Page 29 of Viking (Dixie Reapers MC #24)

Viking

The control center door was locked, but that didn’t matter anymore.

I kicked it open, wood splintering around the deadbolt as it gave way.

The room beyond was larger than I’d expected -- a combination office and surveillance center.

Computer monitors lined one wall, displaying camera feeds from around the compound.

Maps covered another, red pins marking locations across the country.

And behind a wide metal desk, a man rose slowly to his feet, his posture military-straight despite the chaos we’d brought to his doorstep.

One look into his cold eyes and the way he held himself told me everything -- this was our target. The man who’d ordered Kris’s death. The man who’d sent killers after Karoline and Athena.

“You’re too late,” he said, his voice oddly calm. “The data is already being wiped from the backup servers.”

I advanced into the room, Glock trained on his chest. “We got what we came for.”

Something flickered across his face -- surprise, quickly masked by professional indifference.

He was older than I’d expected, maybe mid-fifties, with close-cropped gray hair and the lean, hard physique of someone who hadn’t let age soften him.

His eyes were pale blue, almost colorless in the harsh fluorescent light, and utterly devoid of emotion as they assessed me.

“The biker,” he said, recognition dawning. “Kringle’s friend.”

I felt my finger tighten on the trigger. “That’s right.”

He smiled, a thin stretching of lips that never reached his eyes. “You know, we’ve been watching you since you took in his sister. Curious choice, hiding her in plain sight at a biker compound.”

“Worked well enough to keep her alive while we tracked you down,” I countered, scanning the room for other threats without taking my eyes off him completely.

His gaze flicked to my cut, to the patches that marked me as Road Captain of the Dixie Reapers. “This isn’t your first time doing something like this.”

I said nothing, continuing my slow advance. Something about his calm unnerved me. He should have been more afraid, more desperate. The desk between us was bare except for a laptop and a framed photo turned away from me.

“Your friend Kringle was good,” he continued, his hands relaxed at his sides. “Too good. Should have stayed in his lane.”

“Is that why you killed him?”

Another smile, colder than the first. “We gave him options. He made his choice.”

In one fluid motion, his hand slipped beneath the desk.

I fired instinctively, but he was already moving, diving to the side as my bullet splintered the wood where he’d been standing.

He came up with a knife in his hand -- not a tactical blade, but an old KA-BAR similar to mine.

Military issue. The weapon of a man who preferred to get close. Mine had been a gift from Kris.

“Let’s see what you’re made of, Road Captain,” he snarled, all pretense of calm vanishing as he launched himself across the room.

I holstered my Glock and drew my own knife in one smooth motion. We circled each other, both recognizing the training in the other’s movements.

He struck first, a probing attack aimed at my left side. I parried, metal scraping against metal with a sound that set my teeth on edge. He was fast for his age, and skilled. This wasn’t some desk jockey who ordered kills from a distance. This man had blood on his hands long before Kris’s.

“You should have stayed out of it,” he said, feinting right before slashing at my midsection. “This goes higher than you can imagine.”

I blocked his strike and countered with one of my own, our blades locking momentarily before we broke apart. “High enough to include Senator Chambers and Senator Miller?”

His eyes widened fractionally -- confirmation that Wire’s intelligence was solid.

His next attack came harder, fury adding speed to his movements.

I caught his wrist, but his momentum carried us both into a bank of monitors, sending them crashing to the floor.

He used the collision to slam his elbow into my already bruised jaw, stars exploding behind my eyes.

I stumbled back, tasting fresh blood. He pressed his advantage, his knife slicing through the air inches from my throat. I caught his arm and twisted, using his momentum to throw him over my hip. He landed hard but rolled immediately, coming back to his feet with practiced grace.

“You think you’re protecting them?” he asked, circling again. “The woman and the child? You’ve only painted targets on their backs.”

My grip tightened on my knife. “The only targets tonight are you and your operation.”

He laughed, a cold, empty sound. “My death changes nothing. There are others. Many others.”

“We’ll find them too.”

We crashed together again, a brutal exchange of blows.

His knife caught my forearm, opening a line of fire across my skin.

I drove my knee into his stomach, forcing the air from his lungs.

We grappled across the room, knocking over chairs and slamming into walls.

A picture frame fell, glass shattering across the floor.

The map with its mysterious red pins tore under the impact of our bodies.

“Your friend died screaming. Begged for his life at the end.”

Rage exploded behind my eyes, white-hot and blinding. I headbutted him, feeling the satisfying crunch of cartilage as his nose broke. He staggered back, blood streaming down his face.

“Liar. Kris would never beg.”

He spat blood onto the floor. “They all beg, eventually.” His mouth twisted into a grotesque smile. “The girl will be next. The little redhead with her daddy’s eyes.”

Something primitive roared to life inside me at the mention of Athena. I charged forward, abandoning technique for raw power. We crashed into his desk. His knife slashed across my chest just above my tactical vest, cutting through my shirt, scoring a burning line across my skin. I barely felt it.

“You’ll never touch her.” I drove my fist into his wounded nose. Once. Twice. His head snapped back with each impact.

He rallied, bringing his knee up into my groin. Pain exploded through my lower body, momentarily weakening my grip. He twisted free, slashing wildly with his knife. I felt it catch my shoulder, but adrenaline dulled the pain to a distant awareness.

We separated, both breathing hard. Blood dripped from my split lip and the cuts on my arm and chest. His face was a ruin, nose flattened, one eye swelling shut. But those cold blue eyes still held nothing but contempt.

“You’re dead already,” he said, circling again. “You just don’t know it yet.”

“Then I’m taking you with me.”

He lunged, over-extending in his confidence.

I sidestepped, catching his knife arm and driving it down into the desk with all my strength.

The blade embedded in the wood. Before he could recover, I slammed my own knife into his thigh, twisting the blade as I yanked it free.

He howled, staggering back, blood pulsing from the wound in rhythmic spurts.

Femoral artery. He had minutes, at most.

But he wasn’t finished. He pulled a small pistol from an ankle holster, raising it with a shaking hand. I closed the distance before he could aim, catching his wrist and forcing it up. The gun discharged, the bullet burying itself in the ceiling. We struggled for control, our faces inches apart.

With a final surge of strength, I drove my knife up under his ribcage, angling the blade toward his heart. The gun fell from his suddenly nerveless fingers. I pushed the blade deeper, feeling it scrape against bone before sliding home.

“That was for Kris,” I whispered, watching the light begin to fade from his eyes. I twisted the blade. “And this is for threatening his daughter.”

A wet, gurgling sound escaped his throat. His hands clutched weakly at my cut, fingers tangling in the leather before sliding away, leaving smears of blood across the patches.

I eased him to the floor, knife still embedded in his chest. He tried to speak, blood bubbling between his lips, but no words came.

I watched as understanding dawned in those cold eyes -- understanding that he was dying, that his operation was compromised, that everything he’d worked for was crumbling around him.

“Look at me,” I commanded, gripping his jaw to force his fading gaze to mine. “I want your last thought to be of them living free because of what we did here tonight.”

I stayed there, watching as the light faded from his eyes, feeling the weight of the moment press down on me. I’d killed before, but this was different. This was personal.

When it was done, when I was sure he was gone, I retrieved my knife and wiped it clean on his shirt.

My body ached from a dozen small wounds, my split lip throbbing in time with my heartbeat.

But beneath the pain and the adrenaline crash was something else -- a grim satisfaction that settled in my chest like a stone.

Not happiness. Not pleasure. Just the cold certainty that I’d kept my promise to Kris. That his killers had paid their price.

I placed my hand over the locket beneath my cut, feeling its outline “It’s done, brother. They can’t hurt them anymore.”

Behind me, the door creaked open. Prophet appeared, shotgun held ready until he assessed the scene. “You good?”

I nodded, straightening despite the protest of bruised muscles. “Let’s finish this and go home.”