Page 66 of Mischief Mayhem
“Y’all are good together. I’m happy for you, Hollywood. Truly.”
I wouldn’t let her keep me at arm’s length. What we had was too good for that. Assuming, of course, that I made it home. Something about this run didn’t feel right, and it had nothing to do with the cartel or the arms we’d just picked up. It ached like a glass splinter, like I knew it was there, but I couldn’t find it no matter what I tried.
“All right,” Slip said, turning to us and circling his finger in the air, indicating we should round up to head out. I mounted my bike and kicked it to life, following Slip and KC when they led the way down the road. Picasso followed in the truck with the trailer behind him, the rest of my brothers bringing up the rear.
Twenty minutes into the trip home, tension flared in my chest again, like I should know better than to be here instead of with V, but I couldn’t put my finger on why.
It’s just another run, I told myself. Nothing to worry about.
That shitty affirmation did not stop me from checking over my shoulder every ten minutes to make sure we weren’t being followed. The guys in the back would handle it if we were, but still, my suspicion ached like a phantom limb.
Another two hours went by, and once we got into Virginia, Slip took us off the main highway and led us the back way. I figured it was because we were carrying extra accessories. We’d just turned onto a winding country road when my stomach sank into my knees. Up ahead, dark SUVs blocked the path, causing our group to slow to a stop. I glanced behind us only to see more vehicles pull out of the woods to keep us from backing up.
I grabbed my pistol and unholstered it, holding it out as the doors to the Range Rovers in front of us opened. I knew we were fucked when expensive loafers hit the ground and I heard Slip’s voice in the headset of my helmet.
“It’s the Caputis. Everyone remain calm,” he said, dismounting his bike.
KC glanced at me from the side, his eyes wide with growing panic. The men got out of the SUVs behind us, at least twenty to our mere six.
“We’re fucked,” Lore murmured, knowing everyone would pick it up in their earpieces.
“Stay calm,” Picasso repeated from the truck. “If anything happens, leave the guns and fucking scatter. We’ll regroup back at the clubhouse.”
“What the fuck is this?” Slip said, walking up to the eight Caputis in front of him like his life wasn’t literally on the line. “Y’all got a death wish?”
One of the taller Caputis walked forward, a smirk on his face like Slip had said the funniest thing in the world.
“Heard you made a deal with our good buddy, Rico.” The Caputi shifted his shoulders, making the gaudy jewelry on his neck gleam in the afternoon sun. “We couldn’t let that stand.”
“Sounds like you got a problem with Rico, not us.” Slip pointed at the Range Rovers. “Now move your shit so we can get through.”
“Can’t do that,” the Caputi replied, pushing his coat jacket back to reveal the guns strapped to either side.
Shit, this is bad. This is really bad.
“What are you going to do with that, huh? Shoot all of us right here in broad daylight?” Slip shook his head. “You really are some dumb mother?—”
He never got the word out. One of the other Caputis pulled their gun and fired it at Slip’s head, exploding through his skull and out the other side. He dropped like a bag of bricks, and all hell broke loose.
Shock coiled through my veins, scalding hot and angry. I fired two rounds into the Caputi that shot the road captain as KC went on the attack next to me, the sounds of his firing gun nearly deafening the ear on that side of my head. Despite Picasso’s plan, I kept shooting, trying to take down as many of these fuckers as I could. A burning blast nailed me in the chest, making me stumble back, but I ignored it, choosing instead to keep firing until my clip ran empty.
“Fuck!” came the shout from next to me, and KC went down on his right, holding his leg as a bright crimson spot spread over his jeans.
“Fuck, no, no, no.” Dismissing the ache in the center of my chest, I rounded our bikes and rushed to his side, grabbing him by the cut so I could drag him out of the center of the chaos.
“Let me see,” I said, glancing down at his thigh. The bullet appeared to have gone clean through, but KC couldn’t walk like this. I whipped my belt off my jeans and wrapped it around his leg, pulling it so tight he groaned.
“Fuck, Hollywood!” he growled. “Leave me be.” His bloody hands grabbed my shirt, hauling me in close. “Go. Get our girls. Make sure they’re safe.”
“Shut the fuck up,” I said. “I’m not leaving you.”
KC winced and wiped at my chest, coming away with fresh blood on his fingers. “Fuck, man. Are you . . .” He dropped his gaze to my shirt, and when I followed his line of sight, I realized I’d been shot. Again.
“Fuck.” I pulled my neckline away to see a huge dent in the padlock V had just put on me last night. But that only distracted from the flesh wound on my ribs. Luckily, it was nothing more than a cut, but it looked deep enough to need stitches, and it still fucking hurt.
I tried to push to my feet, only to collapse under the weight of my own massive form. Fuck, the bullet had probably broken a rib, too.
Slip was still in the middle of the fray, clearly dead, and Picasso was slumped over the steering wheel of the truck. Lore lay on his back up against the trailer, both arms out straight in front of him, his pistols in hand while he stared down the Caputis surrounding him. I couldn’t see Coins from my position on this side of the trailer, but judging by the way his bike flopped on its side, I assumed he had also ducked for cover.