Total pages in book: 54
Estimated words: 50653 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 253(@200wpm)___ 203(@250wpm)___ 169(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 50653 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 253(@200wpm)___ 203(@250wpm)___ 169(@300wpm)
“I suggest you leave if you want to keep breathing,” Callan says with such calm that it’s unnerving. He shows zero fear in the face of danger, but there’s enough coursing through me for the pair of us.
The man is unstable. His eyes flit to Callan and the patch on his chest. “Fuck. Fuck.” He jerks the gun.
“Just walk away, man,” Cutter warns, his hand inching toward the knife sheathed at his hip.
“Shut up,” Winslow roars swinging his gaze to Cutter but keeping the gun aimed at Callan.
“I need to do something,” I whisper to Kitty. She shakes her head no, tightening her grip on me, but fuck this. This guy’s going to kill Callan out of fear, then we’ll all be next. No witnesses. Grabbing the empty bottle of beer discarded on the table, I move fast, pulling myself free from Kitty and leaping out of the seat. Winslow’s body begins to turn, and the room blurs with movement from all directions.
I crash the bottle over his head, and gunshots ring out, piercing the air. Noise and chaos explode. Callan grabs the man’s wrist, rotating his body away from me. A glint of metal passes by my face as Callan pins Winslow’s arm to the bar and stabs a blade through his palm.
A gut-wrenching screech hollers from the man’s lips, shock and pain blanching his features. Blood oozes around the blade. His other arm goes limp with the gun still in his grip. Instinctively I snatch the gun away, moving back out of reach. I clench my eyes shut to stop the spinning. Echoes of gunfire ring in my ears, drowning out the sound of my racing heart. I turn to Callan, franticly searching his body for injury.
He palms my cheeks, bringing my eyes to his. “Are you okay?”
With trembling lips, I manage to say, “Yes.” My head bobbing like a dashboard toy. Taking the gun from me, he aims it at Winslow, who is desperately trying to free the knife from his hand and failing.
“Cover your ears,” he tells me before he checks that the gun is loaded and aims at Winslow’s leg before he shoots. The blast splinters the wood of the bar and shatters Winslow’s kneecap. Blood and chunks of flesh mixed with shards of wood burst through the air, splashing up my feet.
Sobbing, the man clings to the bar, his bottom leg completely detached from the top. The knife holding him hostage slices through skin and bone as his weight sags. “You should have left when you had the chance,” Callan taunts. A crimson puddle forming around his boots.
“Callan!” Kitty bellows, jerking our attention to her. She’s on the floor with Cutter in her lap, her hands covering his stomach as blood seeps through her fingers.
“He’s shot! Help me!”
CHAPTER 12
DEATH WISH
Dropping to my knees in front of Kitty, I try to move her hands away to look at the wound, but she’s strong. “Let me see.” My head spins as movement from the door catches my attention. The pistol guy is propped up against the door with a knife in his chest.
“Cutter threw his blade at him, but he got a shot off before it hit its target.” Kitty jerks her head between Cutter and the pistol guy.
“That’s a cop’s son,” Winslow calls out, his words a gurgled shriek. His shrill cries send chills down my spine.
“We need to get him to a hospital.” Kitty ignores the new information and focuses on Cutter. His breathing is raspy. His eyes flutter.
“No,” Callan and Cutter bark in unison. “Bullet wounds—they have to report them to the police.”
“Fuck that, Callan. He’ll die!” Kitty shrieks, her eyes blazing. Blood oozes from the wound, squelching against her fingers.
Snapping my fingers in front of her face to focus her attention, I say, “I can help him. Let me see.” My tone confident despite my heart racing and mind fighting to make sense of what’s happening. Prying her fingers away from his stomach, I lift his shirt. The circular hole weeps a scarlet river. My fingers feel around to his back. “No exit wound.”
“Fuck,” Callan growls. He runs his hand through his hair, pacing next to us.
“What does that mean?” Kitty pleads, tears leaking from her eyes. Cutter strains to reach up to wipe them, but his hand falls away and he winces in pain.
My mouth dries, my tongue sticking to my teeth. I attempt to keep the wobble from my voice. “Means the bullet is inside him. We need to see where it is.” I look to Callan, attempting to convey with my eyes the seriousness of the situation. “Now,” I mouth only to him.
“We have the equipment at the club.” He nods. “Call the doc and get the car as close to the door as possible.”
“Tim drove us,” she stutters, her chin trembling.