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Okay, okay. How the fuck did he defuse this bomb? What was the right play?
Unable to imagine what might work, Eight could only trust his instincts. That was dicey enough—his instincts were primed for chaos and destruction—but maybe he’d learned a thing or two in the past few years? Earlier, Jazz had said Eight had been changing.
Eight fucking hoped he was right.
The guy wasn’t very big, but he looked strong. He had a clean-cut appearance, with light brown hair styled businessman short. He wore one of those North Face jackets over a button shirt. No ink, no piercings, nothing that would complicate the Fine Upstanding Young Man vibe.
Nothing other than the semi-automatic rifle with the bump stock. And the wild-eyed desperation.
Eight put his hands up. “Greg, you gotta know coming in hot with a great big gun to the Bulls’ compound makes it real iffy you’re gonna leave on your own legs. I’m not sure what you want out of this, so why don’t you tell me.”
“I want her.” He gave Kelsey a hard shake.
“I don’t think you’re winning her over this way. If you know Kelsey, you know she’s not into the caveman deal. You can’t drag her off by her hair and expect her to be glad. Maybe we can talk out a better way. How’s that sound, Kelse? A talk?”
The way Greg had her face, talking would have been difficult for her right now, but she conveyed with her eyes how insane she thought her ol’ Uncle Eight was.
He had no intention of talking with the fucker. He just wanted to ratchet the panic down a bit and get that fucking gun.
Becker had been so much better at shit like this.
Not that shit like this had happened at the clubhouse before.
Actually, wait. Yes, it had. Back in the Nineties, when they were warring with the Hounds. The day Griff had killed Dane and almost killed Rad, and Simon had killed Griff, right in the party room. Griff’s girlfriend, Patrice, had died in the clubhouse, too, though her doer hadn’t been in the building. Her death had caused all the rest of it, though.
Shit. He did not want a replay of that day.
“Prez.” That was Gargoyle, who’d been inside. When Greg saw him, his eyes became gaunt circles and he swung the rifle to point in Gargo’s direction.
Eight turned just enough to see Gargoyle pointing AKs in both hands. He must have gone into chapel for the gun safe.
They were one bullet from a bloodbath. And Marcella was still out here, goddammit.
“Greg. Greg, look at me.” When he had the guy’s attention again, Eight, still with his hands up, said, “Firing that gun won’t get you what you want. It won’t even make you feel better. All it’ll do is make a world of hurt for you and everybody else. You put that gun down and let Kelsey go back to her dad, and then you and me, we’ll talk it through. We’ll figure out a way to make you feel better. Okay?”
Greg’s expression was all suspicion, conflict, and fear. He still wanted what he’d come for, but he was starting to see his mistake. That probably made the whole deal more dangerous. If he’d decided he was dying no matter what he did, he might decide to go out with a bang.
“The only thing that’ll make me feel better is to have her back,” he said.
“Then we’ll talk about how we can make that happen.”
Kelsey was very much not on board with what Eight was saying, but she was smart enough not to make that clear with anything but her eyes.
Besides, Eight was blowing smoke. That fucker was in a world of hurt the second he let go of the AR.
From the corner of his eye, he saw Dex skirting the crowd and knew what the guy was about. He was looking for a clear shot from the perimeter.
If there was any way he could manage it without drawing Greg’s attention, Eight might call him off. There was too big a chance of hitting Kelsey. But he’d have to trust Dex to know he had his shot before he took it.
Instead, Eight focused on keeping Greg’s attention on him. “Let’s play it out, Greg. What’s your next move?”
“I just want to go. Just let me take Kelsey and go.”
“You know I can’t let you do that.”
“I don’t want to hurt her! I want to love her!” His hold of Kelsey changed in some way that made her cry out softly. She was starting to look a bit floppy, in fact. Eight thought he was pressing on her carotid.
If she passed out, hell would break loose.
