Page 85 of Vengeance

He looked back at Vengeance. "It’s Bishop's blood. He died making sure I got that letter to you." Bowie slowly opened the envelope, and his eyes raced across the handwritten page. Every ounce of color drained from his face.

"What is it?" Vengeance asked. Bowie didn't answer. Instead, he handed the letter to him, and Vengeance read it. His expression hardened almost instantly.

RoadKill frowned. "What the hell does it say?"

Vengeance slowly lowered the paper and looked directly at Vandal. "They're coming."

Vandal nodded. "They've been coming since Mississippi."

"Who?" For the first time since he'd arrived, Vandal smiled. There wasn't an ounce of humor in it, though. "The people who murdered Bishop." A deafening explosion ripped through the front gate—steel twisted and concrete shattered. Motorcycles toppled like dominoes and every patched member in the parking lot reached for a weapon. Smoke rolled across the entrance, and a black SUV burst through the destroyed gate, followed by three more.

Vandal sighed. "Fuck, they found me." He drew both pistols in one smooth motion. "I was hoping we'd have another five minutes." The first shots rang out before the smoke had even settled, and he realized that no amount of extra time would save him from the trouble that he had just brought to the Royal Bastards' front door.

Dixie

The first explosion rattled the windows ofDoc Mercer Recovery Centerjust as Dixie Harper was trying to convince a seven-year-old girl that stitches weren't nearly as scary as they looked.

"You promised it wouldn't hurt,” the little girl said.

"I promised I'd do everything I could to make it not hurt," Dixie corrected with a smile. "There's a difference."

The little girl frowned. "I don't like differences."

Dixie laughed softly. "Neither do I." She finished placing the butterfly bandage over the girl's scraped forehead before reaching into her desk drawer.

"What flavor sucker would you like?" she asked.

The girl's eyes lit up. "Grape."

"Excellent choice,” Dixie said. As the child skipped back toward her mother, Dixie watched them leave with the familiar ache she always felt. Children deserved normal lives—not fear, trauma, or the things she'd seen over the last six months. The recovery center had become a refuge for survivors rescued after the Black Veil Syndicate fell. Some came in with broken bones, while others came carrying wounds no doctor could see. Dixie knew those were always the hardest to heal.

"You're doing it again." She looked up to find Dr. Mason Reynolds leaning against the exam room door.

"Doing what?" she asked.

"Thinking too much,” Mason said.

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

He snorted. "You get that wrinkle right here." He tapped between his own eyebrows. "It means you're trying to save the whole world."

"I'd settle for just saving one person today. The world can wait until tomorrow after I’ve had about six hours of sleep,” she teased.

He smiled. "You sound like Doc." The words warmed her heart because nobody could compare to Doc Mercer. The clinic existed because of him. Every doctor here volunteered because of the example he'd left behind. Dixie had been fresh out of nursing school when she met him. He'd taught her something she'd never forgotten. "You can't erase someone's past, sweetheart, but you can make sure it isn't their future." She'd lived by those words ever since.

The clinic phone rang, and Mason answered it. His easy smile vanished almost instantly. "What happened?" He listened to the person at the other end of the call. "When?" There was another pause. "We'll be ready." He hung up slowly.

Dixie's stomach tightened. "What is it?"

"The Royal Bastards’ clubhouse,” he breathed.

"What about it?" she asked.

"There was an explosion,” he said.

Her pulse spiked. "Anyone hurt?"

"I don't know.” He was already grabbing the emergency trauma bags. "They're bringing casualties here, so I guess we’re about to find out."