Chapter Thirty-Five
SLATER PORTMAN
Sergeant at Arms
“Get the fuck off me,” I hissed, shrugging an ATF fucker away when he came around the back and pressed the butt of a gun to my skull.
“Hands at the back of your head…now!” he yelled like he thought I even gave a shit.
Raising my hands slowly, I entwined them and did as he asked, pushing up on my knees so I was at his mercy.
None of this mattered.
The ATF didn’t fucking matter.
The only person who mattered was unconscious, face down against the ground, blood pouring out of his limp body. Ayda lay next to him with tears streaming down her face as his name fell from her lips over and over. She couldn’t even hear the ATF around us. She couldn’t see Sutton charging toward her like a father desperate to protect his child.
She couldn’t see the way we were all holding our breath, waiting for our president to move.
But he wouldn’t move.
He. Just. Wouldn’t. Fucking. Move.
Tears filled my unblinking eyes as I stared at my brother. My best friend. The man who’d done more for me and this club than I could ever put into words. The man I’d never seen stay down for so long—not even with a bullet in his arm or a knife wound across his chest.
Ayda’s wails of desperation tore free, the sorrow and grief in her screams echoing around the warehouse, sending goosebumps across every part of my body.
“Come on, you son of a bitch,” I whispered through gritted teeth. “Get up, brother. Please. Do it for me.”
Drew always gets up. He always gets up.