Page 17 of Edge (Redline Kings MC #4)

EDGE

T he warehouse’s metal siding sweated dew beneath a jittering floodlamp that did nothing but make the shadows look thicker.

We rolled up dark and quiet, engines killed a block out, the pack spreading on instinct.

Kane’s arm cut through the air, and six men dissolved into angles and cover like we’d rehearsed this exact building in a past life.

Nitro ghosted to my left, hands unhurried and precise, a coil of line tucked in his back pocket and a flat case under his arm that held toys nobody but him should touch.

Axle took rear guard, carbine low, eyes sweeping, his road captain brain calculating routes and exits like a living map.

Drift flexed his hands once, the air around him going still—he liked fights up close and personal, but there was nothing sloppy about him.

Wrench and Fury fanned wide, long guns ready.

My pulse didn’t spike. It flattened. The same way it always did right before I hit a wall at two hundred and prayed my math had been right.

That thin, electric quiet slid over me, and the grin I wore was the wrong kind.

The one Kane hated because it meant I wasn’t planning to stop until something broke.

Jax’s voice murmured in my ear, low and clipped. “South and east cams are looping. Thermal inside shows six movers at ground level, two in an office upstairs, two heat signatures toward the back. One’s smaller—could be her.”

“Copy,” Kane rumbled. “We take the outside quiet, breach on Edge’s count.”

I pulled the knife from the reverse sheath on my vest strap and moved.

The first guard leaned against a dented roll-up door, smoke crowning his head, his stance softened from boredom.

I stepped into a blind spot, hooked my hand in his collar, and opened his throat so neatly he didn’t realize it until warm slick washed my knuckles.

His cigarette tumbled to the ground, the ember kissing concrete, then he followed with a soft thump.

One.

I cut left along the corrugation, boots whispering, breath steady. Even after the first kill, my pulse wasn’t racing. It had slowed to a sniper’s cadence—every beat measured, steady and lethal.

A second guard rounded the corner and actually froze like a cartoon, eyes wide and mouth open. I hit him center mass with a suppressed three-round hiss that folded him back into the wall. Lights out.

Two .

I could hear the muffled rhythm of the other guys handling theirs—bones breaking, breaths ceasing, bodies and meeting steel in ways that meant they wouldn’t stand up again.

Nitro drifted past a side door, palm landing at the hinge line, leaving a wafer of shaped surprise no bigger than a cookie.

He didn’t look back. He never needed to.

He moved on like a surgeon switching instruments.

There was a man at the loading dock with a tire iron—wrong tool, wrong fight.

He swung high, too wide. I slipped inside his arc, took his wrist, and turned until the joint talked to me in wet crunch language, then drove his own elbow into his face hard enough to knock out a row of teeth.

He went down gargling. I didn’t have time to wait for him to drown on it, so I ended the confrontation with a blade and a boot.

Seems no one ever told the asshole not to bring a tire iron to a knife fight.

Three.

Through the personnel door, the air changed, becoming damp, stale, and layered with that metallic tang that always followed fear.

The internal lights flickered. A radio droned in an office to the right, it buzzed while a song tried to find the station and failed.

To the left was a hall, the concrete floor scuffed with the scrawl of shoe rubber from someone being dragged in the wrong direction.

My hunch was that someone had carried her in here, so I was willing to bet they used this place for regular meetings.

Callie’s citrus-soft scent mixed with dust and mold. It was faint, but it was there, and every muscle in my body tightened.

Kane’s palm appeared on my shoulder. He didn’t speak, didn’t need to. He slid past to cut the hall at the far corner. Drift flowed behind him, a shadow with knuckles. Axle took a cross angle, covering both doors with calm that never cracked, even when bullets started flying.

Which they did a second later. High, panicked rounds snapped from the mezzanine catwalk.

Nitro pivoted and stitched the muzzle flash with a controlled burst that sheared the railing and took the shooter with it.

The body fell like a bag of rocks, and with the metal from the railing, they hit hard enough to shake the floor.

We moved on. Swift and methodical. Ready for anything and confident in the outcome.

A runner tried to make the back stairs, and Fury cut him off, putting him down with a shot that was almost polite. Wrench put his heel in a door, then rolled a flash bang in before entering behind it. Two men came out on hands and knees, blind and crying. He shut them up with a muffled pop pop .

The hallway’s end glowed yellow, a door hung slightly crooked in the frame, light bleeding around it. Voices inside. One male with the smug cadence of someone who liked the sound of his own name. And one female, her voice tight with pain. Mine.

Something in me slid its last notch home. The bolt closed, the safety disengaged, and I became the round in the chamber—violent and…inevitable.

I kicked, and the doorjamb screamed, the wood cracking and the door swinging inward. The soon-to-be dead man had his arm stretched out—pistol up—aiming at the only thing in that room that mattered.

Callie was tied to a chair, lip split, wrists abraded raw where she’d fought the rope, cheeks wet, and eyes wild and bright even through fear.

She was breathing. She was looking at me with her dark blue gaze that saw me to my very soul.

That was the only detail that saved his life for the three seconds he had left to own it.

“Rye,” I murmured, the name tasting sour. My smile came slow and curved with anticipation. “You picked the wrong church to burn, asshole.”

Kane was on him before the words finished leaving my mouth—pistol crushed from his hand, shoulder hammered into the wall in a way he would feel for the rest of his short existence.

Drift followed Kane, weapon steady as he covered the corners.

Nitro stood just outside the door, eyes scanning the rafters and catwalk above, making damn sure no one was hiding up high.

Axle held the rear, broad shoulders blocking the hall, guarding our six so nothing could slip in behind us.

I dropped to a knee in front of Callie. My knife was a whisper working against the rope, deftly avoiding her skin before I had her in my arms. She trembled like a wire pulled too tight, but she didn’t break.

My beautiful, strong girl.

I was so fucking proud of her. And scared to fucking death.

My mouth found hers, not gentle or careful—a claim stamped on a kiss and reassurance. You’re safe. I’m here.

When I pulled back, my hands caged her face, the same ones built to break men now careful, cataloging every bruise because they were marks I’d carve into the fucker who put them there.

“Who touched you?” I didn’t raise my voice. It was enough that the rage hardened it to steel.

Her eyes flicked past my shoulder. “Him.”

I didn’t look. Didn’t need to.

My grin sharpened and tilted, becoming feral. I kissed her forehead—so soft it slashed across my heart—and stood.

“Kane, she goes home now. Call Cage.”

I knew my brother already had our club doctor on standby, but I wanted him there, waiting the moment she stepped out of the van.

Kane nodded and walked into the room, sliding his jacket from his shoulders and wrapping her in it like armor, then he lifted her with a care that could make you forget every violent thing he could do to a man.

“Got you, sweetheart. You’re with me.” His gravelly voice was a comfort I’d been on the receiving end of during my youth and many, many missions. Nitro moved to flank, his body between her and the hall.

Her fingers caught my cut, and her desperate eyes pulled to mine. “Don’t?—”

She knew. She knew what I was when the darkness inside me was unleashed.

It was killing me to send her with Kane even though he was the only man alive I would trust with her safety. But I needed to end this. Me . Or I’d never be in control of the psychotic fucker inside me again.

And a statement needed to be made.

“I have to, baby.” My thumb brushed the swell of her cheek where somebody’s handprint had bloomed. It made my teeth ache to see it, and I trembled with the need to spill blood. “They put hands on you. I finish this, and no one ever doubts what happens when they try it again.”

She swallowed, nodded once, and let Kane carry her out.

The quiet in the room suddenly took on a different shape.

Rye worked his jaw like the air had gone thick, as though he was trying to chew words that didn’t want to come out. Drift stepped back just enough for me to stand in front of him. Axle leaned against the frame, looking at ease but coiled tight and ready to strike.

I rolled my shoulders, and my leather cut creaked.

Wrench stepped into the room and handed over my kit—a small, battered metal case I never left behind.

It held less than people assumed and more than they could handle.

My hands were steady when I reached for it, my lips curling into an almost gleeful smile.

“Here’s what’s gonna happen,” I told him lightly, as if we were scheduling lunch.

“You’re going to tell me who else touched her.

Where the rest of your rats are nesting, who bankrolled this, and who the fuck put my name in your sick head.

Then I’m guessing you’ll pray. Not ’cause prayer works, but just to hear what your own voice sounds like before I take it away. ”