Motorcycle Man (Dream Man #4)(131)
“Let’s go,” Tack stated, pulling out his gun.
“Fuck!” Lawson clipped but Tack, Hawk and Lucas were on the move.
Tack saw his brothers were gone. They’d already scattered to take their positions.
Tack felt Lawson move out with them.
Tack, Hawk, Lucas and Lawson strode out from the cars and moved directly to the house.
Not surprisingly, gunfire came out of the house instantly.
All four men ducked low and started running toward the house as cover fire came from every direction. There was so much gunfire it had to be more than his boys. This meant Hawk’s boys were out there too. And, possibly, Nightingale’s.
This served its purpose and drew the fire from the house giving Tack, Hawk, Lucas and Lawson a clean shot to the front door.
In the din, Tack did his best to count gunshots coming from the house.
Two.
At least two men inside to take down.
Once they made it to the door, Tack immediately lifted a boot and kicked it in.
The men surged inside.
The first Russian was down before they even got into the house.
The bullet that went through the other Russian’s gut came from Lucas’s gun.
The bullet that went through Grigori Lescheva’s brain came from Lawson’s.
The men down, Tack saw her in the middle of the room.
Tyra, tied to the chair and even during the gunplay, she didn’t move. Head drooping, her thick, long, wavy dark red hair hanging lank, back bowed, body limp.
Blood was seeping out of her, oozing across the wood floor.
Too much.
Little rivers of it.
Rivers of blood.
* * * * *
Fifteen minutes later…
The ambulance had its lights and sirens on.
There was a black van following it.
An SUV was following the van.
A Camaro was following the SUV.
Beyond that were three Harley Davidsons.
Beyond that were two squad cars, lights on, no sirens.
The convoy drove up to the Emergency Bay at Swedish Medical Center.
Brick didn’t come to a full stop before Tack was out, running to the back of the ambulance where the paramedics were running.
“You can’t park here!” he heard shouted but his eyes were glued to the doors that were opening then the gurney that was being tugged out.
The instant its wheels hit the ground, Tack moved in, wrapping his hand around her throat.
He felt the pulse.
“Sir, step back.”
Tack ignored that too.
Her green eyes came to him and he sensed her hand come up.
He tagged it and squeezed tight as the paramedics gave up on him and started running the gurney into the ER.
Tack ran with it, hand at her throat, other hand in hers, eyes locked.
“Don’t let me go,” she whispered.
“I won’t let you go, Red.”
“Don’t let me go.”
“I won’t let you go, baby.”
“Don’t let me go.”
This last wasn’t verbalized. Just her mouth moved with the words.
Tack didn’t answer because her hand went limp in his as the light flashed out of her eyes.
Fuck him. Fuck him. Fuck him.
She let him go.
Everything he had focused on his hand at her throat.
No pulse.
“Sir! Step back!”
Kane Allen stepped aside and watched them race the gurney through swinging doors that closed behind it, hiding her from sight.
* * * * *
“It was too easy,” Tack muttered.
“What, brother?” Dog asked from close.
“Redemption,” Tack answered.
“Brother,” Dog murmured then clapped a hand on Tack’s shoulder.
They stood together for a while before he felt Dog move away to give him space.
When he was alone, he lifted his hand to his chest and pressed in. The metal dogtags she gave him were cold against his skin but that cold felt like a burn.
Then her words came to him.
Truth, honesty, perseverance, strength, love of all kinds and forgiveness are all beautiful, Tack. The most beautiful stories ever told are the most difficult to take.
“You were right, Red,” he whispered to the doors. “You were right, darlin’.”
* * * * *
Gwen
I moved away from the girls in the waiting room and wandered to the hall.
Bikers everywhere. Some had their arms draped around women. Some were alone, standing back to the wall, motorcycle boot clad feet in front of them, heads bent, eyes to their boots.
Two teenaged kids were close to the end of the hall, both on their behinds on the floor, backs to the wall. They both had their knees up. The boy had his arm around the girl’s shoulders. She was leaned into him, her face in his chest. He had his eyes glued to Tack.
My eyes moved to him too.
Amidst the bevy of bikers, Tack stood alone, one hand to his waist, one hand wrapped around the back of his bent neck, eyes to the floor, standing in the middle of the hall just outside the double doors, close to the kids, that, at a glance, I knew were his.
Out of nowhere, I felt a pair of lips at my ear as a hand slid from my waist to my belly.
“Go to him, Sweet Pea,” Hawk whispered in my ear.
I nodded and moved.
I walked through bikers and when I arrived at Tack, I moved right in, sliding my arms around him, pressing my front close to his, my cheek to his chest, closing my eyes, holding tight.