Page 138 of Double Standards

“On his way,” Hunter answers as he approaches, cell in hand.

Between Cassie’s attack three days ago and Trigger’s constant disappearing acts, I’m losing the will to live.

I’m furious that Cassie refuses to stay with me, because it means I have to do the very thing she’s pissed at me for. But I won’t regret putting eyes on her. Until I put that pathetic excuse for a man in the ground, she’s not safe.

“You’re sure about this?” Hunter asks warily.

“More than ever,” I reply and step through the front door. The air hits me like a freight train—sharp, clean, liberating. My brothers flank me for comfort, but I don’t feel nervous. I’m focused. More vigilant, maybe, but not afraid.

It’s the first time I’ve stepped outside since I was shot. It’s not easy. But I’m doing this for her. I can’t protect Cassie if I’m scared of my own goddamn shadow.

Max is the first to stride toward the rundown warehouse with lethal purpose.

Covered by rusted walls and shattered windows, it’s aperfect front. It’s laughable how obvious the place is, but with enough money greasing the right palms, even the most suspicious corners stay untouched. There’s a fine line between right and wrong. But if the cops don’t know about it, it never happened.

We enter through the side, the hinges groaning in protest. It’s cold and wet—an ideal setting for pain. The place stinks of sweat, blood, and fear. Despite every effort to clean up, our current guest has clearly been fighting for his life.

“Fuck!” Ryder gags, jerking back two steps and slapping a hand over his face. His other hand flails blindly for balance as he bends at the waist, coughing hard. He’s still not used to this part of the job. The mess. The stench. The stomach-turning aftermath that always seems to cling to places like this.

Ryder grumbles something unintelligible under his breath and straightens, eyes watering as he struggles to pull himself together.

“Calm it, Ryder.” I clap a hand on his shoulder, grounding him with a firm squeeze. He’s new, still green, but he’ll learn. He has to.

Footsteps approach from behind, slow and measured.

“What’s the plan, Ax?” Hunter asks as he comes to stand beside me. His voice is calm, but there’s a sharpness behind it—an edge that tells me he’s already mapping contingencies in his head. His eyes flick toward the darkness ahead, unreadable as always. The kind of stare that sees everything and gives nothing back.

I scan the corridor, tension winding tighter in my gut.

“Where the fuck is Trigger?” I growl. Every second he’s not here chips away at my patience.

“Here!”

His voice slices through the hallway, deep and furious, echoing off the cracked concrete walls like a warning shot. A loud clanking follows—a sharp, rhythmic clang of metal against metal, growing louder with each beat.

I turn toward the sound as Trigger emerges from the shadows, stomping down the hall with a look that could melt steel. Rage radiates off him like heat, his shoulders squared, his movements rigid and deliberate.

“Where the fuck have you been?” I bark as he approaches.

“Not now, Ax,” he snaps, not even slowing. His breath is ragged, his jaw clenched tight. “Somebody get these bastard things off me!” He lifts his arms, fists clenched. One of them is still cuffed, the heavy chain dangling, catching the dim overhead light with each step.

“You got arrested?” I ask, voice flat, jaw tightening until my molars grind.

“No!” he glares, and it’s more defensive than angry now. His cheeks flush with heat, the color rising fast as his eyes dart away, refusing to meet mine.

He doesn’t have to say anything else. That look tells me everything I need to know—whatever happened, it was messy. And he's not proud of it.

“I thought I told you to keep a low profile.” My tone is calm, but the edge behind it is sharp. I give Trigger a once-over—dirt-smeared shirt, scuffed boots, wrists red and raw from the cuffs. He looks like hell, and I’m guessing the story behind it is just as ugly.

“Ax,” he warns, his voice low with that growl he gets when he's about one second away from losing it. His eyes cut to mine, daring me to keep going.

But I’m not about to let this drop.

“Care to explain, then?” I press, the corner of my mouth twitching up. I can’t help the smirk—I’ve never seen him this rattled. Trigger’s usually the one with the plan, the one who never loses his cool. Now he looks like someone’s been grinding his nerves to dust. I want to enjoy it.

“Later,” he snaps, jaw tightening.

I raise my hands in mock surrender, fingers splayed. “Sure thing.”