“Nothing to report. Everything was quiet on my side,” Tank said.
“Same here,” Gunner said.
“We’ll patrol again tomorrow,” Razor said.
Their food arrived. He ordered a greasy cheeseburger, fries, and a cup of coffee. He’d dismiss the other two after this so they could resume their other duties. Razor, meanwhile, would stick around town. Maybe he’d do another sweep on his own.
He thought about the argument he had with Nat that morning. Razor always became possessive when it came to his woman, but he also needed to remember she was no longer a victim. In just a few weeks, she’d managed to crawl out of her fragile shell.
Nat had become more confident, braver. She no longer flinched or shied away when one of Razor’s MC brothers talked to her. She even formed friendships with some of the old ladies at the clubhouse.
“I’ll foot the bill,” Razor said once everyone was done eating.
“Thanks,” Gunner said, grinning. “You know I appreciate a free lunch.”
They left the diner, and Tank placed a hand on his shoulder. “We’ll get this bastard, Razor. If he comes here, we’ll be ready for him,” Tank told him.
Razor nodded. He knew his MC bothers always had his back. Nat said she had gotten him and his MC in this mess. Maybe that was true, but Razor had also volunteered to shoulder some of her problems.
Besides, he knew the Ruthless Reapers’ truce with the Black Dogs wouldn’t hold for long. Eventually, they’d be at each other’s throats again.
“I’ll see you guys later,” he said.
He walked up to his Harley only to hear the rumble of a motorcycle engine. Razor didn’t recall asking for more men. He told King a small group would be better, so as not to alarm the locals. Maybe a couple of guys just wanted to have lunch at the diner? That would make the most sense.
Instinct made Razor reach for his gun. Tank yelled something at him, but Razor couldn’t make out his words. Was it duck?
“What did you say?” Razor stupidly yelled back at Tank.
As a motorcycle roared down the road, the rider slowed and pointed a revolver at him. He didn’t bother with a helmet. Razor whipped out his gun, but he hadn’t taken the safety off yet.
Time seemed to move in slow motion. Razor saw his killer clearly. There was no mistaking Vulture grinning at him. Then he shot him right in the chest.
Razor flew backward. White-hot agony seared up his chest. He wasn’t aware of hitting the ground, and he gasped, spitting out blood.
He heard footsteps on the pavement. Vulture fled, roaring with laughter. Gunner reached him first, quickly assessing his injuries while Tank called for an ambulance in the background. Regret filled him. If he’d stayed home with Nat today, none of this would have happened.
Razor had given her a mini lecture on safety before he left the clubhouse, and yet here he was, bleeding to death.
“I’m not dead,” Razor said in silent amazement. “The fucker missed any vital points.”
“Stop talking,” Gunner said, ripping off a large chunk of his shirt. He used that to press down on his bullet wound, staunching the injury.
“Call Nat,” Razor whispered.
His vision started to become fuzzy. Razor heard it again. Another motorcycle. He grasped Tank’s arm tightly. He had a feeling this rider wasn’t one of theirs. Was it Vulture, intending to finish the job again?
Screw that bastard. He and the others had lowered their guard after entering the diner. They shouldn’t have done that.
“He’s back,” Razor said. Talking hurt like hell. “Careful.”
Razor didn’t know what happened next because he fell unconscious.