Page 82 of Making Choices

The three grins that greet my capitulation are almost enough to settle my panic.

Keyword: almost.

As I dismount my Harley and pull open the closest pannier, my pulse pounds in my ears and my mouth waters with nausea. I’m nervous. Uncertain. Anxious. Normally situations like this are my bread and butter. Hand out the weapons. Dish out the orders. Lead from the front. Only, right now, with Hunter’s assertion ringing in my head, I’m on the cusp of a panic attack.

I guess this is the natural result of spending my life as part of a double act.

Me and Venom.

Always on the other’s six.

In times of desperation, we call in Toker.

Neither of those options are open to me this morning.

I’m on my own.

For the first time in my life…

“Right.” I do my best to disguise the anxiety I’m feeling. My movements are assured and steady as I pass a semiautomatic to Cub, then one to Hunter. A single-shot action is thrust at Isaiah and he ducks off to take up sentry position. When Wyatt scuffs his foot along the loose gravel of the verge and grumbles something under his breath, I shoot him a look. “Seriously? You think you can handle a weapon?”

“Venom taught me to shoot when I was eight. I’m no Toker, but I can handle anythin’ you put in my hands. Hell, I’m probs a better shot than the three of you accident-prone fuckers put together.”

It’s unusual to hear Wyatt talk himself up like Sander and Nate are inclined to do. So much so, that I break into a burst of genuine laughter. After a beat, the other two join me while Cherub’s middle brother simply stares at us like we’ve lost our minds.

“Well, me and Hunt are much better at the close-up work,” I remind him once I’m laughed out. “And Cub’s hellova lot more proficient with a keyboard than any weapon I’ve seen him handle, so you’re not up against much.”

“So?” He holds out his hand. “Do I get a gun or not?”

I toss him the Steyr HS I’d planned on using. “That belonged to Ash.” The three men stiffen at the mention of our inaugural president, Asher Miles. “And then it was Hades’. He’s only just passed it along to Venom... so treat it like it’s precious ’cause the Miles men will start World War Three if it’s damaged.”

“I know,” Wyatt tells me as he expertly assembles the rifle. I unclip my handgun while Hunter cuts a hole in the chain-link fence that surrounds the storage units we’re here to check for clues to Bear—and hopefully Toker’s—location. “Venom’s never let me shoot it before. Far as I know he’s only allowed you and Cherub to touch it.”

The presence of Hades’ gun and Wyatt’s untimely reminder that I’m one of two people Venom trusts with the family heirloom stirs up the guilt that I’ve been keeping at bay for the past few days. Coupled with the uncustomary unease that’s stalking me as we crawl through the hole in the fence and creep around the corner of the outermost layer of the storage sheds, I’m slow off the mark and a moment too late to recognise the threat we’ve just exposed ourselves to.

Crack. A bullet whizzes past my head.

I freeze as three further pops whip through the air.

“Fall back,” I shout.

“No!” The urgency in Wyatt’s shout halts my retreat. “They have Toker.”

Sure enough, when I stop and take stock of the situation, I spot one of my best friends in the world. Face swollen, one arm hanging at an unnaturally low angle, Toker’s being used as a human shield by Bear while a beefy fuck in a Bishops of Bloodshed cut sights us up. My brother shakes his head at me, a silent plea for me to get out of firing range, when I raise my handgun and aim it at Bear’s head.

“Let him go and we’ll let you go.”

“Fuck you, Slash… like I’d fall for that.”

“I’m not jokin’,” I shout. “Leave Toker behind and we’ll give you free passage outta here.”

“Free passage.” Bear grins and lifts his head a little higher than Toker’s shoulder as his cockiness grows. “I have a cache of semiautomatics, a truck, and a hostage. You motherfuckers’ll be lucky to make it out of this yard in one piece.”

“We’ll see.” Squeezing the trigger, I pop off a shot that sends him scuttling behind my battered club brother. “Poke your head out again… guarantee I’ll drill a hole in it.”

In response, the Bishop lets loose a warning round at our feet and Bear jams the muzzle of Toker’s favourite Glock to his temple. After I incline my head, Cub, Hunter, and Wyatt return fire, Isaiah provides cover, shot after shot, and Wyatt proves that he wasn’t exaggerating his skills when he takes out both of the Bishop’s knees with his first two shots. My little brother manages to kick up a little dust at Toker’s feet, an indignity Cub compounds when he clips his left bicep.

“Shit,” Cub curses. He lowers his weapon and glances at me. “I bloody hit him.”

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