Page 23 of My Ex-Military Biker

"Perry's apartment. Blood on the ground. No Perry."

I'm standing before he finishes the sentence. Everyone else is already moving too.

We're on our bikes and rolling out in under a minute.

The ride to Perry's place takes eight minutes and my brain shifts into operational mode automatically. Running through medical scenarios.

If they took him, it's a message. If they left him behind, it's worse.

Best case scenario, he's breathing when we get there. Worst case I don't let myself consider yet.

We pull into the parking lot and I see the blood first, dark spray patterns on the asphalt near his truck, then broken glass scattered like stars, then the scuff marks that tell the story of a fight that didn't go well.

Then I spot Perry near the dumpsters, motionless on the ground.

I'm off the bike before it fully stops, running, dropping to my knees beside him.

"Perry!"

He groans and his eyes open, tracking my face. Still conscious.

The relief that hits is so intense I have to take a breath to steady myself before I can start working.

His face is destroyed. Nose clearly broken with blood everywhere, right eye swollen completely shut, left eye open but the pupil response is sluggish when I check. Possible concussion.

"Don't move," I tell him.

I reach for his right hand to check his pulse and he makes a sound, not a groan but a scream he's desperately trying to swallow.

The hand is wrong in every way that matters. Fingers bent at angles that don't exist in nature, swelling already severe and getting worse. There might be bone through the skin but I can't tell through all the blood.

Multiple fractures, at least three that I can identify visually. Maybe more.

Fuck.

I move to his ribs and press gently along his left side. He hisses sharply when I reach the third rib, and again at the fourth. Both broken, maybe more. At least two for certain.

"How many were there?" I ask him.

"Three." His voice sounds wrecked, raw. "Two of them are still here."

I look up and scan the area.

I spot them standing near the building entrance. Not hiding, not running. Just standing there watching us with their Marrow patches visible even from this distance.

They wanted us to find Perry like this, to deliver their message in person.

That was a serious mistake.

"Clint," I say.

He's already seen them. So have Holt and Diesel.

"Handle Perry," Clint tells me. "We'll handle them."

The three of them start walking with a kind of purpose that says the outcome is already decided and everyone involved knows it.

I turn my full attention back to Perry because this is my job, this is what I do.