Page 133 of Tempting Fate

But I remain standing.

A look passes between us as I point my gun at his chest instead of his head. In Alex’s wide eyes, I swear I see regret. His shoulders stiffen, and he keeps his gaze locked on mine as I finally do what should’ve been done five and a half years ago.

I squeeze the trigger.

And I don’t stop until I’ve emptied the magazine into his chest and the clunk of the hammer registers in my ringing ears.

The deathly silence, broken only by the mechanical click, breaks me out of my stupor. I take one look at the bloody crater in Alex’s torso and his slack face, then I wobble to the doorway on jelly legs. Dropping the gun at my feet, I brace a hand against the wall and vomit on the carpet. My throat burns as I purge the meagre contents of my stomach. I sway as my knees give out, clawing at the wall to keep myself upright while I feel my way back toward the front door.

As I go, the smell of burnt gunpowder invades my nose.

It tickles.

I sneeze.

Wood breaks somewhere at the front of the house.

A light turns on.

Footsteps, fast and frantic, pound in my spinning head.

The world tilts, and the floor looms upward to meet my face.

As the darkness I’ve fought to stay away from seizes its hard-won victory with savage vengeance, my eyes roll back in my head, and my mind whirls with one final, solitary thought.

Despite their betrayal, I need Zeke or Slash.

Zeke and Slash.

Now.

26

VENOM

There’s a dead body by the gate. It’s a Shamrock. An old-timer with his throat slit. Tank is likely one of Brutus’ faction. Not that that matters in moments like this. The death of a brother is always hard to deal with. Especially when it’s someone you’ve known your entire life. Shared a beer with. Been on runs with. I know the names of his kids… the same children who are now going to grow up fatherless because the Shamrocks failed to live up to their oath of brotherhood.

“Fuck,” I curse when I recognise the vehicle that’s hidden in the trees on the other side of the fence.

It’s one of Joseph Kingsley’s SUVs. A blacked-out, four-wheel drive from his personal collection that Alex has been known to use.

There’s no denying reality now.

He’s here.

With Lily.

Gunshots echo in the night. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.”

Leaving my bike at the entrance to the long, gravel driveway that winds its way up the hill to the house perched on the peak, I pull the strap securing the semiautomatic over my head and run as fast as I can to the front steps. As I stop to listen for sounds of life inside the split-level farmhouse, I spot Weston. He’s been tucked under the front stoop. His neck has been reduced to ribbons of flesh and blood, his chest is a bloody pulp. Whoever stabbed him apparently possesses a flair for the dramatic. Slitting someone’s throat is pretty effective on its own, the other injuries inflicted are redundant in the extreme.

As quietly as I can, I take the stairs two at a time. The front door is locked. When I can’t hear anything from inside the house, I decide it’s time to throw caution to the wind. Shots have been fired, and the time for taking Slash’s advice is over.

Cold calculation isn’t going to get me inside.

I take three steps back, then surge forward to ram my shoulder into the door.

It splinters but doesn’t open.

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