“Sinner know?”
“Yes,” Caz lies. “He’s the one that requested the low profile.”
The guy nods. “You know how to shoot, sweetheart?”
I bob my head in confirmation, and he offers me a standard rifle. I notice some AK47s and M14s in the back, and I jerk my head toward them. “I’d prefer one of those. I’ve used both in training.”
Galen and Caz turn and stare at me with shock, a little disbelief, and slight awe although the awe is mostly on Caz’s side. If anything, Galen looks even more suspicious of me now. The man looks amused. “How about you start with this,” he says, shoving the standard machine gun at me.
I shrug, not willing to start World War Three, slinging the gun over my shoulder and motioning to the guys to move.
Caz keeps sneaking glances at me as we walk until Galen nudges him in the ribs. He’s probably wondering who exactly I am, and if I had to guess, I’d say Caz is hard as a rock in his pants.
Facing forward, he walks us behind the last row of armed men. It seems the men are lined up in order of seniority with the senior crew members at the front and the junior members at the rear. Caz guides us to the end and up a few rows, stopping when we reach Theo and Saint. Both are wearing the same attire as everyone else, staring straight ahead with determination on their faces. They move sideways, and Caz nudges me in beside Saint. Neither of them looks at me, and I don’t look at them either, looking dead ahead, showing no emotion on my face as I ready my weapon and prepare for battle. Caz stands beside me with Galen at the end. Galen leans forward, staring down the line, drilling a hole in the side of Saint’s head, waiting for him to acknowledge him. Saint warns him to back down with one scathing look which reminds him who’s in control.
“Heads-up!” Sinner shouts, entering the space from the rear door. “ETA in four minutes.” He rubs his hands in glee as he stalks across the space with a swagger only genuine assholes inherit from birth. “Let’s show these bastards that The Sainthood rules the world!” he shouts, and a chorus of lusty whoops and hollers echoes around the cavernous space.
Saint brushes his fingers against my hand, and I subtly turn to look at him. “You got this?”
“I got this.”
He nods before whispering, “Now, the real battle commences.”
CHAPTER 33
THE RUMBLE OF approaching vehicles signals the arrival of The Arrows. Anticipation is pungent in the air as we wait to strike. Nobody moves inside the warehouse, and I’m afraid to even breathe. When The Arrows push up the shutters at the front of the building, they get the surprise of their lives. The Sainthood opens fire instantly, and it quickly becomes a bloodbath.
The men surge forward, pushing their enemy back out into the field, and the battle turns vicious as most of them lower their weapons and start fighting with their fists. Saint cautions me with his eyes as we step outside, but I don’t need the warning.
I stay back, flattening my spine against the wall, as they throw themselves into the melee. Discreetly, I pull my cell out of the pocket of my hoodie, turn it on, and start recording. I get a couple minutes of footage, enough to confirm what’s going down and implicate the main players, and then, I switch it off and put it away. I can’t risk filming for long because someone might see, and it could get me in a lot of trouble.
My eyes scan the field from left to right, lingering on the guys as they beat the enemy to a bloody pulp. They plow through their opponents, slamming their fists into faces, kicking and punching body parts, until bodies are lining the ground at their feet.
There’s a violent elegance to the way they take their enemies down.
Galen slams the butt of his gun into some guy’s face, barely breaking a sweat or blinking an eye as blood sprays everywhere. Caz flattens guys with a single powerful punch. I watch Saint snap some guy’s neck like it’s an everyday occurrence, and maybe it is, while Theo surprises me the most, fighting with skill and precision, using his full body to attack the guys lunging at him. He’s a target because he’s not quite as ripped as the others, but he is clearly no stranger to fighting.
I find it weird they’ve all put down their weapons to fight with their bare hands, but I’ve long since given up trying to understand the male brain.
A bunch of dead bodies litters the space directly in front of the warehouse, initial casualties of the ambush, and the ground is awash with blood. I remind myself all these guys have done tons of illegal shit and their deaths are no loss to the world.
The Sainthood is decimating The Arrows, and with their superior numbers, it seems likely they’ll be the obvious victors.
Until more assholes arrive a few minutes later.
I push off the wall, cursing as I watch another forty or fifty people approaching. They rush forward, shouting and roaring as they immediately join forces with The Arrows.
Sinner barks out orders as he whips out a handgun and starts popping off shots left and right.
“What the hell?” I mumble to myself when I spot The Bulls in the midst of the enemy crew, flanked by Finn, Parker, and a couple of other idiots from school.
What the fuck is going on?
The Bulls don’t hold back, clearly favoring firepower over fists as they shoot at members of The Sainthood, firing a stream of bullets, one after the other—bang, bang, bang, pop, pop, pop—like they’re playing Call of Duty.
Shit.
Things are seriously fucked up, and now, the odds have switched, and it looks like I might be on the losing team.
At that moment, my eyes lock on Darrow. He has one of the senior members of the Saints in a headlock and I watch as he slits his throat from ear to ear in one slow motion, his gaze burning with hatred as he glares at me.
Fuck!
My mind whirls as I envision how things are going to go down, and I know I need to do something.
I race into the warehouse, grab an AK47 and dash toward the side door, running as fast as my legs will carry me. I yank the door open, glancing at the stairs leading to the basement, as I jog across the small landing, pushing through the exit door, and go outside. The lookout tower is about one hundred feet in front of me, and I sprint toward it without hesitation.
Just as my foot reaches the bottom of the ladder, I’m yanked back by my hair and spun around.
Caught off guard, the AK47 flies off my shoulder, and I faceplant the ground. Rough gravel grazes my cheek, and I wince as pain rattles my bones. But my survival instincts are strong, and I jump to my feet, whirling around and instantly ducking down to avoid Parker’s clenched fist.
“You’re going to die, bitch, and that crown will be mine.” She points a Glock at my face, her finger curling around the trigger.
“Not fucking likely.” I kick her shin and crouch down, sideswiping her legs with a low-flying sweep. She goes down hard, arms and legs flailing about, as she loses her balance. The gun flies out of her hand when she falls forward. I jump aside as she crashes to the ground, snatching the Glock up. I fist my free hand in her shirt, lifting her up and turning her around. She moans and whimpers as she falls flat on her back this time, and I jump on top of her, straddling her waist as I press the Glock into her forehead. “Now, let’s see who’s going to die.”
“Don’t do it,” a voice calls out behind me, and I turn my head slowly around.