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It’s very hard to fight the urge to assist your nose when it’s now smashed, blinding you. That’s why I then grabbed the gun tucked in the belt of his pants and shot the man sitting to the left in the second row. Blood and brain matter splattered the window next to him.
Before that corpse crumbled into the drenched window, I already had my arms over and around the next guy’s neck. As if a sign these men needed to die, my binds suddenly snapped, freeing me.
Strangling the shocked man with one arm, I pointed the smoking gun and fired at the passenger seat at the front of the van. That man flew forward before slumping against the dashboard.
With no delay, I pointed the gun at the driver and yelled, “Pull over now, asshole!”
All the ruckus gave him enough time to retrieve his own gun and point it over his shoulder. “Fuck you!”
It was either me or him.
I pulled the trigger.
The van, moving at a high speed in snow, careened off the road, sending us rolling down an embankment. It was nothing but flailing arms and legs, and dead bodies, until we came to a crashing stop, upside down. Now lying on the ceiling of the van, dazed as holy fuck, it was me and the one guy who, unfortunately, I was no longer strangling.
Do or die, yet again.
After meeting each other’s stare, we both scrambled about inside the upturned cage, searching for a gun or any weapon before the other did.
I found a knife.
He found a gun.
Kaboom! went his gun, the bullet lodging into my stomach.
“You fucker!” I roared, gripping the knife I had pried free from one of the men during our pleasant descent. I shielded my head when I realized he was about to shoot again, and I had nowhere to hide.
Click!
I dared to peek when his gun sounded jammed.
The man blinked, his dark brown eyes finding me.
I didn’t blink. I lunged.
The need to apologize to Pops, and the gallons of adrenaline in my veins, had me coming down on this yelping man and shoving a knife into his chest.
Survival of the fittest.
Or maybe my heart was bigger than his. I had to see Dad one more time.
For a couple of seconds, I tried to assess my gut, but the smell of gunpowder, gasoline, and death was overwhelming inside the van. When knocking on the Reaper’s door yourself, being in a heap of dead bodies is the last place you want to be. And burning alive didn’t sound like much fun. Plus, whoever had been on that phone call could have been sending reinforcements. Pain starting to kick in, pure survival had me crawling to a door and swinging it open, a blast of cold air smacking me in the face.
Forcing myself to crawl out, I moaned, struggling to stand, then… I ran. Holding my stomach, I ran for as long as I could to get back to where there would be witnesses, and a path to find my way home.
Blood smeared against the outside of the store windows as my weakening legs stumbled through snowy slush in the dark; my Harley boots had never felt so heavy. Using my right shoulder to help support me, I didn’t dare stop to catch my breath. No way. My enemy was hot on my trail.
Staggering, I tried to shut out the memories of my father roaring, “Lynx!” as I was taken from him.
Lynx, the road name my dead mother gave me. You fucking idiot!
Putting pressure on my bleeding wound, I peered at my cell phone one more time. No miracle had replaced the cracked piece of shit. It still didn’t offer me a way to call my pops and tell him I’d escaped, nor a way to tell his men to come and rescue my dumb ass.
Separated from my brothers, I had no choice but to find a place to hide. Did I prefer a quiet place so I could gain my wits? Fuck yeah. But a dark corner is where my foe would have searched first. A dark corner is where they would’ve finished me off. So, I chose to follow the low rumble of music thumping inside some nightclub. Instinct told me that would buy me time for my own men to find me. It had to be warmer inside, anyway.
Mustering my failing strength, I pushed off the store front to attempt to appear normal. Not that it was needed. By the time I made it to the club’s entrance, a fight had broken out in the line of patrons waiting to get in. Bouncers and bystanders were too preoccupied to notice a severely injured biker slipping into the deafeningly loud establishment.
Inside, the DJ had some dance mix, “Heads Will Roll,” pounding in my ears while I inspected my surroundings. It was so dark there was no need to squint, but the pain in my stomach was taking a toll. Sweat had already gathered on my upper lip as I searched for a bathroom where I could grab paper towels or something to plug the hole in my gut, and possibly highjack someone’s phone.
