“You’re going to help me,” I told him. “I’ll do thirty compressions, then you’ll give him two deep breaths. Watch me this next time, then do exactly what I do. After five cycles, we’ll trade off—otherwise we’ll never make it.”

He nodded.

One. Two. Three. Four . . .

I could feel myself tiring already, which wasn’t a surprise. Real CPR wasn’t nearly as smooth and easy as they show on TV, and the compressions had to be deep if they were going to work. His organs needed oxygen, and every minute that passed, more heart muscle was dying.

By the time we traded off, my arms and back ached. I checked for his pulse. Still nothing.

“Is the ambulance coming?” I shouted.

“Yes,” Reese said. “But they’re at least another ten minutes out.”

Fuck. Stupid old man, having a heart attack in the middle of nowhere. Suddenly Duck vomited and I jerked back, grabbing Painter’s arm. “We have to roll him, otherwise he’ll drown on his own puke.”

Pushing Duck to his side, I let the disgusting fluid mixed with chunks of hot dog drain out of his mouth, then turned him back over. We weren’t safe yet.

“Okay, you can start again.”

Time seemed to blur after that—an endless cycle of compressions and breaths punctuated with pulse checks. We traded places again, and yet again, over and over until finally I checked his pulse and—

“Stop!” I shouted. “I’ve got something.”

Painter dropped back, panting as I listened for Duck’s breath. There it was. I dropped to my butt, exhausted but triumphant.

“He’s alive,” I said, feeling dizzy with relief.

“Coming through,” a man’s voice shouted. Reese pushed people out of the way as the EMTs came toward us, carrying their equipment.

“I’m an ER nurse,” I told them. “He was down about . . .”

Hell. I had no idea how long he’d been down.

“Twenty minutes,” Reese chimed in, his voice grim.

“Does he have a history of heart disease?” the EMT asked.

“No idea,” Reese answered. “He’s been at the doctor a lot lately, but didn’t tell anyone why.”

I felt someone catch my arm, pulling me away from Duck’s body. Painter.

“Good job,” he said softly. I nodded, because he was right—we’d done a hell of a good job. Wrapping an arm around my waist, Painter helped me over to the grass, where I lay down on my back, arm flopped over my eyes. He collapsed next to me, then Izzy ran up, crawling in between us.

“Is Uncle Duck dead?” she asked, obviously afraid. I cuddled her close.

“No, baby. But his heart is sick. They’re going to take him to the hospital and see if they can fix it.”

“What are his odds?” Painter asked. I considered the question.

“Depends,” I admitted. “I have no way of knowing how much damage he has or why he had a heart attack in the first place. If they get him to the hospital in good time—and they should be able to—they’ll run a catheter up his groin and check him out. If they find a blockage, they should be able to clear it and put in a stent. It’s a common procedure—he could be back home by tomorrow. That’s a best-case scenario, though. And he’s going to hurt like hell no matter what. I probably broke half his ribs.”

“Is it always like that?” he asked.

“Like what?”

“That . . . violent?”

I laughed. “CPR? Yeah. It’s not something you do for fun.”

“I’m tired,” Izzy announced. Me and her both.

“Most of the club will be heading down to the hospital,” Painter said. “But I think we need to go home. I’m wiped.”

“Sounds like a plan. I’ll make a few calls once we get there, see if they’ll give me any information. You think you could leave your bike out here, maybe drive us back?”

“Yeah,” he said, rolling over onto his elbow to look at me. “They’re all going to want to thank you—you’re a hero, Mel.”

I offered him a weak smile, then shook my head.

“Nope, I’m just a nurse. But remember tonight the next time we have a fight, okay? Because I know about a hundred different ways to kill you in your sleep, bring you back, and then do it all over again.”

His eyes widened, and Izzy laughed, clapping her hands.

Best. Kid. Ever.

THREE DAYS LATER

PAINTER

“What the hell are you doing here?” I demanded. I’d just pulled up to the Armory for an emergency church meeting, only to find Duck pulling up next to me. I’d been to visit him the day after his heart attack, so I knew he was doing all right, but it still startled me to see him here.

“We got church,” Duck said, frowning as he lumbered toward the building. “I always come in for the meetings. Although I had to drive a fuckin’ cage to get here.”

“Mel said she didn’t want you riding your bike for a couple weeks,” I reminded him. “Nothing strenuous, remember?”

“I know,” Duck growled. “And it’s fuckin’ killing me. But that new girl of mine has been takin’ good care of me. Seems damned unfair that when she gives me a sponge bath I can’t have my happy ending, though.”

“You don’t need sponge baths—you could just take a shower,” I pointed out reasonably. Duck smirked.

“She doesn’t know that. Now, let’s get inside—Pic said it was important. Better hear what he has to say for himself.”

•   •   •

“Got a call from Hallies Falls,” Picnic said, looking around the table. “Not good news. Gage got attacked earlier today. The details are fuzzy, but his old lady found him on her living room floor half dead—all cut up. He’s in emergency surgery right now.”

“Was it club-related?” Ruger asked.

“Cord thinks so,” Bolt said, sharing a look with Picnic. “They took his colors. Someone wants to start a war.”

The words hung heavy over the table. I didn’t know about everyone else, but I was running through a mental list of potential suspects and coming up short. Who was strong enough to challenge us right now?

“You think it’s the cartel?” Horse asked.

“Probably,” Pic said. “Things may be heating up again north of the border. I think we should head over and check things out for ourselves. Rance is on his way, too. He’s been hearing rumors on his end, so odds are good it’s connected with that shit going down in Vancouver. Thoughts?”

“I’m with you,” said Ruger. “We could ride over, pay Gage our respects, and do some poking around along the way. They’re still a small chapter—might help them sleep a little better tonight, knowing they’ve got backup.”

“Anyone disagree?” Pic asked. Nothing. “Okay, then. Duck can stay behind. We’ll want a couple more bodies here just to cover our asses, too.”

“I need to stay,” I announced. “Izzy’s having her tonsils out tomorrow. Hopefully it won’t be a big deal, but they’ve got to put her under. Promised her I’d be there when she wakes up.”

I waited for someone to protest, give me shit about bailing on the run.

“Understood,” Pic said. “We’ll leave the prospects with you. They can stay here at the Armory, make sure nobody tries to fuck with us on this front. I’ll want to roll out in an hour—if you need to run home and grab some shit, now’s the time. Assume things could get ugly, so we ride fully armed. Talk to Ruger if you need an extra weapon or more ammo.”

He gave the table a sharp rap with the gavel, then stood up. I followed him out, catching his arm.

“Sorry about the run.”

“No, it’s better to have you here,” he replied. “Don’t need a brother on the road with us who isn’t focused, anyway. And it’s not good enough to leave the prospects—I’m more worried about Duck than anything else. I told him not to come out for church, but he still showed up. He’s pushing himself already, hates to show any kind of weakness. The prospects and Deanna don’t stand a chance of keeping him in line.”

“Christ, and you think I do?” I asked, biting back a laugh. “Duck does what he wants. Always has.”

“Yeah, and in two weeks he can again,” Pic replied. “But the doc said if he doesn’t take it easy, he could blow the artery in his groin right out—the one they shoved the catheter through. Once you start bleeding in a place like that, you don’t stop until you’re dead. Mel worked too hard saving his nasty ass for us to lose him over something stupid.”