Bjorn: Teutonic Knights MC (17 page)

“He’ll die for sure if we don’t!”

“Ironside!” Peyton screamed as she recoiled.

He twisted, seeing the man step around a tree some twenty feet away, and threw himself over her as his gun roared. He waited for the burn of the bullet entering his body, but it never came. He rose from her, the two men staring at each other, both in shock he was unhurt. He saw the gun twitch as the gunman tried to squeeze the trigger again, but the slide of the HK was back. He was empty.

Both men realized it was about to get down and dirty at the same time. The gunman backpedaled, drawing his knife as Ironside jumped to his feet and charged in. Ironside never carried a knife, not liking the feel of it on his side, and he’d always been able to handle any threat in close with his fists. The gunman wasted too much time trying to draw his blade, and by the time he had it clear, Ironside was there.

He hit the gunman hard, his left hand closing around the wrist of his opponent’s knife hand as he drove him back. The gunman dug in, trying to stop the rush, but his feet tangled in some limbs and they crashed to the forest floor.

Peyton stood, her hand gripping her mouth so she wouldn’t scream as the two men twisted and squirmed. Ironside was on top, his hand gripping the man’s arm to prevent him from plunging the knife into his back, the gunman’s hand under Ironside’s chin. The men’s teeth were bared in silent snarls as they strained, their muscles standing in stark relief.

The men rolled over, and the Saracen grinned as he tried to drive the knife into Ironside’s chest. His head no longer being forced back, he grabbed the hand under his chin and yanked it away. The brute, his balance upset by the sudden loss of support fell forward, his arm twisting up and behind him as Ironside maintained his grip. With a lunge of his hips, Ironside twisted and they rolled again. Ironside banged the man’s hand again a stick, once, twice, then a third time before the hand spasmed open and the knife fell into the leaf litter.

Now that he didn’t have to worry about the knife plunging into him, Ironside kicked away from the man, still holding his wrist and as he dragged him away from where the knife had fallen. The man lunged at him and they rolled, their hands going to their opponent’s face as their fingers dug in. Peyton watched as Ironside’s face twisted in agony. Both men were huge, and obviously incredibly strong, the muscles of their arms bulging as they strained to crush the other man’s skull. She looked frantically around and picked up a large stick, intending to bash the man’s head in, but as she drew it back, the rotted limb broke.

Ironside lunged with his hips again, releasing the man’s wrist and grabbing the man’s hair to pull him off him. The two men scrambled to their feet, turning to face each other. Ironside dove in, firing a hard right into the man’s body. The man grunted and stumbled back, Ironside giving chase to press his advantage. The man was far from out of the fight, and drove a hard left into Ironside’s stomach. Ironside grunted, the two men grabbing at each other, grunting and straining before Ironside picked the man up with a roar of effort and drove him into a tree.

The Saracen grabbed Ironside and powered out of the hold, grabbing his shirt as he whipped him around, trying to throw him down, Ironside’s shirt ripping away as he tumbled. He charged in as Ironside slid to a stop on hands and knees, whipping his torn shirt as a distraction before driving a kick into his side. Ironside bellowed in pain but grabbed the booted foot, locked it under a powerful arm, and jerked the man down. The gunman fell, kicking at Ironside, but he twisted, flipping the man to his stomach and jacked his leg up as he powered to his feet. He turned again, then fell to the side, holding the foot as he bent the Saracen’s leg across his own.

Peyton heard the bone snap an instant before the Saracen screamed. Ironside released him, then rolled the man over. All the fight had gone out of him when Ironside shattered his knee, but Ironside wasn’t done. He rolled over and sat on the man, batting his hand away as he panted, then drove a hard right into the man’s throat. The man gagged, his chest heaving as Ironside rolled off of him and stood, watching as the man’s hands alternately went to his throat or clawed at the sky and ground, desperately trying to draw a breath through his shattered throat. He struggled to get to his feet, Ironside stepping back as he reached for him, his movements becoming weaker and weaker until he finally collapsed.

“Is he…?” Peyton asked.

“Yeah.” He stared at the body a moment then moved to Dolch. He pressed his fingers into Dolch’s neck but felt nothing. “Fuck.”

He pulled out his phone. They needed help.

“How many more?” Whiteshirt raged three hours later. “How many more brothers are you going to sacrifice for this bitch?”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about!” Ironside bellowed in return.

“They were fucking
waiting
on you! They knew you were taking her to the airport. How?”

“I don’t know!”

“I’ll fucking tell you how! She told them!”

“You’re crazy. She didn’t have a chance!”

“Bullshit! I know she went to the bathroom! Honey saw her in there!”

“Did she see her call anybody?”

“Yes!”

Ironside went quiet a moment then opened the door to kirche. “Peyton! Get your ass in here! Honey, you too!”

When the two women entered the room, he shut the door. “It’s time to come clean. Who did you call in the bathroom?”

“What?” she shouted. “Nobody!”

“You lying bitch! I saw you!” Honey snarled.

“Fuck you! I didn’t call anyone! Don’t believe me? Let me get my bag and I’ll show you my fucking phone is
dead
! The charger is at Andrew’s!”

Ironside stared at Honey then Peyton. “Get it.”

“I saw her!” Honey insisted. “Maybe she borrowed a phone!”

He didn’t say anything until Peyton entered the room and shoved the phone into Ironside’s chest. “Is that my phone?”

“It looks like it,” he said.

“Try to turn it on.”

He turned it on. The phone began to power up, then went off. He tried it again with the same results. He turned to Honey. “It’s dead.”

“That wasn’t the phone she was using! The one she had was white!”

Peyton lunged at her. “You lying cunt! I’ll kill you!”

Ironside grabbed Peyton and pulled her back, Whiteshirt doing the same with Honey.

“You’ve been fucking this club from the beginning, and it’s finally caught up with you.” Honey sneered. “Ironside can’t see it, but Whiteshirt and I can.”

“Fuck you, bitch! This is all because I kicked your ass, twice, and you couldn’t hold onto Ironside! I guess I kicked your ass in fucking, too!”

Honey tried to break away, but Whiteshirt dragged her back. “Knock it off! Both of you!”

“Or what, Whiteshirt?” Peyton sneered. “This bitch is leading you about by the cock, making you see things that aren’t true. Why would I tell the Saracens shit after what they did to Melissa? Remember the notes? What about them? They were
shooting
at me! Why would I help them?”

“What of it?” Ironside asked. “She’s got a point.”

“Did you tell her about the notes?” Whiteshirt grumbled.

“No, he didn’t fucking tell me! I heard you two talking…as we were fucking,” she added just twist the knife in Honey.

“Goddamnit! No wonder she knows everything that’s going on! You can’t keep your fucking pants zipped!” Whiteshirt snarled.

“This has nothing do with who I’m fucking.”

“So how’d the Saracens know?”

“We have a mole.”

“And she’s standing right there,” Honey sneered.

“I agree,” Whiteshirt said. “Why would Honey lie? There’s nothing in it for her.”

“Except to confirm what you already believe,” Ironside suggested. “You two have gotten pretty thick since the pit.”

“Just because you can’t see what’s happening because you’re thinking with your cock doesn’t mean I can’t! Fifteen dead, Ironside! Fifteen brothers dead, including Dolch, because of your cock.”

“You’ve crossed the line,” Ironside rumbled.

“And you crossed it six weeks ago!”

Ironside glared at Whiteshirt. “The pit. Ten minutes.”

Whiteshirt gaped at him. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

“You think I’m fucking the club? This is your chance to beat some sense into me.”

Whiteshirt stared at him. This was bad, very bad, the President and Vice President going to the pit? Over women?

“Come on, babe, I know you can take him,” Honey purred.

“Stay out of this,” he growled.

“What’s it going to be, Whiteshirt?” Ironside rumbled. “The pit or you get off my ass.”

“Ten minutes,” he snapped.

***

“What are you doing?” Peyton asked as she trotted after Ironside.

“He’s seemed to have forgotten I’m the fucking President of this club and I’m tired of his shit. He’s got nothing,
nothing,
and he’s blaming you for everything that’s gone wrong and, by extension, me. That shit’s going to stop, and now. We need to clear the air.”

“I’m telling the truth! Except when I didn’t tell you I was fucking Andrew, I’ve always told the truth!”

“I believe you. I don’t know why Honey’s lying. Whose phone did you borrow, and when? You were with me, then you went to the bathroom, then we left. Unless you used Honey’s phone I—”

“I don’t want a fucking thing from that bitch! Except maybe another shot at her in the pit.”

Ironside smiled. “Somehow I knew you felt that way. So why is she lying?”

“I don’t know. Why can’t Whiteshirt see that?”

“Because she’s a Knights girl. Despite what you think, Whiteshirt has the best interests of the club foremost in his mind. He’s become fixated on you because you were with the Saracens and we’re having all these problems. He needs a target.”

“I’m not, and never was, a Saracen. I’m the wrong target!”

“I know. But you’ll be gone in a couple of days, and it won’t be your problem anymore.”

“Bullshit! I’m not leaving, not after that bitch lied about me, not until you, we, the club, whoever, find the mole. They tried to have me killed! What if they come for me in Florida?”

“Don’t go to Florida. Pick someplace else. We won’t tell anyone where you went.”

“Who did you tell this time?”

He paused. “Nobody.”

“But they knew we were going to the airport, and they knew the time. How?”

“I don’t know.”

“Are you sure they wouldn’t eventually find out where I went? I’m not.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying, unless you’re going to go with me to protect me, I want to stay until the mole is found. I’ll sleep here if you don’t want to share your bed with me anymore.”

He smiled. “I don’t think that will be necessary.”

“Good,” she smiled. “I have a lot of pent up anger and frustrations I need to work off.”

***

Ironside was waiting in the pit when Whiteshirt and Honey stepped out. The mood was festive when she faced Honey in the pit, but it was somber now. Whiteshirt stepped into the pit, removed his shirt, and handed it to Honey. She took it, kissed him thoroughly, then stepped out of the pit.

This was the first time Peyton had seen Whiteshirt without his shirt on and she had to admit he was impressive. He was perhaps a little bigger than Andrew, but not as muscular as Ironside, his chest and arms rippling in the sunlight as he swung his arms to loosen up.

Ironside removed his shirt and handed it to Peyton. He’d already ruined one shirt today and he didn’t want to ruin another. “No low blows and no rabbit punches,” Ironside said.

“Agreed. None to the kidneys, either. I don’t feel like pissing blood.”

“Fight naked!” Peyton called, causing a ripple of chuckles to pass through the crowd.

“I don’t think so,” Ironside said, turning to grin at her. “I don’t want sand in my dick.”

“You ready, you asshole?” Whiteshirt growled, dropping into a wrestling stance.

“Whenever you’re ready to have your ass kicked.”

The two men circled each other before Whiteshirt exploded into motion, slamming into Ironside and driving him back, almost to the edge of the ring, before Ironside could dig in and prevent himself from being pushed out of the pit. As he stopped, he wrapped his arms around Whiteshirt’s waist to trap his head under one of his arms. Whiteshirt’s arms went around Ironside’s thighs as the two men grunted and strained, their feet digging into the sand as they pushed against each other.

Ironside twisted, throwing Whiteshirt off balance. Whiteshirt stumbled, then fell, pulling Ironside’s legs out from under him as he did. The two men went to the sand, Whiteshirt jacking up with his legs and forcing Ironside to his back.

“You don’t fucking realize what you’re doing!” Whiteshirt grunted as Ironside held his head down while he struggled to his feet.

“Who I fuck is none of your fucking business,” Ironside snarled in response. He kicked at Whiteshirt’s foot, driving it back and causing Whiteshirt to fall to his knees again as Ironside kept him in close.

The two men froze for a moment, regaining their strength, before Whiteshirt heaved, groaning in effort. Ironside’s face twisted in effort, trying to hold Whiteshirt, but their sweat was making Whiteshirt hard to hold. Whiteshirt slipped, then slipped a little more, before he popped free. The two men scrambled but Whiteshirt was faster and got behind Ironside, his arm going around Ironside’s throat.

***

Peyton gasped when Whiteshirt took Ironside into a chokehold, but Ironside managed to get his arm inside the hold. He snarled, pushing up with his hips, every muscle in his body bulging as he strained. He roared, his face twisting in effort, Whiteshirt snarling as he fought to hold him. Watching the two gorgeous men strain, their beautiful, sexy, bodies covered in sweat and sand, one of them her knight fighting for her honor, she could feel a heaviness form in her loins. She’d yelled out ‘fight naked’ as a joke, but now she wished they were.

***

Ironside slipped Whiteshirt’s hold then spun, the two men trying to take the other into a head lock, but succeeding only in wrapping themselves up, one arm around the back of their opponent’s neck, the other under the arm. They rolled, once, twice, three times before coming to rest at Peyton’s feet as Ironside began to drive with is legs, gasping and panting as he strained, both men crying out as their shoulders threatened to dislocate.

They released their holds before they could damage each other and rolled away, bouncing back to their feet. “You’re letting Peyton lead you around by the cock!” Whiteshirt growled as the men slowly circled.

“Then Honey is doing the same!” Ironside responded before he lunged in, the two men taking each other in a classic wrestling hold. Bent at the waist, their arms tangled, they pushed and shoved.

“You’re not seeing what’s happening right in front of you!” Whiteshirt panted.

“And you’re seeing shit that doesn’t exist!”

“All I know is brothers are dying!”

“Not because of Peyton!”

Ironside kicked at Whiteshirt, missed, then kicked again, hooking his leg and knocking Whiteshirt off balance. They went to the ground again, scrambling and tumbling until Ironside was sitting in the sand, lying back against Whiteshirt’s chest, Whiteshirt’s head trapped under his arm.