Page 33

“SouthPort. By the River.” Another pause. “I’ll be waiting.”

The line goes dead.

“The bastard is fuckin’ with us,” Fender seethes.

My hands curl into fists. The quiet inside me is worse than the rage. It’s a hollow space where something dark hides, needing to destroy something and not stopping until it does. Whoever the fuck it is, just put a match to the gasoline I’ve been drowning in since London was taken.

I don’t stop to think. I move. My feet carry me across the empty lot. Ready to kill every one of them.

“Hold it.” Riggs barks behind me, causing me to freeze.

“I already have one man lying on an operating table who might not survive. I’m not putting another one in the ground.

Get your head right before we do this.” The steel in his voice cuts deep, each word hitting like a blade to the gut, sharp with truth.

I nod once, keeping my mouth shut.

“He knows we’re coming. When we get there, we move fast and don’t stop,” Riggs says, eyeing each of us. “We leave no man alive. We spill blood for our brother. This ends tonight.” Then Riggs looks back at me. “Let's go get your woman.”

The port is quiet in an eerie, unnatural way, as if it knows death is near. Our current location is isolated, dimmer, and cut off from the rest of the property by a long stretch of rusted fencing.

I’m vibrating, every muscle in my body wired tight, my trigger finger twitching, and my heart pounding like it’s trying to break out of my chest. Steel walls rise around us, containers stacked high as we weave our way straight into the belly of the beast toward the southeast side of the yard—weapons up, no words.

She’s here, somewhere in this goddamn maze.

I’m here, baby. I’m coming for you.

Suddenly, a man with a rifle steps out from the shadows. I don’t hesitate and put a bullet in his chest. His body jerks backward, slamming into the side of a steel box. We keep moving as another man charges us, his weapon raised. Wick puts three rounds into his body.

“Move, move,” Riggs growls, sweeping left.

We charge deeper into the yard, cutting through narrow lanes between containers. Gunfire erupts, and bullets ping off the steel surrounding us.

We crouch, taking cover.

Riggs clocks the culprit, hiding behind a forklift. He takes aim and fires one shot, and the motherfucker is dead. Fender pivots and fires twice, knocking another man clean off his feet.

We press forward, keeping our momentum.

The river is louder now, slapping against the banks. We’ve made it to the southeast side of the port.

A slow movement flickers at the edge of my vision, and out of the darkness emerges a shadow, a gun aimed in our direction. His steps are deliberate, each echoing with a menacing weight that heightens my pulse as the air around us thickens.

We aim at the motherfucker.

He doesn’t flinch.

I move forward. “Velasco,” I growl.

He smiles, slow and unsettling. He doesn’t confirm or deny his identity. Instead, he takes a drag and flicks a cigarette to the dirt. “You came for the bitch but walked into your own funeral.” His voice is smooth and cold.

“Where is she?” I demand, my fingers curling tighter on the trigger.

He tilts his head. “Sold goods. Some twisted fuck out of Croatia is already foaming at the mouth to get his hands on that spitfire. He likes them loud. He likes to break them.”

I see red and take another step forward.

The bastard chuckles. “Maybe I’ll take her for a spin myself.”

“Not while I'm breathin',” I seethe, my voice lethal.

He chuckles again, deeper this time, and raises an eyebrow. "That can be arranged.”

I'm done.

I don’t wait for another word to move past the asshole’s lips.

I shoot him in the chest.

He stumbles, his eyes wide in shock, but unfortunately, he’s still breathing. Still fucking laughing. He drops to his knees, coughing, with spit trailing down his chin. “You’re dead men walking.” He grins, crimson foam bubbling from his lips.

I walk up, gun steady, look down at him, and pull the trigger, cutting off his twisted laugh and splitting his skull like a melon. The bastard is dead, but I find no relief. I won't until I see London.

Looking at the containers, I run and start ripping open doors, frantically searching for her.

The others jump into action.

“Back here!” Fender shouts, and I head toward the sound of his voice.

I round the corner as Wick bashes the lock off a red container near the river’s edge.

The doors groan when he pulls them open.

And there she is.

London.

Huddled with a few other women.

She is hooded, her wrists bound behind her back, and blood splatters on her clothes.

“London,” I say her name to help me breathe as I rush inside.

“Kallum?” she calls out in a tone of relief that damn near causes my knees to buckle out from under me.

I rip the hood off. London’s lip is swollen, with a cut to her cheek and dried blood all over her. Her eyes snap to mine, and her body falls into my arms, where she belongs. “I got you, baby,” I whisper, my voice raw.

She pulls back just enough to look at me. “About damn time.”

I let out a heavy breath. “Never lettin’ you outta my sight again.”

Her brows lift. “That mean I’m moving in?”

This woman.

“It means you already did.”

I let go of her long enough to get my knife and slice through the zip ties bound tight around her wrists. Then, I drag my eyes over her, looking for other injuries.

“It’s not my blood, Kallum.” Her voice is softer, and she turns, looking up at me. “Is he…” Her lip quivers, leaving her question hanging, but I know what she’s asking.

“Last we heard, he was heading to surgery. We don’t know yet, baby.”

“He was protecting me.”

“I know.” I pull her into my chest, and she clings to me.

Riggs, Wick, and Fender help the other women by cutting restraints and leading them out of the steel container with London at my side.

Riggs walks up, his eyes on London. “You good, sweetheart?”

London nods. "I am now."

Riggs then turns to me. “Take your woman home. We got it from here.”

I clasp my hand on his shoulder. “Let me know when you receive news on Catcher?”

“I’ll keep you updated. Now get outta here,” Riggs orders, and I don’t argue.

I sweep London off her feet.

“I can walk,” she protests.

I ignore her. “Just shut up and let me take care of you, woman.” I start walking.

London sighs, and I’m half-ass expecting her to say something else with that sassy mouth. Instead, she wraps her arms around my neck and buries her face into my throat.

I press on, not once looking back, knowing my brothers will take care of the aftermath and get the women to safety.

Right now, I’m holding onto the only thing that matters.

And I’m never letting her go.

The following day, I lay in bed, feeling the soft warmth of London snuggled into my side. Her gentle breath creates a soothing rhythm, wrapping me in comfort. But the room feels unbearably quiet, making the silence press against me like a heavy blanket, amplifying my thoughts.

I glance at her peaceful face, the way her hair spills across the pillow, and I wish I could freeze this moment in time. Yet the stillness weighs on me, and I can’t shake the feeling that something is off.

The weight of everything we just went through hasn’t settled. It hangs in the air, choking out the peace we should feel. I should feel relieved, but I still feel rage simmering beneath the surface of my skin because my brother is fighting for his life.

I got the text just after sunrise.

Riggs: Still critical. Doesn’t look good.

Nothing needs to be said out loud.

Catcher took bullets protecting my woman, and there’s nothing I can do for him but hold the woman he was willing to give the ultimate sacrifice for.

London stirs beside me, her arm draped across my chest, fingers dragging down the ink over my ribs. “You're thinking too loud,” she murmurs. “Is it C-Catcher?” Her voice cracks.

“Yeah, babe. He’s not doin’ good.” I press a kiss to her temple. “I’ll make coffee. Then we’ll meet the others at the hospital.” I climb out of bed and pull on a pair of sweats before glancing back at London, who’s stretching, the sheet falling, exposing her breasts.

“I’m going to shower.” She stands, wearing nothing but the sass she wore to bed. “Join me if you want me to suck the soul right out of ya.” She winks.

I grin despite the lingering knot in my chest. “You make one hell of an offer, babe.”

She hums, disappearing into the bathroom with that sway in her hips that should be illegal.

I step into the kitchen and fire up the coffeemaker. I’m still rolling the tension out of my shoulders when there’s a knock at the door.

I’m not expecting company, but every part of me tenses. I grab my weapon, flip the safety, keeping the barrel low and out of sight, and move to the door. “Who is it?” I bark.

“Detective Broussard,” the voice outside the door replies. “New Orleans PD. I’m investigating the incident at Jonny’s Liquor. I need to ask a few questions.”

I slide the chain into place and crack the door open just enough to get a look at the motherfucker. He’s a man in his mid-forties with a thick, short beard, a button-down shirt, and a badge clipped to his belt. There's nothing off about him at first glance.

“ID,” I demand.

He lifts his wallet and flips it open . It looks legit.

“Just a moment of your time,” he says.

I close the door and put my gun away, hiding it behind a small box of motorcycle parts. I unlatch the chain and open the door. “Make it quick.”

He steps in, his eyes scanning the area. “Nice place.”

“Ask your questions. I'm not guaranteeing I’ll answer them, though.” I cross my arms over my chest, waiting for him to speak.

“Kallum,” London sings, her voice light and airy as she strides into the room naked.

The wooden floor creaks beneath her bare feet.

Suddenly, she halts, her confident demeanor faltering as her eyes lock onto Detective Broussard.

The mixture of confusion and surprise quickly tightens her brow.

“Mr. Harrison?” she questions, her voice tinged with uncertainty now, a stark contrast to the playful melody she had sung moments before.

The air is charged.

The detective turns slowly toward London and laughs.

A shiver runs down my spine.

That laugh.

It’s familiar.

It can't be.

He’s dead.

Broussard draws a gun, swinging it toward my woman before I can react.

The detective laughs again. “You fucking bikers are all the same,” he sneers. “But I didn’t think it would be this easy .” He keeps his gun aimed at London and his eyes on me.

I’m staring at the ghost himself.

The puppeteer.

The motherfucker behind all of it.

Velasco himself.

I move.

“Take another step, she dies,” he warns.

My woman stands there, staring down the barrel of a gun, naked and unflinching.

"But, then again, she’s worth more to me breathing.

” He flicks the gun from her to me, but I don’t flinch.

“Too bad you put those bullets in the wrong body last night. You see, Tito was loyal. But he was also greedy and started skimming off the top.” The bastard grins.

“He made good bait. Thanks for saving me the trouble.”

The air in the room shifts. Heavier. Colder. But the heat in my chest is nuclear.

“You think I’m afraid of death?” I growl. “You came after my family. Make no mistake, I’ll take you to hell with me.”

Velasco’s jaw ticks. Good. I’m getting under his skin.

“On your knees like the dog you are,” he snaps. “Now, or I put a bullet through the bitch’s throat.”

I drop to one knee.

“I’ll gut every one of you. Your women. Your club. The King Legacy,” Velasco seethes, fixated on me, on wanting to see me bleed. “All of you will pay for my father's death.”

Velasco doesn’t see London moving.

Then the shot.

The blast echoes like a thunderclap.

A thick spray slaps across my face, warm and metallic, the bullet punching through Velasco's forehead. He drops like a dead weight, his gun clattering across the floor.

Then…

… silence.

London locks her eyes on mine, fierce and unyielding. “I wasn’t about to let that piece of shit put a bullet in my man,” she growls, her gaze burning down at Velasco. “This was for Catcher too,” she adds, her voice steady yet laced with adrenaline as she slowly lowers the weapon.

I push myself off the floor and close the distance between us.

I can’t believe she’s mine.

And at this moment, I know with every bone in my body, London is my ride-or-die.

My future.

And one day, I’m going to fucking marry her.