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Cage (Dead Souls MC Prospects #1)
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We were never meant to be.
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The smell of smoke and black powder residue hung in the air. Those fucking bullets whizzed by my head as I looked around for my father. I heard him screaming. Calling out for his men. And while I was a new prospect for the Night Outlaws, I had no idea my father would get me into this kind of shit. Some shootout between us and some asshole mobster who didn’t like the fact that we encroached on his turf.
Then again, my father did warn me.
“Scar! Lannie! Go left! I’m comin’ ‘round the back. Cage!”
“Yeah, Pops!?” I exclaimed.
“We need a distraction,” my father said.
I rolled my eyes and leaned my head against the brick of the building. Of course, he needed a fucking distraction. All I did nowadays was distract. Grunt work. Sure, I was a fucking prospect. The newest guy of the group. That didn’t mean I had to push around paper and fetch their fucking coffee. Bunch of prissy assholes, if anyone asked me about it. My father included.
And lately, my father had been on edge.
“On my count!” my father roared.
I looked over at him as bullets continued to pepper the air.
“I see you!” Lars roared.
“One!” my father exclaimed.
Another round of bullets surged down the alleyway as Lars’ footsteps came closer.
“Two!” my father roared.
“I’m coming for you, Cage!” Lars exclaimed.
My father stopped counting as his eyes widened, and I froze. Fuck. Did Lars know? Was that why he was shooting at us? Trying to gun us down?
To get to me?
“Anyone gonna say three?” Lars asked, chuckling.
And the second I heard the click of his empty magazine; I rounded the corner.
“Lars! Stop!” my father exclaimed.
But my gun was already in the air.
My vision tunneled and all I could see was Lars. The scar that ran down his face. That salt-and-pepper blonde hair that looked absolutely horrendous on a man that had acne scars in his fifties. His tailored suit was covered in the blood of his men. Men that died in vain without anyone having known their names. That was what happened when people got tangled up with someone like Lars Norden. They died without identity. Without grace. Without honor, in my eyes.
Because some asshole that skimmed casinos and trafficked humans didn’t deserve to live.
I aimed the gun down at his feet and made him dance. I shot at those shiny leather shoes as my father cried out in the background. They were falling back, trying to navigate the alleyways of the casinos we’d become so familiar with. Lars jumped, and every time he did, his eyes ignited with fire. He stumbled with his magazines as I pulled my other gun, taking his men out by their knees.
I didn’t want to kill the nameless faces. But I sure as hell didn’t want them charging me, either.
“You’re a dead man,” Lars growled.
I was close enough to hear his words. To smell his threat. I slowly walked toward him, blocking his view of the Night Outlaws as my father scrambled to try and get them in place. Lars thought he had blocked us in, especially because we were such a small crew. But being small meant we could get into places without being noticed. Because no one knew our faces. We hadn’t been operating long enough for the police to sink their detective-like jowls into us.
And we knew the sewer system well.
I heard the scraping of the grates as I continued dodging bullets. I kept my eyes locked on Lars and my ears trained on the men around them. I pressed the button on my guns to release the magazines, then slammed them down into ones poking out at my sides. And the second I cocked my gun, more iron buzzed through the air. I felt the wind of the bullets that missed me. I felt the eyes of the men taking me in. Every cell, every detail. Committing all of it to memory.
And putting her in even more danger.
One by one, Lars’ men dropped to their knees. Blood splattered against walls and men gurgled on the alleyway water in puddles that had yet to dry from storms that rolled through weeks ago. Lars’ eyes connected with me, and I knew something was wrong the second he smiled at me. His gleaming white teeth dripped with venom that paused me in my tracks. And as his men knelt beside him, crying out in horror as I took out their kneecaps, I clicked my magazines out and jammed them into my sides.
Taking up the last gun magazines I had on my hips.
“It’s interesting, you know,” Lars said.
I paused. “What is?”
“The fact that you think you can win.”
“Looks like you don’t have any more reinforcements,” I said.
I pointed both of my guns at his face, but all he did was chuckle.
“Did you really think I’d let your grimy little crew get their hands on my casinos?” Lars asked.