Blood & Bones: Whip (Blood Fury MC 11)

Whip took one more quick glance throughout the cabin—thank fuck it was a basic open floor plan and nowhere for anyone to hide—and didn’t spot anyone else. He ducked down again and almost crawled back to Cage.

When he got there, Whip whispered, “Two adults, male and female, two boys. My guess four and six. Though, I suck at judgin’ that kind of shit. The important part is they’re small enough for us to handle.”

“The other place seems to be abandoned. This should be a piece of cake, then.”

“Let’s not fuckin’ jinx it,” Whip warned Cage. He focused on the rust bucket parked near the front door. “Gonna check to see if that piece of shit’s locked. If it ain’t, you hide inside it, and I’ll hide behind it after I slam the door,” Whip instructed Cage as they worked their way around the outer edge of the overgrown clearing.

Cage paused and glanced back at him over his shoulder. “My old man’s right. You are an idiotic savage.”

“Fuck you,” Whip muttered under his breath.

The Fury road captain snorted and Whip shoved him to remind him to keep it down so they weren’t caught before they even got started.

They approached the passenger side of the car and, after taking another quick glance at the door to the occupied cabin to make sure it was still closed and no one was peering out of the window, Whip slowly and carefully opened the rear passenger door, worried that the hinges would squeal like a stuck pig. “Lie on the back seat. When that fucker comes out to check the noise, you get him from the front, I’ll take him from the back. Just gotta keep our eyes open to make sure that Shirley bitch don’t start pluggin’ buckshot at us ‘cause I swear they’re all fuckin’ crazy.”

“Gotta be to wanna fuck your uncle-cousin-brother. Can’t trust those damn snot monkeys, either.”

No truer words.

Cage shook his head as he considered the sedan. “Damn fuckin’ shame the rust bucket’s too old to have an alarm. Settin’ that off would get that toothless inbred out here quick-like.”

“Yeah right, asshole. A car alarm would echo just as loudly through the damn woods as a gunshot. It would put everyone on notice and could fuck up the plan.”

Cage shrugged and climbed into the back seat, scrunching up his face. “Fuck. This thing smells like month-old road kill in July.”

“That’s just you. Should shower more often than on Saturdays. No wonder that Amish chick was attracted to you. You probably smelled like a fuckin’ manure pile and it turned her on.”

“Fuck off.”

“You fuck off.”

“You’re just jealous you can’t keep a fuckin’ woman.”

Now was not the time to get bent about Cage’s insult, that arrow hitting him directly in his chest. “Jemma only puts up with your miserable ass ‘cause of Dyna.”

“Nah, she worships my big dick.”

“Yeah? Gonna ask her that at the party later.” They were wasting valuable time. “Okay, we gonna do this before we also get blown to fuckin’ bits?”

“Leave the door cracked open,” Cage grumbled before stretching out on the back seat, a flex-cuff by his hip and a knife in hand. Luckily, the overhead light in the old Chevy was burned out and he could leave the door just open enough so it wasn’t latched. Cage would be able to kick it open quickly if he had to.

With a last glance at Cage lying in wait, Whip moved around the rear of the Chevy to the driver’s side, yanked opened the door and then used his boot to slam it shut. As he hoped, the rusty hinges screamed in protest, the glass rattled and the slam was loud enough to draw attention from anyone nearby.

He just hoped there weren’t more Shirleys in the area. He wanted to concentrate on the ones they were tasked to deal with first.

He hurried around to the rear of the cage and squatted behind it. He hoped to fuck they could hear the noise inside, then he hoped to fuck the goat fucker wasn’t too damn lazy to check out the noise.

He really hoped to fuck the Shirley didn’t have any other weapon except the one he had in pieces on the table. But he knew that last one would be a pipe dream since the clan was a wannabe militia organization.

So, his last, and most important, hope was that the man didn’t storm out of the cabin with a fifty-caliber cannon in his hand.

When he heard the door to the cabin open, he rose just enough to see the Shirley standing in the doorway and, of fucking course, he was holding some kind of handgun.

Fuck.

Chapter Twenty

“Who the fuck’s out there?” the man bellowed into the dark. “Jimmy Dean, that you out there?”

A noise came from inside the Chevy. Fucking Cage. He probably thought it was fucking hilarious someone was named after a breakfast sausage.