Page 51 of Scotch: Unraveled

His wet, shallow breaths begin to slow. He’s out. He’s out and I don’t know if it’s from the bullet in his neck or how hard he hit his head when he slammed against the cement. Rodrick laughs when he turns the gun on me and fires what will be his last shot, hitting me in the gut.

And as he turns to leave, he does it with the most god-awful parting words I could imagine. “Want ya to see it, cunt, see it when the last breath leaves his body. See it and know that’s on you.”

21.

Frankie

Despite the blood leaking from my body, despite the horrific pain rippling through me, I let loose a bloodcurdling scream. It’s my last battle cry. I scream, dragging myself over to the crate, and use my one okay arm to pull me up the side. I scream as I attempt to open the lid of the crate, desperate to get at a weapon, not bothering to consider the fact that there won’t be any ammunition to fire. I scream until my voice goes hoarse.

My feet slide out from under me. My weight is too much. With my eyes drooping closed, I miss the smoke but hear the deafening boom and open my eyes wide. Men in tactical gear flood inside the warehouse. Guns raised, they flood in through the holes they blew through doors and even a couple of walls. One on each side.

I’m caught in the middle of a warzone. The Horde don’t go down without a fight. But this is a meth lab. With all this firepower, this place could blow from the chemicals they use. Knowing that, I slide down to the floor, scooting to Rory, and hook my arm around his chest. Then I twist to get to my knees and drag him. It’s slow-going, but even with all the blood loss, his skin is still warm. Warm is good. Warm means he’s not dead yet.

As shots slow around us, I begin to sense the good guys winning. There are more Horde on the ground than officers. I keep crawling between the bodies. Finally, a hand stops me. I close my eyes, take in a long, watery breath, let it out slowly, and look up to see Sergeant Tommy Doyle squatting down next to me.

“We got him, Frankie,” he says. I nod once and collapse, letting go of Rory. It’s a blur from there. The sounds of Tommy yelling for officers to help Rory until medics get to us. Men dropping down to their knees, ripping open Rory’s shirt. Putting pressure on his wounds. Putting pressure on my wound.

Men and women running, rolling in stretchers. Stopping next to us. First shifting Rory. Next shifting me. An oxygen mask for me. An oxygen mask for Rory. There are others being attended to as they roll us out, loading Rory and me into separate ambulances. The very last thing I hear is Rodrick attempting to lie to an officer about infiltrating the Horde to get me and the babies out.

It’s the very last thing I hear because the medic plunges an IV needle into a vein in my wrist, taping it down, and turns on the drip. It’s clear. My brain goes foggy. Then I sleep.

22.

Scotch

Frankie’s eyes slowly open. The bruising was so bad from the beatings she took at the hands and feet of Rodrick that they’ve lasted for months. Even still, the yellowing around her eyes and nose and cheek, as faint as it is, remain a constant reminder of the ordeal. The girls sit up between us, playing, laughing, and giggling. Happy. Like they didn’t endure what they’d endured.

Macie’s teething and has Frankie’s ring in her mouth, slobbering all over it and Frankie’s hand. My woman looks down and laughs lightly.

I woke up in recovery after five hours of surgery. It was a close call. Although Rodrick didn’t sever the artery in my neck, the bullet nicked it and they had to actually get this one out in order to save my life. But it got worse because they couldn’t contain the bleeding. I died twice. Once in the ambulance on the way to the hospital and once on the operating table. That was the time they didn’t think they could bring me back from.

My first thought was Frankie. How was she? Where was she? I had to wait until they put me in a room to find out anything. I fucking hate waiting. Duke and Boss were the first to visit me. And they brought news.

Because I’m an ornery fuck, even with dying on the table, once they stabilized me, I never wavered. They kept me in the critical care unit for two nights until I became too much of an arsehole for them to handle and they kicked me out, switching me to a regular room.

Frankie wasn’t as lucky. Between the gut wound, collapsed lung, and one sprained wrist, her other wrist needed surgery—she’ll need physical therapy to get it back to full use. A broken nose. A fractured ankle. And what they worried most over was a nasty head injury. She actually started convulsing in the ambulance. Vomited twice. Neither of those is good when you’ve got a hole in yar gut. But they got her to the closest emergency and helicoptered her over to a class-one trauma center specializing in head injuries. They kept her on that floor for over a week. Best day of my life when they moved her to a regular room and I got to call.

She spent another week recovering in the hospital before she got discharged. I had Elise watch the girls while Beau drove me to get her. Mollie and Macie had been dehydrated and were put on an antibiotic because of the open sores on their bums they’d gotten from sitting in dirty diapers for days, but other than that, Frankie and Brighton kept them safe. Those two women put their lives in danger to protect my wee lasses.

They had me on several restrictions, including driving.

The minute I got Frankie home, Boss and I helped her to our room. Our room. She couldn’t help to notice all her furniture in my place at the compound. I was never sleeping another night not at her side. With the help of my brothers, who actually did the moving, we moved her in.

Once we were alone, I helped her undress from the ugly sweats we made her wear home into her nightgown and helped her into bed. She worried over me because that’s my Frankie. I gave her some pain meds, changed into pajama pants, and climbed in bed next to her. Before I let myself fall asleep, I did one more thing.

When Frankie woke, she woke with the largest morganite stone I could afford resting on her left ring finger. Set in rose gold, an antique setting, encircled with chocolate diamonds. She gasped when she saw it. “Does this mean you’re asking me to marry you? Like for real?”

“Already told ya, not asking. Asking gives ya a choice. No choice,mo leannan. Yar marrying me. Period.”

Tommy Doyle visited us at home, taking her official statement. With my statement and Brighton’s statement, we got Rodrick on assault and attempted first-degree murder. Plus, Tommy informed us with a huge smile on his face that several of the Horde were pissed that he brought the Lords into their operation to begin with. They could’ve made huge paydays if he’d stopped the bullshite and they started talking, cutting deals right away with the DA.

He tried and failed to claim he was only there because he got wind of the production and shipment of products in his county and went in undercover. But when every one of those men who turned named him as the ringleader of their meth and gun circus, his defense spiraled. Judge set his bail at two million dollars. Two fucking million.

It wasn’t but three days after bail was set that Rodrick bought it inside. No one knows what happened except he was found dead in the bathroom shower, a puncture wound below his ear, severing his carotid artery. He died in that shower, his life literally flowing down the drain. I didn’t cry over that phone call. Neither did Frankie.

Best we can guess, Horde on the inside did him.

Don’t know. Don’t care.

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