Midnight Phantoms MC

Cruz The night reeked of sweat, gunpowder, and nerves. My personal favorites. I stood with my arms crossed, watching the deal go down under the busted streetlights behind the old freight yard. This wasn’t supposed to be complicated. Quick cash, quick handshake, move on. We’d done it a hundred times before. The other side — two twitchy assholes with knockoff jackets and shifty eyes — were doing exactly what I hated. Fidgeting. Whispering. Looking everywhere but at me. Bad sign. Real bad. I shifted my weight, feeling the Glock heavy at my hip. On my left, Riot, my second-in-command, cracked his knuckles loud enough to echo off the shipping containers. We weren’t amateurs. We weren’t here to play games. But amateurs liked to think they could outgun the devil if they got scared enough. The older guy handed me the duffel bag — thin, too light. I didn’t even have to open it to know they were short. "You fuckin' serious?" I said, my voice low and steady. The kid behind him — couldn’t have been more than twenty — started twitching harder. I caught the way his hand hovered near his waistband. I sighed. "Don't." But he already had the piece out. Everything exploded at once. Gunfire tore through the night. Riot shoved me hard out of the way, but not fast enough. Pain bloomed in my shoulder like someone took a red-hot poker and rammed it in. Motherfucker. I went down on one knee, vision sparking. Around me, my boys lit the place up — no hesitation, no mercy. By the time I staggered upright again, both wannabe gangsters were face-down in the dirt, their blood painting the cracked concrete. "Jesus, Cruz," Riot barked, hauling me up by the good arm. "You good?" "Peachy," I grunted, fighting the darkness creeping at the edges of my vision. My shirt was already soaked. Warm blood ran down my arm, dripping from my fingertips. "Truck," I managed. "No s**t," Riot snapped. He practically threw me into the passenger side of his beat-up Ford. I slumped against the door, biting back a groan as the bullet ground deeper into the muscle. We tore out of there, tires screaming. Halfway to town, Riot muttered, "Hospital?" "ER," I said, jaw tight. "No questions." He nodded, grim-faced. South Bay was the only place open past midnight that wouldn’t automatically call the cops over a GSW if you had the right attitude. I could already picture the nurses — tired, overworked, over it. Good. I didn’t need questions. I needed someone to dig this bullet out and patch me up. We rolled up hard and fast to the ambulance bay. Riot yanked the truck into park, jumped out, and opened my door. "You sure about this?" he asked. "Just get me in," I said. He grabbed my good arm and slung it over his shoulder, half-dragging me through the automatic doors. Bright lights stabbed my eyes. The whole place smelled like antiseptic and cheap f*****g coffee. The nurse at the desk looked up, her expression flattening immediately. Another body, another problem. "Gunshot wound," Riot barked. "Name?" she asked, deadpan. "Santa Claus," Riot said, dropping me into the nearest wheelchair like a sack of rocks. "Merry fuckin' Christmas." And with that, he was gone — bolting back to the truck, tires squealing again as he peeled out of the lot. Standard operating procedure. Less questions if nobody stuck around. I slumped back in the chair, blood still dripping steadily, soaking the white of the seat under me. Someone was yelling across the ER about a car crash. A kid was sobbing somewhere nearby. An old man was arguing with a nurse about his meds. Chaos everywhere. I barely felt the pain anymore. Just a deep, pulsing throb and a heavy fog threatening to drag me under. Then she showed up. Blonde. Curvy. Blue scrubs and a fierce scowl. She moved toward me like she was ready to fight — or maybe throw me out herself. Hard to tell. Either way, she looked like trouble, and I found myself sitting up a little straighter. "You’re my problem now?" she asked, voice sharp. "Looks like it, mi reina," I muttered, giving her the ghost of a grin. She rolled her eyes so hard I thought she might hurt herself. Good. I liked them feisty. "Come on, tough guy," she said, grabbing the handles of the chair and wheeling me toward the back. "Let’s get that bullet out of you before you bleed all over my ER." For the first time since the night went to hell, I felt something close to a laugh bubble up. Maybe getting shot wasn’t the worst thing that happened to me tonight.