Page 96 of Knox

“Knox would want you to get them healed up,” Brody added pointedly.

Damn it, that got me.

I shoved my arms out at him.

Looking pleased, Doctor Daniels got to work patching me up, quickly and expertly. By the time he finished, we reached the warehouse.

My wrists were smeared with something, bandaged, and felt so goddamn better that I nearly wept. But I didn’t reveal any of that. I muttered thanks and pointed to Grant to turn down the service path to the unloading area of the warehouse. Jameson and Abel were behind us and followed closely.

We all piled out. Abel asked if this was really a safe place to lurk.

“Yes,” I said briskly. “No one comes back here. We don’t get shipments.”

The Devils gathered at the bed of the trucks to prep themselves with the arsenal they brought. They loaded guns, pocketed knives, and muttered among themselves.

But when Brody handed me a handgun and mag, Mason fucking lost it.

He snatched both from my hands and chucked them back in the truck bed with dissonant clatters. The other Devils startled and turned, but they were all expressionless, waiting for their VP to rip me limb from limb.

“You out of your damn mind, Brody?”

Brody gave Mason a look like he’d grown a second head but answered calmly. “No. I’m questioning if you are.”

Mason ignored the jab. “This plan’s already hanging by a thread, and you want to hand her a loaded mag like we don’t all remember who her daddy is?”

Brody crossed his arms. “Doesn’t matter who her father is because he’s going to be dead in a couple of hours—hopefully less. Caroline is helping us do that. She needs to defend herself. She’s putting just as much, if not more, on the line than we are. If any of the Wolverines find or catch us, they’re going to fight, and they’re going to go after her in the name of revenge under the guise of justice. As a doctor, Knox’s friend, and Road Captain, I advise against leaving her defenseless.”

Mason narrowed his eyes. “Look at you, pulling rank.”

I blinked in surprise. I had totally forgotten Road Captains had authority over Vice Presidents. They ran point. If the situation involved danger—weapons, confrontations, enemy turf—the Road Captain’s word was law in motion. Not even the VP could overrule him when things got risky on the road—or, apparently, on patricide missions.

Brody wasn’t just giving me a weapon. He was doing his job.

Mason could argue all he wanted, but like all MCs, he valued hierarchy and the loyalty that came with it. After what felt like forever, he sighed and turned away.

Brody hid his triumphant smirk and gave me the gun and mag back. “Stay close to me. I got your back.” He fixed me with mock sternness. “And your wrists. As soon as we come out of this war alive, I’m treating those correctly.”

“Just don’t let her get yours,” Mason muttered from a few feet away. Then he raised his voice for his brothers to hear. “All right, Devils. Weapons ready and minds set. Let’s end this son of a bitch in the names of William ‘Ace’ Black and Gabriel ‘Joker’ Reyes.”

The Devils raised invisible cups solemnly, murmuring, “Hear, hear.”

Mason waited a beat, then turned to me, clearly locked in. “Lead us inside.”

I nodded, glad he didn’t throw in another insult, and led the Devil’s Luck into the belly of the beast.

Drawing the Wolverines out of the warehouse to check the Well gave us the chance to sneak in and jump from the shadows to cut Walter’s throat. A brawl would break out no matter what happened, but that was what the road spikes were for—cutting the fourteen Wolverines down by a few meatheads to level the playing field.

I slipped into the back door that led to a small storage room. It was used less for inventory and more for an ungodly amount of weapons.

We crept out of the next door. I nearly screamed at the explosive sound of a gunshot—Jameson shot the handle right off.

“Now they can’t get to their stash,” he said.

“Good work,” Mason praised, then jerked his head at me. “Station us at strategic locations. The office first.”

I nodded again. We walked cautiously through the empty warehouse, as if the concrete floor were made of eggshells. It was eerily quiet, our steps echoing despite our carefulness, and it didn’t settle well in my gut that Walter left the hideout unguarded. There were more than just the dozen Jackson reported leaving.

“Fuck,” Mason hissed.

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