Damned: Seven Tribesmen MC (28 page)

“Put your guns down or he gets it!” snarled the man.  He waved his gun at Coyote's temple.  Coyote cringed in pain, but when his gaze found Stella's pure rage wavered in his expression.

Stella's gaze flickered to Bishop as he struggled to get up.  For the first time, she realized his arms were awkwardly restrained behind him.  Worry and concern contorted his features.  A cold chill sifted into Stella's stomach and slowly she crouched down.

She dropped the gun to the ground before slowly rising up, her palms facing the man.  Agent Grant followed Stella's lead, using the same slow movements animal handlers used against a distressed and deranged dog.  Faintly, Stella wondered where the rest of the agents were.  Upstairs, dealing with damage control probably.  She swallowed, hoping Agent Grant had the foresight to inform the others.

The gunman watched them with hungry eyes.  He took in every movement and every breath that the two women took.  When both Stella and Agent Grant stood, palms up in surrender, the man snorted and said, “Stupid bitches.”

Horror filled Bishop's head as a flurry of shots rattled from High Roller's gun.  Pain erupted in Stella's chest.  Dark spots danced in her vision as she fell backwards, the wind knocked out of her lungs.

“Stella!”  Bishop howled.  Without thought, he slammed his shoulder into High Roller.  His hands strained at the zip tie, hoping to break the plastic. 

High Roller grunted.  Another shot rang out, and Bishop blearily registered pain erupting in his shoulder.  Raw fury masked the agony though.  Over and over, Bishop slammed his shoulder, his arms, his whole body into High Roller.  Desperate, the Grave Demons' president scrabbled with his gun, slamming the butt of it into Bishop's skull

The crack echoed through the air.  Bishop stumbled backward, pain cleaving through his head.  His ragged breaths ached against his throat, as the sight of High Roller swam before him. 

“You
stupid
fuck,” snarled High Roller, leveling the gun at Bishop's nose.  Bishop glared over the muzzle, his whole body wobbling to and fro.  He waited for the roar of a bullet, the instant pain, the ultimate darkness.

Suddenly, High Roller jerked forward.  His eyes widened and his gaze dropped to his chest.  Two sharpened ends of the shears pierced through his back to his chest.  Blood soaked his shirt.  High Roller dragged his gaze back up to Bishop as blood oozed over his bottom lip.  He opened his mouth, letting out an unintelligible gurgle, before his eyes rolled back in his head.  The man collapsed in a heap on the ground, soaking blood into the dirt of the foundation.

An extremely pale Coyote stood behind High Roller, leaning heavily on the table.  His bloodied hand pressed to his side, a large smear of red staining his shirt.  Coyote's lips twisted into a sneer as he spat on High Roller's corpse.

Near the doorway, Stella groaned.  Bishop turned, the room spinning under his soles.  The woman gasped and grunted as she forced herself to sit up.  Relief and confusion flooded his thoughts, subduing his overwhelming pain. 

Agents and EMTs filled the room, crouching over the prone, dead bodies.

“Oi!  We got a wounded man here!” barked Crow, who still hovered close to now unconscious Howler.

As Bishop watched the medical officers take care of Howler, relief bubbled through him.  It flowed over the edges of his carefully crafted persona.  A laugh erupted from his lips as the room spun beneath his legs.  He fell forward, hands still bound behind his back and shoulders shaking. 

“Bishop?”  Coyote grunted, concern saturated in his inquiry.

Before Bishop could reply to his vice president though, the world pitched forward.  His sight blurred, and pain erupted in his head and his shoulder.  His wrists screamed in pain, the zip tie biting into his flesh.  His stressed out brain finally gave up, and darkness swallowed Bishop up as his forehead smacked against the dirt.

CHAPTER FORTY THREE

Pain sliced across Bishop's consciousness.  He grunted and rolled over.  Sheets strained under his weight and pain shot up his side.  He groaned, willing his eyes to open.  Above him, the all-too-familiar ceiling paneling of the hospital came into focus.  Well, it came into one eye's focus.

Despite the aches and twinges in his body, Bishop managed to scoot himself into an upright position.  His hands went to his face, finding the texture of bandages to be an immediate relief.  His fingertips trailed over the gauze, gently pressing against his face and measuring how bad his injuries were.  Blunt pain throbbed along his jaw and the side of his face.  Bishop winced with every touch.

A tired voice grunted from his right, interrupting his self-examination, “Morning.”

Bishop turned abruptly, a faint ache pawed at his skull from the sudden movement.  His eyes fell upon his vice president.  Coyote sat propped in his bed, a tablet in his palms and reading glasses perched in his nose.  Eerie and surreal didn't even begin to describe the scene in Bishop's head.

“Morning,” croaked Bishop, his gaze flicked over his vice president.  Coyote looked immensely better since the last time Bishop saw him.  The color was back in his cheeks, the dark circles under his eyes gone, and he wasn't spurting out a copious amount of blood.  The memory of that night shifted Bishop's gaze to Coyote's hidden digits.  His throat suddenly felt dry as he croaked, “How's your hand?”

Coyote weakly raised his arm up.  It was a mess of gauze and splints, but at least Coyote wasn't bleeding through all the bandages.  Coyote dropped his arm back onto the bed and shrugged his shoulders.  “Docs stitched up the cuts.  Amputated my pinky and part of my ring finger though.”

Bishop couldn't tear his gaze away from Coyote's bandages.  Guilt pounded at his head and his heart.  “I'm sorry, Coyote.”

Again, Coyote shrugged.  Vaguely, Bishop wondered how many pain relievers pumped through his blood.  Staring at his hand, Coyote grunted, “It's not your fault.”

“Yeah, it is.”  Determination to take blame swelled in Bishop's head.  His hands clenched against the bed, as if crushing all absolution. “I pushed for retaliation and thought we could trust the Devil Spikes.”

“If you hadn't, we'd be looking over our shoulders as hired hit-men shined pretty little red lights at us.” Coyote shot Bishop a look of mixed irritation and gratefulness.  Bishop's fingers went lax.  Guilt still bubbled and boiled in his head, but Coyote's words and the look in his eyes lessened the feelings to a simmer.

Bishop's mind couldn't help but replay his conscious memory.  His gaze flickered down to his own hands.  Faint purplish marks still marred Bishop's wrists where the zip ties bit into his skin.  Ruefully, he rubbed the sore bruises.  His mind lolled sluggishly over his memories and what happened to his other men. 

Other than Coyote, there was only one other member who had been dangerously injured.  Bishop's gaze flickered to his right-hand man, a sensation of fear crawled up his throat.  Despite his worries, he forced out his question, “How's Howler doing?”

“Stell says he's doing fine,” Coyote reported with another shrug.  A slight grin quirked at the man's lips though.  “Crow has been by his side the whole time.”

Bishop ignored Coyote's grin.  Whatever was transpiring between Crow and Howler was their business.  However, if the Tribesmen third senior officer wasn't around, another concerned popped into Bishop's head.  “Who's holding down the garage?”

“Ruse is scheduling employees.  Qwerty's doing office work.  Bulletproof is recruiting some temp workers.”

The tension in Bishop eased a little.  Ruse was a natural businessman, and Qwerty was at home among papers, numbers, and computers.  He wasn't too sure about Bulletproof's people skills, but he probably knew some civilians in town hurting for a job, even if it was temporary.  For the moment, Bishop's Auto would be fine without him.  Pain throbbed through Bishop's head and shot down one side of his body.  Oh yeah, those ribs were broken and healing. 

Finally, something clicked in Bishop's hazy mind.  His eyebrows dipped as he turned his face to Coyote who held a knowing grin on his face.  “Did you say
Stell
?  As in
Stella
?”

“Yeah, she hung about.”  Coyote's lips twitched upward even further.  Bishop ignored the burning sensation just beneath his skin and resisted the urge to glare at Coyote with his one good eye.

Trying to remain nonchalant, Bishop leaned against his headboard and airily asked, “Isn't she hurt?”

“Bulletproof vest.”  That grin would melt off Coyote's face.  Bishop felt his cheeks burn even hotter as his vice president wordlessly transmitted taunts.  “She got some minor bruises and cuts, but that's it.”

“Huh,” Bishop grunted, masking his utter delight.  The influx of joy almost overrode the pain slowly licking through his body.  “I thought she'd be long gone.  Her job here is done.”

Coyote nodded, as if he had thought the same thing.  His gaze flickered to the clock on the far wall.  “Well, you can ask her yourself.  It's about time for her to show up.”

“What?”  Bishop almost kicked himself, realizing his shocked tone gave away his hope and embarrassment.

The door handle jiggled a second before Stella stepped over the threshold.  She paused, seeing Bishop upright for the first time in days.  Mutely, she blinked a couple times, clearing the instantaneous fog of shock and joy that filled her head.  She shook off her emotions and trudged into the room, a glassy smile quirking at the corners of her lips.  “You're up.”

“Yes.  I am,” Bishop murmured.  He felt a spikiness between them.  Something…an anger…hid just below the surface of her expression. 

Despite her immense happiness, Stella couldn't shake the betrayal.  She couldn't ignore the things Bishop had done, so willfully and flagrantly, just before he got his crew held hostage.  She advanced on Bishop's bed and crossed her arms.  Her smile twisted down and, despite Coyote's presence, she muttered, “You took a document from my desk.”

Tension landed heavily on Bishop's shoulders.  He felt like a child under Stella's angry leer.  “Yeah.”

“And then you tried to snatch the cocaine.”  Stella took a step closer, her lips puckered in displeasure.  Bishop glared at Coyote.  The vice president exaggeratedly shrugged as if to say 'I don't know who told her.'  Bishop's shoulders hunched to his ears, despite the pain in his shoulder.  This reunion should have been filled with happiness and relief.  Instead, Bishop got tension and disappointment.

“Was it worth it, Arthur?” Stella crisply snapped.  She narrowed her eyes, unable to assuage the sear in her chest.  She leaned closer to Bishop, who had finally turned his eyes to her face.  “Was it worth it to almost get yourself and your men killed for some stupid club rules?”

Bishop stared into Stella's fac
e—
just beyond her immediate rage, tears brimmed in her eyes.  Guilt shot through his chest.  He stole from her and ended up a bloodied pulp.  He wondered if Stella, deep down, blamed herself.

He forced a false sense of bravado to his throat, a grin curling at his lips.  “You caught your perp
and
we got justice.  I don't think it ended badly.”

“Speak for yourself.”  From his hospital bed, Coyote snorted and lifted his bandaged hand.  Bishop shot him a one-eyed glare.  The other man just chuckled and lowered his arm.  Coyote settled back into his bed, picking up his tablet again and resuming reading.  Bishop still glowered at the other man.

A smile involuntarily pierced Stella's annoyance.  The way Bishop and Coyote acted around each other, especially when pretenses were dropped, reminded her of two feuding brothers.  It was somewhat adorable.  Despite her amusement, Stella shook her head and wiped the smile from her lips.  She set her face into an impassive expression before she spoke, “I asked for a new position.”

“Oh?”  Bishop blinked and turned his attention to Stella.  Something twisted painfully in his chest as he waited for the news.  He searched Stella's features, as if hoping to find a grain of fondness in her expression, but found nothing. 

“Yeah, as a criminal liaison officer.”

Dread boiled in Bishop's stomach.  He tore his gaze away before Stella could see the sadness in his eyes. “Criminal liaison?”

“It means I act as a go-between for the bad guys and the good guys.”  Stella leaned back in her chair, her tone airy and unaffected.  She smiled to herself, watching disappointment flutter over his features.  Though her momentary guilt ate away at her, she would enjoy her grand reveal.

“Why?” croaked Bishop, sadness mixing into the bile of his stomach.  His fingers dug into the scratchy hospital blankets.  A small, miniscule part of him was beginning to hope that he and Stella would never be separated.  It was a silly, uncharacteristically romantic notion; yet, it had taken root in Bishop's brain and knotted around his synapses without his knowing.

“With recent developments, the FBI realizes it'd would be shortsighted to leave Grand River to warring motorcycle clubs.”  Stella intoned, reading from an internal script.  “Since the Tribesmen may be targeted by innumerable gangs and an unknown drug cartel, things may be heating up in Grand River.”

“Wait.”  Bishop's mind hiccupped and clung to one phrase in Stella's speech.  His eye snapped back to Stella's face.  Heat tinged his cheeks, especially when he registered Stella's smile. “
Here
?”

Stella barely contained a laugh.  The morose atmosphere around Bishop all but evaporated.  She nodded, her smile growing. “Yes, here.”

“You're staying,” Bishop repeated, as if reiteration would solidify the reality of it. 

“That's the implication,” Stella chuckled.

Bishop fell silent, and his gaze tore away from Stella.  His heart thrummed with life, and all pain washed away, replaced with pleasant sensations.  A coldness clenched at his insides, too.  A small part of him tried to reign in the delightful heat that poured into his body.  He was still a criminal, and Stella was still a federal agent.  They still had roles to play.

Stella's words broke into his mind, again.  “As a criminal liaison, it's expected I keep close ties with notorious criminals.”

“What?” mumbled Bishop, not focusing on her words.  Too many annoying obstacles still stood in their way.

“It
means
, Mr. Bishop,” Stella moved to sit down on the edge of Bishop's bed.  Her heat licked at his aching body, both enticing and calming.  She leaned close to his ear, her lips agonizingly close.  Her hot breath teased his ear as she finished, “I'll be staying in Grand River, and your pretty face is going to see a lot more of me.”

Bishop's mind took a few seconds to digest her words.  Stella would be staying on in Grand River.  She had a new position as a criminal liaison.  She was fre
e—
or even encourage
d—
to spend time with the Seven Tribesmen and maintain ties.  What that meant exactly, Bishop wasn't sure.  There was time to fret over the details later.  When the idea fully sunk in, a grin pulled across his lips.  His gaze flickered to Stella as she sat back. “Well,
Agent
Holmes, if you need a place to stay, I have plenty of room.”

A smile spread over Stella's lips.  For the first time in a long time, a laugh broke free from her lips.  She leaned her head against Bishop, relief busting through her thoughts.  His arm looped around the small of her back, pulling her closer.  Stella shifted, catching Bishop's gaze.  Her hand found the front of Bishop's shirt, gathering the excess fabric into her hand and tugging him close.  Stella's half-lidded eyes surveyed Bishop for a breath.  “Don't you ever scare me like that, again, Arthur Bishop.”

Bishop's eyebrows bounced upward, amusement tickling at his throat.  “Excuse me, Stella Holmes?”

“If you died,” that sad, glassy look filtered back into her eyes, as her gaze fell to his chest, her voice softening, “I'm not sure what I would've done.”

Stella felt painfully exposed and raw in front of Bishop.  She was having a hard time voicing what she was feeling.  The warmth in her chest expanded, throbbing and overtaking her whole body.  Her mind could barely latch onto the fact Bishop was awake and seemingly well, let alone the foreign emotions Stella was attempting to confess.