Dare To Run (The Sons of Steel Row #1)(98)

I struggled to sit up, resting my back against the concrete wall, right next to my bloody smiley face. “I ran into some Bitter Hill guys, and they did a number on me. I’m just trying to recover a bit before I head back in. Why? What’s wrong, sir?”

“We just got bad news . . . about Lucas.”

I rubbed my forehead. It hurt like a bitch. I didn’t know what Scotty had or hadn’t told him yet, so I didn’t want to say too much. “Where is he?”

“I’m sorry, but he’s gone.” Tate made a growling noise. “Fucking Bitter Hill took him and his girl out. They burnt the place down, leaving nothing but bones and ash, but the dental records match. Lucas is dead.”

I blinked. How the hell had they managed to pull off a damn dental records match—and so quickly? I’d hung around after the attack to make sure Lucas and Heidi had actually kept their word and left. They had. Scotty had waved them away with a smile. They weren’t dead, and yet . . . Oh, shit.

Son of a f*cking bitch.

It all made sense now.

Scotty had seemed so sure that Lucas and Heidi could get away, just as he agreed to keep my secret. And when he’d come barging into Lucas’s apartment, the way he’d held the gun had been telling. It had screamed his true identity, clear as day. And the way he’d stood, straight and at attention with a firm grip on his pistol—like they teach at the academy. Scotty was a f*cking cop.

In the eyes of Steel Row, that was worse than what I’d done. It was worse than a betrayal. Beyond a death sentence, it was a mutilation sentence.

If I told Tate about this, Scotty would be dead within the hour, and no one would ever find all the pieces that would put him back together. My position in the gang would be more secure than ever before, if I helped take him down. I would successfully take over Lucas’s position, and Pops would finally be proud of me.

It was the perfect way to secure my future.

But it was Scotty Donahue, Lucas’s little brother . . .

The brother of the man I’d wronged.

“Chris?” Tate said, his voice raised. “Are you there?”

I must’ve been silent too long. But my shock over Scotty’s occupation would double as my grief over Lucas’s demise. I cleared my throat. “Y-yeah. I just . . . I can’t . . . I’m gonna f*cking kill them all. Every last one. Right now.”

“No.” Something slammed down on wood. More than likely on Tate’s walnut desk. He loved opulence as much as I loved women. “We need to be smart about this. We’ve got enough cop focus on us right now, and we don’t need more by bringing a gang war down on Steel Row. All that’ll do is land our asses behind bars. I think we’ve all done enough time.”

There it was. The opening to mention my suspicions about Scotty’s side job as an undercover. It would be so easy to do. A hell of a lot easier than shooting Lucas had been. “Then what am I supposed to do? They killed my best friend. I—I . . . Shit. I can’t let that go.”

“You have to, until we have a foolproof plan. Until then . . .” Tate slammed something else down, and I heard someone speak in a low voice. “Okay, yeah. Your pops called in from the airport. He suggested you take some time to yourself, and I agree. Lie low. Heal. Drink. Fuck it out of your system. Whatever works for you.”

I gritted my teeth. Of course my pops immediately assumed that I was weak and would need time to heal. And worse than that, if he knew I had tried—and failed—to kill Lucas, and that his death was a ruse, he wouldn’t be so quick to protect me. And I would get one of his legendary beatings that would make a gunshot to the shoulder and a few cracked ribs look like a walk in the park. “Are you sure? Don’t you need me there? I mean . . . Christ. Lucas.”

“I know.” Tate sighed. “You do you. We’ve got this. We’ll make plans, and when we have anything concrete—”

“I’ll be the first to pull the trigger.”

“I promise,” Tate agreed.

“Thank you, sir,” I said, glancing down at my blood-soaked T-shirt and brown leather jacket. If I didn’t sew up that bullet hole soon, I would go from dying to dead. “I appreciate it.”

“Sure thing.”

The line went dead, and I dropped my hand to my thigh. Holding up the phone took too much effort. Hurt too much. But it was nothing compared to the guilt trying to choke the life out of me. Banging my head on the wall hard enough to see stars all over again, I said, “Son of a bitch, Scotty.”

Didn’t he know how much danger he was in by doing this? By pretending to be in the gang while reporting back to the boys? If Tate found out about Scotty . . .

Gritting my teeth, I struggled to my feet, wavering.

I’d lost a lot of blood, and unless I truly wanted to die in this alley, I needed to get moving. There was a closed pharmacy in the swanky part of town, outside of Steel Row, which Southies generally avoided. But this one was in the Sons’ employ, thanks to Pops and his fondness for gambling. If I could get in through the back door, I could grab supplies and pain meds, stitch myself up, and then . . .

Then what?

Fuck if I knew.

Trust that Scotty, the cop, didn’t turn me into Tate? Trust that he wouldn’t tell the man of my deceit and betrayal? If he told them, they would kill me, no matter what Pops said. I would be a dead man.