Lurching forward, Valentin lost his balance and slammed into the asphalt, wind whooshing from his lungs. Two sets of steel-booted feet hammered him, brutal and relentless. They kicked his ribs and dug into his neck even as he rolled into a fetal position, gasping for air. A piece of glass sliced his cheek open, and pain shot across his face.
For the second time in ten minutes, he experienced a sense of familiarity. Except this time, he knew the exact memory—the day the Parkensons’ hired thugs beat him up and threw him in the back of a car.
He would never allow that to happen again. Being locked up because some rich asshole had a problem with him. Back then, Valentin couldn’t fight Keyes and Deveron. But he wasn’t the same man he’d been at nineteen. He would not be going to prison for some fabricated drug charge Bergam manufactured. He’d fight the little shit and his minions with everything he had. Or die trying.
Valentin counted only the two assailants. Both alphas. He used his legs to kick out at the ankles of the man nearest him, getting to his feet again before the other one could land another blow. The men had their faces covered, but Valentin knew by their heights that neither was Bergam.
Valentin reached into his trunk and grabbed the tire iron he kept there. Crouching in front of his attackers with his back to the car, he forced himself not to think about the burning agony of his ripped-open cheek, even as the blood dripped onto his shirt.
How soon until Xan’s guys did an outside perimeter check? Five minutes? Ten?
“What’s the matter?” Valentin taunted, tossing the tire iron from one hand to the other. “Did Bergam get butthurt because the cops didn’t find what they were expecting?”
The men exchanged glances. “You might say that,” the larger man said. “But this is fun too. Consider us the backup plan.”
“Plan?” Valentin snorted. “Hardly. Plans require strategy…not to mention smart people to execute them. This is just bad improv.”
The other man growled and pulled a gun out of his pocket.
“I wouldn’t,” Valentin said, pointing to his left. “There are four cameras in this alley and at least two dozen people still in the club. Everyone will hear.” Hepffted. “I’m sure you realize in your little pea brains that not all cops are dirty. Is Bergam worth going to prison for?”
The man smirked. “Nah. No one wants the cops here.” He twirled the pistol on his index finger. “It might not make sense to shoot. But it’s gonna hurt an awful lot when I crack it over your skull.” With that, he swung his arm toward Valentin while the second man boxed him in. Valentin ducked as best he could, but the gun came down hard on his shoulder. He gritted his teeth, jerking back against the car.
“Not so mouthy now, are you? Bergam wants you out of commission.” The larger man ran a finger across Valentin’s cheek, pushing it into the gash there. Valentin nearly vomited from the pain while his attacker chuckled evilly. “We’ve made agood start on this pretty face, but there’s so much more we can do.”
Yanking Valentin’s wrist, he wrested the tire iron away and tossed it to the ground. He followed that up with a violent slap to Valentin’s uninjured cheek. Valentin’s mouth filled with the metallic taste of blood.
Where the fuck was Xan?Security patrolled every fifteen minutes. It had to be soon.
The man with the pistol raised his arm again. Valentin closed his eyes and braced himself for the blow.
“Hey fuckers! Two on one isn’t fair!”
A beta appeared in the exit doorway, and before the assailants could react, he smashed bottles over their heads. The attacker with the gun aimed, but Valentin pushed into him before he pulled the trigger, the bullet ricocheting loudly against the brick exterior.
The beta picked up the tire iron and deftly took another swing at Bergam’s goons. He landed a blow to the larger man’s stomach, causing him to double over.
Valentin swung at the second guy with his uninjured arm, mindful of the gun. His punch didn’t land, but he distracted the man long enough for the beta to bring the tire iron down on his fingers. The attacker dropped the weapon and cried out, clutching his hand to his chest.
The exit door flew open and Xan raced out, brandishing a pistol.
“I heard a shot,” he said, squinting in the dim yellow light of the streetlamp. Valentin imagined the scene from Xan’s perspective—a beta wielding a tire iron with three alphas bowed over in pain. Valentin moved closer to the beta, signaling that he was an ally.
In a flash, one of the thugs picked up the gun, grabbed his partner, and raced to the far side of the alley, covered by the darkness. Seconds later, they peeled out on a motorcycle.
“Bergam’s men?” Xan rushed over to Valentin.
“Yeah.”
Valentin crouched against his car and rested his good arm on his knee. His other arm hung limply at his side, incapacitated by the savage shoulder punch he’d taken. Panting, he ran a hand gingerly across his face. It came away covered in blood.
Xan stuffed his gun into his waistband. He motioned to the other guards who had followed him outside. They began walking in opposite directions, checking behind the dumpsters and parked cars, making their way to the club’s main entrance. “Do you need a hospital?”
“No hospital.” Valentin spat blood onto the asphalt. “Probably would have gone better if you’d come a teensy bit sooner.”
“Fuck! I’m so sorry.”
“I’m just giving you shit. I shouldn’t have come out alone or been so careless after what Bergam tried to pull tonight.” He pointed toward the beta, now leaning against the wall, also catching his breath. “Luckily, this guy came to my rescue.”