Page 18 of Ruthless Reign

“Séamas said to take one if they don’t have it ready.”

I pressed my fingers harder into the skin around my mouth. So familiar. He sounded so familiar. Not the tone of his voice, but the accent. He sounded…like Aodhán.

Irish.

Irish.

Séamas. Séamas fucking O’Sullivan. The Sons.

Oh my god.

I fumbled my phone, my shaking fingers failing to get the screen open, to find the contacts button and Kaleb or Hardin’s name.

Fuck. Fuck.

“They know we’re coming?”

“They were expecting us next week.”

One let out a low laugh that seeped into my bones like lead.

There was no time. Kaleb and Hardin were going to come out that back door any second and they wouldn’t be ready. They only had handguns on them and these guys had whole ass fucking murder sticks. They would no doubt recognize the Sons of Damien St. Vincent on sight. There was no way this could end well.

None.

“Oh fuck,” I muttered, my voice choking off as I sloppily climbed over the middle console and into the driver’s seat just as the two Irishmen were about the reach the mid-point of the lot. “Fuck,” I eeked out again as I squeezed my eyes shut and laid on the horn to warn them, my blood turning to ice in my veins.

But no sound came out.

What?

I slammed on the steering wheel again, but again nothing.

Oh god. It’s broken. I lifted my phone again, determined this time as I pushed each button with a single minded purpose.

“Please. Fuck. Come on.”

I jammed Hardin’s name and the line rang, but as I looked up, the door to the back of the pub began to open, leaking light into the lot. Light that silhouetted the shape of Hardin. Hardin, who was looking down, reaching for his phone.

My mouth went painfully dry as I watched, frozen in time, as the Irishmen stopped in their tracks and moved to ready their weapons to fire.

Before I could think. Before I could even breathe, the phone in my hand was traded in for the feel of cold metal under my fingers as I turned the keys in the ignition and the car flooded to life beneath me. It was enough to distract the Irishmen for an instant as I threw the car into drive and screamed as I floored it.

Hardin had his gun up now, and Kaleb was right behind him, his gunmetal eyes illuminated in the headlights, but neither of them needed their weapons. I braced myself as the front end of the Toyota hit its intended targets. A body thudded over the windshield, and I tried not to think about bones crunching and breaking and organs collapsing as I felt the tires bump over the other one of the two. Too late I realized I needed to hit the brakes.

My eyes flew open to see Hardin jumping out of the path of the vehicle. The front end of the car hit painted brick. I jolted forward, my ass almost completely leaving the seat. Glass shattered all around me, hitting my face, my neck, my bare arms.

The horn blared. No, not the horn. Me. My scream cut off abruptly as I ran out of air, gasping to refill my lungs.

“Vixen!”

Heavy footsteps thudded against pavement over broken glass. I flinched as the door next to me was wrenched open and Kaleb dragged me from the seat, my stiff fingers peeling from the wheel as he pulled me into his chest.

“It’s okay. Hey, it’s okay. You’re okay.”

I blinked past something burning in my eyes, my gaze catching on movement in the cracked side mirror of the car as people began to flood the lot from inside of the pub.

I watched, unable to close my eyes as Hardin aimed his weapon over the twisted, spluttering body on the pavement, his face a mask of unfiltered, unseeing rage. He emptied his clip into the Irishman’s face.

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