As we walked back into the bar, every head turned. But nobody said a word. They didn’t have to. I knew the shit that was coming my way.
7
Augustine
Ipushed the Nipple Tip’s door open with my shoulder, trying to keep Melissa tucked close behind me, but she was already walking ahead, chin high, the echo of our fuck-you bathroom exit still clinging to her like cheap perfume.
Outside, it was dead quiet. Not even the usual gaggles of drunks pissing against dumpsters. Just a sea of beat-up trucks, two dozen parked bikes, and that thick New Mexico mist rolling in off the river. The only movement was the bar’s neon sign stuttering its last, the N dead and the rest bleeding pink into the haze.
I scanned left and right, then thumbed a cigarette out of my pocket and stuck it between my teeth, buying myself asecond to take the temperature. Even the wind was holding its breath. Melissa stopped on the curb, toeing a puddle with her boot, her ponytail bright in the bad light. I loved her in that jacket, even though I knew it was a goddamn target.
That’s when the Leatherbacks stepped out of the fog. Five of them. They fanned out with military precision, each one in a different color of asshole. The tank in front had a broken nose and crocodile smile, two skinny shits in mirrored aviators, and a pair of nondescript soldiers flanking. Their cuts glowed under the streetlight, the turtle patch stupid and menacing all at once. The guy in the middle—Saint, if I had to bet—had the kind of presence that screamed “enforcer” even if you couldn’t read his résumé in the scars on his face.
“Evening, princess,” the big one called, eyes on Melissa.
She flinched, just for a second. I put my body between hers and the line of Leatherbacks, hand dropping to my Glock before my brain caught up. I had enough time to size the odds, register the one on the left was already drawing, and then the fight was on.
I got the gun half out before something cracked into my ribs—boot, steel toe, didn’t matter—and another fist caved my left eye shut with a white-hot detonation of pain. My legs buckled. I kept my hand on the gun, but someonegrabbed my wrist, wrenched it back, and popped my fingers so cleanly I almost admired the technique.
Somewhere in the blur, I heard Melissa scream. The sound was so raw it made the world blink for a second. I caught a flash of her hair, then lost it as someone drove their knee into the base of my skull. My vision strobed in and out—parking lot, fog, the boots of my enemy, then darkness, then fog again. Melissa’s voice was high and wild, screaming my name like it was the only thing that might bring me back from the dead.
The Leatherbacks didn’t fuck around. They kept it surgical with boots to the ribs, elbows to the face, a textbook stomp on my hand so I’d drop the Glock. I did, and it skittered into a puddle. I tried to roll for it, but the tank dropped all his weight on my lower back and rode me into the gravel.
“You really thought you could keep her?” someone above me said, voice thick with mockery.
Blood filled my mouth. I spat it at his boots.
He laughed. “Fuck, you got spirit.”
They let me up just long enough to get a good look at what was coming next. Saint—he was definitely Saint—pulled Melissa by the hair, hard, until she was on her knees in the slush. She punched and clawed, but he barely reacted, just twisted her arms up behind her untilsomething in her shoulder made a sick little pop. She bit his hand. He laughed, then backhanded her so hard she went flat.
I tried to move, but the two soldiers on my back had me pinned. One yanked my head up by the hair and forced me to watch as they dragged Melissa across the lot. She kicked, screamed, and actually caught one in the nuts, which earned her a punch to the stomach and a fistful of ponytail for her trouble.
“Augie!” she yelled. “Don’t let them—”
Her voice cut off when Saint wrapped a hand around her jaw and squeezed until her eyes rolled. They frog-marched her to the black van at the edge of the lot, the sliding door already open and waiting like a mouth.
I lost my mind. I bucked and thrashed until I felt something in my side tear, tried to dig my fingers into the gravel for traction, but all I did was bloody my hands and give the soldiers an excuse to stomp on my kidneys. My lungs emptied; the world spun. But through all of it, I kept my eyes open, watched them shove Melissa into the van, watched her bite and kick until the inside went wild with noise. Someone yelled, “Fuck, she’s got a knife!” Then another shout, and a dull thud.
The van door slammed. The engine revved, gears screeching. For a second, I saw her face in thewindow—blood on her lip, hair wild, screaming my name. Then the van tore out of the lot, tires screaming, almost clipping my head as it fishtailed onto the main road and disappeared into the fog.
The world narrowed to a pinpoint. All I could see was the taillights fading, red as a warning, and the blood pooling around my mouth. I tried to crawl, just to prove I wasn’t finished, but my body said no, and the night rolled up and swallowed me.
Last thing I remember was the promise I spat into the gravel, I’m coming for you. No matter what it takes.
I came to with my mouth tasting like blood and bleach, the world buzzing in static chunks. First thing I saw was the patch on the wall—Bloody Scythes, hand-painted, red flaking off the letters like a scab. Next was Damron St. James, parked at the end of the bed, arms crossed, eyes black with sleeplessness.
“Welcome back,” he said. He didn’t bother with concern. Just the facts.
I tried to sit up and got halfway before the bandages across my ribs caught fire. My hands looked like someone had run them through a cheese grater. My left eye wouldn’t open all the way, but I could still see enough to know I was in the clubhouse’s back medroom—the one with the silver crucifix nailed to the ceiling and the stains nobody had ever cleaned off the tile.
“What’s the damage?” I croaked.
Damron didn’t move. “Three cracked ribs. Concussion. Couple stitches in your scalp. You lost a pint, but you’ll live.”
I licked my lips. “Where is she?”
Damron shook his head. “You’re a real piece of work, August. First thing out of your mouth and it’s the girl.”