Page 4 of Blackbeard
“That’s a shame.”
Holding my gaze, she backed up and let the white scrap of cloth in her fingers drop, floating to the ground.
The five Forsaken revved their bikes with an ear-splitting roar.
Then the rapidpop-pop-popof gunfire filled the air.
Bullets bit into the pavement at my feet. Searing pain burned in my right shoulder.
I swore and veered away, skidding into the shelter of Hot Shot’s garage. From the corner of my eye, I spotted Big G close at my heels. Credence took cover on the other side of the road, behind a liquor store.
Scrambling off my bike, I tucked myself tight against the garage wall. Pulling my pistol from the back of my waistband, I turned the safety off and peered out to take aim.
Leigh climbed onto the back of a bike with a member of the Forsaken, wrapping her arms around him. I raised my pistol, prepared to fire—
She spotted me.
A grin spread across her face, unfazed by the gun in my hands.
Shooting the President’s daughter would be guaranteed to make the Forsaken spitting mad. But it would even the scales—justified revenge after they killed one of our brothers.
Then Leigh zipped around the corner. Just before she disappeared from view, she glanced back at me and winked, blowing a kiss in a blur of auburn curls and black leather.
“Damn it,” I grumbled, lowering my pistol.
I grunt of pain drew my attention. Hot Shot sat on the floor of the garage, his back against the wall. Pressed to his leg was a balled up rag, soaked with blood.
Shit. With that much bleeding, an artery could have been hit. But we were still taking fire. If I stopped shooting, we could end up like him—or worse.
“Big G,” I called.
“What?” he replied, firing off a few shots before he turned to look in my direction.
“Cover me," I said. "Hot Shot has been hit.”
Big G nodded and returned his attention to keeping the Forsaken at bay. They raced in circles around the garage until the stench of burning rubber filled the air. Glass shattered just above me, and a smoke bomb plummeted through the broken window, hitting the ground at my feet. Acrid smoke poured out of it, stinging my eyes and throat.
I coughed and kicked it away, sending it skittering into the street.
Staying low, I hurried to my bike and retrieved the medical kit I kept in my saddlebags for emergencies. Then I made my way over to Hot Shot.
“Hey, brother,” I said, keeping my voice calm so I didn’t stress him out even more. “Let me take a look at that leg, yeah?”
With trembling hands, he peeled back the cloth. Blood pooled on the pavement beneath him in a sticky mess. I didn’t see an exit wound. Just a small, neat hole in the muscle of his thigh.
I let out a low whistle.
“That’s going to hurt like a bitch to get it out,” I said.
Hot Shot released a noise caught between a laugh and a groan.
“I can still ride though, right? Racing season starts in May. I'd hate to miss out because these fucking assholes shot me."
“We’ll see,” I replied, packing the bullet hole with gauze. I continued to talk, hoping to distract him. “But the ladies will love that scar. It’ll be a doozy.”
He chuckled hoarsely and tipped his head back against the wall.
“I guess there’s always a silver lining somewhere, right?”
