Page 3 of Property of Shotgun

His fingers tighten around the steering wheel, and he shakes his head. “As soon as we got word you and Irish had been taken hostage, Biggie put the club on lockdown. He sent Jersey up to Syracuse to get Annie from college, and Taxi took Jade and the boys over. Cook’s old lady is here and so is Bella. I asked her to bring some supplies from the hospital. She’ll patch your wrists up.”

It makes perfect sense that Biggie would put the club on lockdown given the circumstances, but I don’t think anyone expected her to be outside when we rolled up. Irish’s body is in the back of the cage rolled up in a fucking tarp.

Guido tips his chin toward the windshield. “Looks like Biggie is trying to get her to go inside.”

My gaze cuts back to the windshield and I watch as our president makes his way toward Jade. I can’t make out what he or she says, but I see her shake her head before her eyes cut to the cage. Everything in me ceases in that moment, and my mind recalls Irish’s desperate pleas to me. Before I can even process what I’m doing, I reach for the handle on the passenger door. I make my way out of the truck, my bruised body protesting in agony the moment my boots touch the asphalt.

As soon as Jade spots me, she breaks away from Biggie and the rest of the club, charging straight for me. But something makes her stop in her tracks, and I watch idly as her eyes rake over me, taking in all my injuries, and the blood that stains my clothes—some of it mine, some of it her husband’s.

Her throat visibly bobs with a swallow.

“Where is he?” she shrieks, her eyes bouncing from me to the cage behind me. “Is he hurt?” Sensing she’s about to break for the back of the truck I step in front of her, blocking her path.

“Don’t,” I rasp.

Her gaze flits to mine, and those pretty brown eyes fill with tears. The only person who has ever been able to read me other than Irish, is her. I don’t need to say the words for her to know he’s dead. It’s written all over my miserable face.

“No,” she rasps as her eyes go wide. “No, no, no. He can’t be.”

“Sweetheart,” Biggie drawls, but she pays him no mind as she keeps her eyes pinned to me. This is exactly what I feared. That hopeless look in her eyes—I never wanted to see it.

“He’s gone, isn’t he?” She asks me.

When I don’t answer she steps forward, her fingers curling around my leather kutte. “For fuck’s sake don’t just stand there like a statue, Shotgun. Answer me.”

Staring into her eyes, listening to her speak, feeling her hands on my body—it’s a punch to the throat. I don’t want to be the man who breaks her heart. I don’t want to be the man who makes those pretty eyes go cold and dead.

The dam breaks and her lower lip trembles as the tears spill down her cheeks.

“You let them kill him? You fucking let them kill him!”

Every King will argue otherwise, but those words ring true. I kept my mouth shut, and for all the words I didn’t say, they took another piece of the man she loved. Then when I finally spoke, they killed him. Slit his throat wide and deep. The image forever memorialized in my mind.

She releases my kutte, balling her fists before she pummels my chest. An anguished sob escapes the back of her throat. It’s a sound that will live rent free inside of my head for the rest of my life. Her knees start to buckle, and I reach for hips, ignoring the pain that bites at my raw wrists as I hold her steady.

“How could you?” she cries, her body trembling as another sob racks through her. “How could you let them kill him? After everything he did for you.” She sends a punch to the center of my chest. “After everything hegaveyou!”

Jade’s seen it all, and just like she’s been the gatekeeper of all Irish’s secrets, she’s been the keeper of mine as well. She knows my past and the fact that I’d be nothing but a strung-out prostitute’s starving son if it weren’t for Irish. He and his mom took me in, they gave me a purpose, and if it weren’t for their generosity, I’d be nothing. Hell, I probably wouldn’t have even made it to adulthood. Everything I have and everything I am, I attribute to mainly to Irish, including the colors on my back.

“I’m sorry, Jade,” I croak as she continues to beat at my chest. There isn’t much power behind her punches, but my body is battered, making it feel like an iron fist is hammering away at me. I don’t flinch. I don’t move a muscle. I just take it, hoping every blow she delivers takes away some of her pain. Deep down I know it won’t. She’s broken, never to be whole again, and that knowledge sends another dagger straight through my chest.

“Would trade places with him if I could,” I rasp.

Her fists go still, and she pushes off me, swiping at her tears with the backs of her hands.

“Then do it,” she dares, her tone pitched high. “Sacrifice your life for his. He’d do it for you. No questions asked.” She spins around, her long, brown hair flapping over her shoulders. “He’d do it for any one of you. He’d do anything for that fucking patch. He’d leave me, and his kids for it. Tear our family apart and destroy our future for the Kings of Anarchy.” Her shoulders shake as she sobs uncontrollably, her eyes darting to the back of the cage. “Oh, God….” She wails, lifting her hand to cover her mouth as her mind works overtime to make sense of everything. My frame tightens as I watch her closely, the urge to reach for her—to console her, rips through me. She drops her hand from her mouth, eyes blazing with fury and so much fucking hurt as she peers back at me. “That’s what happened, isn’t it? He didn’t even fight for us, did he?”

I won’t confirm or deny her suspicions. The less she knows the better. I don’t know what happens from here. I don’t think any of us do. All I know for certain is the Kings of Anarchy are at war, and aside from avenging Irish’s death, my number one priority is to keep his family safe.

When no one answers her, she straightens to her full height and stalks toward the back of the cage. She lifts her hands, laying her palms flat against the back doors.

Hanging her head, she rasps, “Open it. I want to see him.”

Biggie takes a step toward her, and for a second I think he might oblige. Panic surges through me and I blurt, “You don’t want to see him like that, Jade.”

She lifts her head and her grief-stricken eyes lock with mine. “Don’t tell me what I want, Shotgun. I need to see him. It won’t be real until I do.” She diverts her attention to Biggie. “Open the damn truck!”

I don’t think I’ve ever heard Jade talk out of line to Biggie or to any member of the Kings for that matter. She’s the picture-perfect old lady—always plays by the rules and never asks questions. When Irish became Vice President, she took on a more prominent role, making sure the clubhouse was always intact. The kitchen is fully stocked and the booze is always flowing. Rumor has it she’s the one responsible for the endless supply of condoms too. She’s the backbone we didn’t know we needed, and tonight we didn’t just fail Irish, we failed her.

---