“No,” Clara repeated, her voice sounding more like a gurgle. “He dies before me.”
Despite weaving unsteadily, she raised her weapon in Pierce’s direction. Brea tried to fire first, but Clara’s shot resounded in the air a split second sooner. Thankfully, she missed.
Brea didn’t.
The third bullet lodged in the middle of Clara’s chest. She stumbled, then crumpled to the ground, prone and unmoving.
“Pierce!” Brea cried out as she ran across the yard toward him. “Are you all right?”
“Fine. Check her first,” he barked.
Brea wanted to touch him more than anything, but the urgency in his voice reached through her trembling relief. “For what?”
“Kick the gun out of her hand, then see if she’s breathing.”
Brea did. No heartbeat. No exhalations. “I-I think she’s dead.”
Oh, God. She’d killed someone?
Behind her, someone clapped. She whirled to find Matt walking toward her. “I just caught the end of that. You did good, little thing.”
“Did I?” Now that it was over, she felt overwhelmed and dizzy. She felt like throwing up.
Yes, she had killed someone. She had aimed a gun and pulled the trigger on another human being. It was horrible. The shock. The guilt. She wanted to cry.
But what would have happened if she hadn’t?
“Catch her,” Pierce shouted.
Brea heard his voice as if through a narrowing tunnel. The edges of her vision went black. She fell back.
Matt was right there to swing her up in his arms. “You’re okay.”
“I don’t feel so good. And Pierce…”
“Take some deep breaths. He’s fine. Let’s go cut him loose.”
“Got it,” said another voice.
Matt whirled, and Brea caught sight of a tall man with a blond crew cut and a badass vibe.
“I’m Trevor,” the newcomer said with a friendly head bob as he tucked away the gun in his hand. “You must be Walker’s girl.”
She nodded. “B-Brea.”
“I’m Matt. Got a handcuff key?”
He nodded. “On it.”
Brea gripped Matt’s shirt as her head cleared. Her body shook as the adrenaline began to bleed from her veins, but she needed to get to Pierce now that she wasn’t going to faint. At least she didn’t think so. “You can put me down.”
“You sure?” Matt raised a brow at her.
She squirmed. “I need Pierce.”
“And he needs you.” Matt set her on her feet, not letting go until she proved she was steady. “He’s a lucky bastard.”
There was someone out there for Matt, but Brea swallowed back the sentiment. Her first priority was to reach the man she loved.
As she strove to keep her balance, Trevor unlocked the handcuffs. They fell away. Pierce was free.
He didn’t spare his friend even a glance. That black stare of his locked onto her, and he sprinted across the space separating them. Brea picked up her pace, too, willing her dizziness away. Her one and only thought was to reach him, touch him, be held by him.
Forever.
Tears streamed down her cheeks as she launched herself at him. Pierce caught her and held her tighter than he ever had.
Relief hit her like a two-by-four. Her legs gave out. Sobs took over.
“Shh.” He pushed her hair from her face and searched her as if he couldn’t look his fill. “You okay, baby?”
She nodded, but her tears kept falling.
Pierce was there to comfort her. “The first time you take a life is hard. I’m so sorry…”
Brea shook her head. She would recover from having to end Clara. She would never have survived if Pierce hadn’t. “I’m just grateful we’re both alive. I’m grateful you’re all right and still with me and—”
“Always, pretty girl. From now until you take your last breath, I will always be with you.”
Chapter Twelve
One-Mile rubbed his sweaty hands together, swallowed, then lifted his fist and did one of the most terrifying things in his life.
He knocked on Preacher Bell’s quaint blue front door.
If this didn’t go well, he was fucked.
Interminable moments passed before he heard footsteps across the hardwood floor, then the door swung open. The preacher stood expectantly with a blank expression. He was just shy of medium height and medium build with kind eyes and a guarded smile. One-Mile felt as if he eclipsed the man.
“Yes?”
This was it. Now or never. Make or break.
Time to find your manners, asshole. You remember those?
Blowing out a breath, he stuck out his hand. “Hi, sir. We haven’t met yet, which is a mistake I’m here to rectify. Pierce Walker.”
The instant he spoke his name, the preacher’s face closed up. The man eyed him from the collar of his leather jacket to the tattoos peeking above the buttons of his shirt and down to the hard tips of his combat boots.
Fuck. The suit that had gotten ruined last night would have gone over far better.
Reverend Bell gave his hand a cautious shake. “It’s good you came. This face-to-face is long overdue.”
“I know. I’m sorry. Since Brea is on her way home with her car—”