After glancing over his shoulder with wide eyes, Chris turned back to me, breathing heavily. “Thanks, man.”
I nodded, not saying anything.
He had a scrape on his temple, and blood trickled down his face from the wound, but besides that, he looked okay enough. His girlfriend, Molly, would still be upset. I’d promised to return him unharmed. After all, we were only going to a funeral. But still, with tensions high between us and Bitter Hill, we’d suspected something like this might happen.
So we came prepared. Thank God.
Tommy, another lieutenant, called out, “Everyone alive?”
“Yeah,” Brian growled, nodding at me from the brick doorway he’d taken cover in.
Frankie nodded, his blond hair in his eyes. “Yeah, man.”
Me and Chris called out, too, and then we all came out of cover when Tate said, “We’re good. Everyone, reload in case they come back.”
I slowly lowered my Sig, eyeing the carnage in front of us as I pulled out my extra mag. I’d taken down three, and Chris had as well. Who knew who took down the rest? We all reloaded silently. It had been twelve Bitter Hill guys against nine Sons. Not a fair fight for them. None of us had been killed, a gift given only by the grace of God. They came at us when we were backed into a corner, a strategic move that didn’t pay off well for them. They should have known never to back a Son into a corner.
We always came out swinging.