Claimed By The Three Bikers I Swore To Hate

Chapter Three

Chapter Three

The bullets just kept coming.

The thin wooden walls of this old mountain clinic were never built to handle this kind of raw violence. Plaster exploded in white, choking bursts all around us, filling the stale air with a thick, blinding dust. Jagged pieces of safety glass from the shattered front window skittered across the linoleum floor under our boots like sharp teeth biting into the dark. I stayed down flat on my hands and knees, my heart slamming so hard against my ribs that I could actually feel it hammering against my teeth. The injured underground man on the metal examination table still had not moved an inch. Dark blood was already seeping through the clean white gauze bandage I had just wrapped around his torn side. There was simply no time left to help him now.

Dante’s large hand suddenly closed hard around my upper arm and yanked me sideways with incredible, terrifying force. I stumbled hard and hit the narrow wall between the supply cabinet and the back hallway with enough velocity to knock the entire wind out of my lungs. Dante’s solid body followed me immediately, heavy and protective, pressing me firmly against the drywall to keep me out of the line of fire. One of his strong arms braced high above my head against the wood. The other arm stayed locked tight around my waist, holding me like he was the only physical barrier standing between my bare skin and the flying bullets.

I could feel everything about him all at once in the dark.

The intense, burning heat radiating off his broad chest. The hard tension running straight through the muscles of his stomach. The controlled, heavy rise and fall of his breathing right against my cheek. He smelled like worn leather, the biting cold mountain air outside, and something sharp and metallic underneath it all. My own pulse was beating like a frantic, terrified animal trying to claw its way out of my throat. Dante’s pulse was much slower and terribly steady. Somehow, that unnatural calm made the surrounding danger feel even worse.

Another loud round of gunfire stitched a straight line right across the front of the building. Something heavy and made of glass toppled over in the dark reception area, smashing into a thousand tiny pieces. Jax’s voice cut cleanly through the noise, sounding low and sharp as he called out that the side window was completely clear for now. Cole answered him from somewhere near the heavy treatment room door, keeping his voice completely calm in a way that only men who had survived real wars could ever manage.

I tried to push hard against Dante’s chest with my hands, but there was nowhere for me to go. The space between the supply cabinet and the wall was far too narrow. Every small movement I made only pressed our bodies closer together. My left arm was trapped awkwardly between us, and the ugly burn scars hidden under my long sleeve started to burn like the fire was fresh.

"Back door," Dante whispered right against my hair. It was not a question for me to answer. It was a final decision.

I nodded once in the dim light. My mouth was completely dry, and I did not have enough spit left to form words.

We moved together as a single unit through the narrow hall. Dante kept his large body angled carefully between my back and the front of the clinic the entire way. Jax laid down quick, heavy cover fire through the broken side window, firing short and controlled bursts. Cole had already hauled the unconscious underground fighter off the table and was half-dragging, half-carrying him toward the rear exit. The wounded man groaned once in his sleep and then went completely quiet again.

The heavy metal back door stuck tight for half a second, refusing to budge. Dante put his broad shoulder into it and shoved with all his weight until the metal latch gave way with a loud pop. The freezing night air rushed into the hallway. The pine trees outside smelled sharp and clean, washing away the foul stench of gunpowder and white plaster dust.

Dante’s modified black pickup truck was parked at a sharp angle right behind the clinic. Its headlights were turned completely off, but the heavy engine was already running with a low rumble. I did not ask how he managed to have it ready. There was simply no time for questions. Cole shoved the injured fighter into the dark back seat, and Jax piled in right after him, keeping his weapon raised and watching the dark tree line like a hawk. Dante shoved me gently toward the passenger side door and climbed in behind the wheel in the exact same smooth motion.

The tires spun wildly on the loose gravel, throwing stones in all directions. The truck lurched forward so hard that I had to throw a hand out to brace myself against the hard dashboard. Behind us, more heavy motorcycle engines roared back to life in the dark. Headlights cut through the pine trees, sweeping across the night. Gunfire cracked through the air again, sounding much farther away this time.

I twisted around in my seat to look back through the rear window. The small clinic was already disappearing into the deep dark, looking like a lonely, broken square of yellow light in the middle of nowhere. My hands were still shaking violently. Blood—some of it belonging to the stranger on the table, and some of it from a small cut on my own finger that I did not even remember getting—had dried sticky across my knuckles.

For one brief, thin second, I let myself lean back against the seat and breathe.

Then I saw him in the rearview mirror.

It was the lead motorcycle rider. The man driving the bike had his face half-covered with a dark cloth, but a heavy silver necklace hanging against his chest caught the bright moonlight as he leaned hard into the turn. I knew that necklace instantly. It was heavy silver, featuring the old Inferno crest worn completely smooth from years of people touching it. It was my late father’s necklace.

The man wearing it lifted his head up, staring straight into the mirror, like he knew I was watching him.

Something cold and sharp slid right under my ribs and stayed there, freezing the blood in my veins.

Dante’s low voice cut sharply through the rushing wind blowing past the window. "Stay down."

I did not answer him. I could not pull my eyes away from the mirror.

The past had finally found me again. And this time, it was wearing my own father’s face.