Protect (47 page)

There’s no panache in a battle of blades.
These weren’t swords; they were short knives that meant you had to
be close. Once he’d deflected the guy’s arm a couple times, unable
to pin him the way he had that kid, he felt calmer. More in
control. This guy wasn’t better at this than he was, they were
around the same age. One thing Fritter knew for sure was that he
was a lot fucking stronger. He could tell by the blows that were
bouncing off his forearms. He barely felt them. This guy moved a
foot each time Fritter held back a thrust.

Fritter decided to try something dirty, but
whatever. There was no honor with these bastards, and anyone who
kept up decorum was just going to get dead. The next time he was
close Fritter saw how his eyes stayed on Fritter’s blade.

So Fritter head-butted him in the nose.

Never saw it coming. He dropped to both
knees, knife down, hands covering his face. Fritter came closer and
the guy recovered quickly, though. Had to give credit where it’s
due. He scrambled for the knife he’d lost but when he looked down
for it Fritter gave him a boot to the head.

Now back to looking for Jayce. Tank was busy
with a Rat, Knuckles was shouting but with one look he saw it
wasn’t pain. He was giving a war cry as a Rat lay cowering in front
of him, short handle of a blade jutting out of his shoulder. That
Rat seemed to be more hurt than a simple stab in the shoulder.

Jayce.
Where the fuck was—

Fritter found him, locked in a battle of
fists with Hawk. Fritter could see a few Red Rebels were hurt, but
it seemed their numbers on their feet were holding steady as he saw
more and more Dirty Rats drop and roll on the ground with injury.
He didn’t know if they were sanctioned to kill, he just wanted to
make sure they were down and no longer a problem.

Like he expected, Hawk was a wiry, quick
bastard. Jayce saw a lot of the fists coming and managed to avoid a
serious hit but he was still taking blows. At least he was giving
as good as he got, but Fritter saw that his President was tiring.
And Hawk, due to unknown chemical influence, seemed to be just
warming up.

He closed in and when he was ten yards out
another Rat was approaching the fight, behind Jayce. Fritter didn’t
shout, didn’t want to risk distracting his brother, so he just took
off at a hard sprint. When he saw the glint of metal he pumped his
legs harder, and even though the bearded Dirty Rat saw him coming
the fucker still seemed to be surprised that Fritter tackled him
around the waist and took them both tumbling to the gravel.

Dust flew, and even though he’d kept his eyes
shut he had grit in the way when he opened them again. It was in
his mouth and on his face, but his first concern was that
knife.

No need to worry. It was arcing right for
him. He barely ducked and might have got a bit of a haircut, but he
delivered a hard shot to the man’s exposed kidney-region that
wrought a deep grunt of pain. Fritter’s knife was gone, in the dirt
somewhere. He rolled to his feet and the Rat tried to tackle him as
well but Fritter braced and absorbed the momentum while pushing the
arm with the blade out to the side as far as he could while using
his other arm to bring the man into a hard hug, trying for broken
ribs if he could.

His grip on the man’s wrist was brutal. He
was grunting, breathing hard, all his attention on the knife like a
weapon made him invincible.

Second head-butt of the morning, and this one
made Fritter blink a bit harder and stumble back on one foot. But
his opponent fell like a sack of laundry, dropping the knife and
saying goodnight.

Tank was there, helping Jayce up while
smiling and slapping the Prez on the back. Knuckles was fucking
skipping
through the gravel lot, around the writhing bodies,
stopping here and there to stomp on a hand or kick someone in the
face.

Fritter was already counting. One Red Rebel
was down somewhere. Spaz was approaching them, blood streaming from
his nose and the patches under his eyes already starting to turn
black, but he was smiling, too.

Knuckles had taken a few rounds to the mug as
well, but he thought he was otherwise unhurt. Tank’s shirt was
torn, some blood on his cheek that must have belonged to someone
else but he seemed uncut. The Nomads were helping up one of their
own who seemed woozy but at least they seemed whole.

Fritter stepped to Jayce’s side as his Prez
stared down at Hawk, who was on his knees in a posture of defeat.
He listened to his Prez’s words Fritter felt cold acceptance and
just the start of fear.

“The Dirty Rats are not going to be welcome
in Markham. I smell your fucking stench and I’ll start looking for
someone to kill. And that goes for your Mazari friends, too. Your
pills? That shit ain’t welcome, either. I know where your runs go,
and I know where it’s headed once it clears Mexico. You make sure
that route stays the fuck away from my town. I don’t want a cut, I
don’t want your money, I don’t want your products. I just want you
as fucking far away as you can be.” Jayce crouched down and
bitch-slapped Hawk, who looked pissed but had the sense to stay
silent. “You get the idea to threaten my people or their families,
it’ll be the last thought you have. Spread that word wide.”

Hawk kept glaring, pausing only to lean
forward and spit up blood. Unaffected, Jayce straightened and
snapped his fingers, just like that. So fucking cool.

“There he is,” Hawk growled, giving something
that sounded like a smile.

“Shut up,” Tank rumbled, but Jayce stopped to
look down at the beaten President.

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

Hawk smirked at Jayce. “Mad Dog. He is in
there a little bit, isn’t he?”

It was a bait but Jayce ignored it. He’d
never take any similarities to his father as a compliment and it
hadn’t meant to be one. They made their way to the Red Rebels’ side
of the site, and Fritter caught sight of Tims propping up Buck as
he limped.

“You alright? What happened?”

Buck shook his head, wincing as he paused to
lean on the side of the van as Tims stepped away to let him stand
alone. “Fucker kicked me in the knee. It’s a bit wrenched out of
place. Hurts like a bitch.”

“You and Fritter take the van,” Tiny said,
showing up out of nowhere, hand over his ribs as he winced from
talking. “I’ll take your bike back.”

“You okay to ride?” Fritter asked, pointing
to the side he was favoring.

“I think they’re just bruised. Hurts like a
bitch to breathe, but the knee must really fucking hurt.”

“I hope it’s a quick heal,” Buck muttered,
hopping to the passenger side of the van. “Gertie’ll kick my ass if
I can’t help out with the kid.”

“Wait up,” Tiny grumbled, taking his hand off
his side and grabbing Fritter. “You’re leaking, kid.”

Fritter looked down where Tiny was pulling
his kutte away from his side. At the movement the air stirred up
and he felt the cold wet running down his side. His shirt was a
light gray, the blood showing up nice and bright. “Shit,” he
muttered, tugging the hem of his shirt up.

Tiny leaned over, letting out a low whistle.
“We better try to get Buck’s bike in the van. Neither of you can
drive.”

“What? It’s fine,” Fritter insisted, twisting
to see what was the big deal. There was a sharp sting of pain, then
he saw something white and the next thing he knew it was sleepy
time.

The brunch spread Rose had been able to
command was impressive. She had to admit at home the thought of a
meal prepared by sweet butts had not been appealing, but once the
smell filled the clubhouse Sharon had to admit it was
brilliant.

A pan of scrambled eggs, curled up bacon,
hash browns and toast. Divine.

She ate far too much and was about to fall
into a food coma when someone, one of the Nomads, turned on the
radio.

It would have been nice to pretend the
election wasn’t happening. But it was on the news and they all
seemed interested in it, even as they cast her a look of
apology.

Rather than listen to the rhetoric she
returned to Fritter’s ground-level dorm and locked herself
away.

His belongings gave her no clues to his
personality, but she honestly felt they were beyond her needing
clues. She knew him, felt it in her heart that she had him somewhat
figured out, so the nudie posters tacked to the walls and ceiling
and the bike calendar only made her grin.

The attached washroom was quite clean as
well, if not a bit aged and worn. Definitely better than most
bachelors had it. And the bed had been made up with fresh bedding
when they arrived the night before. The room smelled of fabric
softener.

She pulled the covers back and was had one
knee planted to slide in when there was a knock at the door.

Sharon hesitated, then answered the knock
assuming it was Rose or Gertie.

It wasn’t. It was Melody Horton.

Sharon froze with the door tucked to her
side, mouth open to inquire what was needed, and the woman just
looked back at her. Fritter’s mother gave her an up and down, then
she broke out in a wide, impulsive grin that Sharon had no choice
but to return.

That was Fritter’s smile, too.

“You’re having his baby?”

Sharon swallowed, smile faltering a little.
“Um, yes. I am.”

Ms. Horton nodded, eyes getting a strange
softness to them. “He’s kind of a fuck up at times, but I love
him.”

Sharon’s grip tightened on the door knob.

“I know you’re a good woman, Sheriff. But I
also know I raised a good boy. He’s responsible, no matter how he
may act sometimes. He doesn’t make mountains out of mole hills, but
he knows when to take his shit seriously if it warrants it.” She
took a deep breath, and Sharon realized her eyes were filling. “I
never thought I’d have grandchildren. Not ones I knew about anyway.
I just want to beg you to give him the chance to be that baby’s
father.”

Sharon had to smile again. “Ms. Horton—”

“Melody, please.”

“Melody. Against my better judgment, I intend
to stay in Markham and have his baby be a part of Mark’s life. And
if he’ll have me, I’d like to be with him, too.”

Melody beamed. “Oh, thank God. I thought
you’d be running for the hills.”

Sharon had to laugh, then she went back on
one foot as the woman threw herself into Sharon’s arms, wrapping
her arms around her back. It took her a minute to get over her
surprise and hug Melody back.

“And I’m sorry,” Melody went on, rubbing her
back before stepping away. “Mark had a huge head.”

Sharon frowned. “I’m sorry?”

“His head was huge when he was born. My OBGYN
said she’d never seen such a tear. I hope smaller heads run in your
family.”

Fighting back the urge to squirm Sharon
forced a smile. “I honestly don’t remember Brayden’s head being
that big.”

“Let’s hope that holds true for this one.”
She gestured to Sharon’s tummy then wiped her eyes. “Alright. I’ll
go get some breakfast, leave you to your own company.”

“Oh, I just need a nap. I’m so tired these
days.”

“Of course, of course you are. Have a good
rest, my dear.” Then she was gone, sniffling and heading across the
parking lot to the clubhouse.

She was laughing softly to herself as she
shut the door and headed back for the bed, then felt the call of
nature. Again. Lovely. The bladder shrinkage had begun.

Still smiling when she was washing her hands,
it took a full three seconds to place the noises suddenly wafting
from not so far away. Broken glass, crashing, screaming, proceeded
by loud, dangerous-sounding staccato percussion.

Never in her life had she come under
automatic weapon fire, but that didn’t mean she didn’t recognize it
when she heard it.

She ducked first, squatting in place.
However, this side of the lot was technically “around the block”
from the clubhouse, and the shooting didn’t seem to come this
way.

Then she was running; diving and skidding on
the worn vinyl tile flooring in her sock feet, wrenching the side
table drawer open as she fell to her one ass cheek. Her new Colt
was waiting, loaded and ready. Just like Fritter told her to
do.

She threw the door open, racing out into the
open and heading for the clubhouse doors. Through the portal she
heard moaning and shrieking. Once inside, eyes adapting, she only
saw two Nomads, and she cursed.

Please don’t let this be a trap
, she
chanted mentally while stooping next to a curvy blonde not overly
dressed. There was blood all over her bright yellow tube top.
Sharon pressed fingers to the side of her neck. Nothing, the girl’s
eyes stared upward. She was already gone.

The two Nomads looked to be hit, but not
terribly wounded. One must have been grazed at the neck. He had a
cloth already pressed to it, standing in the doorway, keeping an
eye out. The other one was checking the pulse of a man Sharon
didn’t know, and she realized he had a kutte on. He must have been
Nomad, too. The breathing one looked at her and shook his head.

She approached him briskly. “Where’s the rest
of your group?”

“Headed out after the shooters.”

“What if there are more out there? What if
this was just to pull most of you out of the building?” she
snapped, pulling the guy in the door back inside and shoving both
sides shut. “Block the door. Stand up the couches and put them in
front of the windows that have been busted open. I’m taking
everyone else into the back.”

“You’re not allowed back there,” the one with
the bleeding neck said.

She planted her feet and raised her chin.
“This is a tin building lined with drywall. Back there the walls
are cinderblock. These guys had automatic weapons. Which do you
think is safer?”

He backed off, and him and his pal headed for
a sofa immediately, standing it on end. Sharon gave her best wolf
whistle. “All right everyone, we’re heading to the back. Thicker
walls. If you can walk, get going. If you can help an injured
person, do it. Let’s go.”