Page 22

"You know…" He exhales smoke, unfazed by our presence. "A dog that keeps pissing on someone's lawn eventually comes up missing."

My grip tightens, trying like hell not to pull the trigger.

One of his men shifts nervously and attempts to reach for a gun lying on the coffee table.

A gunshot rings out.

The man's body jerks back onto the couch, blood soaking through his shirt, where Riggs put a bullet through his chest. "You two, on your fucking knees," Riggs growls, his tone dangerous. One man rises slowly, his hands up. The motherfucker I want dead remains seated.

The son of a bitch blows smoke and glares between Riggs and me. "I don't kneel for anyone, especially a bunch of bikers thinking they run this city."

"You think this is about your little street game?" Every breath I take feeds the fire burning in my chest.

"Isn't it?" He never takes his beady eyes off me.

"This little visit is about the woman you grabbed last night. My woman ."

He smirks. "Ohhh," he drawls. "You mean the feisty dancer with the mouth?

She's yours?" Then he chuckles. "Small world.

" He cocks his head to the side. "She's been sticking her nose in my business, snooping around where she isn't wanted.

She needed to be taught a lesson." Rollins grabs his crotch.

"Shame things didn't go as planned. I was going to show her what a real man's cock feels like. "

I lose my shit.

I reach down, grab the bastard by the throat, and rip him off the couch. I slam his body against the wall and then force-feed the barrel end of my gun down his fucking throat.

"Everest," Riggs warns, his voice sounding distant over the sound of blood thrumming in my ears as I struggle to keep from pulling the trigger. After a brief battle with myself, I slam the motherfucker to the floor. "A quick death is too good for you."

He coughs. "You have no idea who you are dealing with."

Wick steps in and quickly zip-ties both men's wrists, then slaps duct tape around their heads, covering their mouths.

"Load ‘em up and roll out," Riggs barks, and we drag them out the door, toss them into the van, and get the hell out of there.

The ride back to the clubhouse is quick. I keep my eyes sharp as I focus on the sound of my tires eating up asphalt and the low hum of anger simmering in my chest.

When we pull through the clubhouse gate and head toward the back of the property, the sun is high and hot on my back. We head for the shed, which has nothing but concrete walls, a concrete floor, a steel door, and no windows.

No sounds get in.

No screams get out.

Fender unlocks it, swinging the door open, and the thick, hot air escapes.

Catcher backs the van to the entrance.

"Get ‘em out," Riggs orders, his voice flat.

I yank open the van doors and snatch Rollins, my woman's abductor, by his hair and haul him out while Nova grabs the second motherfucker.

The wiry little fucker twists and kicks, catching Nova in the nuts with a knee, trying to free himself.

My brother slams the guy's body so hard against the van that it rattles.

"Son of a bitch," Nova grinds out through clenched teeth, the anger palpable in his voice.

He slams the prick's head into the side of the van, each impact reverberating through the air.

After a couple of brutal blows, he tosses him onto the ground.

Nova delivers a sharp kick to the guy's ribs.

He turns away and walks off, leaving the asshole gasping for breath.

Catcher bends down, lifts the guy off the ground, and shoves him into the shed. I follow behind with Rollins.

Inside, the air hangs heavy and oppressive, saturated with the stench of blood that clings stubbornly to the concrete floors and walls.

Chains dangle from the ceiling. Tools are lined up against the walls—rusted and well-worn—each one a sinister device, not for fixing things, but for inflicting pain, shattering bones, and breaking men.

Wick grabs the heavy chain from the ceiling and lowers the hook.

I push my victim forward while Wick slaps a pair of cuffs onto the dealer's wrists, disregarding the zip ties, and loops the cuffs onto the hook.

Kiwi cranks the chains until the guy's arms stretch over his head, leaving his feet nearly dangling off the floor.

Rollins groans, low and angry, as the weight of his body causes the cuffs to dig into his flesh.

Catcher forcefully pushes the second dealer into a steel chair, slicing through his restraints, then pulls his arms back and zip ties his wrists again before ripping the tape from his mouth.

I stand in front of the motherfucker I plan to inflict pain on, and my brothers form a circle around us. I roughly rip the tape off his mouth and, with it, parts of his facial hair.

"You kill me, he kills you." His gaze drifts around us. "All of you," he sneers. His eyes fixate on me. "If I'd known the bitch was yours, I'd have put a bullet in the whore's head," he spews, spittle flying.

I wipe his spit from my face, then use his body like a punching bag, landing one brutal blow after another to his midsection until he's left gasping for breath.

His body swings, the chains creaking under his weight as Riggs steps forward, arms crossed over his chest. "Seems your boss has a hard-on for the Kings. Give up his name."

The motherfucker just breathes heavily, then starts laughing and grinning through his pain. "Fuck. You."

Riggs doesn't say a word. He steps aside and nods at me.

I stroll around the room slowly, like a wolf circling his prey, my gaze drifting over the tools, trying to decide which one suits my fancy—pliers, hammers, files, blades, propane torch, saw?—

all instruments of persuasion, capable of making a grown man cry and squeal like a stuck pig. The sledgehammer catches my eye. I wrap my hand around the worn handle, its weight comforting. I turn back toward Rollins, who grins like he has a secret. One I hope he thinks is worth dying for.

"You wanna talk?" I ask, my voice low, steady, and controlled.

He barks a laugh, the kind that makes my fists itch. "Go to hell."

"Wrong answer," I mutter, then swing. The sledgehammer connects with a sickening crack against his kneecap, and his body jerks while a scream rips from his throat. I don't hesitate to swing again, only harder this time.

"There's a slim chance I can convince him to make your death quick and less painful," Riggs says, then adds, "If you start talkin', that is."

Rollins' agonizing groan turns into a broken, unhinged laugh. "I told you to watch your back," he croaks, his eyes locking on mine.

I don't say a damn word.

What I want to do is break bones, shatter every inch of him until there's nothing left to recognize. My fingers twitch around the sledgehammer's handle.

I raise my arm to drive the steel into his other knee.

But Riggs steps forward and lifts a hand. "Hold up."

I freeze mid-swing.

Riggs eyes the bastard with a sharp gaze. "You started the mill fire."

It's not a question.

The bastard smirks. "Your clubhouse was my first choice," he spits, his voice full of smugness. "But the mill was more accessible at the time…" he pauses, then says, "Heard there was another fire in the city last night." He smirks.

My jaw locks. The air in the room changes, growing heavier, and the tension amplifies. I glance at Riggs.

He nods once, his mouth a grim line.

The dumb bastard keeps talking. "Your club is in the way, and my boss doesn't like obstacles.

You're fucking with his numbers and stirring shit with street-level runners.

He doesn't like bikers with reputations that make people nervous.

That's his job." He chuckles low and sinister.

"So, I sent messages. I hit where it stings. "

I roll the sledgehammer onto my shoulder, the weight of it resting against my neck as I circle behind him. Riggs doesn't stop me. I swing low and fast, driving the steelhead into his lower back with a kidney shot. The impact sends his whole body jerking forward with a strangled gasp.

I let the sledgehammer fall to the concrete floor, and Rollins flinches at the sound. I crack my knuckles and step around to face him.

"Who you workin' for?" Riggs growls.

"I'm still not talking," Rollins mutters.

"Good." I slam my fist into his gut, putting all my rage behind it because this is more than extracting information for me.

This asshole put his hands on my woman.

This is personal.

So I bury my fist in his gut again, and the air leaves his lungs with a violent grunt.

I follow with several strikes to the ribs until I hear them crack.

I hammer into his face next, my knuckles tearing into his flesh.

His nose is broken and bent sideways. Blood is everywhere, but I don't stop.

I grip the back of his neck and slam my fist into his mouth, feeling his teeth crunch and my knuckles split.

Still, the bastard doesn't scream.

The only sounds he makes are garbled breaths from choking on his blood.

I step back, chest heaving, blood dripping from my hands, mostly his.

Fender walks over and pours water over the bastard's face to keep him from passing out.

Riggs steps forward. "Who do you work for?" he demands. "We can drag this out for days if necessary. Your death is inevitable, but how long it takes depends on you."

Rollins struggles to lift his head but manages to look at Riggs. "You think you are gods in this city. You're not. The Kings are done."

Seeing he needs more persuading, I draw my knife, crouch beside his left leg, and dig into his flesh, sliding the blade behind his kneecap.

A scream rips from his lungs.

The second guy tied to the chair vomits.

Riggs looks at the weak prick. "String him up, too."

The guy struggles, fighting against his restraints as Nova moves to follow orders.

"Wait, wait, wait…" he cries. "If I talk, will you let me leave?"

"You give us what we want, and you can leave." Nova’s voice is calm but deadly.

“Velasco,” he blurts. "That's who we're running for." The words tumble out of his mouth.

I stand.

The room stills.

The weight of that name settles heavily over us like a thundercloud.

Wick's voice cuts through it. "Velasco is dead."

The guy spilling his guts swallows hard, his eyes cutting to his friend's bloodied, broken body. "Not him. His son. He said the Kings killed his father, almost destroying the business his father had built for years. He's got men, weapons, and plenty of connections. He says this city is his now."

My stomach turns, rage burning on the inside. I glance back at Rollins. He's barely breathing and bleeding, but he's fucking smiling. "You're about to take your last breath." My hand tightens around the knife's handle. "Got anything to say?"

"He'll come for you. All of you," he spits.

"Let him." I drive the blade into his chest, right into his heart. I twist until the light in his eyes fades like a dying light bulb.

I look at Nova, who turns and raises his gun at our guest with loose lips.

"But…" his eyes widen with fear, "… you said you'd let me leave if I talked." His eyes fall on Riggs, pleading for his life. " Please ."

"I said you could leave. I never said how," Riggs states and Nova puts a bullet between the fucker's eyes. He turns and looks at Riggs.

"What's our next move?" Nova asks.

Riggs glances at all of us, then at the door as if he can already see what's coming down the road. "We lock shit down. Club and family. Until further notice."

The silence that follows is deafening with unspoken truths.

These weren't just warning shots.

Velasco didn't merely ignite a fire.

He sparked a goddamn war.

If he wants New Orleans to bleed, he’d better be ready to drown in blood.

Because this time, we won't stop until the entire Velasco bloodline is buried deep beneath our feet.