Page 40 of Vicious Souls

“Stay safe, Dante,” she whispers, as though offering up a prayer.

I stop in my tracks but don’t turn around, my hand on the door that will soon close between us. I ache to turn back, take her in my arms and hold her to me. I want to adore her like the sacred talisman that she is. I want to savor her and protect her and stay by her side. There is a danger in me resisting my duty as thoughts of her continue to invade my senses. I can’t turn back, no matter how much I want to.

“Get some rest, Kingsley.”

It is the first time since we’ve met that I actually address her by her real name.

* * *

We almost got away.

Almost.

It is purely by accident – or so I like to believe – that we encounter the defectors as we drive away from the meet location and head in the direction of my home.The meeting with Lucas Gables proves to be a productive one. He has received information that we probably wouldn’t have been able to access on our own, and which now paints a pretty gruesome picture of the magnitude of danger dogging Moneybags. If she hadn’t been in my care, there’s probably no way she’d be alive now. I am sure of that.

Gables doesn’t know who, how or why, but someone has offered a two million dollar bounty on Moneybags’s head. Literally, her head. And preferably, not attached to her body. I wonder who she’s pissed off enough to warrant such a sum for her capture. There are definitely things I don’t know about the girl, but all I know now is that she needs protection, and lots of it.

Lucas can’t tell us anything past the fact that there is a bounty on her head. When I’d voiced my suspicion that it was possibly his Sergeant-at-Arms, he had shaken his head and said in no uncertain terms that wasn’t possible.

“He doesn’t have that kind of money,” he’d explained. “And it’s my understanding he saw accepting the bounty and fulfilling it as his way of getting ahead with the club; that sort of money would give him the power required to displace me.”

And all this had come from Lucas’s brother, Adam, who the Sergeant had foolishly tried to recruit to turn the tables on his own brother. Adam Gables knew the basics and had been forthcoming with his brother when probed. The information couldn’t be more authentic if it had come straight from the horse’s mouth.

We continue on the road home, my mind reeling with all the possibilities of who could possibly want Moneybags dead. I am in such a stupor I at one point consider my own father. No one is beyond suspicion, I realize. Our three cars are heading toward the mouth of the bridge when the sound of roaring motorcycles comes to life as they exit the tunnel, heading straight toward us. And as though it is a carefully choreographed scene in a film, everything moves in slow motion, the two lead motorcycles diverging down the middle, opening up for the motorcycles behind them. The first shots ricochet off the bonnet of the first car, and the driver slams on the brakes, fishtailing the car before it comes to a complete stop in the middle of the road. My car is sandwiched between two others full of my men. There is no telling what we have driven into.

The motorcyclists continue their assault, raising their shotguns and aiming at our convoy, inflicting maximum damage as their bullets thunk against car metal. The two riders that have left the road now move in on foot with their guns. We will either be cornered in this car, waiting ducks unto the slaughter, or we will have to fight back. For all the precautions we have taken, we have not accounted for an ambush, and especially not one as well executed as this one.

I fling my door open and throw myself to the ground, grazing my knee as I do a semi-roll then crouch behind my door, the only side where I can count on not getting shot in the back. I reach for my guns, cocking one in each hand as I wait for the gunfire to subside. The only way to get in a shot will be to wait until they are reloading.

The smell and sound of gunfire fills the air as the riders throw shot after shot at our vehicles. I can see my men as they roll out of their cars, squatting behind bushes, then as they rise and take aim at the motorcyclists. I lift my head and take stock of our surroundings. There are ten motorcyclists – they appear to be growing in number every time I encounter them. This can’t be a good thing.

A shot comes hurtling by my shoulder, narrowly missing me, its heat scratching at my skin. There is the sporadic burst of gunfire as both sides exchange bullets. As the din subsides and the shooting recedes, I lift my head and aim toward the riders as they scatter toward the bushes, emptying my rounds into anything that moves. One man goes hurtling to the ground, blood spurting from his leg. The other holds his arm as he tumbles through the bushes.

There are more sudden spurts of deafening shots aimed at the lead car. I look around the door, watching as two of my men go falling to the ground like dominos. The attackers are advancing. I reload my guns, cursing my bad judgment in not allowing Marco to come along on this trip. I laughed internally as I thought how he would rip me a new one for this, keeping him away from the action. I turn my eyes to the burgeoning sky, saying a silent prayer before I heave myself up from behind the car and put myself on display. I take aim and start firing off shot after shot as I move to the front of the car, intent on damaging everything in my line of fire before I go down. I’m not going to wait around to be shot. I hear the sound of bullets as they come from behind me – the men in the third car covering me as I move out into the open, picking off man after man as I surge forward. And the further I move out into the open, the more exposed and unprotected I become.

The first bullet rips at my arm. The warm spread of blood oozes from beneath my skin as a lightheadedness overcomes me. I sway but remain on my feet, my sole focus the man standing a few feet away from me, reloading his rifle. I don’t pause to think. I aim straight at his head and take my shot, watching as his brains splatter all over the rest of his body and he goes crumpling to the ground. A searing pain cuts through my leg as I continue to march into the unknown, throwing my empty guns to the ground and producing another that is tucked into the back of my pants. My personal favorite, the Beretta. I lift it, training my arm around the wide expanse of road in front of me, until my eyes fall on a familiar face.

Tomas Wojcak.

With a rifle aimed squarely in my direction.

I fire.

I hear the deafening sound of an explosion.

Then fall to the ground, my blood seeping into the pavement.

36

KINGSLEY

This can not be happening.

There’s a flurry of activity in the house following the slamming of car doors and panicked yells.

I’m still sluggish, but my feet find a way to move, and I find myself walking, almost on autopilot, through the house until I see soldiers – dozens of them – hurrying through the house, acting as braces for other wounded soldiers. Blood drips onto the hardwood floors as the men are shown into the den and set against couches and cushions scattered haphazardly on the ground, acting as pillows. So many wounded men, my mouth drops in horror as I watch them come in, one after the other. I spy Helga, who jumps into the fray, discarding her vest and rolling up her sleeves before she starts assessing the wounded.

I stand in silence, surveying the carnage, my mind reeling in disbelief. It’s as though they’ve all just come back from war. There’s nothing else I can compare the scene to.

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