“This is a bad idea,” Opie muttered as he passed by, even as he drew out his own gun.

“If you’ve got an alternative, I’m listening,” Jax replied quietly as they climbed the last few steps together.

They both knew shoot-and-run was not an option—not with so many guns, and not even with Chibs and Joyce as backup.

With the guns on the top step, they descended back toward the Russians. Six steps. Seven. Scarface didn’t wait for Jax to reach the eighth step. Jax tried to deflect the punch, but the big bastard’s fist glanced off his jaw hard enough to nearly unhinge it. The metallic taste of blood flooded his mouth. He shuffled sideways, turned and lunged inside Scarface’s reach, hit him with three fast gut punches and one to the kidneys, but the big man dropped an elbow down on his shoulder, and Jax went to his knees. Wheezing, trying to catch his breath, he fought the blackness at the edges of his vision as pain washed over him.

He heard a chorus of guns cocking, glanced up, and saw that half of them were aimed at Opie and half at him.

“No, Mr. Ashby,” Krupin said. “There is no defending yourself.”

Jax exhaled through gritted, bloodstained teeth. Then he opened his fists and climbed to his feet. Pain radiated through him but he breathed, letting it spread and diminish. Once again, he turned toward Scarface and let the man hit him.

Opie swore and took a step, and one of the Russians jammed a gun against his throat.

Punches rained down on Jax. He felt his lip split and tasted a fresh gush of own blood. A fist to the gut and a knee to the balls were followed by another crashing blow to his skull, and those black waves swept in again at the edges of his vision. He blinked, on his knees again, trying not to go down. Even then, in the midst of pain and with blood running freely from his nose and mouth, he understood that Scarface was going easy on him. He could have broken hands, arms, ribs… anything. He could have shattered Jax’s nose or crushed his kidneys. They wanted him bloody and in pain but not broken.

He let it go on. At one point, he heard shouting and caught a glimpse of Chibs and Joyce over by the bikes, at the edge of the park. Joyce had started toward the church, and Chibs had restrained him because Chibs understood—maybe had understood before even Jax himself. If Krupin wanted to kill him, they wouldn’t have met somewhere so out in the open.

Maureen, he thought, you owe me.

But he wasn’t doing this for Maureen Ashby. And, as much as he liked Trinity, he wasn’t really doing it for her, either. He let the punches land, let his blood flow, for his father’s sake. JT had not been perfect, but Jax could not let his old man’s daughter die.

Scarface stood over him. “Your name?”

He speaks, Jax thought. “Already told you. And fuck yourself.”

The fist came down again. Jax barely felt it. He blinked and realized that his cheek was pressed against granite—he was sprawled on the church steps and had lost a few seconds of time. Voices cursed in Russian.

Jax spat a wad of bloody spittle and pushed himself up to a sitting position. Ears ringing, head and ribs throbbing, he looked up at Krupin. The little man seemed to nod with approval, though whether he was expressing appreciation for Scarface’s efforts or Jax’s ability to sit up seemed unclear.

“If my friend thinks you are lying, he will continue to hurt you,” Krupin said. “So tell me, Mr. Ashby, are you what you seem to be? Just a piece of biker trash worried about his family?”

Jax nodded slowly, his eyes never leaving Krupin’s face. “Yeah. That’s me. Biker trash.”

The words translated differently inside his head, where they were a promise that he would make sure Krupin took a hell of a beating before he and the boys left Nevada. But Trinity came first.

Krupin produced a business card and slipped it into the pocket of Jax’s leather vest. “On this card is a number where you can reach me,” Krupin went on. “If you discover any information that will lead you to your sister, you will call me immediately.”

Opie swore quietly, and the men guarding him took a step away. He stayed where he was. Jax spat another bloody wad.

“If you’re searching for Oleg and his friends, you must have something you can tell me,” he said. “Anything. Point me in a direction to get me started, one of the things you’re pursuing.”

Krupin glanced at Scarface, and Jax thought the big man would hit him again—he tensed, not sure he could keep himself from fighting back this time—but, instead, it was Scarface who nodded. What the hell is this? Jax wondered.

“A gun dealer named Oscar Temple and his bodyguards were murdered last night,” Scarface said. “We know that Oleg and his friends were hoping to acquire guns. If you can learn anything about those murders, it might help you in your search.”

Oscar Temple. The name sounded familiar, but if the guy dealt illegal guns, that was not a surprise.

But as the Russians all turned and began to make their way back to their vehicles, guns vanishing back into holsters, it wasn’t Oscar Temple who was foremost in his mind. He stared at the retreating men.

“Lagoshin,” he said.

Krupin and the big man turned—the big bastard with his shotgunned face and his bloodied fists.

“A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Ashby,” Lagoshin said, his voice smooth as silk, almost elegant, despite his brutish appearance. “When you are icing your injuries later, remember that they were inflicted merely to make a point. If you have lied to me, or if you discover your sister’s location and hesitate to share it… well, I’m certain you don’t need me to explain. Mr. Krupin believes you are smarter than you look. I hope he is not mistaken.”

As Lagoshin and his men climbed back into their vehicles, a squeal of tires ripped through the night air. An engine roared. Jax and Opie whipped around to see a gray Camaro tearing up the street toward the church. The Russians scrambled, bumping into each other as some tried to get into the car and others tried to get out.

“Down!” Opie said, and he slammed Jax to the steps.

Jax blinked, head still ringing, and from that angle—with his cheek against the granite again—he saw Krupin and three other Bratva men draw their guns and start to take cover behind the cars and the open doors. They were too slow.

The Camaro’s engine sounded like thunder. A gun barrel poked out the open window, glinting in the moonlight, and the Camaro’s passenger pulled the trigger. The staccato bark of the assault rifle echoed off the steps and the face of the church.

One Bratva man slammed back against the SUV, his head snapping to one side as blood and brain and bone erupted from his skull. A bullet took Krupin in the shoulder, spinning him around in a fan of bloody mist. Two or three shots stitched the chest of a third man, who hit the ground with a wet, meaty slap.

Then the Camaro had gone past. Chibs and Joyce shot at the car as it whipped by them, but it skidded into a left turn at the next corner and vanished as instantly as it had appeared. The engine screamed as it raced off through the neighborhood.

Lagoshin’s men were shouting in confusion, trying to help the wounded even as Lagoshin himself shoved his way out of the SUV and started barking orders. The sedan tore away from the curb in a hopeless pursuit. Even groggy, Jax knew they had no chance of catching the shooters.

Fury etched on his face, Lagoshin stormed up the church steps toward them. Jax realized Opie was no longer pressing him to the steps, and he sat up wearily, sneering. He knew the look on Lagoshin’s face, and now he wished he and Opie hadn’t left their guns up in front of the church door—hell, he wished he hadn’t let the guy beat the shit out of him.

“What in hell was that?” Lagoshin roared, one of his men scrambling up behind him, alternately watching the street for further attack and covering Jax and Opie with his gun.