Page 44 of Rage's Heart

“Good idea.”

With a squeeze of my hand, he lead me toward the food table that was now laden with barbecue and all the fixings.

As I piled my plate with brisket and potato salad, I relaxed despite Foxy’s warning.

We joined Killer, Reign, and a few others whose names I was still struggling to remember at one of the picnic tables.

“So, Mac,” Killer said between bites, “Rage says you work at Cypress Memorial?”

I nodded, swallowing a bite of brisket that melted in my mouth. “I’m —”

The high-pitched whine of a motorcycle that sounded like it was coming at us at a high speed cut the words off.

Every head at the table swung around toward the sound at once, their expressions immediately hardening.

“What the—” Killer began, jumping up.

The deafening cracks of gunfire spraying in our direction drowned out the rest of his sentence.

I sat there, my mind blanking. Then all at once Rage’s body crashed into mine as he took me to the ground, his body cocooning over mine.

“Stay down!” he shouted as chaos erupted around us.

More shots rang out as sounds of splintering wood and shattering glass filled the air.

I could hear the Saints’ shouting followed by the pounding of feet on the sand, and the roar of engines as some of the club’s members jumped on their bikes.

“Motherfucker!“ someone yelled, and I recognized it as Chief’s voice. “Go after them!”

The revving of multiple engines told me several of the Saints were following orders and giving chase.

“You okay?” Rage’s voice was strained as his weight lifted off my back and he pulled me to my feet. “Fuck,” he growled, eyes wild as he checked me over. “Are you hit?”

I shook my head, heart pounding so hard I could barely speak. “No. I’m okay.”

He nodded, already turning toward the chaos, when someone shouted out from across the patio. “Dread’s hit!”

Without thinking, I pushed past Rage and raced forward where Dread was slumped against a cooler, blood soaking through his shirt at the shoulder.

“Let me see,” I demanded, dropping to my knees beside him. The other club members stepped back to give me space, muttering angrily about making whoever did this pay.

“Hold still.” Dread’s face was pale, his teeth gritted against the pain.

“I’m fine,“ he ground out. “It’s just a scratch.“

I carefully pulled his bloody cut off his shoulder to examine the wound. Blood was flowing steadily, but not spurting, which meant the bullet had likely missed any major arteries. I could see the entry and felt his back for the exit. The bullet had passed clean through his shoulder.

“You need to go to a hospital,” I said, already applying pressure to slow the bleeding. “This needs proper cleaning and stitches.”

Dread’s harsh response was immediate. “No fucking hospitals.”

I stared at him in disbelief. This wasn’t the time to act macho. “Are you kidding me? You’ve been shot!”

“He doesn’t do hospitals,” Rage explained, crouching beside us. “None of us do if we can help it.”

“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard,” I snapped, looking between them. “He needs medical attention. What if there are bone fragments? What if infection sets in?”

Dread shook his head stubbornly. “No hospitals.”

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