Page 78 of Inked Daddies

That’s the wall where countless pictures used to hang—Marie in pigtails, family holiday shots, everything that made this place into a home. Now, the frames are askew or shattered on the floor.

I lunge, grabbing the attacker’s collar, yanking him off Preacher. My adrenaline flares, and I hurl him to the floor with a grunt, pinning him for a moment before he scrambles away. “You okay?”

He rubs his shoulder, wincing but standing tall. “This is about that nonsense with my daughter, isn’t it?” he manages, eyes flicking to me. “Sam?—”

“Not now,” I grind out through clenched teeth, scanning the room for other threats. The tension in the air is suffocating, laced with dust from all the broken furniture. My lungs burn, and the bruises on my body throb. We’re outnumbered, but these last few punks are losing steam. We can do this.

I ran out of bullets two minutes ago, but thankfully, so did they. That’s when it became a barroom brawl inside Preacher’s home.

I spot a movement by the overturned couch. A battered thug brandishing a switchblade. He lunges for me with a wild slash, but his aim’s sloppy.

I step back, pivot, and catch his wrist, twisting until I hear the pop of a dislocated joint. He howls, dropping the knife.

Preacher steps in with a heavy punch to the jaw, sending the man sprawling into the shards of what used to be the coffee table. He shouts curses when they pierce his body, some coming out the other side, and then, silence.

For a heartbeat, there’s a lull. The sound of panting, scraping boots, men groaning on the floor. Dust motes drift through the overhead light. I inhale, wincing at a stitch in my side. Preacher’s gaze locks on mine, dark with urgency. “You think we’re done?”

“We took out six inside,” I reply, wiping sweat and blood from my face. “Trick and Hugo are out there handling the rest.” My gut twists at the thought of Trick. He sounded hurt earlier when he shouted her name. Why he shouted it, I don’t know. I mutter under my breath, “I just pray to God Marie’s okay.”

Preacher tenses, flexing his bruised hands. The man is a walking wound. I haven’t seen him this torn up in years, but right now, he barely seems to notice. “She better be. You’re supposed to protect her. Instead, you?—”

He breaks off when a battered gangster near his feet tries to grab his ankle. Preacher stamps down on the man’s wrist, eliciting a pained moan. Standing on that shattered wrist, Preacher lifts his other foot and slams it on the man’s head once, twice, and then again until he stops moving.

The brutality is impressive for a man who’s been on the outside as long as he has. But it never really leaves you. You can put down your gun and pick up a Bible, but the moment your child is in danger, the old you comes back in a blink.

He steps away, scowling. “You let her get mixed up with you three,” he growls, voice trembling with anger. “Don’t think I don’t know about it.”

“Let’s survive the night first.” My ribs ache, making me hiss as I shift. “Then we can talk about blame.”

One of the men is still conscious but cowering behind a broken cabinet, peeking out with panic in his eyes. Another is moaning near the hallway, possibly concussed from colliding with a doorframe. I sense no immediate threat. They’re done. A brief hush settles, broken only by our ragged breathing.

“Let’s drag them out,” I suggest. “We need to find Marie, make sure she and the guys are good. These assholes can be bargaining chips.”

He nods, though his jaw sets at the mention of Marie. “Fine,” he snaps, hooking his hands under an unconscious thug’s arms. “But we’re having a word about her once this is done.”

We haul the battered intruders across the living room, stepping gingerly around the worst debris. Two are unconscious, two dead. One is half-lucid, muttering curses, and the last is crawling, trying to stifle a groan. We each take a pair and drag them across the threshold, out onto the porch, before grabbing the last two.

My arms burn with the effort. My sides throb. I can’t remember the last time I felt so thrashed. But the night isn’t over yet.

Or maybe it is.

Stepping outside, we’re greeted by a drastically changed scene from when I first rushed in. The yard was a battleground ofgunshots and grappling figures, but now it’s eerily quiet and extremely dark now that the streetlamps aren’t working.

Broken furniture that once sat on the porch lies scattered. Bullet holes scar the siding. The porch light flickers, giving the yard an even spookier glow, especially considering how much damage there is to the wooden porch itself. Random lumps around the yard…bodies, or men who can’t get up. My heart lurches, scanning for signs of life. Signs of Marie.

I see Hugo first, leaning heavily against the side of my shot-up truck, shoulders rising and falling with fatigue. Blood trickles down his forehead from a cut at his temple. He looks exhausted. Relief loosens a knot in my chest—he’s alive and standing.

“Where’s Marie?” I shout.

He casually points across the yard.

She stands near the edge of the yard, shoulders hunched, hair wild around her face. She’s got a knife clutched in her right hand. She’s breathing hard, eyes full of a defiant glint.

What the fuck happened to her? Why does she have my knife?

There’s no sign of Crow or his men, aside from those who can’t move of their own volition. The fight is effectively over.

“Y’all gonna let me finish bleeding out, or what?” Trick says from the dark.

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