Page 39 of Kane
Axle drove with steady hands, his eyes locked on the road, tension simmering under his calm exterior. Nitro sat beside him, tapping his fingers on his thigh like he was waiting for permission to crack skulls. Wrench was across from me. He was silent, but I could tell he was wound tight. He lived for this shit. Just like the rest of us.
The Redline Kings weren’t fucking saints. We never pretended to be. We were outlaws. Built for the shadows, forged in violence, but loyal to a fault. The world saw us as criminals or saviors depending on the day, but the truth was messier.
We didn’t play by society’s rules. We had our own. A code rooted in loyalty, respect, and blood. Some brothers walked closer to the edge than others, but there were always lines we didn’t cross. And when someone broke those lines—when they came after what was ours—we didn’t just respond. We had our own brand of justice, and we executed it. Even if it meant spilling blood.
Edge and Jax had called minutes ago, telling us to hold the fuck up before we walked into something that was potentially a trap.
“We need eyes first,” Jax had said. “Cops are moving like they got fire ants in their pants. Too much chatter, Kane. Savannah thinks it’s a setup.”
I didn’t ask how she knew. My woman had instincts. She’d gone through Allen’s files, found the railyard listed on one of his fake invoices, and knew something didn’t smell right. The second she told Jax, he’d checked police comms and found a shitstorm brewing.
Edge’s voice came on the line next. “We’re in the alley, watching. Broken Skulls are getting into position.” He snickered. “Looks like they’re expecting company.”
I stretched my neck and rolled my shoulders. “I guess we oughta take ’em up on their invitation.”
Axle pulled the van into the shadows and killed the engine. We slipped out silently, weapons drawn. I gripped the cold metal of my sidearm, the weight familiar grounding me. Nitro was at my left, Wrench on my right, and we moved fast, sticking to the cover of rusted shipping containers and piles of scrap metal.
Up ahead, low voices murmured, harsh and cocky, from behind a dilapidated shipping container. I motioned for Nitro to take the flank and for Wrench to get up high on another container. Then I crouched low and crept forward until I spotted the pricks.
Five Broken Skulls, vests gleaming dully in the moonlight, were loading weapons and counting cash in the back of a beat-up SUV. And in the middle of it all, Henry Allen stood with his thumb hooked in his pocket, looking like the arrogant fuck I now knew he was.
Edge slipped up behind me with Jax at his side.
“We catch these fuckers before the cops get here, we end this tonight,” Edge murmured, eyes hard.
I nodded once. “On my signal.”
The second Allen turned his back, I moved. Fast and silent, I crossed the gravel and slammed the butt of my gun into the nearest Skull's head. He went down like a sack of shit. Then Nitro burst from the cover of darkness, taking down another. Wrench dropped from above, eliminating another two with brutal efficiency. Necks broken, they fell to the ground with a thud. Shouts rang out, echoing through the railyard as a few more Broken Skulls rushed in and were put down with bullets in their foreheads.
Allen froze, eyes wide with shock as I stepped into the light, gun leveled at his chest.
My smile was sinister. “Hello, Henry. I heard you were expecting me.”
He stammered, stumbling back into the arms of Edge, who caught him by the collar and yanked him off his feet.
“You fucking idiots!” the Broken Skulls prez roared. “This wasn’t the deal!”
Jax pressed a blade to his throat. “Deals change.”
“Handle the mess,” I ordered Nitro and Wrench, who nodded before walking away.
We dragged Allen and the Skulls’ president, Slash, to the van, securing them with zip ties, then tossing them in the back like the trash they were. Axle gunned the engine, wheels spinning aswe tore away from the railyard, the wail of distant sirens just starting to cut through the night.
Back at the garage, we hauled them downstairs into the concrete bunker two levels below the work bays. The temperature dropped as we descended, but it was still humid, causing the walls to sweat. The faint scent of bleach and the tang of copper hung in the air.
The walls of the rooms were thick, soundproofed, and stained with rust and blood from those who’d crossed us before. Fluorescent lights flickered over the two bastards in the center of the room, hanging from chains attached to the ceiling. And a metal table stood at the back, with tools lined up in neat rows.
Allen was already sweating, his face pale. Slash just glared, spitting on the floor.
Edge pulled his knife from his belt and, as usual, turned between his fingers like a drummer twirling a stick. “Start talking.”
Allen whimpered. “I can explain.”
“Don’t care,” I growled, grabbing him by the throat. “Who else is involved?”
“No one! It was just—just me and?—”
Slash snarled. “Don’t say a fucking word, you rat bastard. You break, and I’ll carve your face off myself.”