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 rip off my sweater and wrap it around Cutter’s body to stem the bleeding. Checking his pulse, I gently smack his cheek. “Hey asshole, look at me.”
He coughs, trying to chuckle. “You going to fix me, Princess?”
“You bet your ass I am. Then you’ll owe me twice.”
“Take my truck.” Ray throws the keys at Callan, who drops them to Kitty. They almost slide out of her hands, there’s so much blood. That’s normal for a gunshot wound, I reassure myself. I’ve seen a few. I’ve never had to doctor one, but I suppose it was bound to happen at some point.
“I don’t want to leave him.” Her face pinches, her eyes closing.
Gripping her shoulders, I force her to look at me. “He’ll be okay. Go get the truck so we can get him to the clubhouse.”
A new focus comes into her eyes. She darts to her feet and out the door. Callan goes over to the man against the door and heaves the knife from his chest. The squelch roils my stomach. Callan rips the mask from the guy’s head and grips his jaw.
“Was he lying about you being a cop’s kid?” He looks to be in his late twenties. Bags under his eyes. A scruffy beard. Greasy hair. Callan pats down his pockets and comes up empty.
Shaking his head, the guy says, “No, my dad’s a cop.” Blood soaks his entire torso. He wheezes, a death rattle in his chest. “Help me.”
“There’s no mercy for crimes against the Kings.” Without hesitation, Callan drags the blade across the man’s throat. Blood squirts like ketchup squeezed from a bottle, painting Callan’s face. He looks like a psychopath. There’s no emotion in his eyes, just black pits of hell. Without pause, Callan moves to Winslow.
“Don’t kill me, please don’t kill me,” he pleads for his life, screaming as he rips his hand through the blade to free it from the bar. I’m surprised he’s still conscious. No doubt high on adrenaline. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, please.” His body slumps to the floor, and he attempts to drag himself in the opposite direction from the killer stalking him. With almost unnatural strength, Callan stabs the blade through the side of his skull.
The thud as his head hits the floor makes me flinch. Callan retrieves a wallet from Winslow’s pocket and takes a photo of his ID. Turning to Ray, he barks, “They broke in while you were closing and turned on each other when they realized there was no safe or money.” Callan wipes down the handle of the blade and points to Cutter’s blood puddling on the wood floor. “Clean that for me before the police get here.”
“Of course. Go,” Ray demands, shooing him toward the front door.
“I’ll take his legs,” I say as Callan bends down in front of Cutter. His features soften as he inspects me. “I’m good, I promise.”
“I can stand,” Cutter croaks, his face pale, limbs sagging.
“No, you can’t. We need as little movement as possible. On three.”
“Three,” Callan says, lifting nearly all of Cutter’s weight. I struggle with his legs, almost slipping in the blood. Kitty yanks the door wide open and helps me with Cutters legs. It’s dark, and the streets are empty. We feed Cutter into the back seat of the truck pulled almost to the bar. His groans of pain make Kitty cuss.
“We’re in. Go,” I tell them, climbing in with Cutter. I squeeze in beside him and hold my hand to his stomach, putting nearly all my weight on his wound. “You’re going to be fine,” I soothe, but I’m terrified. I have no idea how bad this is.
“I called the doc. He’s in surgery.” Kitty scrubs her hands down her face, flakes of blood sticking to her skin. My heart pounds. We can’t wait. “Maybe we just go to the hospital and say it was an accident or a drive-by,” Kitty says, talking a mile a minute.
“That fucker is a cop’s kid. The bullet is probably from a cop’s gun. We can’t risk that,” Callan snaps. The way he’s driving, we’re probably going to get pulled over anyway.
“So, we risk him dying?” Kitty smacks at her brother.
“Stop it,” he bellows. “I’ll fucking crash, then we’ll all be dead.”
“We can’t let him die, Callan.” Her voice is deathly quiet.
“If we take him to hospital and he lives, he goes to jail for life—if they let it get that far. Use your fucking head, Kitty.”
“I can do it,” I shout over their noise. My legs want to flee, but my heart won’t allow it. I rub my free hand down my jeans, trying to clean some of the blood off so I can get a decent read on his pulse. It’s not strong, but not weak either.
“What?” Kitty blurts turning her body to look at me. The walls push in on us, dread drenching the air we’re breathing.