Marcie may not have had much, if any experience with firearms, but she knew the sound of gunfire when she heard it. You didn’t grow up in a horrible part of town with a parent who spent most of her time sleeping with men on the wrong side of the law without ever hearing the pop of a gun.
“Marcie, get the fuck down.” Striker sprinted back toward her, his mouth in a grim line and a look of rage in his ice blue eyes.
His words kicked her into gear. She immediately dropped to the stone ground and crawled toward the edge of the house. Striker reached her by that point and jerked her around the house by the waistband of her denim shorts.
His inhalations were harsh and choppy, but his hands held steady as he peered around the corner, weapon at the ready.
Still on her hands and knees, Marcie drew in a breath and shook her head, trying to slow the rush of blood in her hears. She gripped Striker’s leg and peeked around him into Hook’s yard.
Tanner stood in the center of the yard, a wicked looking assault rifle in one hand and some poor trembling mess of a girl held tight against his body with the other. God, where had he gotten his hands on a weapon like that?
“No one gets hurt as long as Marcie comes out here in the next ten seconds.” Tanner’s hair was a mess, his clothes were rumpled, and a crazed look of the insane gleamed in his eyes. He’d completely lost his shit.
“Oh my God, Striker,” Marcie whispered. “I need to go out there.”
“Don’t you dare move one muscle, babe. You take one step toward Tanner and I guarantee Hook will make it so you can’t sit for a week. Just before he rips off my balls.”
“Striker, he’s going to hurt her.” Her voice shook and panic worked its way up her throat. No way could she hide like a coward when someone’s life was at stake.
“Look around, hon. There are armed bikers all over. He won’t kill her, he’d be dead two seconds later. He needs her to get out of this alive. Your boy may be crazy, but he obviously didn’t think this through too well.”
The acrid smell of smoke irritated Marcie’s senses. “Do you smell that?” She scanned the yard and looked down the length of the back of Hook’s house. Black smoke poured into the air from the opposite side of the house.
“Oh my God, Hook. Striker, the house is on fire and Hook’s in there.” She tugged at Striker’s jeans and pointed. Fear like she’d never known threatened to overtake her ability to function. Hook was in serious trouble; she knew it in her gut with one hundred percent certainty. “I have to get in there to help him.”
With her pulse pounding hard, lightheadedness swamped her and she started to crawl back around the house. Only fifteen feet separated her from the sliding doors to Hook’s house. If she went fast enough, there was a chance she could reach the door unseen by Tanner. A very slim chance, but one she was willing to take to save Hook.
“Hold the fuck up, Marce. No fuckin’ way can I let you crawl out there in plain sight,” Striker whispered.
“Then go distract Tanner, because there is no way you’re keeping me from Hook.” She gave Striker the most serious look she could muster with the high level of terror coursing through her. “We’re wasting time.”
If something happened to Hook before she had the chance to apologize, before she had an opportunity to tell him how much she loved him, the rest of her life would be completely worthless.
“Fuck,” he muttered. “Okay, I’m going out there and I’ll draw his attention away from this area. Move your ass as fast as you fuckin’ can, babe.” Striker dashed forward. “Hey, Tanner. Let’s talk about this, man. No one has to get hurt here today.” As he walked into the yard, he circled Tanner. “Why don’t you let the girl go? She has nothing to do with this.” Tanner’s attention followed Striker as he moved toward the back of the yard.
"I’m unarmed, can’t hurt you. Just let her go.” He’d stowed his gun in the small of his back and held his hands up in a gesture of submission.
“No. Where’s Marcie? I want her here, now.” He waved the rifle around as he spoke and his innocent hostage whimpered.
The second Tanner’s focus shifted from the house, Marcie scrambled forward on hands and knees, ignoring the sharp bite of rocks that ground into her palms and bare legs. She was too afraid to stand, too afraid of making noise and drawing Tanner’s attention. When she reached the sliding glass door, she pried it open as slow as she dared. Time was not on her side.
“Okay, man. I think Marcie would be willing to talk with you if you dropped the gun.” Striker increased his volume as she slid the door as if to block out the sound of the glass door gliding on the track. She slipped in the house and rose, her legs aching and quivering all at the same time. Without wasting a second, she raced toward Hook’s office.
Wrapped around the doorknob, tied in what appeared ten knots, was a rope. The opposite end was tied with another obscene number of knots around the banister of the staircase across from the office. Hook had to be trapped inside. The rope was so tight around the doorknob, there wasn’t a chance of unknotting it or slipping it off.
Maybe she could snap it with tension. “Hook!” she screamed as she crashed her shoulder against the door again and again. The only sound that greeted her cry was the crackle of flames. Dark gray smoke poured from the crack below the door, stinging her eyes and filling the air around her. Drawing in a full breath became difficult.
“Goddamn it!” she yelled, pushing against the door all her might. It didn’t budge. “Please.” Her voice was desperate to her own hears. Tears coursed down her cheeks and her lungs seized as deep coughs jolted her.
She dashed to the kitchen and grabbed the first sharp object she encountered, which happened to be a large butcher knife from the knife block. In no time, she was back at the office door, sawing through the rope like a madwoman. If there was a morsel of positivity in this fucked up situation, it was that the rope was thin and frayed with relative ease. With two hands wrapped around the knife handle, she drew it back and forth through the rope, over and over again. A primal roar erupted from her and with one last jerk, the rope split. Marcie landed hard on her bottom, but paid no attention to the pain in her tailbone. She dropped the knife and jumped to her feet and shoved the door open.
A blast of molten air and thick smoke slammed her as she stepped into the room. Her lungs immediately rejected the unclean air, throwing her into a painful coughing fit. She dropped to her knees in attempt to avoid the worst of the heat and smoke. With her hands in front of her and the flames licking her skin, she felt along the ground. Hook had to be in here. Why else would the door have been roped shut?
Her hand smacked into a cardboard box and for just a second, she froze. Jesus Christ. There was so much alcohol in here, the second the flames reached those boxes they were both deader than dead.
The room spun as her need for oxygen grew stronger, but she battled it. Miles of pure air waited just outside and she’d have it when she rescued Hook. Blindly reaching out, her hand encountered a man’s heavy boot.
With a small sliver of hope, she rose to her feet. She couldn’t see a damn thing and coughs racked her body continuously, but somehow she found the strength to grip Hook’s feet and drag him toward the door.
Step after step she pulled him from the room and down the hall toward the front door of the house. Smoke now filled the hallway, but she’d spent enough time here to make her way without vision.
Just as she was mere feet from the front door, she slipped and fell to the ground. “Get up. You’re so fucking close.” Her voice was a raspy mess. She tried, she really and truly tried, but all strength had fled. Her legs refused to hold her and her hands slipped from Hooks boots each time she tried to tug him closer to the door.
“No.” Sobs alternated with uncontrollable coughs until she could do nothing but curl on her side and ride out the wave of agony.
The sound of the front door slamming into the wall was the most welcome sound in the world. “Marcie?” Striker’s voice was music to her ears.
“Here,” she tried to call out, her raspy voice no match for the roar of the fire and the approaching sirens.
“Jesus Christ. Jester, get the fuck in here.” Striker rushed in and crouched beside Marcie.
“Take Hook first.” She doubled over as diaphragm spasms assaulted her again.
“Shhh, honey. We’ll get him.” He stroked her ash laden hair. “Jester, get Hook. I’ll take Marcie.”
“On it.” Jester’s booming voice cut through the roar of blood in her ears.
Seconds later, Marcie’s eyes slammed shut as the daylight brightness became too much. Her instincts took over and tried to suck in fresh oxygen, but her lungs were too full of garbage and the most painful coughing spell attacked her.
“Shh, try to settle, hon. An ambulance just pulled in. We’ll get you some help.”
“Ta—” She let out a harsh cough. “Tanner?”
“You don’t have to worry about him anymore, hon. I’ll fill you in on it all later. Just concentrate on taking some deep breaths.”
A few seconds later, the cool sheets from the gurney soothed her hot skin as Striker laid her down. She turned her head to see Hook laying on an identical gurney, his eyes closed, clothing singed and raw burns over parts of his arms. The oxygen mask on his face gave her hope that he was still alive, but her heart couldn’t give up the fear of losing him just yet.
The EMTs worked on her, placing oxygen on her as well and assessing her vitals, but she tuned them out. All her remaining energy was focused on Hook, on willing the universe to allow him to wake up.
After what felt like an eternity, he jolted, his entire body rising from the gurney as horrible hacking coughs gripped him. As painful as it must have been for him, Marcie had never heard a sweeter sound in her life.
It meant Hook was alive.
It meant she had a chance to tell him she loved him.