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okay.
    Wouldn’t admit why, of course.  Wouldn’t admit that he had been nursing a hard-on the size of a crowbar for her the second he had laid eyes on her again. No. Wouldn't admit that he wanted to know why the hell she had left him in the first place.
    No, it was only because he still had healing to do, and she’d make it easier.
    “Lie down,” said Helen.
    He turned. She had been behind him, at his head. Slowly, he began to get up.
    “You’re going to pop your stitches. You pop ‘em, you can sew ‘em back on yourself.”
    He doubted that. Helen had a kind heart. But he remained still.
    “How does a woman as fine as you end up as a nurse, anyway?”
    “I suppose it would be dumb to ask how a man as cruel as you ends up living in an abandoned warehouse?”
    Ribs groaned and his body ached as he laughed. Worth it, though.
    He sat up further, hearing voices. One was Ace. The other...
    “Who’s that?” he asked.
    “Someone came in. Another biker. One of yours, I guess. He and Ace have been yelling for a while now. Saying your name. I think they’re mad at you.”
    “It’s Ivan,” said Locke, eyes still closed. “Can smell him from a mile away. Dunno if any other Furnace came with him. Gotta assume so. Tank took off outside when they arrived. He didn't want to start a fight.”
    Beretta nodded. Smart of Tank. His grudges died hard. He didn't like Tank very much, but he could damn sure respect the man. Couldn't say the same very much for Locke. He appreciated many things about Locke—his initiative, his wit, his willingness to fight—but Locke's looseness with his women always struck him the wrong way.
    Beretta was more of a one-woman sort of man. Problem was, he wouldn't ever let that woman get close to him.
    “You’re awake?” Helen asked Locke.
    “You found a nice girl here, Beretta.” Locke yawned. “I think I’ll keep her. I feel right as rain.”
    “That’s the morphine drip,” she said.
    Locke snickered. “Don’t call me a drip, honey. I just complimented you.”
    Ivan was the President of the Furnace MC in Stockland. They were another Texan gang that had decided to move in on Stockland only a few months before the Wrecking Crew did. Outlaws could smell weakness, vulnerability, and woe to those who showed it.
    There was nothing weak about Rattler on paper. But he was insane, and he was getting too muscle-heavy for his own good. Anybody that looked close enough could make the connection that his time was close to up. Didn’t mean Rattler knew, though, or that he’d make it easy.
    If Ivan was there, that meant news had spread about the bloodbath in the alley. That was good. That was the idea, after all. Let the Copperheads know their boss wasn’t invulnerable. Just that knowledge alone would do about half of the Wrecking Crew’s work for them.
    But mad at Beretta? Ivan and Ace?
    Fuck them if they were.
    He'd done what Ace hadn't dared to do, and what Ivan hadn't done in all the years he'd had a gang in Stockland—he'd come this close to offing Rattler.
    And now they were talking behind his back?
    Not gonna let that happen.
    His stubbornness was absolute. Beretta had followed his plan. He wasn't wrong.
    A limp affected him as he stood up and walked. Drawing his legs out for a full stride made something in his midsection catch. Probably his stitches.
    Ace and Ivan argued with each other in the office at the front of the warehouse. It was, compared to the rest of the space, rather small, but there was plenty of space for a couch and a big cabinet which they had filled with liquor and from which the two had pulled a bottle. Empty glasses sat in front of them, and Ace was refilling for both as Beretta walked in.
    “You’re up and about?” asked Ace. “What I tell you, Ivan. The woman knows her stuff.”
    “It’s what she knows that’s got me worried. You want a drink, Beretta?”
    Beretta shook his head. He didn’t drink, and Ivan knew it from way back when. He and Ivan had a