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  “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.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  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.

  “No word. I don’t know, man. I told them she was pregnant. They let me ride in the ambulance with her. The whole fucking sheriff’s department is at her house right now, waiting for the fire department to clear them to go in. They told me to stay here. They’re coming for my statement.” He cleared his throat. “They want to talk to you, too.”

  Fritter frowned. “What? Me?”

  “They always interview the spouse, boyfriend, lover, whatever,” Buck said, squeezing the shoulder he was still holding. “To rule you out as a suspect.”

  Fritter eyed up the man beside him. “And how the fuck do I prove that? I was handing off pot to a wholesale dealer with Tank.”

  “She’ll tell them it wasn’t you,” Tiny pointed out, refreshingly smart. “Until then, they’ll want to keep an eye on you.”

  “Fuck me.” With a sigh he let his head hit the wall beside him, eyes closing.

  “What do you need us to do?” Buck asked. “Call her family? They should know.”

  Fritter nodded. “Yeah, we should do that. Her parents should know. Her kid.”

  “Let’s look up the numbers. You want me to do that, you can call?”

  Fritter nodded, then spat out, “Fuck! I don’t know her folks!”

  “None of us do. But you gotta tell them about this and the baby.”

  He was right, so he nodded and Buck went off to hunt down the phone numbers he needed. He’d likely call Spaz to find them. He was just contemplating what a grownup he was. This was the shit grownups did.

  Tiny pulled him to a waiting area, a lot like the one where’d they’d been while Gertie had been having David Junior. It was quieter though, and the TV was turned off. People talked softer here and the rooms around the square arrangement of vinyl-covered furniture all had their doors closed.

  Tiny’s presence at his side was strangely comforting. Other than an appreciation for fucking, he had not a lot in common with the man.

  “I hope the baby’s okay,” Tiny mumbled, surprising the shit out of Fritter.

  “What?”

  “Your baby,” Tiny repeated, rubbing the back of his neck and furrowing his brow. “I wish I’d caught the fuck that did that to her. I mean, they probably didn’t know she was pregnant but ... Fuck. I hope the kid’s okay.”

  Fritter stared at the flooring between his feet. “Me too, man.”

  “Being a dad changes everything,” Tiny went on, like Fritter hadn’t spoken. “But it changes it for the better.”

  Fritter frowned. Tiny never said a lot about his past. All he knew was that the man’s parents were really old when they had him, and they still lived in his hometown. His mom was starting to slip into dementia from the sounds of it, and he’d heard talk of Tiny having a woman and a kid when he was much younger but the guy never spoke of them. It all pointed to a really sad story so Fritter had resolved to never bring it up.

  Until right then.

  “You have a kid out there?”

  Tiny cleared his throat and stared at the wall. “No. Had one. Don’t anymore.”

  The tone suggested that was all the guy was going to say about that, so Fritter nodded and left it at that. Luckily Buck came back with a text from Spaz. It was Brayden’s number, so Fritter called that one first.

  Predictably, the kid was freaked. He said he’d get his stepmom to drive him to Markham since his father was still suffering from limited mobility. Fritter decided to drop the bomb about the baby once they were at the hospital. But then Spaz had come through with her parents number.

  Fuck. He had no idea how to handle this.

  Once the phone was ringing it was too late to back out, though. A woman answered after three rings and he began by clearing his throat like a moron.

  “Sorry about that. Umm ... Missus Downey?”

  “Yes?”

  “You’re Sharon’s mom?”

 
Pause. “Yes, I am. Who is this?”

  “My name’s Fritter—um, Mark Horton. I’m a friend of your daughter’s in Markham.” That’s when he ran out of road map. Fuck, this was terrifying.

  “Hello? Is anything wrong?”

  He rubbed his forehead, cringing as he answered. “She’s been hurt. Um, she’s being examined right now.”

  “Oh goodness. Was it a traffic accident?”

  “Um, no. She was at home and some men got in. She’s ... her jaw is being fixed. They beat her up pretty bad.”

  No answer and he dropped his hand from his head.

  “Hello? Missus Downey?”

  “I—I’m on my way. She’s at the hospital in Markham?”

  “Yes ma’am. Will your husband be coming as well?”

  “Yes, we’ll come together. Sharon’s brother just arrived as well.”

  That surprised him. He wasn’t sure he knew she had a brother.

  “Good. We’ll see you when you get here then.” Then he winced. That sounded fucking smart.

  “Sorry, Mark?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Are you ... are you her young man?”

  He wasn’t sure how to take that, either. But lying wasn’t a great idea given the circumstances. “Um, yes ma’am. I suppose I am.”

  There was another pause. “I look forward to meeting you.” That sounded like a lie.

  “And I look forward to meeting you, ma’am.”

  “We’ll see you shortly, Mark.”

  He hung up the phone and let out a long breath as he disconnected the call. “Well that was fucking painful.”

  Buck sat on his opposite side and took back his cell. “We got your back. Just remember that you’re going to be dropping a few shocks on her folks all at once. You gotta let them take that however they can.”

  “Fuck man, I can’t do this.”

  “You can and you will, because Sharon needs you to.” That from Tiny of all people.

  Fritter frowned. “First Knuckles now you. All this sage advice coming out of the woodwork.”

  “Fuck Knuckles,” Tiny muttered. “I’m pointing out the fact there’s a kid on the way. You can’t run from that shit.”