Che (Golden Glades Henchmen MC 2)

"Worth a try," he agreed, making the move without warning.

One second, we were being followed.

The next, we were doing the following.

"Did you see any faces?" he asked.

"We're going too fast," I said, shaking my head. "Shit," I shrieked as the windows on the car opened, and guns caught the light from our headlights.

"Down," Che snapped, reaching out, slamming my head down before a bullet cracked through the windshield.

Che slammed on the brakes.

I swear I could hear his thoughts.

Turn and head back, risk running into more of their crew if they were coming, or go forward toward the bullets.

Sitting still was no option at all.

My heart hammered dangerously in my chest, and I swear if the bullets didn't kill us, I might just have an actual heart attack.

But in the time it took for us to try to decide, the car had turned, was coming back toward us.

"Go," I said, voice low, barely audible to my own ears, but Che managed to hear, flooring it.

It didn't give us much, and a couple more bullets seemed to pierce the back of the car, but we had a couple extra seconds to get a head start.

One second could make the difference in a race.

Something close to hope surged inside me as their headlights got further back.

But just as quickly, they gained. And gained. And gained.

Just when we were taking another bend that made Che need to slow slightly, they gained just a little bit more, clipping the quarter panel.

Then we were spinning.

And spinning.

And spinning.

My stomach clenched and heaved, but the food managed to stay down as Che tried to correct, but it was useless. We were going too fast.

It was poetic, in a way.

The two street racers dying in a beautiful car.

"I'm sorry, Sass," Che said, sounding defeated.

Just a second before the car slammed into a tree.

And everything went dark.

I woke up quickly, the airbag impact only stealing a few seconds of consciousness.

Precious seconds, though.

Because they weren't just going to run us off the road.

They were going to make sure we were dead.

My hands stabbed at my seatbelt release, but it refused to budge. With shaking fingers, I grabbed frantically at my purse, finding the keychain attached, yanking it off.

"Che. Che, wake up," I demanded, not sure if the car was still working, but needing him to get up, needing him to try. "Wake up, damnit," I hissed, hands fumbling with the seatbelt cutter, sliding it across the safety belt like butter, freeing me.

"Oh God. God. Shit," I snapped as I saw headlights. As I heard a door slamming.

They were coming.

The gun.

I had to get the gun.

Even as the thought formed, I was bending, hands sliding over the floor, fingers blissfully finding it.

"Please wake up," I begged as I climbed over Che's body to point the gun out his window toward the approaching form.

I didn't stop to think.

I didn't second guess.

I just shot.

And shot.

And shot.

Until he stopped coming.

But then it wasn't just him, his two friends were approaching as well.

"Damnit," I cried, emptying the gun with one guy down fully, one on his knees, and one still approaching, gunshots peppering over the hood.

Spare gun.

Che had said the spare gun was in the glove box.

He had one.

Of course he had one.

He was an arms dealer, for fuck's sake.

"No no no no," I cried as the bullets started to come through the windshield as I felt around Che's legs, finding the holster on his calf, freeing the gun. "Don't shoot him," I begged. Not to the shooters, but whatever higher power that might be around and listening.

If anyone should be shot in this situation, it was me. I was the one who dragged him into my mess.

That said, as my hand closed around the gun, I decided I wasn't going to go without taking at least one more of those assholes with me.

I didn't realize until the gun was letting out hollow clicks that the screaming I heard was coming from me, some primal, almost demonic sound that rang in my ears even as I snapped my mouth shut.

I didn't stop to see if the men were dead.

I cut Che's seatbelt, and very awkwardly dragged and shoved his body out of the way, so I could climb into the driver's seat, feeling anticipation skitter through my system, then the rush of relief when the car surged to life again.

In the moment, I couldn't even think about it, but I probably drove over bodies as I went.

But all I could focus on was getting us out of there, trying to get Che somewhere safe, so I could check him unconscious, see why he was still out, check him for bullet wounds.

I drove blindly back the way we'd come, only pulling off the main road when we were close to a city, not wanting to alert the cops when I very possibly just committed a triple homicide. Or at the very least, aggravated assault.