Page 63 of Claimed By the Bikers
“I’m armed!” I hold up the rifle. “Where do you need me?”
His eyes widen slightly at the sight of me with military hardware, but he doesn’t waste time with questions. “East wall! They’re trying to flank us!”
I move to the position he indicated, noting how the brothers have automatically formed a defensive triangle that protects the maximum number of civilians while maintaining fields of fire. Professional tactics from men who’ve done this before.
A cartel soldier rounds the corner, weapon raised, and I put two rounds center mass before he can acquire a target. He drops like a stone, and I shift position before his friends can pinpoint my location.
“Nice shooting!” Silas calls out, grinning despite the bullets flying around us.
“Thanks! How many more?”
“At least four!” Garrett responds, firing a burst that forces two attackers back behind cover.
The fight continues for what feels like hours but is probably only minutes. The cartel soldiers are well equipped, but they’re fighting on our territory, and we know every inch of this building.
That’s when I notice movement near the bathroom. A cartel soldier, smaller than the others, moving carefully between overturned tables. He’s heading toward a family huddled behind the counter—parents and two young children, frozen with terror.
I shift position to intercept, but another gunman opens fire from the front door, forcing me back behind cover. When I look again, the soldier is almost on top of the family.
“Please,” the mother whispers, clutching her children. “Please don’t hurt them.”
The soldier raises his rifle, finger on the trigger, and I realize I’m not going to make it in time.
That’s when Mrs. Hernandez, all seventy-five years of her, stands up behind her overturned birthday table and hurls her dinner plate at the gunman’s head.
“Leave those babies alone, you bastard!”
The plate connects, throwing off his aim, and I use the distraction to close the distance. But instead of shooting, I grabthe first thing I can reach—a broken wine bottle from the floor—and drive the jagged edge into his throat.
Blood sprays across my hands and face as he drops, gurgling and choking. Real blood, hot and sticky, not like the movies. The smell of copper and death fills my nostrils as he tries to speak and only manages more blood.
I’ve killed people before, but never this close. Never with a broken bottle. Never while looking into their eyes.
“You okay?” Atlas appears beside me, rifle in hand, scanning for more threats.
“I’m fine.” I wipe blood from my face with the back of my hand. “Is it over?”
“For now. Garrett’s checking the perimeter, Silas is securing the wounded.”
“Wounded?”
“Three of theirs, none of ours. You did good work.”
I look down at the dead man at my feet, at the blood on my hands, at the broken bottle still clutched in my grip. “I killed him with a wine bottle.”
“You protected innocent people. That’s what matters.”
“Mrs. Hernandez?—”
“Is fine. Shaken up but fine. She’s checking on the family you saved.”
The family. I look over to see the parents holding their children, whispering reassurances while Mrs. Hernandez fusses overthem like a mother hen. They’re alive because I acted without thinking, because I chose protecting them over my own safety.
“The pregnant woman,” I realize suddenly. “The one who was here earlier?—”
“Went home hours ago. She’s safe.”
Relief floods through me. For some reason, the thought of something happening to her terrified me more than the gunfight itself.
