’d hung up before she could ask him if he was still alive. But that voice…
It said so much.
Fear—no, terror—made her run faster. Thoughts of how things had been left between them plagued her with every footfall. She wove her way down the brightly-lit halls at breakneck speed, slamming into people left and right. But she didn’t give a damn.
She needed to get to him.
“Where is he?” she cried when the brothers came into view.
Heads popped up, and even from that distance, amid the bright fluorescent lighting, Ginger could see dozens of bloodshot eyes staring back at her.
That scared her even more—brothers didn’t cry.
They got even.
A few of the men got up and faced her, creating a wall with their bodies. The hell they were keeping her away from him, though. She’d cut them down where they stood without a second thought. Ginger’s jaw set as she slowed to a brisk walk and balled her fists, prepared to fight her way through them.
“Get out of my way,” she told a couple of the prospects who dared to step forward.
“You can’t go back there—”
“You don’t make the rules,” she snarled.
“You can’t—”
“Let her through.” The men made an opening and Blake stepped forward, his expression grim. His wife, Gabby, was right behind him. She’d been crying. And it looked like she was barely holding back more tears.
A ball of emotion climbed into Ginger’s throat, threatening to choke her. “Is he…is…” She couldn’t say the word. Couldn’t bring herself to utter the one word that could change everything.
Because the moment she’d heard Blake’s voice on the other end of that phone, the guesswork was over. In an instant, her heart and mind aligned, and she knew exactly what she wanted.
God, please don’t let me be too late.
“You made it,” Blake said with obvious relief as Ginger marched right up to him and crashed into his chest.
She didn’t cry though. As much as she wanted to, Ginger didn’t shed a single tear. She choked those sons of bitches back and swallowed them down, determined to stay strong.
“How is he?” Tell me he’s alive, she pleaded in her mind as she pulled back and looked up into the piercing gray eyes that held so much wisdom and compassion, they reminded her of why she’d wanted him all those years ago when they were just kids.
Blake’s rough, calloused hands rubbed her arms as if to soothe her, but she recognized the nervous gesture for what it was. “No word yet. They took him back to surgery.”
“So, it’s bad,” she said, her voice hoarse. Ginger cleared her throat and stepped back. “Tell me everything that happened.” She had to know, had to understand how something like this could have occurred.
One of the prospects vacated his seat and Blake waved her toward it. Legs feeling weak, she smiled gratefully and sat.
Crouching down in front of her, Blake had a look that told her he wasn’t going to mince words.
“We’re not sure on all the details yet. None of us were there, but it was a hit. That we do know.”
“But who would want Garrick dead,” she questioned. But considering his history, the question probably should have been who didn’t want him dead. She’d heard stories about how he wielded a knife. They didn’t call him Repo for nothing.
“I don’t know, but I doubt they were targeting him specifically. It was more likely the whole club, and he just happened to be in the wrong place at the right time.”
“An act of war?” She couldn’t believe that either. They’d just put that monster Cruiz in the ground. No way a new leader could have sprouted up and organized his people that fast.
It occurred to her that if she hadn’t acted like a brat and locked him out, ran him off, then he would be okay now. It was hard to convince herself that some of this wasn’t her fault.
“Looks like it. But we need more details first.” Blake’s hand cuffed her knee, his eyes full of sympathy as he met her watery gaze. “Don’t go blaming yourself for any of this. It’s not anyone’s fault, okay? We’re going to find out who did this, and they’re going to pay. I promise you that.”
Ginger looked away, toward the stark white double doors that separated her from Garrick. “You don’t owe me any promises. I’m not his woman.”
Blake’s fingers squeezed her knee. When he spoke, his voice was stronger than before. “Yeah, you are, Red. Whether you’re ready to accept it or not.”
He was right. Damn him, but he was. Ginger wasn’t ready to say it out loud, not yet, but Garrick had claimed her, and she knew there was no getting out of it. She didn’t want to. Not anymore. Maybe she never had. But knowing and giving voice to it were two totally different things. Right now, she was choosing to ignore it. But her heart knew—it always knew.
Blake stood, and Gabby stepped up to his side, sliding under his ready arm easily. They were perfect together. Not too long ago, before all of this, Ginger might have been irritated by that.
She couldn’t seem to summon a single fuck now, though. The idea of losing Garrick superseded all of it.
“When the doctor comes out, you’ll be the first to go back and see him,” Blake said, his tone brooking no argument.
She wasn’t planning to anyway.
Ginger nodded her head once. Then she sat back, her eyes never once leaving those doors.
He was going to be okay. He was going to come through it just fine and be the pain in the ass he always had been. And things were going to change.
From there, hours passed, the slow ticking of the clock on the wall torture. The brothers alternated between pacing the floors and holding up the walls. They made coffee and food runs, but no one ate, everyone too worried to feel hungry.
Ginger nodded off a few times, always waking up with a start. Then she’d stare at those doors again, willing someone to come through with news. Something, anything, just to ease her mind a little.
By the time a doctor did finally emerge, they’d been waiting for so long, no one moved at first. Just stared. Until they realized who they were looking at, and then everyone was on their feet.
“How is he?” Ginger was the first to ask, taking the lead. And just as if she really was Garrick’s ol’ lady, everyone stood behind her—a wall of solidarity.
“Are you the next of kin?” the doctor asked her.
“She’s his wife,” Blake interjected, knowing Ginger wasn’t one to lie, even about the important stuff.
The doctor looked her over briefly, his gaze questioning, but one look at the force standing behind her and he didn’t try to argue. “Your husband’s surgery went well. He lost a lot of blood, but we gave him a transfusion, and he’s responding well. He was shot multiple times, the majority of which were in the extremities. It’s a good thing he was wearing his vest. It saved his life.”
Ginger’s eyes widened, and she fought a wave of dizziness from the overwhelming relief. He’d been wearing a vest. Thank God. Garrick was many things, but he wasn’t stupid.
“Can I see him? When can we see him?” she asked.
“We’ve moved him to ICU. He’s resting now, but I’ll allow one visitor to go back.”
It was obvious who that visitor was going to be, but out of respect, Ginger still looked to Blake to confirm. He simply tipped his head in agreement.
“Follow me,” the doctor told her, and with nerves fluttering in her stomach, Ginger did.