Page 2 of The Souls We Claim
I ignore the rest of what’s said and run to my bike. “Open the gates enough that I can get my bike out,” I yell to the prospect on duty.
“I’m right behind you,” Switch shouts as I start my engine. He’s grabbed his medical kit backpack. “See you there.”
When I pull up to the house, I pause. I shouldn’t have ridden my bike here. I’m too fucking drunk for this shit. But I sober right up and pull my gun from its holster when I see the front door is ajar.
My Navy SEAL training kicks in. Habits take over. As much as I want to rush, I know I have to act as though the perpetrator is still inside.
Switch is right. This could be a trap.
It’s impossible to go slow, knowing my father is injured.
The old wooden steps creak as I climb them and nudge the front door open. I have the advantage over anyone still in here. There isn’t an inch of this house I’m not familiar with. Every place to hide is known to me.
Lola is screaming now, somewhere on the upper level. I make my way through the main floor, scanning every room until I find Mercy facedown on the kitchen tile. One of Lola’s bottles lies just out of reach, and her formula powder dusts the counter.
There’s a heavy iron tang to the air, and the ruby-red pool of blood caused by an unrecoverable head wound tells me she’s gone.
“Fuck me.” I breathe deep, centering myself. Whoever took out Mercy could still be here, and I need to remain vigilant.
When I don’t find Dad on the lower level, I creep up the stairs and check Lola’s nursery, where the little thing’s face is bright red. “I’ll be back for you, Lollipop,” I whisper.
The wooden floor creaks beneath my foot. “Son,” I hear Dad cry, but not in warning, so I push the door open and step inside.
There’s blood. So much of it, I can’t tell where it’s coming from. Dad’s eyes are wide, his face red, his hand by his throat.
And he’s clearly close to death.
I’m so shell-shocked, I don’t even think about CPR. I grip his hand. “I’m here, Dad. Who the fuck did this?”
His head slowly turns to face me, tears brimming over. His mouth opens as if trying to tell me, but nothing comes out.
He takes a labored breath, then sighs.
I’ve heard the death sigh before. Too many times in too many foreign countries. My years as a Navy SEAL were unrelenting. And I feel his passing in the relaxation of his grip, his fingers no longer holding mine.
“Shit,” I curse as Switch stomps up the stairs.
“Ah, fuck,” he says, and reaches for Dad’s wrist, then his neck.
Switch places his palm over Dad’s eyes and closes them. Then he turns and grips my shoulder. “What the hell happened here, brother?”
I rub my face with my hand. “Three times, he tried to call, and I was so busy fucking, I didn’t answer.”
“We aren’t doing that,” Switch says. “From the look of him, you’re lucky you weren’t with him.”
Lola wails from the other room, the sound cutting through my overwhelming remorse.
“You need to go take care of her,” Switch says. “I’ll make the necessary calls.”
I’m grateful when Switch nudges me in the direction of the room; otherwise, I don’t know that I would have moved. Lola lies there, her tiny fists clenched as she whole-body screams.
She was why he slept over at the clubhouse so often.
“Fuck, Lola, give me a break.” I pick her up. She’s hot and sweaty. And her diaper feels solid.
My dad’s dead.
Her dad is too. So is her mom.
