Free Resurrection (Wesson Rebel MC Series Book 3) by Shyla Colt

one, other than the people in that room, could know about me. We have another traitor, which means Ira is probably—
    I cry out. The sound is muffled and garbled. Tears pour down my face.
    “Keep it together for me, Vita.”
    I attempt to speak. “ Uck. ” Pain explodes in my throat. I clutch it, gagging. There’s a medical reason why I don’t attempt speak.
    His head whips around and his jaw drops.
    I don’t give a damn what he thinks about me. My brother is dead and I’m probably right behind him.
    “Don’t you give up on me, dammit! You got me into this mess and you’re going to see it through.”
    We’re rammed from the side.
    My head bounces off the glass and I cry out.
    “Shit.” Prophet jerks the wheel and slams on the brakes. He veers us to the right and it’s our turn to be the hunters. He hits the smaller car dead center, at top speed.
    My neck snaps back. Metal grinds on metal as sparks fly. The car takes to the air. It’s like a stunt from a movie.
    How the hell did you do that?
    “Simple physics,” he answers the unspoken question.
    I’m starting to get why they call him Prophet.
    “You know this isn’t done, right?” He looks at me.
    The coldness coming from him is practically arctic. My head feels like a watermelon fit to burst. But I ignore the pain, as I pull up my skirt and reveal my thigh holster. He drives over to the wreck and we both step from the car cautiously. I have my gun aimed at the ground, finger straight and off the trigger, just like my father taught me. Ira always insisted on continued practice with firearms. I love him for that right now. We approach the car from behind. The door is kicked open. I take a deep breath, lift the muzzle, and line up the sights, like my father taught me to and— squeeze.
    A thwack sounds as the bullet rips through the back of his skull. The body drops to the ground, motionless.
    Head shot. Effective and bullet conserving.
    A sick sense of satisfaction winds its way through my body. They’re dead and I’m not. This is the second attempt on my life. It’s starting to get old. I hear Prophet fire off a round beside me. I look over in time to see a muscular body enthralled in a death dance as bullets rip through his midsection and chest. I walk over to the body and roll it over. It gives me all the answers I need. These are my aunt’s men.
    Son of a bitch.
    “You know them?” Prophet asks.
    I nod my head, peering at him through my tears. I can hear the sirens wailing in the distance, and return the gun to my holster. The one thing I love about a Springfield 9MM is the passive safety. They won’t go off unless you’re holding them and squeezing the trigger. “These are my aunt’s men, which means we are royally fucked.”
    “Shit. Do you think she’s a traitor?”
    “I don’t know. I doubt Ginocarlo has ever really trusted her after Lorenzo came to power. He could’ve been shadowing her the whole time. But I know them. They belong to her family.” I frown. “Though, they aren’t her trusted personal staff.”
    “Either way, we need to get the fuck out of here.” He holds out his hand.
    I take it, grateful for the small amount of human contact. Right now, he’s looking more friend than foe.

     
    Prophet/Charles
     
    I’m running high on adrenaline as I finish driving to the club. I know she’s worried about Houdini right now— I am, too— but I can’t let it distract me. If we don’t get underground and with the brothers soon, we might be next on the list of missing persons. “Do you think they put a tracker on the car, or followed us?” I look over. Her bug-eyed expression was everything I needed to know. I toss her my phone. “Find the closest gas station.”
    She does as I ask without resistance.
    What do you know? It only took a near death experience.
    I hear the phone telling me there’s one five miles up the road. I memorize the address and place a call to the president of the chapter, Marbles.
    “Hey, man,