Protect (42 page)

She fired off one round then ran for the
bedroom again, Earp on her heels now. She slammed the door shut
then cried out and ducked low as the shotgun issued a booming
report, tearing into her door.

That wrecked any calm she had. She wasn’t
hit, her door was in tatters, and Earp was hiding on the far side
of the bed now, but she was stunned to the point of inactivity. All
she heard was her own breathing and the sound of the next shell
being chambered in that twelve gauge in the hall.

She backed up, too slowly, as the man with
the shotgun kicked her bedroom door in. He stalked right to her,
grabbing her arm and reaching for her Pony.

The machine came off pause. She resisted,
kicking his knee and pulling back on her right arm while shoving
his arm holding the shotgun with her left. He pulled the trigger
again and it fired uselessly into the floor.

Now he’d need to pump it to use it again.

She squeezed off a round on the Pony as her
grip tightened to keep him from getting it from her. Her back was
to the front of the dresser, and he had her forced all the way back
so her spine was arching severely. Her shoulders actually reached
the mirrored back. With all this struggling she hadn’t noticed
much, but when he gave a marrow-chilling chuckle she felt his
erection against her stomach.

“Come on, girl,” he growled. “Just a bit more
of a struggle.”

He was playing with her. Letting her get the
odd shot in, letting her think she was keeping her gun. All so
she’d fight.

Terror was new. She’d been worried before in
the line of duty. Felt the odd surge of adrenalin that always
brought the edge of fear with it. But outright
terror
was a
foreign emotion yet she recognized it clearly.

Sharon stiffened in place, eyes locked on his
face. For the first time she examined him, guessing him to be about
fifty-five. He was built heavy and husky. The stomach that hung
over his belt was hard, not particularly squishy like a homebody’s
beer gut. His breath was terrible. His face wasn’t shaven but the
beard he wore was more of an accident than a statement. His teeth,
yellowed. Streaks of grey in his long, stringy black hair. And his
eyes were green. His eyes might be nice if he wasn’t grinding his
dick into her.

“You gonna play nice, blondie?” he breathed
right on her face, and she fought not to retch. Instead, she
nodded. Her brain wanted to fight, but every women’s self-defense
class she’d taught was elbowing its way into her thought process
and trying to take over.
Let them think they have control, look
for your out. Keep your head.

“Atta girl,” he whispered, giving her another
hip thrust that made bile rise into the back of her throat. Great,
her first morning without puking like crazy and this asshole
breathes his coffee-and-tuna-breath right onto her.

The Pony was taken from her hand, and someone
pulled the shotgun out of his free hand. There were three men in
the room with her now. Sharon did not see good things.

Bad Breath ran a finger down the side of her
neck. “Pretty thing. Little old, but I figure that honey pot must
be pretty sweet anyway.”

Someone laughed behind him, and she swallowed
down a shriek as he shoved his face into the side of her neck and
bit her.

“Scream for me, blondie.”

Sharon shook her head, eyes closed as he sank
his teeth in again. This time she couldn’t help it. She gave a cry
and was pulled away from the dresser, spun back to the bed.

There was a loud whoop in the room, not from
the man forcing her onto the bed. Now she saw the other two; they
were both younger and one was very thin with many scabs on his
face, terrible teeth. The other one had an impressive ZZ Top beard
that covered a lot of his face, at odds with his military-short
buzz cut.

As Bad Breath forced her to her back, easily
overpowering her, the scrawny one started opening his pants. To do
this he set the shotgun on the bed. ZZ Top still had her Pony, and
he was watching everything with a stoic look. Skinny was smiling,
just as excited as this pig on top of her was. She should really
keep track of the guns in the room, but she was busy
struggling.

“What’s this?” Bad Breath pulled the Glock
from her waistband. “You took this from my boy, didn’t you?” His
jovial delight in raping her was interrupted before he could get
her shirt open, and he took her chin in one hand, pulling on her
jaw. Her mouth opened under duress, and the barrel of the Glock was
forced into her mouth hard enough to scrape the palette and hit the
back of her throat.

Sharon gagged, knowing her eyes went wide as
this asshole leaned over her more, the smile gone. He was furious,
his expression dark, and his pupils pinned.

Jesus, he was high as a fucking kite.

“You killed my boy,” he repeated, gun still
in her mouth. “Hold this,” he barked over his shoulder.

The skinny guy come forward, fly undone, and
effectively pinned her head in place just by forcing the Glock into
her mouth. She gagged around it and the skinny guy giggled again.
“I don’t think she deep-throats, dude.”

“They all do when they have no say in it,”
Bad Breath mumbled, tearing open the front of her shirt. She tried
to push at his hands but Skinny pushed harder, making her gag yet
again. Tears sprang up in her eyes as her breasts were mauled by
this pig. “Now I want you to fight. Now that I got you where I want
you. Go ahead, pig. Fight me.”

To her surprise, Skinny started screaming.
Bad Breath was saying “What the—” but she was too fast. Skinny’s
grip loosened and she was ready. She grabbed the Glock, turned and
fired without checking to see if a round was chambered.

There was one. Bad Breath’s face exploded in
on itself, and she closed her eyes as warm liquid and bits of other
shit rained down on her face. He was heavy, though. She had a hell
of a time rolling him off, and as she did there was another shot.
She knew it was from her Pony, and she heard Earp yelp as Skinny
started swearing and cursing.

“Fucking dog, man! I thought the fucking dog
ran away?”

She didn’t hesitate standing up and turning,
aiming, then taking out Skinny. A splash of red hit the wall behind
him and he crumpled to the floor. She’d taken out the two that had
been the immediate threat, but the third quiet guy was still there.
She was a half second too slow turning his way, and before she
could bring up the Glock he pistol-whipped her with her own
Pony.

Jesus, she actually saw stars. It rattled her
teeth and shook her skull right to the base of her spine. It was
the open bedroom door that stopped her spin. She hit it with both
hands and bounced into the hall, hitting her knees hard. Blood was
in her mouth, and the Glock was long gone.

Protect the baby, protect the baby
,
her brain was chanting, but the best she could do was crawl. She
was nearly to the living room when the boots of the quiet guy
caught up with her, one of them shoving hard into her ass, sending
her sprawling onto her face. There was nothing out here to protect
herself with, but her brain was cataloguing her furniture and
accessories anyway. She hated knick knacks. There was no need for a
fucking decorative Samurai sword in her home, either.

With a delayed pain in her ribs, Sharon was
suddenly on her back, realizing he’d kicked her over. She clutched
her side, giving out a piteous cry.
Not the baby, Christ. Not
the baby, please.

She was in such panic, such worry, she
completely missed the man leaning over her. He didn’t have her full
attention until he pulled her up by the hair and sucker-punched her
left cheekbone.

Fritter nodded, surveying the Rebel Circus
paint job that had been completed late the night before. Some of
the sweetbutts had put in a work bee, and it looked really fucking
good. Rose’s vision had been for the club to look like a travelling
freak show, circus type tent. The walls were wide stripes of a
deep, brick red and a yellowed, antique white. With the specific
lighting Rose wanted, he had to admit the place would look cool.
She even let him help pick the waitress uniforms, and they were red
sequined, trapeze-artist style one piece dealies, paired with
fishnet stockings. Miniature black sequined top hats at a jaunty
angle and matching bowties were also in the plans. They’d be
fucking hot, not that he was going to be spending a lot of time
there. Not with a baby coming.

He fought back a grin at the thought. Here he
was, finally a grown up.

The flooring was the same red as the wall,
just vinyl tiles for easy maintenance. The stages were rimmed with
old-style footlights, and the floor of it was glossy black as
usual. The poles and fixtures were brass. The back wall of the main
stage was that long, shiny, red tinsel for an old school Vegas
look. Once the final details were handled, like the light plates
and the final fixtures on the bar, they’d be ready to launch.

He slid a hand along the wall where he knew
there’d been a drywall seam, but he couldn’t feel anything that
confirmed it. It was perfect.

“Jesus Fritter, where the fuck have you
been?”

At Buck’s voice he turned to the door,
frowning. “What? I’m right here.”

“Check your fucking phone!”

“It died. It’s charging in my room. What the
fuck?”

“We gotta go. Sharon’s at the hospital.”

His stomach dropped and he was moving to the
door. “What the fuck happened?”

“When’d you get back?” Buck asked at the same
time.

“Ten minutes ago. I stopped in to check the
paint.” He’d done a two-man pot drop with Tank and that’s when his
cell phone bought the farm.

“We’ve been freaking out. Tiny got a call at
the clubhouse, Sharon said there was someone outside the
house.”

“What?”

“Four men. Tiny got there and she was in the
living room. The fucking house was on fire, they started it in the
bedroom. He got her out, realized how serious it was and called the
cops and the fire department.”

He was starting to hyperventilate as he
headed for his Harley. “Fuck. What happened to her?”

“Tiny only got a bit of information out of
her. She’s hurt pretty bad, Fritter.” Buck grabbed him by the
elbow. “Take a moment, take a breath, man. Don’t ride like
this.”

Fritter was nodding, making himself try to
mellow out but he couldn’t. She was at the hospital, which meant it
was really fucking bad. And they lit her house on fire, which meant
they wanted her fucking dead. He wasn’t calming down until he got
to see her.

“We’re only a few moments behind them,” Buck
continued, handing him his helmet. “Tiny said the doctors are being
really thorough, she might have taken a bit of damage to her
stomach. And there’s something to do with her jaw. I think it’s
broken.”

“Jesus Buck,” he barked, swinging a leg over
the bike.

“My point is no matter how fast we get there,
she’ll be in an examining room and we won’t change much for her. So
take your time and get there in one piece.”

Fritter was nodding as he fired up the Dyna,
and he was off in a spray of dust and fine gravel from the compound
parking lot. His back tire slid a bit but he righted himself and
hit the street already doing the limit.

He hated the Markham Medical Center. They
spent way too much time there as it was, and his woman being
operated on in that stone and glass monster of a building made it
even uglier. And it was a big, sprawling two-level which meant he
was walking forever until he was anywhere near where Sharon
was.

He found Tiny before he realized they were in
the right place. The guy looked massive in this low-ceilinged ward,
his wide shoulders and one foot against the wall, staring the
opposite way, hands hooked on his belt loops. At their approach he
turned and pushed off of the wall. Fritter would never forget the
look on his face.

Tiny wasn’t the guy that kissed a woman’s ass
just because she was a brother’s old lady. If anything, he avoided
interacting. Not that he hated them, he just had no use for a woman
he couldn’t fuck. That being said, Fritter had seen Tiny worried
about Trinny when she took a shotgun blast, and he had the same
look on his face now.

It made Fritter’s knees almost give out.

“What? Tell me.” was all he demanded.

“I got there, she was on the floor, almost
unconscious. Jesus man, someone beat the shit out of her. She was
already swelling up, and her jaw was dislocated. She tried to talk
to me, but I could tell it was hurting her. Then she pointed down
the hall, and that’s when I could smell the smoke. She was mumbling
about a dog or some shit but the bedroom was already blazing. I
picked her up and got her the fuck out of there.”

Fritter had to lean on the wall, and Buck had
hold of his shoulder.

“I called the cops, an ambulance, and the
fire department. There was no one left alive, but I saw a few
interesting things before I had to get out.”

Fritter frowned, his stomach doing an
interesting elevator impression. “What?”

“Dead guy in the kitchen, two more in the
bedroom.” Tiny shook his head. “She fucking took out three of them,
man. That is one tough bitch.”

“Was she ... did they ...” he couldn’t even
bring himself to say the word.

“Her shirt was torn open, but her pants were
on. I think they lost interest when she started killing
people.”

Fritter cleared his throat. “Fuck, I gotta
see her.”

“In time,” Tiny said, voice surprisingly
soft. “She’s in the place she needs to be right now. Let them set
her right, clean her up. Give her some time to rest. She’s really
fucking hurt, man.”

“What about the baby?” His heart stopped,
waiting for Tiny’s answer like it would grant his ability to
breathe.