Page 6 of Wilder's Promise
But the enemy isn't finished. He pulls something from his jacket—a knife, its blade catching the sunlight. Wilder sees it too late, barely twisting away as the knife slashes across his arm, tearing through his shirt. Blood immediately darkens the fabric.
I should start the car. I should be ready to flee if Wilder loses this fight. Instead, I'm frozen, watching as this man I barely know bleeds defending me.
Wilder doesn't even flinch at the wound. He grabs the man's knife arm, twists it at an unnatural angle until I hear a sickening crack. The knife falls. The man howls. Wilder follows with a devastating punch that sends the man sprawling unconscious on the asphalt.
Only then does he retrieve his gun, keeping it trained on both men as he backs toward the car. His t-shirt is stained crimson down one sleeve, but his face shows no pain, only cold focus.
He slides into the driver's seat beside me, wincing slightly as he yanks the door shut. "Give me the keys."
I hand them over, too stunned to speak. He starts the engine, throws the car into reverse, and peels out of the parking lot, tires squealing on asphalt.
"Are you hit?" he asks, eyes flicking between the road ahead and the rearview mirror.
"What? No, I'm fine." I find my voice at last. "But you're bleeding."
"It's just a cut." He accelerates onto the highway, pushing the Charger well beyond the speed limit. "Should've known they'd have someone watching the station. Damn it."
"They knew my name," I say, the reality of the situation finally hitting me. "They were waiting for me."
Wilder's face darkens. "They've done their homework. We need to call your father."
He pulls a phone from his pocket, tossing it to me. "Speed dial one."
My hands are shaking so badly I nearly drop the phone, but I manage to hit the button. It rings twice before my father's gruff voice answers.
"Wilder? What's wrong?"
Hearing my father's voice sends a complicated surge of emotions through me—resentment, anger, but mostly relief now.
"It's Emma," I say, hating how small my voice sounds. "We were attacked at a diner about thirty minutes outside Oakridge. Two men. Vultures MC."
"Are you hurt?" The edge in his voice is one I recognize, tightly controlled panic.
"No, but your man is. Knife wound to the arm." I glance at Wilder, who's scanning the road ahead with intense concentration, his injured arm leaving smears of blood on the steering wheel. "He shot one of them. Knocked out the other."
"Put Wilder on."
I hold the phone out. "He wants to talk to you."
Wilder takes it with his bloodied hand. "We're heading your way, Prez. Yeah. Yeah. No, superficial. They made her, though. Knew her by name." He listens for a moment. "Copy that. ETA forty minutes if the road stays clear."
He hands the phone back to me. "He wants to talk to you again."
I put the phone to my ear, steeling myself. "I'm here."
"Emma." My father's voice is rough with emotion. "I'm sorry this happened. We're going to lock down the clubhouse. You'll be safe here, I promise."
"Until the threat is eliminated?" I repeat Wilder's words, unable to keep the bitterness from my voice.
"Yes." He doesn't hesitate. "Until every last one of them is in the ground."
"That's what I was afraid of." I close my eyes briefly. "See you soon, Dad."
I end the call before he can respond, dropping the phone into my lap. We drive in silence for several minutes, the speedometer hovering around ninety. Finally, I find the courage to look directly at Wilder's injured arm.
"We need to stop the bleeding," I say. "Pull over."
"Not yet. Need more distance first."
