Page 142 of Fearless

They vaulted over one a time, Rottie, then Michael, then Mercy.Thump. Boots on the pavement and they were moving, ghosting through the deep shadows and throwing themselves silently up underneath the neon werewolf that looked like something out of a bad 80’s bikers vs. zombies movie.

Rottie led the way, hustling them through the dark to the side door they’d already talked about. They’d talked the thing to death, over beers back at the clubhouse; at least, Rottie and Mercy had talked. Michael had issued edicts on occasion that made Mercy want to punch him in the damn non-smiling mouth. Mercy had all the supplies they’d need stowed in the inside pockets of the dark Carhartt vest he wore over his hoodie.

The Carps were a lazy lot; no one patrolled the yard, no one was coming or going. This late, they’d all be inside, parked in front of the tube with a beer in one hand and a girl’s waist in the other. Mercy shuddered to think of the caliber of women who hung out with this crew.

They stayed flat against the wall, and the shadows were dark enough, the camera shouldn’t pick them up, or so Hound had guessed, given the angle of the camera. It didn’t matter, either way, because Rottie picked the lock in under three seconds. Then they were inside, going down a dark hall on the balls of their feet, noses assaulted by the stench of garbage in bad need of taking out.

Through a friend of Ratchet’s at the courthouse, they’d managed to get a blueprint of the pool hall, from some real estate record of long ago, when the building had needed to pass city building codes. This hall was a delivery entrance. It fed into a larger hall, where the restrooms and office were located. Then there was the main part of the building, a lobby beyond that.

Flickering lights illuminated the next hall, the old bulbs hissing. None of the cash, apparently, had gone toward making the inside more hospitable. Proof that it wasn’t the Carpathians’ money: only gift money was ever spent on frivolous shit.

The office door stood open and Rottie ducked inside. Mercy heard the quiet sounds of rummaging.

He glanced at Michael, noting that there was no less life to the man when his face was covered versus when he stood bare-faced in the open daylight.

Rottie emerged tucking a wad of folders into the waistband of his jeans. He tucked his sweatshirt down over it and whispered, “Part two.”

This was the tricky part. This was where things could go wrong.

Mercy found the light switch along the wall and turned it off, bathing them in darkness. Then they had to wait.

It was probably five minutes before they heard shuffling footfalls and the heavy breathing of a man who’d had too much to drink. He moved toward them slowly, lumbering. “Shit,” he said, into the darkness. “Fucking bulb’s burnt out.”

Mercy waited for the man to move toward the bathroom, but he moved past them instead, out the narrow garbage-smelling hall. The back door opened and closed with a squeal.

“That makes life easier,” Rottie whispered.

They followed their target, Mercy first. “You’ll need my size,” he’d told Michael earlier, no small amount of aggression in his voice. “Trust me, if we’re taking someone alive, you need me to hold on to him.” So he was the one that stepped out the door first, as the Carpathian reached for the fly of his jeans, planning to piss right there on the asphalt.

Mercy had him in a sleeper hold before he had a chance to gasp properly. He was on the thin side, which was a boon, as he went boneless and Mercy caught his weight, swung him up over his shoulder so he could carry him out.

Without a hitch, all of it, until Mercy tossed his unconscious captive up onto the fence and made a move to follow.

“Hey!” someone shouted behind them.

Crack of a gunshot.

Mercy felt it go in between the base of his neck and the strap of his Kevlar. Like he got punched. The blinding white arrow of pain.

He grunted, flexed his fingers, knew he could still use the arm, and heaved himself up and over the fence.

Ava opened her eyes to her dark bedroom and knew there were more people in the house than there should have been. A low murmur of voices, a buzz of energy. She checked the bedside clock: 1:22. This wasn’t her dad sneaking into the kitchen for some ice cream. By the time she’d pulled her robe on over her shorts and tank top, her heart was pounding.

Maggie nearly ran into her as she stepped out into the hall. Their argument was put on mutual hold as their gazes locked amid the shadows. “Get the first aid kit,” Maggie said, “and come in here.”

Her hands were slick with sweat as she fumbled the plastic kit from under the bathroom sink.

She was halfway through the living room when she heard someone say, “Shit,” and recognized Mercy’s voice. She halted, clutching the first aid kit to her chest, heat rushing to her breasts and between her legs. Nervous energy flooded her, gave her goose bumps. She took a deep breath and pressed on, blinking against the harsh overhead light as the scene in the kitchen took shape.

The table had been pushed to the side, up against one counter, and Ghost, Maggie, Rottie, and Michael stood half-bent under the chandelier. Maggie was in yoga gear, hair cinched back with an elastic and headband. Ghost had tugged on jeans and a t-shirt. Michael and Rottie were in all black, jeans and hoodies, stocking caps low over their foreheads. In the center of them all, seated in a chair, was Mercy. He was shirtless, and a thick river of blood had spilled down his chest, across his stomach, was trickling down his arm and dripping down onto the floor with little splats.

Ava made an involuntary mewling sound of distress. It felt like the floor tilted beneath her feet. There was a lot of blood. He was a big man, and he could stand to lose a lot, but…Her eyes were filling with tears and she was wracked with shivers by the time Mercy looked up and spotted her.

“Christ,” Ghost said, “why the hell did you get her up for this?”

“I need another set of hands,” Maggie snapped back. “She’s alright. Ava, babe, come on. He’s okay.”

Their voices sounded like they were coming down a pipe. Her eyes were riveted on Mercy, on all the blood.

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