Page 91 of Claimed By the Bikers
GARRETT
I kickdown the office door, sweeping for threats. Three cartel members lie dead in the main warehouse behind me, their blood mixing with spilled medical supplies. Gunfire still echoes from the loading dock where Atlas and Silas are pinned down.
Ember stands over a fourth body, letter opener buried in his neck, blood coating her hands and face. Her chest heaves as she stares down at what she’s done.
“You hurt?” I ask, moving into the small space.
“No. He tried to?—”
Muzzle flashes explode from the shattered window frame. Two bullets punch into my chest and shoulder, spinning me sideways into the metal desk. Pain explodes through my torso as I crash to the concrete floor.
“Garrett!” Ember’s voice cuts through the ringing in my ears.
I’m on the office floor, shirt already soaked with blood, watching her drop to her knees beside me. Her hands immediately find the wounds, applying pressure.
“How bad?” she asks, stripping off her jacket to use as a compress.
“Been worse.” The words come out wet, probably not reassuring. “You okay?”
“I’m fine. You took the bullets meant for me.”
“Good. That’s good.”
Through the office windows, I can see Atlas and Silas moving through the warehouse, hunting down the remaining cartel members with lethal efficiency. Muzzle flashes strobe in the darkness between equipment racks, followed by screams that cut off abruptly.
“Stay still,” Ember orders, her hands slick with my blood as she works to slow the bleeding. “The shoulder’s not too bad, but the chest shot’s deep.”
“Missed the heart or I’d be dead already.”
“Don’t talk like that.”
But we both know chest wounds are tricky. I’ve seen good men die from smaller holes than the one leaking my life onto the concrete.
“Silas!” Ember shouts toward the warehouse. “I need medical supplies! Now!”
His voice echoes back from somewhere near the loading dock. “Thirty seconds!”
The gunfire’s sporadic now, single shots instead of sustained firefights. Atlas and Silas are cleaning up the stragglers, making sure none of them escape to report back to their bosses.
“Pressure here,” I tell Ember, guiding her hands to the worst spot. “Like that. Don’t let up.”
“I know what I’m doing.”
“Aye, you do. FBI training comes in handy.”
“Military training would be more useful right now.”
“Good thing you’ve got me to teach you.”
She manages a weak smile at that, but her face is pale with worry. Blood loss makes everything seem distant, like watching through glass, but I can see her fighting to keep me conscious.
Silas appears in the doorway with a medical kit from the warehouse supplies. His face is grim as he takes in the scene—me bleeding on the floor, Ember covered in blood, the dead cartel member cooling beside us.
“Those bastards.” He winces, dropping beside us and opening the kit.
He cuts away my shirt, exposing the wounds for proper assessment.
“Exit wound on the shoulder’s clean,” he reports. “Chest shot’s messier, but it missed the major vessels.”
