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Lifting up slightly, I see Brash standing there, gun aimed at Smoke. I’m not even surprised he was the one who shot first.
More gunfire, several hitting the table I hid behind, one splintering the wood right by my face.
Bastards.
“Piece of shit!” I hear Smoke yell right before thepopof a gun. Glancing over, I see his gun in his right hand, slowly lowering back to the ground.
Whipping around, I see Brash on the ground, body crumpled, blood trickling out of a hole in his head, eyes staring sightlessly.
Movement to my left catches my attention. Fat Mike yanks his gun from his waistband, gaze locked on Smoke, who tries to pull himself behind cover.
I quickly scramble up, facing Fat Mike, gun pointed at his head. His eyes drill into mine, even as he keeps his gun pointed at Smoke.
“What are you going to do, Maverick?” he sneers. “Shoot me?”
I just stare at him, my gun steady.
“I bet you aren’t even man enough to pull the trigger.”
I stay silent. There are so many things I want to say to him. So much rage begging to be unleashed over what he’s done to our club. But I realize none of that matters. Sweat trickles down the side of his face. The hand holding his gun wavers slightly. He’s scared. Not sure why that makes me feel a mixture of happiness and sadness, but it does. Knowing he feels fear, even if for only a second, seems like justice for those he had killed.
“You just going to stand there all night? Weak and pathetic, as always. Well, I don’t have time for this. You can just watch as I work my way through the group, saving your sorry ass for last. How does that sound?
“You all thought you were so smart, coming out here and confronting me. It’s laughable. In the end, I’ll fucking win. I always do, Maverick. You hear me, you sorry bastard?!”
His whole body shakes, spittle dripping out of the corner of his mouth. Yet the angrier he got, the calmer I became.
I open my mouth to reply, then stop, giving my head a mental shake. I refuse to allow him to drag me into an argument.
I don’t remember squeezing the trigger. I feel the recoil, hear the crack of the bullet, see blood bloom on his chest over his heart.
Fat Mike crumples to the ground as I lower my gun. His mouth opens and closes as he gasps out his last few breaths, eyes wide open in shock as the life drains from them.
It’s over.
Blowing out a breath I’m not aware I’m holding, I look around at the fight taking place around me.
I look to my left just as Fix shoots Skeeter and Freddie in quick succession, both men falling to the ground with bullet wounds in their heads. Blood trickles out of a cut in Fix’s neck, yet seems fine otherwise.
I hear another shot or two ring out before everything goes quiet, eerie silence descending over the yard.
I walk up to Smoke and grip his arm, helping him stand, seeing the bullet had gone through his thigh. “I thought we agreed nobody was to get shot today,” I joke.
“Funny,” he grinds out, face contorting in pain.
The rest of our brothers join us, every one ribbing him as we slowly make our way inside, Smoke groaning with every step. I glance around the group as we walk. There are a few minor injuries, but we haven’t lost a single one.
Thank fuck.
On the other hand, Fat Mike and every single one of his followers have been taken out. Even Poot, who’d obviously made his decision on which side he was on.
It really is a waste. But they made their choice. Now we have to live with the fallout.
Once we get Smoke back into the clubhouse, Talon and I help him sit on one of the barstools, while Viper grabs a clean rag to press onto his wound.
Fix and Dodger walk in with Cricket, who looks like he’d taken a bullet to the shoulder. He growls at them to leave him alone, but they just roll their eyes and steer him toward one of the benches along the wall.
The guys give each other slaps on the back and fist bumps, laughing. I can feel how relieved everyone is.
