Page 7 of Hurt

“Nah,” Jamie said as he flashed his gun between them. “Magnum is only good for nine hundred feet or so. This is the .454 Casull. Accurate at nineteen hundred feet, and it’ll blow the kneecap out of a man sprinting across a lawn.”

They glanced over at the guy Jamie had been testing his accuracy with. The weapon didn’t matter. If it was a firearm, Jamie could fire it with precision. He just preferred the biggest, loudest one he could hold.

“That thing is big enough to take out a rhino,” Elijah observed with an elegantly arched eyebrow.

“Yes. Yes, it could,” Jamie said dreamily.

Elijah laughed and wiped a blade off on the man’s pants, returning it to one of his many sheaths and straightening. For this raid, he had lost his jacket. Despite the blood, he still managed to look impeccable. Posture perfect and not a hair out of place.

Thethud thudof Roland’s brass knuckles slamming into the man's face cut through their conversation. Grant turned his attention back to the task at hand. He hated torture. He so much preferred the clean act of killing. A quick and efficient death.

Roland was the hunter. He toyed with his prey until every breath was agony. Pain became their only lifeline. Grant had no such patience.

Pushing off the wall, he strode across the blood-covered room. He gagged inwardly at the sound of wet carpet squishing under his feet. It used to be a lovely cream color—now it was crimson. Three bodies were stacked on the other side of the room: Roland’s previous appointments.

The fact that they were affiliated with the Vega Cabal was obvious. They may not have the brands the Vega Cabals’ most loyal followers have, but that didn’t matter.

“We found your stash,” Grant said as he came abreast with Roland. “You’ve been selling Vega cocaine in Weaver territory.”

The man in the chair flinched, his face going pale.

Roland rolled the brass knuckles on his fingers. They were beautiful, a gift from their grandfather when Roland turned eighteen. Made out of brass but plated in white gold, they had clouds etched into the metal. Wickedly sharp, he could unsnap them and wear them like individual rings on his four fingers. He was never without his weapon. Most people believed they were simply decorative until he snapped them together and his fist crashed into their face. Roland had killed a man with a single punch.

Yet he never changed his expression. The scariest thing about him wasn’t the power behind his punches but the way he impassively looked down on his victims. He neither taunted nor comforted them. Preferring to let Grant do the questioning while he rained down punches.

“Your cooperation would be nice but is not necessary,” Grant informed the man.

He peeled open his blood-encrusted eyes and looked past the Weaver brothers. Elijah was standing with his arms crossed, looking bored. If it wasn’t for the gruesome stains on his clothes, he might look like he was waiting in line for coffee.

Jamie winked back at the man, holding his gun up to his mouth and giving the barrel a seductive lick.

Elijah rolled his eyes. “That’s disgusting. I know where you keep that.”

“Hey! My guns are cleaner than my hands.”

“Unfortunately, I believe that’s true.”

Grant snapped his fingers in front of the man’s swollen face. “Tell me which Vega put you up to this, and I’ll end this quickly with your dignity intact. Keep your silence, and Roland will get his arm workout in for the day.”

Roland didn’t say anything. His light eyes glittered down at the man. He was a tall man. Even without the bright eyes and deadly jewelry, he would be intimidating. His hair was trimmed short and not as dark as his brothers. Their American father's influence was stronger in the youngest Weaver. Blood spatter stained his white button-up shirt and his peerless face.

“Asher Vega. He told us to start selling in the Weaver territory.”

Grant inhaled slowly. It was as he suspected. Gerard Vega was bloodthirsty, but he wasn’t an idiot. He wouldn’t openly offend the Weavers like this.

Before their victim could take another breath, Grant’s had a blade to his chest. Razor tip slicing cleanly between the third and fourth rib to sever the aorta. He was dead in moments.

Blood sprayed off the tip of his blade. A custom piece, thin and elegant. Shorter than the average sword, it slid into a leather sheath lying against his thigh. It was not a blade made for battle—this was no broad sword designed to take a hit or batter against a shield. But a lighting-quick rapier with only one thing in mind: Death. Fast, clean, efficient.

Elijah stepped up and offered a handkerchief. Grant took it gratefully, wiping his blade clean before sliding it into his sheath.

“Kill the rest. Then burn it to the ground.”

Elijah nodded and left to do as he instructed.

Roland grabbed his coat and slid it on over his rumpled shirt, not bothering to button it up. He followed his older brother out of the average-looking two-story home they had tracked the Vega dogs to. They had even been living in Weaver territory.

The boundaries of their territories were invisible yet rigid. Lines drawn in the sand that couldn’t be seen but were the backbone of every organization. You were safe if you stayed in your territory.