Beretta (MC#1)

Chapter 8- Her

I'm an assassin.

As I've probably reminded myself countless times in these past hours. So why am I at least a little intimidated by this gang of outlaws following me around?

I understand the fact that this is their town. Hell, their city probably. That doesn't mean stalking people whenever they feel like it.

I knew Diesel was being too nice for a reason. He may be the most easy-going and non-threatening of all the Reapers Disciples but he's their President for a reason. And that reason is this: the ability to plan in the future, the ability to use the situation to his advantage. A remarkable trait, really. If I was really just an ordinary girl with an outlaw Uncle, I probably would've believed his gentlemanly act. Too bad that's not the case.

I ubered myself home, acting as if everything was completely normal. Julia was still asleep. Naked, might I add. Sniper really aimed way out of his league. And hit bullseye, apparently. Grabbing a granola bar, some water and my keys truck keys I decided to indulge the gang stalking me from the shadows.

I also put on a marvelous show of wincing and gritting my teeth against the pain in my shoulder as if it hurt like a bitch. Which It did, but I wouldn't ever be transparent enough to show I'm hurt. That could be a weakness used against me.

I climb up on one of the front tires of the truck to reach the bonnet, there's no other way to reach it. And besides I just need to add some lubricant oil. I'm too proud to have someone else do such a task I wasn't able to due to my short height. That's just humiliating.

The engine rumbles to life after some more work and I'm driving towards the local pharmacy at a 15-minute drive from the apartment. The bikers were smart enough to ditch their loud vehicles for a minivan. The kind used for package deliveries and such. Very common and easy to conceal in the evening traffic.

I buy several painkillers and some bandages- the obvious supplies I would be expected to look for given my wound is still in need of care. Later I'm in a run-down grocery market buying milk, cereal and other necessities from the long list on my phone. My shoulder stings like a real motherfucker by then and I pop 2 pills in my mouth.

It's only when I'm driving home in the dark do I notice not one but two identical vans following me. The first one has a registered number plate, the other one doesn't have a number plate. Something is seriously off here.

A few minutes later when I dare drive through the longer, quiet way to my apartment my suspicions are confirmed. Now I'm not stupid enough to purposely take the obviously dangerous way just for the fun of it. No, this was to check if I was really being followed by two different groups of people. One known and one unknown.

At a particularly deserted road near the coast was when shots started being exchanged between the bikers and the other van. I turned down the music, rolled down my window, wiped the dust from the side mirrors and checked behind me to see a black Jeep overtaking the vehicles exchanging fire and heading straight towards me.

I wasn't a good driver. I'd learned to drive all by myself in college, got my license by bribing the owner of the driving academy and blackmailing the inspection officer. Now I was seriously regretting pretty much all my life choices.

I was broken out of my stupor when the Jeep driver swerved right into my truck. Metal slammed against metal. My door creaked and no doubt there was a dent. That wasn't the problem. The problem was that this car was priceless. Custom made with Beretta engraved in real gold right under the door handle. The very door that fucker-who-will-be-dead-at-my hands-any-second-now ruined.