Rosie

The metal door to the safe room comes to a flush close. I turn towards Kade, who has a set of impressive Bowie knives clenched in his fists, ready to maim. Good. I might need some backup. Probably not. But it never hurts to work smarter, not harder. This isn’t a game, where showmanship counts. It’s life or death, and I’m a pint-sized grim reaper.

Together, we pause at the bottom of the wooden stairs, and I hold my breath to listen. There’s at least one man inside the cabin. The light creak of the floorboards accentuates each of his steps. If you weren’t trained to hear them, you wouldn’t. It’s a good thing I am.

Raising my chin to grab Kade’s attention, I flick my eyes to the top of the stairs. “I’m going up first,” I whisper.

“Like hell you are.” Kade tries to butt his muscular body in front of mine. Kicking my leg out to stop his ascent, I massage my temple with two fingers, trying hard to convince myself not to hurt him since he’s an ally. Men. Always have to push their way into situations.

Listen. I get it. I’m small. Always have been. Always will be. It’s common for guys, especially bikers, to underestimate the little lady. Half of them either mock me, or try to be the knight in shining armor and come to my rescue. What they don’t realize is I’m their savior. Not the other way around. I’m the woman you want doing your bidding. The one who always gets the job done. This isn’t about whose balls are bigger or badder. Because mine are always the biggest and the baddest. Men don’t appreciate their fragile egos bruised by a chick half their size. That’s not my problem. It’s theirs. I’m smart enough to deduct male chauvinism is about to unfold right here and now, as Kade, and his hunky muscles, try to run the show. When, in reality, we all know I’m in charge. It’s not a matter of cockiness. It’s a matter of talent. And I blow all his biker buddies, including his national prez, out of the water with my skills. You don’t spend years honing my unique talents for nothing. What would be the fun in that?

Kade glares down at my leg that’s outstretched on the staircase, refusing to let him pass. Cocking my head to the side, I arch a stern, challenging brow. “Katrina’s mine to protect. You will follow my lead.”

There’s a shuffle of booted feet in the pantry. A floorboard squeaks. Some idiot bad boy obviously thinks he’s made us. Out of my periphery, I catch a glimpse of the guy with a handgun aimed our way, seeking a clear target. Without thinking twice I fling a throwing star up at his carotid, my eyes still focused on Kade. Half-smirking, as calm as can be, I raise my hand to count down the man’s expiration date…

“Fuck!”

One. Up goes my pointer finger. This is when the casualty yanks the lethal star out of his throat, thinking it’s just a scratch that can be compressed. Not with my special weapons it can’t. Two. Like clockwork, there’s a loud thud as he drops to his knees clutching said wound. Three. My smirk broadens to a knowing grin, as a telltale set of gaspy gurgles sing to my dead heart like a beautiful symphony. Four. My pinkie gets some action. Another thud resounds and is quickly followed by a stream of crimson that drips off the ledge of the pantry floor, staining the top step.

“Any questions?” I test, my tone uniform. There’s no need to brag when I’ve proven my point.

Kade’s jaw unhinges as he watches the drip drip drip of blood painting the step. Clearing his throat, he adjusts his crotch. I’d laugh if it weren’t for the seriousness of the moment. Kicking into fourth gear so I can handle business per usual, I issue my orders like any Sergeant worth their salt. “Katrina might be safe down here. But it’s your job to secure this structure while I handle the hostiles in the woods.” I punch his shoulder in comradery. “Don’t die. And clean up the blood mess. There’s a tarp under the sink.”

Not giving him a chance to debate, I listen half a second more before I ascend the stairs with Kade two paces behind me. Stepping over the prone biker with a pool of blood spread underneath him, I flick off the pantry light, and we shut the basement hatch. Picking my star off the floor, I toss it in the sink to wash later. It’s show time. Crouching, I duck walk out of the kitchen to my bedroom to retrieve my weaponry. A spray of bullets attempt to take out the front windows. Amateurs. If they were as smart as they think they are, they would’ve done their homework on the cabin. The walls are made of thick timber. Some of the hardest woods money can buy. They’re nearly impenetrable. And the windows are made of bulletproof glass. Sure, they won’t hold up indefinitely, but that measly round of ammo isn’t going to do diddly squat. Ryker outfitted this place to be a fortress. If we’d have remembered to lock the back door, my first kill of the night wouldn’t have breached the threshold so soon. Makes for fun sport, though.

Arming myself to the nines with throwing knives, stars, and other fun blades, I shrug on my slash resistant jacket, my black beanie to conceal my blonde hair, and secure my military grade night vision band around my head. I keep the goggles folded upward to drop in place once I’m outdoors. Bet those imbeciles won’t be outfitted with night scopes. Wannabe badasses never are.

Officially loaded down with necessities, I shoot off a text to Ryker, Bear, and Big to give them a heads up that we’re under attack. Just in case Kade hasn’t had time to do it himself. He’s probably too busy picking the dead man off the floor. If I have any say in what happens, he won’t have to engage a single time tonight. But if shit goes south, he’ll be the only one left to protect Katrina and her daughters until backup arrives. If I knew he wouldn’t fight me on it, I would’ve locked him in the safe room with them. Less chance of someone dying on my watch. Not that I think he’s a dummy and can’t handle himself. Wouldn’t give him free reign if I did.

Another spray of bullets ricochets off the side of the cabin. Shaking my head at their stupidity, I double check my weaponry. Sweet. All set. It’s time to do what I was born to do. There’s not much that can take away the unrelenting pain that hangs heavy in my chest. But this … it numbs the ache for a short while. Making it mildly bearable. It’s better than putting a gun to my head and pulling the trigger. Don’t think for a second that thought doesn’t blast through my mind a hundred times a day. Less so, now that I’ve been here. Must be the domesticity. It’s been years since I’ve stayed in any one place longer than a day or two. Living with Kat and her children have given this dead soul some semblance of a life I forgot existed outside of grief and self-loathing. But that’s a story for another time… No use in obsessing about it now. Lord knows I dwell on it too much as is.

Bowing my head in prayer, I touch my forehead, chest, and either shoulder in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen. Guess old habits die hard. There’s no bloodshed without homage to the Almighty above.

Bending over to check my boot laces, I brush my pant legs off, and mentally prepare to kick some major ass. Knowing that I can’t walk out the front door. I cross the hall to the bathroom, pry open the window in the shower stall, do a quick check of the area shrouded in brush, then climb out, landing in a cat-like crouch on the ground below. Dropping my night lenses into place, I secure a throwing star in one hand, and my favorite leather handled dagger in the other.

Surveying the dark woods with my new vision, I double check the coast is clear before dashing into the tree line. Ducking behind a thick trunk, I wait for the nearest biker to enter my line of sight. It doesn’t take long. A man dressed in black wearing a leather cut snaps various twigs underfoot as he tromps between trees without a care in his puny mind. He stops a few yards away and radios someone as he scans the landscape, skipping over me, who’s not trying to hide. There’s no need to. It’s too damn dark for him to see much of anything outside the light on the end of his semi-automatic rifle.

Bored to pieces by this lazy kill, I yawn loudly enough for him to hear. Jerking his light in my direction, he randomly calls, “If you don’t show yourself, I’m gonna kill ya.” He has a sexy voice. Too bad nobody will ever hear it again. Mr. Biker’s not only an idiot; he’s delusional if he thinks he’s gonna kill me. Nobody messes with the Sacred Sinners. One of these days outlaw biker rejects who can’t join larger clubs will get that through their thick skulls. If not. I’ll be paid to do the dirty work.

Baiting the dummy, I fan my mouth with the dagger for the hell of it and yawn again, leaning against a tree, ankles crossed. Big could’ve given me a harder job. This is like taking candy from a baby.

The light of the man’s scope finally shines on my stomach. Migrating the beam upward until he reaches my face, I wave my dagger at him, smiling like the cat that ate the canary. Then I narrow my sight at the pulse point on the side of his neck and whoosh, I release a special throwing star with the flick of my lethal wrist. The guy clasps his throat before he knows what hit him. One, he yanks the weapon out, dropping his own in the process. Two, he sinks to his knees as blood to his brain ceases to exist. Don’t try this at home, kiddies. It’s taken me years to perfect my throw and find the perfect type of star needed to achieve the ultimate kill shot without using a gun. Most would say it’s impossible. That this isn’t a Kung Fu movie. Well, I’m here to tell ya, I’m not just anybody. There’s a reason I do what I do.

By the time my countdown’s finished, and he’s all but dead, I stroll up to his prone form and flip him onto his back. Dead eyes stare up at the stars, as blotches of crimson dots his full lips. Yes, it really is a shame. He’s kind of hot for a dead man. Rechecking the area to make sure we’re still alone, I kneel beside his body. This is the hardest part of my job. One that I don’t allow anyone to witness. Dabbing my thumb in the blood on his lip, I peel the black bandana off his head and paint a red cross on his forehead. Just because the man made a poor choice to come here doesn’t mean he doesn’t deserve the utmost respect. This man was a son to someone. Loved by people. And tomorrow they’ll be forced to mourn his death because of me. I don’t take that power lightly. It’s not an easy pill to swallow, but a necessary one in my line of work.

Two of my fingers slip his eyelids shut. Briefly closing my own eyes out of respect, I bow my head and touch my forehead, my chest, and each shoulder in the name of the Father, of the Son, and the Holy Ghost. Amen. Reopening my eyes, I search for his name patch on the breast of his vest and use my dagger to strip him of it.

Rest in peace, Tanner.

Inside my Velcro chest pocket goes the patch. Back on my feet, I nimbly seek the next foe I have to put to ground.

One-by-one, I pick off the thinning herd. Each man’s patch joins its brothers. Not a single death lasts long. That’s not my style if I can help it. As the famous gunnery sergeant John Basilone once said, “Never fear your enemy, but always respect them.”

Soon, eight unlucky SOBs are dead by my hand, their blood staining the forest or cabin floor, when I finally come upon three who’ve stuck together, raining bullets upon the Suburban, the demolished back door, the cabin, and Kade’s Harley. The scent of gasoline perfumes the air. Glass shatters. Tires flatten. The windows at the back of the house begin to crack under pressure. Three bikers nearly all the same height, stand shoulder to shoulder through the ear-splitting rumble of bullets. They laugh, pointing their weapons at Kade’s wrecked bike. He loved that thing. But it’s an object. It can be replaced, unlike the lives I’m about to take. If they were smart, they would know the rest of their brothers have met their maker. But they’re too busy yucking it up. I step behind them in the gravel driveway, no longer shrouded by tree cover. There’s only one other person scampering about in this forest. I’ll see to him last. Unless he somehow breached the front door of the cabin. I haven’t been able to check. From what I hear, Kade’s less forgiving to his victims than I am. So if he did make it inside, the poor fella probably wishes I was there to put him out of his misery.

Palming three throwing stars, I fling them in succession at the base of the men’s necks. No kill shots, but enough to get their attention and wake up the pain receptors in the brain. The middle man’s the first to yank it out with a howl of pain. The right leaves his in and turns on me, spraying bullets in my direction. Pushing off the balls of my feet, I front flip in a blur, then cartwheel and backflip out of the line of fire. Landing in a crouch, feet away, I secure three throwing knifes from my jacket and bing, bang, boom, they sink in to three separate thighs. Another three are extracted and flung, sinking into their opposite legs. More howls of pain and vehement curses of rage are spat as they attempt to blow me to smithereens. The dark’s my ally. They can’t see exactly where I am. I’m too fast.

Dodging their next round of fire, I flip, spin, and turn every which way to save my hide. Then I attack like a bolt of lightning, getting my first taste of hand to hand combat tonight. Using man number two as a tree, I run up his middle, flip to the side, and wrap my strong legs around the third assholes neck. With a quick twist, the man’s on the ground. I land on top of him and shove a knife through the center of his chest, piercing his heart. Hating he may not die fast enough, I twist to inflict worse damage. Then as quickly as I came, I pull his dead body on top of mine as another mist of bullet’s attack, hitting the carcass of their brother. A single bullet clips my shoulder; nothing more than a flesh wound. It stings like a bitch. When their magazines empty, I shove off the body and unleash the Mr. Myiagi within. An uppercut breaks one man’s nose as I roundhouse kick the other in the head, knocking him out cold. His body drops like a sack of potatoes. Sweeping two knives out of my jacket, Blade style, I ballet spin, and slit slit the standing man’s throat before he knows what’s hit him. Falling to his knees, I kick both of their weapons out of the way, then push my foot to the dying asshole’s shoulder. He topples to his back, and I straddle his chest. Our eyes meet as he fights to breathe. A feeble hand grabs at my jacket. His mouth opens and closes like a goldfish, blood seeping through the fingers around his throat. Out of respect, I rest my forehead on his. He coughs, body jerking violently, trying to feed his brain. Because I didn’t sever the carotid, death’s going to come slowly … painfully. I kiss his cheek.

“I’m sorry.” Brushing his weak fingers off my jacket, I hold his hand in mine, as I pull the tiny dagger from my boot with the other.

“Rest in peace,” I whisper, sinking the thin blade into his throat in rapid succession, so he doesn’t suffer. His eyelids close on their own. The body goes still. Life force paints the rocks red. Stripping him of his patch, I bow my head and touch my forehead, chest, and either shoulder in spiritual respect. Amen.

Bone deep exhaustion sets in as I climb off the corpse and end the final man’s life. Then perform the same ritual with him as I do with the bullet-riddled body of their fellow brother. His face is nothing more than ground beef. Bones exposed. Eye sockets gone. Intestines leaking out. Still, I pay my respect. Guess it’s a good thing I have an iron-clad stomach. When you’ve seen what I’ve seen, you don’t have any other choice.

Pushing off my knees to stand, I shake out my aching muscles, and remove my night vision headgear. I lay it gently on the ground beside me and swipe the back of my hand across my damp forehead. The cloud cover shifts, bathing the driveway in the dim moonlight. I sigh. God must be shining down upon us to bring his children to Heaven. It’s beautiful—peaceful.

The gravel shifts, and it’s not from me.

My heart thuds.

“Stop, or I’ll shoot,” a shaky voice orders from behind. Raising my weaponless hands in surrender, I slowly turn around. Rocks crackle underfoot.

“I said stop,” the boy squeaks, aiming a handgun at my chest. His hands are shaking badly. He’s not all that close, and I’d be willing to bet he couldn’t hit me if he tried. The kid can’t be any older than nineteen. The name patch on his chest reads Brook.

I’m not going to kill a teenager. That’s not in the job description.

“Listen, Brook. You need to leave. The rest of your brothers are dead,” I explain steadily.

“Y-you killed them!” The messy haired boy shakes the gun at me, tears leaking down his reddened cheeks. “You killed my dad!”

Whoops.

“I’m—”

An apology dies on my lips as a blur passes my line of sight. I blink, and when I refocus, there stands Kade behind Brook, two Bowie knifes sunk to the hilt in either side of the boy’s neck. The poor kid’s eyes widen in horror. Mouth opens in a silent scream. I can’t believe he killed him! He’s just an innocent child. Why would he do such a thing? Blood bubbles out of Brook’s mouth, and his body shudders. Not wanting the poor thing to die alone, I rush to him and gather his twitching fingers in mine. They try to hold on. But it’s no use. As soon as Kade removes those giant blades, he’s as good as gone.

“I’m sorry. Rest in Peace, Brook,” I whisper, emotions clogging my throat.

Kade takes this as his cue to remove the knives. Blood surges forth, pouring down the kid’s shoulders, coating his cut and patches. His eyes roll back into his skull as he slumps forward. Kade throws his weapons to the ground, blades sinking into the gravel, and catches the wilting child. Together, we lay him to his final resting place. Sighing like he’s unhappy with the kill, Kade sweeps his victim’s eyes closed as I relieve Brook of his name patch.

Emotionally spent, I drop to my ass on the driveway, knees up, head tilted back, staring at the starlit sky. It’s a gorgeous universe out there. “Why did you have to kill the kid?”

“We couldn’t let him live, Rosie. He had a gun trained on you. And I could tell you were getting tired,” Kade explains like he’s not fond of the outcome. At least he has a conscience. Mine bleeps in and out of existence.

“Have you been watching me?”

Kade cleans off his blades with a white bandana he pulls from his back pocket. “Yes. I wasn’t gonna stay inside just in case you needed my help.”

Strange. Because I didn’t hear him. And I hear everyone.

What if he saw my ritual? Nobody sees that. My brain rejects the prospect. That’s personal. Too personal.

“Did you…” I begin, needing to know.

“All of your secrets are safe with me, Rosie. You handled your own. There’s no need to say anything more. But we do need to leave. The clubhouse was also attacked. Pops called, said they were safe. But none of us can get ahold of Ryker. So I texted Gunz to get his location. His bike’s at Vanessa’s. But her car’s three miles away, accordin’ to the tracker, unless it got tossed. We gotta check it out.”

Truthfully, I don’t want to go anywhere. Especially not to check on a man who treats Kat like dog shit he scraped off the bottom of his boot. I have no love for Ryker. At first, I gave him the benefit of the doubt. Then he left Katrina without a word. We all know why he did it. Aside from Kade. That doesn’t change the fact that he never kept in touch with her. Since then, I’ve had to deal with a mopey Katrina. And I don’t like it one bit. She’s a wonderful woman. The only person I’d call a true friend aside from Big, who pays me for our unique friendship. It was unexpected, I know. Befriending the woman I’ve sworn to protect at all cost, and did tonight. But I love her and her kids. Or I love her in the only way I know how. It isn’t much. Nevertheless, it’s far more than I’ve given to anyone since my world faded to black many years ago.

“I thought you were pissed at your brother,” I remind.

It was me who talked Kade into letting Ryker in the house earlier today. Kade went on a ride, so he didn’t kill his bro for showing up unexpectedly to speak to Katrina. There were some choice words exchanged, shoving, and enough testosterone fogging the air to raise my hackles. A little open road coercion seemed to do the trick. Kade hadn’t ridden on his Harley since last week. Good thing he did because that was his farewell ride with her. That beauty’s no longer recognizable after what those assholes did. It’s one thing to shoot up a man’s house. It’s the ultimate disrespect to trash his bike. They got what they deserved.

“I am pissed at Ryker. He’s playin’ games with my Watermelon Tits.”

“Your nicknames for each other are disturbing.”

Very. When I first heard them, I thought it was a joke.

“Yeah. Well. Your face is disturbing,” Kade returns like a five-year-old whose mama wouldn’t let him have a cookie before dinner.

“Lame,” I deadpan.

He kicks the rocks with the toe of his scuffed boots. Another adolescent move. “Fuck off. Are you gonna be my backup or not?” Kade snaps his knifes back into their sheaths and offers me a hand up.

Conceding, I grumble as we clasp forearms and he yanks me to my feet. Out of habit, I dust off my ass. I know, it’s not like I don’t already have twelve different DNAs on my clothes. As I said, habit. Nobody like’s a dusty bum.

Not waiting for Kade, I stride across the driveway to the tree line on the opposite side of the cabin where I hid my motorcycle from plain view. I parked it there for safekeeping since I haven’t ridden it in weeks.

“Where the hell are you headed?” Kade catches up and grabs my elbow to stop me on the spot.

I whip around, itching to unsheathe my knife to put him in his place. “What?”

“I asked where you’re headed.” His hand falls to the wayside as if my arm burned him. I pay it no mind.

“Considering your bike’s trashed, the Suburban isn’t drivable, and I don’t think you wanna try to find those fuckers rides in the dead of the night, our only option is to take my bike.”

“Your Ducati?” He’s unsure, swaying from foot to foot.

Huffing in irritation, I turn around and stride faster to my motorcycle. This time Kade doesn’t try to stop me. His long legs eat up the distance at a leisurely pace. Sometimes, it sucks being vertically challenged.

Fishing my keys out of my pocket, I approach my sleek black Ducati, dust off the seat, and straddle the pussy purring bad boy. I slap the space behind me. It’s not much. But Kade’s delectable ass can fit on there just fine. “You’re ridin’ bitch.”

Crossing his arms like his brother always does, Kade shakes his head defiantly. “Like hell I am.”

I fire the ignition, flip on the headlight, and heel up my kickstand. Walking the bike backward to the driveway, I give Kade a chance to let reality set in. Nobody drives my motorcycle except me. There’s no ifs ands or butts about it.

Revving the engine a few times to wake her up, I re-slap the spot behind my ass. “You comin’ or what?”

“I’m not ridin’ bitch,” Kade growls. As if that’s gonna scare me. Please. I’ve met bigger badasses than him in my life. If Big Dick doesn’t intimidate me, nobody can.

“You are if you A, don’t wanna sound like a sexist pig, and, B, wanna check on that signal. So you best pull up your frilly girl panties and get on the back of my bike. Or you can walk your stubborn ass there. If ya start now, you can make it in half an hour. Tick tock.” I two-finger tap my imaginary wrist watch, knowing damn well I hold all the cards.

Kade throws his hands up and flips me a double bird. “Fuck! You’re a bitch.”

Tsking the errant man-child, I pat the space behind my butt again. “Yep.” No use in denying it. “Are you comin’ or what?”

Cursing up a storm, upper lip curled in a snarl, Kade smoothly mounts my bike. The backend bounces beneath the added weight, and I adjust my stance to keep us upright.

“Wrap your arms around my waist, fat ass. Or risk fallin’ off,” I call over my shoulder.

Kade complains but follows my instructions. His hands cup either side of my stomach. Barely touching, but enough to know he’s secure. His feet rest on the fold down pegs. If you were to take a picture, he’d look utterly ridiculous. Bet his club brothers would pay good money to see this. “I dunno who you’re callin’ a fat ass. But are you gonna put on a helmet?” he grumbles.

“Nope.”

“You should.”

I know I should, but my helmet’s in the cabin, and we don’t have time to grab it. I’ll be fine.

“And you should mind your own damn business.”

I sling attitude, knowing what it’ll do. Next stop Bonerville. Kade’s a walking, talking, erection. When I first met him, I figured it was a freak accident that he got hard. However, when I catch him readjusting a python in his pants more times than not in my presence, I’ve come to the conclusion he has a unique case of priapism. If I was interested in jumping his bones, I might be flattered. But I’m not.

“It’s not safe,” he argues.

It’s almost sweet that he cares. Almost. Not quite.

“Neither is fighting three men at once.”

Having stolen the last word, I click into first gear and gun it out of the driveway, kicking up gravel and dust. My back wheel fishtails as we enter the paved road and I straighten her out without fail. This is the first time I’ve had anyone ride bitch on my Ducati. It definitely maneuvers differently with the added weight, but it’s nothing I can’t handle.

Kade’s fingers drum against my sides as the cold air whips our faces. The fresh scent of mother earth invigorates me as the throbbing in my shoulder intensifies. I probably should’ve inspected the damage before we left. Granted, there’s no blood running down my arm so it must not be too bad. I can stitch it up later. It’s not my first bullet wound, and won’t be the last.

Through each BFE twist and turn, Kade taps my side, and I follow his silent instructions until the flash of headlights stare back at us from the wrong side of the road. Hell. They’re not even on the road. They’re in the ditch. Speeding up, my adrenaline spiking to new heights, I skid us to a jarring halt at the edge of a field. The rear tire leaves the asphalt for a second, tipping us forward. Kade’s broad chest meets my back in a rush, knocking the air from my lungs. My stomach heaves. To keep from face planting, I lock my arms and ride the rollercoaster of death. Half a second later, we relevel out. Gasping, I draw a fresh batch of oxygen into my lungs. What a rush.

“Damn. That was crazy,” I comment, planting my feet on the ground, balancing the beast. Straight ahead, on the edge of a field, is Vanessa’s crumpled car. Its high beams bathing us in their light. This doesn’t look good.

Shutting off the engine, Kade dismounts the rear of the bike and sets off in a dead sprint, yelling his brother’s name. “Ryker! Do you hear me?!”

No response.

Shit!

Leaving the keys in the ignition, I get my ass in gear. Dismounting in a blur, I eat up the uneven ground with each push of my short legs. My heart hammers against my breastbone, as a cold sweat dampens my forehead, a prize left for my beanie to collect. We both skid to a stop at the mangled car before us. The windows are shattered. Front-end crushed. The hood dented in various spots. From the looks of the tilled up dirt, they flipped multiple times.

Kade whips out his cell and dials 911.

“Do you want me to check for life?” I ask as he frantically rattles off information to the dispatcher. If someone’s alive in there, it’s gonna take too long for the paramedics to get here to save anyone. We’re fifteen minutes or longer from town.

Kade doesn’t answer, he’s too busy handling the call, so I approach the wreck, not wasting any time. The thick scent of gasoline infusing the air is enough to choke a mule. The airbags have deployed, but neither of them are inflated any longer. When did this happen? How long have they been out here?

“Is anyone awake?!” I yell.

Nothing.

Not a good sign.

Upon closer inspection, there’s tiny bullet holes riddling the metal frame. That explains why the passenger side door’s concave like it’s been t-boned. This was a deliberate hit. Should’ve guessed. Those bastards attacked us from all angles tonight. This was a well-planned fight. One they didn’t plan on losing. Too bad they did.

Careful not to step on any metal bits that could pierce through my boot, I approach the passenger window. Oh my god. Jerking my face to the side, I wince at the gruesome sight. Vanessa’s brain’s exposed, her nose flattened to a pancake. There’s blood everywhere. The metallic scent of death dances with the stench of gasoline. It’s vile enough to make me want to wretch. Swallowing down the lump in my throat, I reach inside and press a finger to her throat. Her pulse is weak. Barely a flutter. Upon skin stimulation, she suddenly gasps for air, blood varnishing her lips. There’s a bullet hole in her shoulder. A river of red streams down her arm. There’s no way she’ll survive this. She’s basically brain dead with half her cranium missing. There’s no way to staunch the bleeding, so I sprint to the driver’s side and check on Ryker. He’s out cold. Chin on chest, eyes shut. There’s more blood. Too much blood soaking through his clothes coming from somewhere. Using the light from my phone, I check his pinned legs and, sure enough, there’s a bone poking through the fabric of his pants. Compound fracture. A nasty one.

“A-are they dead?” Kade’s voice waivers as he approaches. “Is my brother dead? The ambulance is on the way.”

Ryker draws a raspy breath. Still alive. I check his pulse, and it, too, is weak, but stronger than Vanessa’s.

“Not yet, they’re not. We need to stop your brother from bleeding out.”

Removing my belt, I press it to Kade’s chest, and try to yank open the crumpled driver’s side door. It doesn’t budge. Kade tries, too, and ends with the same result.

“Fuck! He better not die!” he booms, brushing the remnants of glass from the window. Leaning through the open space, he tries to work on his brother. There’s no room left for me to assist. He’s gonna have to handle that on his own.

“You good?” I ask, watching Kade rip his brother’s long sleeve shirt off his right arm.

“He’s got three bullet holes in his fuckin’ bicep.” Kade tourniquets his brother’s arm with my belt. “There’s another in his thigh and his shoulder. Jesus. They left him for dead.”

That’s the whole point, I want to say, but figure that’s not helpful. Neither is standing around here twiddling my thumbs.

Vanessa gasps another short breath, drawing my attention to her. I count to ten, and when she doesn’t breathe again, I know she’s on her way to Heaven. If the paramedics don’t make it here soon enough, her baby is gonna die along with her, and nobody wants that. Unless the baby’s already dead, but there’s no way to know without checking.

Fuck it.

What’s left to lose?

Shrugging out of my jacket, I drop it to the ground along with most of my weapons. There’s no way I can get her door open. It’s mashed shut from the impact. So I climb in through the back passenger window instead, mindful not to cut myself on glass in the process.

“What the hell are you doing, Rosie?” Kade growls, working on his brother. “Get out of the car.”

“No. I’m gonna deliver this baby.”

“You can’t do that.”

Ignoring him, I crawl across the back seat to give myself space and click on the top light. At least the car battery is still intact. God must be watching.

“I can. Or the baby will die,” I respond, grabbing the headrest of Vanessa’s seat and exerting all my strength to shove it backward. It takes three good tries before the mechanism breaks and her chair reclines fully, giving me room to perform the C-section. She hasn’t taken a breath in thirty-five seconds. Any longer and her baby will be brain dead along with its mother.

Unsheathing my boot dagger, I lean over Vanessa’s bloodied form, trying not to lay on her out of respect, but this isn’t the ideal place to deliver a child.

Using my knife, I cut through Vanessa’s white shirt that’s soaked in life force, and expose her round belly. A reverse C-section better work. I’ve never delivered a baby in my entire life. Guess there’s a first for everything. Palpating her abdomen so I know I’m cutting in the right spot, I pierce the top layer of skin, careful to cut tiny bits at a time, not wanting to plunge too deep at once. Thankfully, there’s little fat to cut through. When I reach the uterus, I nick it, then rest my dagger on Vanessa’s thigh. Hooking my fingers inside the opening, I rip the skin apart. It’s not as easy as it seems.

“Dammit. Come on.”

I grunt and groan until I’ve gotten a big enough hole for a baby to come out of. All that’s left between the kid and me is a fully intact amniotic sac. It’s a miracle her water didn’t break during the crash. Pushing the baby down as far as I can with one hand, I use my other to puncture the sac. Fluid erupts out of the hole as it breaks. I’m met with a foot. Please don’t be dead. Please don’t be dead.

Reaching into the warm, wet cavity of Vanessa’s body, I gently wrap both hands around the baby’s chest and pull it free from its mother. Bringing the miniature, vernix coated bundle to my chest, umbilical cord still attached, I pat its back as I sit on the glass covered seat, not giving two fucks if it slices through my pants.

“Come on, little one. Come on.” I coax the dark-haired preemie to breathe whilst keeping it warm. Its body wiggles, curling into itself to retain body heat. At least the baby’s alive. Thank you, Jesus.

“Is he okay?” Kade asks in awe, briefly meeting my eyes through the shattered window, blood coating his hands. There’s a red streak across his stubbly cheek that wasn’t there earlier.

“I dunno.” Jostling the bundle, I attempt to work a cry out of its lungs. Another pat on the baby’s bottom and a faint sob finally breaks the surface.

Dropping my head back against the cushion, I sigh in relief.

Sirens blare in the distance.

I don’t think that sound has ever sounded so sweet.

“He needs body heat, Rosie. Put him under your shirt, against your body,” Kade instructs, leaning back into the driver’s window to check on his brother.

Lifting my shirt to my throat, not caring about my scars showing, I do as I’m told, and lay the bundle skin on skin. The little one ejects another miniature sob, pinking its skin up. A new wave of potent relief washes over me.

“Why’d you call him a him?” I massage the baby’s tiny back, drawing more beautiful cries from its lungs, each one louder than the next.

“Because I saw his nuts.”

“Ryker has a son.”

“Yes. Ryker has a son. Now he has to live long enough to see him. He’s not gonna last much longer, Rosie. He’s been shot at least five times, and I think his lung collapsed. I stuffed most of the wounds with cloth, but that’s not helping much. Ryker, if you can hear me, do not walk into the light, you fucker. You’ve got a big balled son to live for. Rosie’s holding him right now. Your little Tiger and daughters need you. Do not walk into the light. The boatman doesn’t need you. Tell God to go fuck himself,” Kade encourages like it might help. Who am I to say otherwise?

The sound of sirens draw closer, lights flashing brightly up the road. Not much longer.

Wrapping my arms around the boy, I close my eyes and send up a silent prayer to the Almighty above.

Dear God, if you’re listening tonight, please don’t take Ryker from Katrina. He might be an asshole, but he’s her asshole. She doesn’t deserve this. Amen.

Three seconds later, Kade bellows a heart wrenching “Fuck,” as the ambulance and firetruck pull up alongside the road, and four men jump out. “No!” he wails. “You can’t die. You can’t leave them! Breathe, you stubborn bastard.” From the window of the car, Kade begins to perform CPR on his dying brother. So much for answered prayers. Heaven’s about to gain another angel tonight. I dunno why I thought God would listen now. He never has before.

I’m so sorry, Katrina. I’m so sorry I failed you.

“Ryker!” Kade screams in agony as he fights the two paramedics who pull him from the window.

Peeling my sweat-soaked beanie off and tossing it on the floor, I kiss the baby boy’s head full of dark hair. “Happy birthday, little one. We’re gonna take good care of you, no matter what.”

The End… for now…