Page 65 of Devil's Own: Roughneck

Roscoe presses a button on the walkie attached to his shoulder. “Arrived. Moving to the location.”

As each small group of men makes it to their section of the city, we hear the same. Silently, Roscoe and I move between the buildings, turning corners and running low when we have to leave cover. The wounds to my leg and gut have been healing for over a month now, but the damn thing on my gut screams at me when I bend low, letting me know it’s there and how lucky I am to still be breathing. That makes me think of Gee sitting at home waiting for me. It’s hard to keep my head clear and I need to, given the gravity of what we’re about to unload all over these motherfuckers. But I keep hearing Gee whispering, “Come home to me.”

Once we’ve reached the outskirts of the warehouse where intel showed our targets are hiding out, Roscoe presses the button on the walkie again. “In position. Waiting for go.”

I shake my head, squaring my shoulders, and begin inundating myself with thoughts of staying covered, watching for targets, and killing Outcasts, essentially erasing Gia from my mind until this ends.

The other men call in, giving similar responses. We keep low. Guns cocked and ready. And we wait.

“T minus thirty seconds,” Sarge calls in, finally, and I count down in my head, hitting zero at the same time Roscoe’s watch beeps softly once.

“Go,” he whisper-shouts, and he and I move out. We reach the window and drop low so as not to be seen. A rush of adrenaline blocks out the gut pain, helping me forget the discomfort and focus on the mission. He and I split up. I take the back exit while he positions himself at the front. Once I signal that I’m in place, he and I storm the building, opening fire. Three women are in the back with my target. I try to avoid hitting them, but as my target falls, one of the women opens fire on me. She hits me in the bicep and I crack off a shot, hitting her between the eyes. Fuck, I hate this. The bile rises up, but it was her or me, and I picked her.

A second woman picks up the weapon. I take her out, too. The third woman shouts, “Junk!” A man comes running in from the bathroom, toilet paper dragging behind him, stuck to the bottom of his boot. I take out Junk and the third woman.

“Fuck,” I hear shouted from the other room, and I take off like a bat out of hell. That was Roscoe's voice. When I get inside, he’s bleeding from his side, clenching one arm protectively around his waist while trying to aim with the other. One Death Bringer left standing, Clod—a nasty motherfucker—and I open fire at the same time.

The Death Bringer falls and I race to Clod’s side. I put a bullet in the Death Bringer’s brain to make sure he’s good and dead, and blood mats his long, stringy hair to his face. I watch him for a few more beats, hating him and the new mark this scores onto my soul. I fucking hate taking lives, buttheywanted this war, and they got it. I kick the bastard as hard as I can in the ribs, then I help Roscoe out. His steps come slower than normal as he sags to protect his wound, but he keeps his composure. This wasn’t his first gunfight. It’s not his first serious injury. This man is a seasoned soldier. A killing machine. He knew what he was going into. I have to keep reminding myself of this as I press the walkie button attached to Roscoe’s shoulder. “Extraction,” I say. That’s our code for an injury.

“Incoming,” Chopper responds. I give the GPS coordinates from the GPS secured to Roscoe’s belt. The black hilo whips wind and dirt around our heads, trying to force me back every step I push forward with Roscoe leaning heavily against me.

I grab Roscoe’s truck keys and once Dark and Chopper have him inside, Dark shouts, “You good?” And I nod once. Then I take off running back toward the lot where we’d parked the truck.

Once I’m out of the warehouse district and able to turn the headlights on, I make for the interstate. I need to get my ass out of Sarasota as fast as possible.

The calls start rolling in. Vlad caught one in the shoulder and Rico in the thigh. Chopper and Dark fly them back to Block’s hospital for patching up. I got lucky with just a graze. Easy to patch up.

By the time I make it back to Miami, I’m spent—adrenaline crash.

We’d coordinated our Florida strike with the Brimstone Lord’s Kentucky strike to end any DB men still up there. Bossman calls in his update to Sarge. They got “’em all.” Every damn last one.

Thank fuck.

The Death Bringers are dead.

Time to go home.

20

When I get his call, I’m finally able to breathe. I spent the entire night worried about if I was going to have to plan a funeral. It hasn’t been that long since he took those bullets. His body is still healing.

“It’s over,” he whispers into the line.It’s over. Every muscle in my body unclenches simultaneously and I sag against the dresser. My eyes begin to fill with tears. I needed him to be okay more than I let myself think about. After my moment, I shower and dress. My man is coming home to me. We’re safe. Time to get on with my day.

The next afternoon, I get the call to pick him up from the airport. Each woman who had a man fighting down in Florida receives that call. We arrange it with the pussies and brothers and old ladies of those brothers to set up for the party to end all parties to celebrate their return. It costs a boatload to put on, but what price do you put on a celebration to honor the heroes of our club?

And look at me, all “our club.” When did I become such an old lady? I guess when I started feeling like I really fit in here with the men and all their women.

I call Elise to invite the Lords and I tell her the plan. “Finally, a reason to celebrate,” she says, and I hear her emotionally sag against the wall with those words.Finallyis right. “Maybe have some non-alcoholic refreshments? Remember, a few of us aren’t in a situation to imbibe.”

“A few of ours aren’t either. There’ll be plenty. Don’t worry about a thing. Just come ready to have fun with new friends.”

“Are you kidding?” she replies. “I’m always ready for that.”

I get the feeling she’s not exaggerating, either. After ending the call with Elise, I go search out Nic to let her know she can count on the Lords to show. When I find her in the common room, she’s in her signature jeans and T-shirt, but not any jeans—painted on and showing every curve of her body. Her T-shirt is a black bandeau made of T-shirt material. Her golden-tanned skin shimmers in the light as if she used a shimmering lotion. The woman lookshot.

“Nic,” I say to grab her attention.

“Hmm?”

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