Page 11 of Edge (Redline Kings MC #4)

EDGE

T he clubhouse always smelled like a mix of oil from the garage, whiskey that never seemed to leave the wood grain in the lounge, and home cooking wafting from the kitchen. That was a lot more common these days, since a few of my brothers had claimed old ladies.

They’d also brought along the faint scent of baby powder. Some might have thought it didn’t fit in the headquarters of a badass, lethal biker club. But we were all about family. The Redline Kings were a brotherhood, once forged from loyalty and love, not blood.

And even if I gave my club brothers shit about their ugly mugs, they made real fuckin’ cute kids.

Today, though, we were knee-deep in club business. I leaned back in one of the battered leather chairs in Kane’s office, boots stretched out on his large, custom-built desk despite the dirty looks he was tossing at them.

Kane was behind the desk, half in shadow, a bottle of Redbreast open beside him. Jax sat at the conference table with a laptop balanced across his thighs, his black-rimmed glasses catching the light every time he glanced up.

“Two more fucking times,” I muttered. “The prick doesn’t understand English. I told him no the first night. Made it really fucking clear, too.”

Kane’s green eyes cut toward me, sharp under the weight of his beard and that calm control that made even devils think twice before crossing him. “What’s his name again?”

“Rye,” I answered, voice flat. “Calls himself that like he’s trying too hard to sound tough. Some upstart with a crew he probably pulled outta the gutter and promised them a big payday if they followed him.” I smirked. “He thought dangling cash would get me to sell.”

Kane gave a humorless snort. “Then he’s dumber than he sounds.”

“Agreed,” Jax muttered, tapping keys. Blue light flickered against his face as he pulled up another file.

“I’ve been running him. Full name’s Riley Lamond.

Outta Atlanta. Served a nickel for possession with intent.

Tied to two different crews that both fell apart because someone snitched.

” Jax sneered. “Odds are good he was the fucking snitch. Now he’s trying to build his own empire, and you”—he flicked his gaze at me—“are apparently the crown jewel he thinks he needs to get there.”

“Figures.” I twirled my favorite knife through my fingers, my muscles twitching with the need to move.

Kane’s lip curled, something between pride and approval. “Can’t blame him.”

I grinned. “Flattery will not get you The Vindicator.”

Across the desk, Kane narrowed his eyes. “Of course, you’d bring that up now.”

Jax didn’t even look up from his computer, asking, “Is that the magic gun that Edge treats like his firstborn?”

“Magic gun?” I scoffed. “You don’t call the Sistine Chapel a ‘fancy doodle.’”

“It’s a rifle,” Kane growled. “A fucking gorgeous one. Integrally suppressed. Smart optics. Kicks like a ghost and hums like a song. He won’t even let me touch it.”

“Because you’d take it home and name it,” I shot back, leaning further into my chair. “I hand you The Vindicator, and suddenly, it’s sleeping next to your bed and getting a matching vest.” I put my hand over my heart dramatically. “I wouldn’t do that to Savannah.”

Kane’s mouth twitched into something between a smirk and a snarl. “I’m your brother. If anyone should get it, it’s me.”

“Yet,” I replied with mock regret, “here you are. Empty-handed and full of longing.”

Jax laughed. “Hasn’t he been trying to get that rifle off you for two years?”

“Three,” Kane corrected darkly. “Since I saw him use it outside Bainbridge. Two headshots. Zero sound. The bastards didn’t even fall loud.”

I shrugged, unapologetic. “Built it for me. Tuned every inch. If I ever hand it over, it’s ’cause I’m dead or in love. And if it’s the second one…she’s getting it, not you.”

Kane flipped me off without breaking stride, but before he could reply, Jax’s laptop pinged, the sharp alert cutting through the room.

His head snapped down, eyes narrowing.

“Fuck.” His fingers flew. “We have movement. One of the warehouse alarms just went live.”

Kane straightened, all calm gone in an instant. “Which one?”

“Southside,” Jax answered without looking up. “Pulling the feed now.”

We crowded around as the cameras popped up on screen. Grainy black and white, but clear enough to catch the crew creeping around the perimeter. Guns and bolt cutters flashing silver under the motion lights.

“Recognize those faces?” Jax asked, flipping between angles.

I leaned in and scowled, pointing at one of the men. “Yeah. That one was in the background of one of the surveillance photos on Rye. This is his crew.”

Kane’s jaw flexed, green eyes gone cold. “So he figured if you wouldn’t sell, he’d just help himself.”

Nitro shoved through the door just then, dark eyes glittering with dangerous amusement. He’d heard the last part. “Somebody’s about to learn the hard way.”

“Gear up,” Kane ordered, already moving. “Call Drift, Wrench, and Fury. Get your asses ready.”

The air snapped electric as we filed out, leather cuts creaking, boots pounding against wood. It didn’t take long to roll out. Five bikes, black shadows tearing through Crossbend’s streets toward the warehouse on the edge of the industrial block.

The place squatted low and ugly, all corrugated steel and razor wire under the floodlights. We killed the engines a block away, letting silence cover our approach.

The crew was busy at the side door, cutters biting into the lock. One kept watch, but he was twitchy, eyes darting but missing the real threat that was already circling.

Kane’s hand went up—signal. The world narrowed, slowing into that quiet place I always hit before impact. Controlled. Cold.

Then his hand dropped.

We hit them like a fucking storm.

I came up behind the lookout, hooked my arm around his neck, and dragged him back before he could make a sound.

My knife pressed in, and hot blood gushed over my knuckles as his body jerked.

He collapsed in a heap at my boots, twitching once before going still.

My blade danced over my knuckles—one-two-three—then dropped into my grip where it belonged.

Nitro swung a tire iron into another man’s knees, and the crack of bone snapped through the night, followed by the bastard’s scream. Drift’s fists were pistons, pounding another into the side of the building until his skull left a smear on the steel.

And Kane…he moved like a reaper, silent and merciless, his blade flashing once, twice, before a body hit the ground. Then another.

I grinned, the psycho edge burning through me, and stepped over the first corpse.

One of Rye’s men charged me, wild-eyed and knife in hand.

I caught his wrist, twisted until the bone gave with a wet crunch, then drove my elbow into his throat.

He gagged and choked, and I shoved him face-first into the wall before finishing him with the same blade he’d meant for me.

Blood sprayed hot across my forearm, painting the ink there. My grin widened. Fucking idiots had no idea the batshit crazy they’d just walked into.

Another came at me, shouting, arm raised high, his switchblade glinting in the moonlight.

I ducked, rammed my shoulder into his gut, and drove him backward until he hit the concrete hard.

The knife clattered free, and I brought my boot down on the motherfucker’s chest, snapping his ribs like dry wood.

His scream broke into a wet gurgle as I leaned down, eyes bright with the rush.

“Thought you’d rob the Redline Kings?” My voice was almost gentle, which made him flinch harder. “Big mistake, asshole.”

I rammed the knife through his sternum, twisted, and watched the life drain out of his eyes. Blood still dripped from the tip as I flipped the blade into the air—slow and lazy—then caught it behind my back without looking.

Around me, the night was alive with the raw music of violence. And I was smiling through it all. Calm. Controlled. Twisted enough to know I’d stepped off the line tonight—and not giving a single fuck.

By the time it ended, the ground was littered with broken bodies.

A couple still groaned, but that wouldn’t last long.

Nitro crouched over one, blood dripping from his knuckles, his grin crooked and dangerous.

Drift leaned against the wall, chest heaving, eyes sharp.

Kane wiped his blade clean on a dead man’s shirt, calm as ever.

“Should’ve known better,” Kane muttered. “Amateurs.”

“Ambitious amateurs,” I added, my chest still buzzing with the high of delivering justice. My blood was roaring, my pulse hammering, and I knew the grin on my face wasn’t sane. And I didn’t give a fuck.

Jax’s voice crackled over Kane’s comm. “Warehouse secure?”

“Yeah,” Kane answered.

“Good,” Jax replied. “Because while you were busy redecorating with blood, someone tried cracking into our records system. Digital footprint has them digging through our arsenal records. My guess? They were after your blueprints, Edge.”

I froze for a beat, then felt the grin creep back. “Figures.”

“They probably thought if they couldn’t steal the hardware, they’d grab the designs,” Jax continued. “Reverse engineer them. Maybe even sell ’em off. But they were shit outta luck. Guess you were on the right track by keeping everything analog.”

“Damn right.” My tone was smug as I wiped the blade off on my jeans. “Pencil and paper. Exactly like I’ve always done it.” This was an argument Jax and I had been through many times. I refused to digitize my weapons plans and notes. ”Blueprints like mine don’t belong on a hard drive.”

Nitro let out a short, sharp laugh. “Hell no. They’d fry their own dicks off trying to replicate your shit anyway.”

Drift smirked. “Wouldn’t that be a mercy for the gene pool?”

Kane’s gaze cut to me. “They’re coming for you now. Not just your weapons. You.”

The words should’ve set something cold in my gut. Instead, I felt the heat burn hotter.

“Let ’em try.” My voice was low, calm, and fucking lethal, a wicked smile curving my lips. “I’ll carve up every one of them into a fancy doodle.”