Page 71 of Queen of Blades

Shit. I love thatwoman.

This was absolutely absurd. Harper had some attitude for sure. Diesel was actually crushing her, and she questioned his manhood. There had to be nothing sexier than that.

The two of them twisted in their struggles and finally rolled off Paul, giving him an opportunity to get the weapon he’d intended for Diesel. From the sheath under his coat, Paul pulled the long, narrow, and extremely sharp ice pick with the thick wooden handle.

Curling his fingers around it, he sprang to his feet, ignoring the searing pain in his calf, crouching to avoid getting hit with another stray bullet, and let out a war cry as he charged toward Harper and Diesel.

Diesel had his hands wrapped around Harper’s throat. She jammed her thumbs into his eyeballs. It was time to end this nonsense once and for all.

As he approached, Paul swung the ice pick and jabbed it right into the side of Diesel’s neck, burying it as far as it would go. He yanked it out, blood spraying outward, and did it again, this time leaving it in as Diesel reared back, swung his arms clumsily, and missed Paul. More blood gushed from the wounds, and Paul took the opportunity to hook his hands under Harper’s armpits and drag her out from under the biker.

As Diesel continued to stumble forward, the lethal gash in his neck spurting and draining him far too slowly, Paul grabbed the Glock in his ankle holster. He lifted, aimed, and squeezed the trigger. Diesel’s head jerked backward and his arms flailed out before he finally dropped face-first onto the ground. It had to be the most satisfying shot he’d ever taken. Quickly, he stuffed the gun back in its place and focused on Harper.

The front doorway was blocked, so Paul tugged her toward the bar for cover. Once behind it, he sat her down and tried to take stock of her.

Wearing next to nothing, with her tits hanging out, she was an absolute mess. She was covered in blood. It was impossible with the low light to discern if it was hers or Diesel’s.

“How bad are you hurt?” he shouted.

She shook her head. “I’m fine,” she lied.

He didn’t have time to argue with her. They needed to get out of there quickly. Shrugging his jacket off, he tossed it aside before undoing the Velcro of his tactical vest.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“It’s bulletproof.” Yanking it off, he shoved it in her direction. “Put it on.”

“But—”

“Do it, Harper!” he demanded, cutting off her protests. “I worked too hard to have you die on me. I’m the only one who can kill you. Do you understand me?”

Reluctantly, she stuck her arm through the open side and pulled the vest on. As he tugged at the straps securing it to her, he couldn’t help but catch each flinch.

“What hurts?”

“My ribs,” she answered in a strained tone. “It’s fine.”

No, the fuck it wasn’t, but they couldn’t really get into that right now.

Reaching for his discarded jacket, Paul gestured with his chin. “Grab those bottles off the speed rail.”

She furrowed her brow at him as he ripped his suit jacket apart.

“What are you doing?” she asked as she took a bottle of vodka and another of rum from the shelf.

From his pants pocket, he pulled out the little silver lighter and held it up for her to see. “It’s about to get lit.”

Shaking her head, she groaned. “Oh my God. Don’t say stuff like that.”

He glared at her but couldn’t help but smile. “Here.” He offered her strips of cloth. “Stuff them in the bottles.”

Quickly, the two of them prepped every bottle they could with the pieces of Paul’s suit jacket. Somehow, this gunfight continued far longer than it should have. The bikers had Paul’s crew substantially outnumbered.

The purpose of this fight was to create chaos and cover for Paul to go in and retrieve Harper. It should be over by now, but by some miracle, they were still going at it. It was time to end it. They had to get out of here. Paul wanted to take out as many of those sleazy, leather-wearing assholes as he could before they left.

Not that he thought the cops would show up. There were less than five hundred people who called Boynton home. The bikers had set up shop in such a remote area, it would take weeks for anyone to notice anything had happened here.

The reason Paul wanted to get out was so he would end the risk to his men. While their little Dixie Mafia syndicate was profitable, they were still growing. They had numbers, but not enough to rival any of the other families. They remained the babies on the block. Which meant shit like this was definitely not in their favor.

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