Page 20 of Tank
The buyers roll up in a black van, two guys in leather jackets stepping out. They’re rough, twitchy, their eyes darting like they’re expecting trouble. Tank steps forward, his presence commanding, and starts negotiating with the lead guy. I’m too far to hear the words, but the tension’s thick, like gasoline waiting for a spark. I glance at Twitch, who’s sweating despite the cold.
“You good?” I whisper.
Twitch shakes his head, his voice low. “Something’s wrong. Too many shadows.”
Before I can respond, the spark ignites. A gunshot cracks the silence, and all hell breaks loose.
Figures burst from the shadows—Viper riders.
It’s a setup, and we’re caught in the crossfire. Bullets fly, pinging off the warehouse walls, and I dive behind a stack of crates, my heart slamming against my ribs.
The prospects scatter, and I hear Tank’s voice roaring over the chaos, “Get down! Cover!”
I peek out, my pulse racing, and see Tank firing back, his gun steady, his face a mask of controlled rage. He’s a force, mowing down a Viper rider with a single shot, but there’s too many of them.
I pull a knife from my boot when a bullet whizzes past my head, splintering the crate. I freeze, my breath catching, and then I see him—Tank, charging toward me, his eyes locked on mine.
“Rocco, move!” Tank shouts, tackling me to the ground as another bullet screams by.
It grazes his arm, blood blooming on his sleeve, but he doesn’t flinch.
Tank drags me behind a steel drum, his body shielding mine, his breath hot against my ear.
“Stay low, kid,” Tank growls, his voice steady despite the chaos. “I got you.”
My heart’s pounding, not just from the fight but from him—his weight on me, his arm around my shoulders, his courage. He’s bleeding for me, risking his life, and it’s tearing me apart.
I’m supposed to hate him, to end him, but all I can feel is the heat of his body, the strength in his grip.
“You’re hit,” I say, my voice shaking.
“It’s nothing,” Tank grunts, firing off another shot. The Vipers are retreating now, their ambush failing under the Wolves’ counterattack. Kash and Arch are laying down cover fire, and the prospects are holding their own.
The van’s gone, the buyers long fled.
The fight’s over as fast as it started, leaving the warehouse littered with shell casings and blood.
Tank pulls me to my feet, his hand lingering on my arm.
“You hurt?” Tank asks, his eyes searching mine.
I shake my head, my throat tight. “No. Only thanks to you.”
Tank grunts, but there’s a softness in his gaze, a crack in that hard exterior.
“Stick close,” Tank warns. “We’re not done yet.”
Back at the clubhouse, the mood’s tense but relieved. The deal’s fucked, but we’re alive, and that’s what counts.
Clay’s fresh back from Nevada, his gravelly voice filling the room as he debriefs the crew. I need to be careful around Clay—you don’t rise to the top of a motorcycle club by chance, you do it because you’re a mean, smart, ruthlesssonofabitch.
I’m at the bar, cleaning a shallow cut on Tank’s arm with a first-aid kit. He’s sitting on a stool, his sleeve rolled up, his muscles tense under my hands. The wound’s not deep, but it’s enough to make my stomach twist.
Tank took that bullet for me.
“Hold still,” I mutter, dabbing antiseptic on the cut. His skin’s warm, rough with scars, and my fingers linger longer than they should. He watches me, his eyes dark, unreadable, and the air between us crackles.
“You did good out there,” Tank says, his voice low. “Didn’t run. Didn’t freeze.”
