Out of the Ashes (Sons of Templar MC #3)(107)
“Can’t believe we’re f*ckin’ doing this,” Lucky muttered, fingering his knife as he leaned against his bike.
“Workin’ with f*ckin’ pigs,” Asher spat out in disgust, saying it loud enough for the uniform in the cruiser to hear. He scowled at Asher but didn’t move.
“Shut the f*ck up, f*ckwits,” Cade barked, eyes on the same place Bull’s were. “We’re doing the only f*ckin’ thing we can do to get Mia back, without getting ourselves locked up.”
Bull hated it as much as his brothers did. Hated that he was standing behind f*cking police tape while the brothers in blue charged into the fancy f*cking house not two hours away from Amber. Two hours.
He had immediately given Crawford the details on where Mia was. Not because he wanted to; saying that shit went against everything inside him. Because he had no other choice. He knew Crawford would put a tail on them, so there was no way they could storm the place themselves and murder every f*cker inside like they originally planned. Well, not without disabling a cop. Which each one of them would have loved to do, but that came with complications. And took time. Which he didn’t have. So he made a deal with the Devil. Or more likely, the one who thought they were the Devil. He’d given him not only Mia’s location, but the location of a major player in the heroin trade on the proviso the club was coming. Crawford’s jaw had gone tight at this, but he agreed, as long as they kept their distance and let the police do their job. He had felt conflicted, giving information to the one man who had vowed to find a way to destroy his club, his family. Then he had caught a glimpse of Lexie, red-rimmed eyes but still looking strong, looking like she had hope. Then that conflict melted away.
Bull’s entire frame tightened at the sounds of gunfire. They had better not f*ck up their job. If they did, even their pissant uniforms wouldn’t stop him from ending every last one of them. His hands itched to be in there, doing something, killing someone. Saving his woman. Instead he was standing here like a loser. A quick glance at the tight faces of his brothers told him he wasn’t alone. Then the gunfire stopped. Everything went silent. That was worse.
Bull stormed over to the uniform left watching them. “What the f*ck is going on?” he growled.
The uniform paled and he seriously looked like he was going to piss himself. *. Bull was about to do something that may or may not get him arrested when the radio crackled.
“Got her, she’s pretty banged up. Think her arm’s broken—need a paramedic in here, stat,” Crawford’s voice clipped. “Also need bolt cutters. She’s f*ckin’ chained to the wall.”
Bull froze for a split second, then his monster roared to life. He did not give a f*ck about uniforms or deals. He was going to his woman. As he strode towards the police tape, a uniform stood in his way.
“You can’t go in there—”
He didn’t even think; he just plowed his fist through the f*cker’s face and kept walking.
He heard the sounds of a struggle behind him and he was pretty sure his brothers were doing similar shit to what he’d done. If it had been any other day, he might’ve almost grinned. But Crawford’s voice repeated in his head. “Chained to the wall. Broken arm.” He broke into a run toward the house.
He didn’t take in the carnage, the uniforms cuffing various well-dressed scum. Nor did he move slow enough for any of the f*ckers to act on the questioning looks that were sent his way. His eyes darted around the living room, aiming for where a basement would be. They fell on Bill, the sheriff, who upon making eye contact with Bull merely shook his head like a disapproving father. The old cop was a lot less high strung than his piece of shit son and was the only reason they had some form of relationship with the local PD, which was necessary when the Sons needed them to look the other way. Not often, but on occasion. Bill was usually down with that, on the provision shit didn’t hit his jurisdiction and they lined his pockets every now and then. Despite that, he was a good man. Bull didn’t think too much of him though, more on the man who was in front of him, his hands cuffed behind his back.
Slightly younger than him he guessed, well dressed, in a white shirt and ridiculous f*ckin’ shoes. Hair all slicked back like a greasy piece of shit. The eyes. That’s how Bull knew who he was. What lay behind them. The eyes of a killer. Empty. Devoid of anything that could be construed as human. Bull knew that look because it was what he used to see in the mirror after he went to work for the club. After he drained the life out of whatever f*cker that deserved to be taken off this earth.
That look wasn’t permanent. It was like the effects of a drug. A while after the killing it drained away, back into the darkest recesses of his mind. After spending time with Mia, with Lexie, that look became a memory. The dark corner where it retreated to was bathed in light. The look in this man’s eyes was permanent. Bull’s entire frame tightened. This was the man. Responsible for taking Mia. Shooting Killian. Trying to take Lexie. Almost killing her sixteen years ago. Almost killing Mia. Thank f*ck Lexie didn’t look a thing like him. He found himself stepping toward the man who was staring at him. Involuntarily reaching for his piece in order to put a bullet through his brain. Didn’t give a shit he’d be killing an unarmed man in a room full of cops. Not in that moment.
Bill stepped forward, jerking the man behind him roughly.