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Ryan responded with a spray of bullets. Gideon pressed me back, pinning me between his body and the dumpster. I wrapped an arm around him, staring at the back of his cut and Blackjacks MC in bold letters. The realization settled over me, heavy with finality.
I could lose the best thing that ever happened to me.
Gideon shifted, firing off a few rounds. I heard him counting quietly to himself.
“Liss, baby, I’m almost out of ammo,” he said. “I have two—maybe three shots left.”
A prickle of cold dread crawled up my spine and my stomach twisted. We were sitting ducks here without a way to protect ourselves. I had the knife in my boot, but that would be useless if Ryan still had bullets.
“When I give the signal,” Gideon continued. “You run like hell. I’ll cover you.”
I clutched a fistful of his shirt.
“Are you insane? No. I’m not leaving you.”
Gideon turned around to look at me, prying my fingers free.
“You don’t have a choice, sweetheart.”
I scrambled for another option—anything. The clubhouse behind me heaved and the ceiling collapsed. Vlad crumpled with a roar, buried beneath a pile of addicts kicking the shit out of him. Hot Shot huddled behind the corner of a nearby building, fumbling at his shotgun to reload it. His fingers were slippery with blood and a handful of shells scattered across the pavement.
Gideon grasped my chin lightly and turned my head until I looked at him. My heart soared every time he did that. It made me feel precious, cherished.
“I love you,” I whispered.
He smiled softly.
“I knew that all along, baby.”
Gideon turned away, shifting onto his toes as he prepared to move.
“Gatling!” he bellowed. “Wing the son of a bitch for me, would you?”
A split second of silence filled the air. It was a tight shot. If Gatling was off by an inch, he would kill Kingpin.
Then the deafening boom of a sniper rifle made me flinch.
Ryan yelped. Blood flared at his right shoulder—his shooting arm. He lurched to the side, releasing his grip on Kingpin.
Gideon bolted forward, firing—once, twice.
I forced myself to run in the opposite direction, feeling sick to my stomach. I hated the bitter irony that weighed on my tongue as I realized what I was doing. This is how it all began—running away. And Gideon made me promise I wouldn’t do that anymore.
I slid to a stop, panting.
The crack of gunfire and shouts echoed behind me.
No. This wasn’t the only option.
I bent down and slid my knife out of my boot. The blade was six inches long, with a worn handle that I’d wrapped with tape for extra grip. I found it in my neighbor’s tool shed when I was nine years old, hiding from my father who smashed up the house in one of his usual drunken rages.
Ever since then, I slept with that knife under my pillow.
“Where is she?” Ryan screamed.
A calm certainty settled over me. With measured steps, I returned to what remained of the clubhouse. Gideon and Ryan faced each other, guns drawn in a stalemate. If Gideon had one shot left, he couldn’t waste it. If his clip was empty, he was simply stalling to buy me time so I could get away.
“I’m here,” I said.
