Never Love An Outlaw (Deadly Pistols MC #1)(123)

Brass just turned, looking past my sister, right at the trio against the wall. I realized then his mouth was gagged with a thick handkerchief stuck between his teeth and bound around his head.

“I'm gonna take this shit off so you can talk,” Serial said, leaning down and almost pressing his evil lips to Brass' ear. “But first, I'm gonna show you I'm not f*cking around here. I'm gonna give you a little preview of what happens when your bitch ass fails to tell me the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.”

The thug snorted. “You think you hurt me after I went after your slut? Huh? Getting the jump on me and cracking my jaw?” Serial shook his head. “Well, I'm gonna hurt you a hundred times worse before I even lay a f*cking finger on you.”

He stood, heading for Jackie again. I realized what was about to happen before he even raised his arm.

“No! Don't f*cking do this!” I rocked in the chair as hard as I could, shaking until it almost broke.

Is this what it feels like when someone's losing their mind? I wondered.

The answer was right in front of me, vicious and blood red: if he put a single scratch on Jackie's innocent skin and woke her up, I'd never be whole again. Every cut, every scratch, every wound on her was a thousand times worse than anything he could do to my own skin.

I couldn't hear myself think. My brain slipped away as he lingered over my sister, taking his sweet time, wiggling his fingers in that f*cked up Freddy Krueger thing on his hand.

There was another sound. A harsher, angrier, masculine growl, deep as thunder and just as dangerous.

I realized it was Brass rumbling through his gag. His whole body shook like he had a current running through him. I couldn't see what he was looking at, but it looked like he was gazing through Serial and Jackie, straight to the other men against the wall, grinding his throat like a motorcycle engine running on pure hate, betrayal, sadness.

“Come on, Serial. Get on with it,” Blackjack said from his post against the wall. “You're a f*cking coward, you know.”

Serial stopped. The freak turned his barbed wire tattooed face toward the wall as his superior stepped forward, his gray hair bobbing on his shoulders.

“What did you say to me, old man?” he snorted. “You think you got some big fat balls in your flabby sac just because you pissed in the Prez's face? You're not strong. You're not brave. You're the only f*ckhead stupid enough to vote with this rat, and I can't f*cking wait 'til Fang lets me take Enforcer and puts your weak ass out to pasture.”

Blackjack stepped into the light, and Brass' head followed every move he made. I couldn't see my lover's eyes, but I knew they'd be horrible, like watching a curse starting to wreck havoc.

“I said you're a coward, Serial. You'd rather torture his women instead of face the fist that pounded you in the face. A real man only enjoys spilling blood when he's evenly matched and when it's damned well justified. This shit here...” Blackjack shook his head.

Brass let out another roar through his gag. I could see his hands twitching, tied behind his back, slowly ripping at the cord. His fingers were bloody, but it really looked like he might get it off.

No. This is stupid. You can't get your hopes up.

Brace for the worst, girl. Brace for hell.

I turned my brain off and watched Serial stare at the old man with pure venom. In a blink, he swirled, stepping to Jackie and jerking her head up by the hair. The big razor-toothed dagger attached to the glove was poised right across her throat.

My eyes wouldn't work anymore. Everything was fading, turning white, like a heavy fog was descending over the room. Of course, I knew it was all in my head, my brain blotting out something it couldn't comprehend and remain sane.

“A coward?” Serial snorted again. “That's the best piss you can come up with, old fart? Would a coward do this?”

His fingers twitched through the glove. Oh, God. I knew he was getting ready to cut her throat, maybe kill her on the spot, and I started to squirm, forcing my vision to work again.

“No,” Blackjack said coldly. “I expect you to scream like the miserable disgrace to this club you are when you're laid out on the floor. Rabid!”

Two gunshots rang out like thunder bolts. I never knew who drew first and fired. Brass howled through his gag, his body writhing in frustration or relief – I couldn't tell which.

Serial roared, collapsing on the floor, away from Jackie. He screamed and screamed as blood pooled out the hole in his back. His hands twitched and he struggled on the ground, but he couldn't seem to get back up.

Against the wall, the long haired man who'd helped carry Brass in hit the floor, a hole in his head. He was dead before he hit the concrete. Rabid pointed his gun at the other two against the wall.

“Drop your f*cking weapons, brothers. I'm not gonna tell you again!”

The two men reached to their waists and the metal clacked on the floor. One kick and they slid it over to Rabid, who caught up with Serial on the floor, standing over him.

Blackjack turned to me and gave a little nod. Then he walked over to Brass. Pulling out a knife and kneeling, he sliced the cords binding his wrists. He cut the gag next, moving to his boots last.

“Jesus, son. It's a good thing I didn't wait a second longer. You'd have rubbed your hands too raw to deal with –“