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He knocked the gun from his hand and shoved the barrel of his brother’s Glock beneath the man’s chin. All the screaming and violence around them fell away. Only Sergei’s set jaw and his narrowed blue eyes remained. “You killed my brother.”
Sergei raised one blond brow mockingly. It was covered in blood from a gash less than an inch below his hairline. “Nice to know my men can hit a target.”
He pushed the Glock harder against the man’s skin. “Your men are all dying or dead.”
“There are more of us. We’ll keep coming back. Besides, we are not your only enemy. We have the Soldiers with us now. You pissed off somebody very powerful, one who won’t stop until your precious brothers are nothing more than a bloodstain on the ground.”
It bothered him Sergei showed no fear, but in his blustering, at least the bastard had connected some important dots. The Skulls no longer had three separate enemies; now they were connected with Beau Griffin at the center of it all.
“Your brother was only the beginning,” Sergei sneered.
With all the Russian’s big talk, maybe the head wound was making him stupid. “I’ll bet he died crying in a pile of his own shit.” Maybe he was ready to meet his maker.
He pulled the trigger, and sound exploded in his ears as Sergei’s brains splattered in an array of gore on the wall behind him.
He’d managed to go all these years without killing anyone. Pulling the trigger had been so much easier than he ever expected.
Turning on his heel, he surveyed the rest of the room. At least eight bodies littered the ground. Two were his own men. Bear was dead, the features on his face almost destroyed by bullets. Scratch wheezed a few feet away, his shirt soaked in blood. Frank stood upright, but he bled from a wound at his shoulder. None of the Russians survived.
“Randy, Frank, get Scratch to the car.” Kane squatted next to Bear and lifted the big man in a fireman’s carry over his shoulder. Once he made it out of the house, one of the guys stationed as lookout helped him carry his burden to the Bronco.
By the time they made it to the hospital, Scratch had stopped breathing. Frank had come up with a story to tell the cops about a second attack from the men in the mysterious black van. Kane and Pete got out of the SUV at the edge of the parking lot, and Frank drove in the rest of the way alone. They didn’t need to get tied up with questions from the cops.
It was too tight to squeeze any more men in the Impala, and too much blood covered Kane and Pete to call for a ride, so they started back to the clubhouse on foot, keeping to the shadows.
Their actions tonight were a start, but they still had enemies waiting to take another shot at them. The Christian Soldiers for one, and of course, Mandy’s father. He had no doubt Beau Griffin was the powerful man Sergei was talking about. Hell, Mandy herself had warned him her father was a threat.
Mandy.
He’d made her so many promises, and he’d meant each one. They were supposed to have a future together, the one they’d both been dreaming about for years. But who were they kidding?
He was supposed to walk away from the club; no way could he do it now. His brother was dead, and only half the people responsible had paid the price. He owed it to Scott—to his parents and his remaining brothers—to make sure justice was served.
But he couldn’t do it with Mandy at his side. He couldn’t paint a target on her back. Besides, he was no longer the same man who made her those promises only hours ago. That man had never taken a life.
She deserved better than a killer fouling her bed.
And now, her father was now his enemy, more so than ever before.
He raked his hand through his tangled hair, no doubt coating it with Bear’s blood. There could be no future with Mandy. No happiness or love. He had to let his dreams go. It was time to unleash a nightmare on his enemies.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-FOUR
Kane
Kane stood in the shower with his head bowed, dried blood once again mingling with the water going down the drain. Dawn was already peeking over the horizon when they made it back to the clubhouse. The brothers were here, along with his dad, all crashed out; a few had snagged beds, others on the furniture, a few on the floor. Thank fuck, someone had cleaned up the spot where Scott had gone down.
Every muscle in his body clenched tight and tense. His head ached, and his fingers burned as they regained feeling after an hour in the cold. He needed to burn the clothes he’d been wearing. They all did. There was no telling whose blood was on there, a direct link to the death and destruction from the night before.
He grabbed the soap, rubbing the bar directly onto his filthy skin. He’d never truly get clean, but at least he could get rid of the outward evidence of his sins. His hair needed attention too. As long and thick as it was, only God knew what DNA hid among the strands.
Ignoring the water he trailed across the floor, he climbed out of the still-running spray and stood naked before the mirror. Grabbing a thick handful of hair, he sawed through it with the knife he’d left on the sink. He did it one handful after another until the longest pieces hung right below his jaw.
Dropping the chunks of hair into the garbage bag with his clothes, he got back in the shower. Now it was easy to work up a lather with the shampoo. It hadn’t been this simple to deal with in years.
And really, who gives a fuck what it looks like?
