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The night was like any other in my shop. Alone, I cranked the music and danced to Pink’s smoky voice singing Blow Me as I finished cleaning-up. When done, I put the guns back in their homes and shut off the bench lights. I’d just walked to the door and shut off the overheads when a steady flash of headlights swept through the shop windows. Engines roared down the road, several loud pops, and more engines as a gang of bikes rolled on past. No mistaking the sound of guns in that chaos. As the taillights faded into the darkness, a squealing sound ripped through the night followed by a crash.
My heart thudded so hard, it felt like a drum being beat inside my throat. I grabbed my nearest Glock, flung the door open, and ran past the abandoned fueling islands, across the road, and toward the ditch where headlights beamed up into the night. The engine still roared, yet time crawled. It took forever to get to whatever . . . or whoever . . . had crashed.
“Shit-shit-shit,” I hissed, pushing my legs harder. I’d hoped to have a peaceful night, maybe catch a rerun of American Chopper or read another chapter of the latest Stephen King novel before drifting off. Hell, I couldn’t even remember the book’s name, but King reminded me of Pops, so I read them all. But someone clearly needed help. I couldn’t just turn away and put myself to bed while some poor dumbass died from a gunshot across the road. It couldn’t be anyone from The Ridge. They’d all be down at the bonfire tonight out behind my brother, Celt’s house, most of them probably already three sheets to the wind. So that left the question of who the fuck had come chasing someone through my town.
When I reached the other side of the pavement, my foot slipped on the rocks. I slid onto my ass, legs sprawling in opposite directions, and dug my elbows into the rocky ground to stop the skid.
“Ow, fuck!” I howled and scrambled back to my feet. I checked the gun—safety on. Whew. My elbows stung, but I ignored the pain and pressed on.
The slope was steeper than I expected, so much that I had to climb down through prickly sage brush. Almost there. When the land leveled out, I stood, turning to a motorcycle lying on its side, crumpled, with the front wheel still spinning and the motor running. My adrenaline surged as I searched the darkness for the rider.
I sucked in a breath and held it, willing my heart to slow, and squinted. I leveled the gun into the night and flipped off the safety. Anyone who would be out here and in a gunfight had to be bad news—maybe even worse than my brother and the rest of the rats in The Ridge. At least they were known danger.
Speaking of Celt, I placed a hand over my empty back pocket. “Shit!” My phone was back in the shop. I was on my own. “Who’s there?”
A groan answered to the right. I turned away from the headlights, swinging the gun and waited for my eyes to adjust. After a few seconds, a huge man-sized lump on the ground formed in the dark.
“You good?” I asked, staying far enough away that he couldn’t reach over if he was well enough to try to take me down. The self-defense lessons at the hands of my brother had been invaluable just after Pops died. Now, I couldn’t be sure.
Another groan. The lump shifted, and a voice growled out, “Fuuuuuck!”
Still, no answer to my question. I planted my feet wide, gun steadily aimed at the man, and chewed the inside of my lip.
The bike puttered out, the engine finally giving up. Keeping the gun trained on the form in the dark, I reached over, shut off the blinding headlights, and listened some more. If anyone else was out here, moonlight alone would be better. The man-lump shifted to try to get to his feet, grunting constantly against whatever pain kept him from standing.
I looked up the hill at the road.
More grunting. No words.
My knee bounced for several seconds before I flipped the gun’s safety and shoved it in my waistband. “Celt is going to kill me,” I mumbled, throwing caution to the wind. I went to help the hurt man.
“What?” he uttered, standing to full height—a head taller than me not even at his tallest.
“Can you wal—”
“Fuuuck!” he bellowed again and lifted the leg he’d just tried to put weight on.
“All right, all right. Lean on me.”
The weight was massive, but we took it slow and I helped him out of the ditch. On the side of the road, the huge man nearly passed out. I stumbled.
“Stay with me,” I ground out. Celt had to be 250 pounds, and I guessed this man had a good thirty on him. He was enormous—and solid.
I asked his name, but every time he opened his mouth, the response consisted only of more grunts, wails, and moans.
Get him inside, Bou, I told myself. I needed him in the light where I could figure out how bad his situation was. He hobbled unevenly, using me as his crutch with a leather-clad arm draped heavily over my shoulder. His leg was surely broken from the way he cried out, but what concerned me more was the warm and sticky blood that coated his wrist where I held it. The reek of copper filled my nose.
At the door, I let go of his wrist to turn the knob. His blood smeared on the brass, and I nearly lost my grip on him. “Fuck!” I yelled, kicking the door open and bracing our combined weight into my thighs to catch him before he hit the ground again.
Inside, I turned left and guided him toward my small attached apartment. It wasn’t more than a bedroom, bathroom, and little living room. My intended destination was a two-seater I’d purchased only because I was supposed to have a couch in my living room, certainly not because I ever used it. The man overloaded the small piece of furniture, and as I slid out from under his arm, I got my first good look at him: short, dark hair, almost shaved, eyes squeezed shut, dark brows drawn in pain. Muscles and veins strained in his neck. He panted and reached toward his leg, then sucked in a breath through clenched teeth. Falling back onto the couch, his hand latched onto his shoulder as his broad chest heaved.
I ran to the shop, searching the counters for my phone. Park Ridge was too small to employ emergency services, and we were a hundred miles from another town. Celt, being a cop, was my best bet. I fumbled with the phone, smearing blood all over the screen. Grimacing, I swiped it off on my pants, hit the favorites, and texted my brother as I navigated the obstacles in my shop by memory back toward the apartment.
Bou: 911. Go get Doc and come to my shop.
Back in the tiny living room, I tossed the phone on the side table. The man on my couch had passed out. His face had relaxed some, but those lush brows still peaked. His right hand was red, coated with browning blood. I went to the bath and grabbed a stack of towels, then, because I had no medical training, I paced the room, considering what to do next. Water—they always boiled water on TV when someone was having a baby. Figuring that situation was close enough, I ran to the kitchenette off the other side of the shop. My knee bounced again as I waited for a large pot to fill with water, then I put it on the two-burner stove, flipped the knob to high, and hurried back to the apartment.
The light on my phone blinked at me from the table. I grabbed it, swiped, and read:
