A full second of silence passed with no screaming or gunfire. Everyone behind the restaurant was either dead, retreating or already in the SUV. I turned to look at Dreamer, about to repeat my question.
“Go,” Dreamer replied, then sucked in a deep breath and turned away. His voice was as cold as antarctic rock, but the red-rims around his eyes betrayed the pain he masked.
“God-fucking-dammit.” I reluctantly pulled the Yukon away. The fact that no one could even retrieve the body was heart-wrenching. Dunk was the hardest of us. He was our leader, our iron will. With all the scrapes he'd gotten us out of... He didn't deserve to be left in the rubble with the rest of the trash! “What the fuck happened?!”
The SUV was hardy enough to still drive, the muffler was gone, the fender dragged off the pavement and one of the back tires was completely destroyed. So much metal and bullshit was scraping the ground as I drove that it sounded like I was dragging half the fucking building behind me. We'd never make it to the clubhouse like this, but fortunately we didn't have to. The first thing we did before we started doing jobs whenever we came to a new area was to buy a few burner cars and stash them in case of emergencies. One of those stashes was in a parking lot about a mile away.
“We don't fucking know!” Buck snapped, sneering at the pain from multiple gunshots. Despite bleeding in at least two places that I could tell he hoisted one of the assault rifles scattered across the back seat and set up a firing position out the back window.
“Stay still, you stupid fuck!” Yoga tore strips off his shirt to field dress his brother as best he could. Glancing back I could see the worry in Yoga's face. Buck was losing a lot of blood. If we didn't get him back to Mac soon... Squeezing the wheel tight enough to make my knuckles crack, I gritted my teeth and stomped on the gas pedal.
We were going to fucking make it.
“Patrick triple crossed us,” Dreamer said softly with intense focus. The look on his face was definitely anger, but knowing him as long as I had I could tell he was more angry with himself for not seeing it coming than at the betrayal itself. He loaded my sawed off, laying it across my lap then began reloading both his pistols.
“Triple cross? The fuck does that mean?” I demanded, not nearly as in control as Dreamer.
“It means Patrick outplayed us,” Dreamer replied. His face was focused, cool and determined, but there was a slight shake to his hands as he holstered one of his pistols.
“No shit,” I said, taking a turn too wide and wiping out a yield sign. Not today. Despite having the gas pedal floored, the destroyed back wheel robbed the Yukon of most of its speed.
“He's working with Mikhail. Probably from the beginning,” Dreamer said, twisting in his seat, getting ready for the inevitable chase.
“That doesn't make any sense. Those two have been enemies since we got here,” I said
“It was either all a fucking show or Patrick's playing the long game like we've never seen before,” Yoga called out, tying off the last of his brother's wounds.
“Or one of them gives a really good hand job. Can't stay mad at a bitch with magic hands,” Buck chuckled weakly. Passing under a street light I could see how slick the back seat was with blood in my mirror. Buck was in rough shape...
Sarah warned us and we didn't listen and now Dunk was dead and Buck was bleeding out. It was all coming down around us. Regardless of what else happened tonight our MC was done in Baltimore. There's no way we'd be able to lay low after the fire fight at the restaurant. There would be no big payday. Our only job now was to survive the night and get the fuck out of this shit city.
Three fully loaded jeeps rounded the corner and began picking up speed.
It'd only taken a few minutes for the Russians to rally up their guys and catch up with us. If anything I was surprised it took them as long as it did. Between the trail of debris in our wake, the noise off all the shit that was still dragging behind us and the fact that there was absolutely no one else on the road at this hour this SUV was easier to spot than blood on snow. We were going to have to deal with Russians before switching vehicles. The SUV was a mess but it at least provided a little cover.
“No hard turns, Wreck. Slow and straight.” Dreamer wiped the broken glass off the front passenger window making sure he wasn't going to cut himself when he climbed out. “Yoga...”
Yoga handed Dreamer a semi-automatic shotgun, then set up next to his brother, propping up his own gun on the back seat rest, getting ready to fire out where the back window used to be.
The jeeps popped off a few shots, most went wild but a few peppered the SUV. One bullet made it inside, barely missed the brothers in the back seat and tagged my odometer. Plastic chips from the impact fell onto my lap.
“Hold,” Dreamer said, knowing we'd all follow his orders as if they were Dunk's. We were all such fuck ups in most ways, but when it came to club business us misfits were a well-oiled machine. The jeeps began to split left, right, and center as they gained on us, all the while licking off gunshots that were now hitting the Yukon more than they weren't. None of us so much as flinched. Dreamer waited until they were only one streetlight away, then only a few car lengths. Still we held, ready, waiting.
