The shot cracks through the garage, loud enough to shake dust from the ceiling. The man drops behind the van, cursing. The second fires back. Concrete pops near my shoulder. Ladyscreams, then clamps her own hand over her mouth like she’s furious she gave them the sound.
Good girl.
I fire twice more, moving sideways, keeping myself between her and the van.
The sedan lurches forward, trying to cut off my bike. Another man gets out from behind it, and this one does have a cut.
Miami Mutherfukers.
Ugly white denim cut, like the white rose.
I aim at his knee and take it.
He drops screaming.
Lady’s phone starts ringing from where she dropped it.
The sound is bright, stupid, normal.
Then the elevator dings behind us.
Fuck.
I turn half a second too late.
A woman steps out.
Not Carmen.
Cherry.
Red hair, tight jeans, Saints tank she has no right wearing outside the clubhouse, makeup smudged like she’s been crying or wants someone to think she has. Her eyes find me first, then Lady crouched behind the pillar.
For one impossible second, confusion splits through the gunfire.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” I snarl.
Her mouth trembles.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers.
Her eyes flick to Lady before they come back to me, and that is how I know fear ain’t the only thing driving her.
Lady sees it before I do.
Her eyes widen. “Shady.”
Something hard presses to the back of my neck.
I freeze.
A voice behind me says, “Drop it, road captain.”
I know the accent. The smug little smile inside it. Miami street trash wearing MC courage because someone bigger gave him a gun.
I drop mine.
Slow.