Cease (Bayonet Scars Book 7) (23 page)

CHAPTER 22

Ruby

My crazy-ass daughter-in-law turns toward me and sneers. She lunges forward, but the cuffs on her wrists make tackling me improbable. Detective Davis stands behind her, one hand wrapped around her upper arm.

"Settle down, ladies."

I roll my shoulders and try to ignore the pinching of the metal on my wrists. Davis eyes me questioningly, like he doesn't believe that we're genuinely pissed at each other. He's been giving us these looks since before they slapped the cuffs on us. I don't pay him much attention, though. I'd rather he be out here with us than inside with my guys. I guess in a strange way I should be grateful to the sorry fuck. If it weren't for Davis trying to score points with the feds, I never would have gotten the chance to meet Alex and Michael. They would have forever lived in my heart as a pair of crying infants who Mike took from me. But now? Thanks to this eager beaver, I have
all
of my kids in my life.

Something feels off. Maybe it's just because it's the middle of the night and I'm a firm believer that good things don't happen at three a.m. It just feels like there's something horribly wrong, and I can't put my finger on it. Mindy and I were supposed to be the distraction, but then somebody pulled the fire alarm just as we were almost out of the emergency room door. That was when the feds starting grilling us about Jim's and Alex's injuries and, of course, the fire alarm. We knew nothing about that last thing, though, which is what was particularly curious for Detective Davis. I'm just hoping he isn't always this hungry for a case and is having an off day. Either way, we need to get out of New York and fast. We didn't come this far only to lose half our family to general lockup because this asshole wants to make it big in his department.

"Okay, boys, fun's over," a woman says as she quickly approaches from around the corner of the building. When she comes into view, the first thing I see is her striking red hair. She's average in every other way, despite the expensive ass skirt and blazer she's wearing. In one hand, she carries a leather briefcase, and in the other, a coffee. Her eyes lock with mine. "I'm Kimberly George with Harrison and Hart. I represent the Forsaken Motorcycle Club. Unless you're planning on arresting either or both of these women, please remove the handcuffs immediately."

Davis guffaws, stumbling all over himself while the agents gripe but do as Ms. George says. I don't know where she came from or who called her, but I'm damn grateful they did. Within minutes, the officers and the feds find their way off hospital property, and Mindy and I are left with our mysterious attorney. A quick conversation about how Gloria hired her on our behalf ensues, and then we go our separate ways. My phone's buzzed in my pocket no less than half a dozen times already. By the time I get to Jim's messages, Mindy's already on the phone with Ian. She snaps her fingers at me and points to the parking garage, then takes off running. I have no choice but to follow.

She stops, finally, and turns to me. In less than a minute, she lays it all out for me. Including the part where Jim followed Ryan out of the hospital in a mad dash. Horrified, I check my phone again. This time, I listen to Jim's voice messages. They're not much more than five or six words each, all spoken in code, confirming exactly what Mindy's just told me. At this point, I'm going through the motions, trying not to think about it. Not about the implications of being handcuffed and questioned by not only the police but the feds as well. Not about the fact that my husband, who's just barely started to recover from a gnarly stab wound, is off chasing my son down before he gets himself killed.

And I'm definitely not thinking about the ashen look on Ian's face as he pulls the van up and Michael and Alex open the back for us to hop in. Or the way my boy speeds like a maniac through the streets of Brooklyn even though we all know local law enforcement has it out for us. I don't even respond when Mindy tries to ask me if I'm okay. I just can't bring myself to do or say anything.

My hands grip the bench beneath me as we take each turn faster and faster than the last. Ian isn't one to be rattled. He's my steady one. And yet here he is, freaking out. A heaviness settles over me as I prepare myself for the worst. I guess I didn't let myself feel it earlier. I just kind of told myself that we would come out here, take care of business, and then head home. I thought it'd be easy--well, easier--and that would be it. We'd be done. I'd never have to see Brooklyn again, and my worst memories would still be from the day I lost my twins. But that's not my life. My life is content for a warning label about poor choices.

The familiar rumble of motorcycles--not just a few, but many--grows behind us. I tense up, looking around frantically at my surroundings. It's the guys. Because of course it is. I don't know why I started panicking.

"Mom," Alex says quietly from beside me. "Are you okay?" Her brown eyes are filled with worry and a sadness that I wish I could replace with something less daunting. Behind her, Michael's expression is near identical.

"I'm worried about Ryan," I admit. Ever since I met the boy, he's been going off and doing stupid shit like this. But it was different when the stakes weren't so high. He's no longer getting into fights on the playground and ditching class or even antagonizing the Fort Bragg PD. This time, he's trying to take on what's left of the detractors of the Mancuso crime family. I of all people know that those people don't fuck around.

"We're a block out," Ian shouts from the driver's seat. Blinking away my climbing fear, I move into action and put on my bulletproof vest as does everybody else. Somehow Ian manages to get his on without losing control of the van.

"Jim doesn't have a weapon," I say immediately upon the realization that he left empty-handed. I don't even know if he had shoes or pants even. The last time I saw him, he was in a hospital gown, all hooked up to machines in bed. Maybe I'm slow to the issue, because nobody says anything for a long while. I'm worried about Jim's stitches more than anything, but my man is smart. He's not the one I fear for.

"A couple of the guns were missing when we got to the van," Michael says reassuringly. "Bet Pop grabbed 'em before hot-wiring his ride."

For the briefest of moments, Ian's eyes meet mine in the rearview mirror. He knows more than he's telling, but we don't have time for me to grill him, so I let him keep his secrets. Usually when Ian doesn't want to tell me something it's because either his father or brother are off doing something I'll disapprove of. In this case, he's right to be tight-lipped. If I had my way, Jim would be laid up in that damn hospital bed still.

Ian turns the corner off the street and down the empty road toward the entrance to the docks. We all have our guns in hand and safeties off. Mindy's in position to open the doors when Ian stops. We went over this, so I refuse to be nervous. My family is to descend on theirs, never taking our eyes off them. Since we know basically nothing about where we are or what's about to go down, that's the extent of our grand rescue plan. We've worked with less in the past, and that was with fewer people. It's not much, but it's something to keep me steady.

"Get ready." Ian's hard voice carries through the van. He starts to say something about how we women are backup and not front line, but the deafening sound of a gun blast masks his words. We all jump, terrified but at the ready. When Ian brings the van to a stop, Mindy flings the doors open, and we all pour out almost at once. My hands shake as I survey the scene before me. No more than fifteen feet from the entrance, I stand struck with horror.

The warehouse has a large pull-down steel door that's rolled up right now, exposing the interior to the outside. I creep up toward it, my family at my sides.

The bikes come to a screeching halt around me, and before I know it, Wyatt's blocking my view, telling me to stand down. I don't listen, though, because he husband and my son are in there. Voices scream at us, some in English and others in Italian. I back off Wyatt and take it in. There can't be more than ten or eleven of Mancuso's men in the room. They're standing in a line, facing us, guns out. In the center, in front of them, is Duke, bound and gagged to a metal folding chair. But that's not what sends a chill down my spine. It's the sight of a man with a gun to Ryan's head. Jim stands behind the man, a pistol in hand, pointing it at the guy's head.

We get closer, telling Mancuso's men to stand down. Not surprisingly, they don't. Negotiations continue, with Michael taking lead. The man with the gun on Ryan won't listen to reason, citing his loyalty to Carlo. I fall back, behind Michael this time, not knowing what to do, but trusting in the club to make it better. Nobody is standing down. But then the man with the gun on Ryan sets it all in motion. He cocks his gun, the barrel pressed into my son's head.

"No!" Jim shouts. He fires off a shot, hitting the man between his shoulder blades. Jim's wearing a pair of blue hospital scrubs with no shoes, and he stand uneasily on his bare feet. The thrust of the shot knocks the wind out of him, and he fights to suck in air. The man in front of him stumbles backward into my husband, and they both sink to the ground in a hard crash. My feet take off for my man, but Michael pulls me back, holding me in his suit-clad arms.

"Let me go," I plea. A guttural scream emanates from my lungs as I kick at my youngest son. I should stop fighting, but I can't stop myself. I should do a lot of things, and all I can do is scream and cry.

"We got this. It's okay," Michael says.

When I finally calm down enough to see what's happening around us, I suck in a deep breath and watch as all the pieces fall into place. Our senior ranking club members have Mancuso's men dropping their weapons and going back to their single file line. Torque frees Duke from his restraints. The prospects and old ladies are keeping watch on the warehouse's entrances and exits. A veritable wall of people now separates Jim from the Italians. Ryan's moved into action and pulls the man who attacked Jim off of him. In his right hand, he holds a small knife. It and his hand are both covered in blood. And in this moment I know. It's not his, but Jim's.

My man lays motionless on the concrete floor. Ryan hovers over him, holding his head up with one hand and trying to make him more comfortable with the other. With the Italians under control, Ian puts his gun away and crouches beside his father. It's all so surreal. Mindy, Alex, and Holly stand with their backs to Jim as directed by Grady. I've seen this before. This is similar to what they did when Chief was shot.

But Chief died.

As if finally catching on that this is really happening, my body responds to my desperate need to be with my man. I shove my way past Diesel and Elle, who stand in front of Jim, trying to tell me that I don't want to see him like this. But of course I do. I drop to the pavement and pull him into my arms just like I did the night before. I don't even look for the wound this time. Ryan's already got something to soak up the leaking blood and keep pressure on it. That bastard hit him in a near identical place to where Mike stabbed him last night. Fuck.

"Don't worry, momma," Jim says, his words slow and slurred. "He just grazed me."

"I know, baby." I won't fight with him in this moment even though I can see that it's anything but just a graze.

Ian's eyes lift to mine. He has pretty much mastered Jim's look of disapproval by now. There's a sadness twinged in there, too. Maybe it's just me and it's not as bad as I think it is. Maybe I'm just crazy.

"Two knife wounds," Ian says, clearing his voice. "Motherfucker had aim. Got Pop right in the stitches."

"It only just sounds bad," Jim says. Liar. Even I know what's happening here. I place a hand on his forehead. It's so hot, way too hot to be normal. He's also sweating profusely, and his hand shakes violently as he tries to raise it up enough to demonstrate how little the issue really is. He's pale with purple circles around his eyes, and every single breath is more difficult than the last.

"Quit lying to us, Dad." Ryan holds Jim's other hand in his. His knuckles are white from the effort to keep from snapping. "It's bad, and we all know it."

Jim gives our boys a sad smile and nods his head. For my part, I hold Jim's torso tight to my chest and kiss the top of his head.

"In that case," Jim says softly, "Give her what she wants. You won't ever regret it making her happy. With your girls or mine, just make them happy.

"No doubt. You two are my greatest creations." Jim sucks in a ragged breath and looks at Ryan first and then Ian. There are unshed tears in his eyes that slay me. I'm so numb, I don't think I'm feeling it. I'm just forcing myself to act like I'm here, in the moment. In reality, my brain's already shut down.

I know what this is--this is death.

"I love you, momma." His words come out on a gasp as his eyes dart side to side involuntarily. His body is shutting down.

"Why couldn't you have just stayed in your hospital bed?" The rawness in my voice sounds foreign to my own ears. The volume shocks me. It's as if part of me is here, screaming at Jim about what he should have done. Even though I know him staying put would have gotten our boy killed. A crushing guilt overcomes me. I won't price my husband's life over my any of my sons'. I hate that shit so much, so I push it down as far as I can and hope it never resurfaces.

"Told you I'd walk through fire for you," he says. The last few words are mumbled, barely audible, and they end on the last gasp of air that leaves my husband's body.