Page 30 of Blood

“I don’t have a safe.” Ray backs away, his hands up in surrender.

“Bullshit!” the guy snarls, jerking the shotgun forward.

“Winslow, they’re Kings of Sin. Let’s get out of here, man. It was supposed to be empty,” the guy with the pistol says with a rattle in his voice as he paces.

“Why’d you use my name? And fuck them. I ain’t leaving without the money.”

Ray lowers himself, flitting his gaze to Callan.

“Listen to your friend, Winslow,” Callan warns, his eyes tracking the guy’s every movement.

“Don’t say my fucking name,” he thunders through the still space. There’s no music, no movement, just breathing and malice.

The guy with the pistol stills while watching the interaction nervously. He begins lowering his weapon as his friend takes a step toward Callan, his shotgun pointed at Callan’s chest.

“I will kill you,” he warns, his finger jittery as it hovers over the trigger. Darkness creeps into my vision. Bees swarm inside my head. Would I care if Callan dies? Isn’t that what I want in the long run—for all of them to pay the price for Harley? A tsunami of sadness swarms over me at the thought of him dying. I almost choke on it.

“I suggest you leave if you want to keep breathing,” Callan says with such calm that it’s unnerving. He shows zero fear in the face of danger, but there’s enough coursing through me for the pair of us.

The man is unstable. His eyes flit to Callan and the patch on his chest. “Fuck. Fuck.” He jerks the gun.

“Just walk away, man,” Cutter warns, his hand inching toward the knife sheathed at his hip.

“Shut up,” Winslow roars swinging his gaze to Cutter but keeping the gun aimed at Callan.

“I need to do something,” I whisper to Kitty. She shakes her head no, tightening her grip on me, but fuck this. This guy’s going to kill Callan out of fear, then we’ll all be next.No witnesses.Grabbing the empty bottle of beer discarded on the table, I move fast, pulling myself free from Kitty and leaping out of the seat. Winslow’s body begins to turn, and the room blurs with movement from all directions.

I crash the bottle over his head, and gunshots ring out, piercing the air. Noise and chaos explode. Callan grabs the man’s wrist, rotating his body away from me. A glint of metal passes by my face as Callan pins Winslow’s arm to the bar and stabs a blade through his palm.

A gut-wrenching screech hollers from the man’s lips, shock and pain blanching his features. Blood oozes around the blade. His other arm goes limp with the gun still in his grip. Instinctively I snatch the gun away, moving back out of reach. I clench my eyes shut to stop the spinning. Echoes of gunfire ring in my ears, drowning out the sound of my racing heart. I turn to Callan, franticly searching his body for injury.

He palms my cheeks, bringing my eyes to his. “Are you okay?”

With trembling lips, I manage to say, “Yes.” My head bobbing like a dashboard toy. Taking the gun from me, he aims it at Winslow, who is desperately trying to free the knife from his hand and failing.

“Cover your ears,” he tells me before he checks that the gun is loaded and aims at Winslow’s leg before he shoots. The blast splinters the wood of the bar and shatters Winslow’s kneecap. Blood and chunks of flesh mixed with shards of wood burst through the air, splashing up my feet.

Sobbing, the man clings to the bar, his bottom leg completely detached from the top. The knife holding him hostage slices through skin and bone as his weight sags. “You should have left when you had the chance,” Callan taunts. A crimson puddle forming around his boots.

“Callan!” Kitty bellows, jerking our attention to her. She’s on the floor with Cutter in her lap, her hands covering his stomach as blood seeps through her fingers.

“He’s shot! Help me!”

CHAPTER12

DEATH WISH

Dropping to my knees in front of Kitty, I try to move her hands away to look at the wound, but she’s strong. “Let me see.” My head spins as movement from the door catches my attention. The pistol guy is propped up against the door with a knife in his chest.

“Cutter threw his blade at him, but he got a shot off before it hit its target.” Kitty jerks her head between Cutter and the pistol guy.

“That’s a cop’s son,” Winslow calls out, his words a gurgled shriek. His shrill cries send chills down my spine.

“We need to get him to a hospital.” Kitty ignores the new information and focuses on Cutter. His breathing is raspy. His eyes flutter.

“No,” Callan and Cutter bark in unison. “Bullet wounds—they have to report them to the police.”

“Fuck that, Callan. He’ll die!” Kitty shrieks, her eyes blazing. Blood oozes from the wound, squelching against her fingers.

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