Damn him! Damn his revenge. Damn his drive to avenge me.
Didn’t he get that all I wanted was him to be safe? To live a life together?
What if he got hurt? Everything we’d been through would be pointless!
Tonight wasn’t about business meetings or interviews. He was no longer a man in a suit but a biker in a cut. Last night had been the beginning of something. But today was the end of someone.
Today was war.
He hadn’t even had the decency to tell me!
My heart fissured with a soul-destroying earthquake.
Grasshopper gunned the bike, taking his frustration out on the engine. “Don’t hate the dude. He’s doing the best he can.”
No, he’s doing what he’s always done: not letting me share his problems.
Suddenly, it was all too much. I didn’t want to be around anyone. I didn’t want to be there. “Take me back, Hopper. I’m done.”
Grasshopper stiffened and for the longest moment, I waited for him to crack and admit what he seemed too afraid to say. When he didn’t, I squeezed his middle. “Take me wherever he is. Do it.”
Grasshopper inhaled, his chest expanding beneath my touch. “I would if I could, but I can’t.”
“Why is that just a common phrase these days?”
He shook his head. “I can’t because he’s already gone.”
No, no. No!
Everything inside became a fossil.
“What do you mean … already gone?”
He cringed. “I was supposed to keep you distracted. You weren’t supposed to worry. I’m sorry, Cleo, but he’s already there.”
My lungs ceased to work. “Where … already where?”
Don’t say it.
Do. Not. Say. It.
“He’s gone to face Rubix. He’s gone to finish a war.”
Chapter Thirty
Kill
I’d always known I’d been raised to be a killer. Being the son of a murderer sort of defined my destiny. I’d been twelve when my father had taken me to witness my first homicide. Everything he’d done—boosting a car, trading coke, laundering a few rifles—was his side business. I’d been sworn to secrecy. Thorn Price never knew. I didn’t like lying to Cleo’s family. I’d hated blatantly hiding things from my president. But I’d had no choice. I’d lied to survive. —Kill, age fifteen
Grasshopper lied.
He lied for me. He lied to my woman. And he hated it.
Once more, I was a fugitive.
A liar.
A thief.
And I was about to become a murderer all over again.
I despised lying to Cleo. But I couldn’t tell her my true plans. I couldn’t run the risk of her following me and getting hurt again. I’d caused her enough suffering. These were my sins—not hers. And I fucking refused to have her pay another cent.
Lying was the only way I could keep her safe.
Sleeping beside Cleo last night, I’d ached to touch her one last time, to whisper in her ear and say that I loved her and would miss her—just in case tonight didn’t go well.
But I couldn’t do that.
I could only drink in the sight of her blazing red hair and hope to fucking God I survived.
Watching her sleep, I begged her not to dream of me. Not to dream of death and destruction.
And when the sun rose, I had to pretend that today was any normal day. I hid my rising anxiety and played the perfect part so I didn’t raise her suspicions. Luckily, I’d had practice misleading those I cared about. First Thorn Price, then Cleo, then my own father as I fell more into Cleo and lied to protect her.
If I hadn’t learned through habit and necessity, there was no way I would’ve succeeded. She would’ve guessed the moment I said good morning—her intuition far exceeded my ability to bullshit.
The minute we’d eaten, I sneaked away—like the fugitive I was.
I couldn’t stand to be around her for another fucking minute in case my entire plan collapsed like a hopeless stack of cards.
The men had been informed.
The plan put into execution.
And Grasshopper was enlisted to distract her with monotonous businesses and pointless errands. Only once the brothers had been equipped, armed, and headed out to Night Crusaders could he return her home and come and join us.
Tonight, she would curse me. She would hate me for what I’d done. But I would take her hate gladly, as it would mean there was no way for her to chase us. We would vanish to do what was necessary, while she would be safe, far away from carnage.
If tonight worked—if the gods of fate had decreed I’d paid my toll and deserved my final retribution—then I would return a peaceful man. I would never raise arms again. I would have no need to. I would be content and redeemed. And Cleo would never have to worry.
I’d lived the past few years smelling nothing but blood. I’d existed craving nothing but revenge.
That was all at an end.
Tonight, I’ll finally find closure.
My appetite for peace would be sated. My hunger for justice fed.
Salvation.
Shaking away the cobwebs of my thoughts, I centered myself. All thoughts of Cleo were silenced. All nerves that I might die deleted. All I needed to focus on was clearheaded anger.
The brothers around me throbbed with power. The night pulsed with sounds of engines and scent of gasoline.
I looked back at Pure Corruption’s clubhouse one last time as I checked ammunition and pushed a revolver into my back waistband. My hands took stock, checking the sawed-off shotgun holstered to my thigh, the grenades gathered like a bunch of fucking grapes in my satchel, and the semiautomatic strapped to the back of my Triumph.
I bristled with war.
I dripped with weapons.
There was nothing left to do.
I gave the signal, and we pulled out.
“You ready for this, dude?” Grasshopper asked, his eyes trailing to the gate of the Crusaders’ Clubhouse.
Three a.m. and it was a dead town. No security guard on watch, no trained dogs patrolling the perimeter. Just a squat, ugly brick building with rotting outhouses and overgrown weeds. Even the moon and stars hated this place, preferring to hide behind a belt of clouds.
It was child’s play.
Undefended.
Unprepared.
Entirely fucking cocky.
Night Crusaders were new. Their MC hit four years old last month. When they’d encroached on our domain, we’d had … what should I call it? An altercation.
Egos were thrown, dominance asserted, and we’d taught them a lesson. We weren’t a Club to be messed with. We had strict fucking rules and any newcomers were bound by those rules.
After spilling blood, we’d come to an understanding. They could stay, pay us our monthly due in order to receive our gracious hospitality, and promise allegiance whenever we called upon them.
My fists clenched around my handlebars.
Fucking traitors.
If I had known they would join forces with Dagger Rose, there was no way I would’ve ever fucking agreed.
They’d taken my money, accepted a whore, and lied to my face.
They’ll get what they’re owed tonight. Same as every Dagger.
Looking to my left, I nodded at Grasshopper. His silhouette was barely visible in the dark. “That question is irrelevant. I’m ready. Been ready for a long fucking time.”
There was something to be said for just getting a job done. Dagger Rose had lived eight years longer than they were entitled. I should’ve slaughtered them the night I got out of the slammer. Why didn’t I just do it? Why bother forming an elaborate scheme to destroy them piece by piece? Dead was dead.
Because Wallstreet had bigger plans and you agreed.
I gritted my teeth. That was true, but it’d also kept my mind off Cleo’s death. If I hadn’t had something so intricate to puppeteer, I didn’t know if I would still be alive. I might’ve drunk myself into a coffi
n, or willingly been reckless, trying to follow her to the underworld.
Luckily, I had no wish to die. And Wallstreet’s plans had finally aligned with mine.
It’s time.
Grasshopper looked behind us. “We’re ready when you are, Prez.”
I swung my leg over my bike, unstrapping the semiautomatic and holding it high. There was no time for battle cries or courageous speeches. Each man knew what he was here for. We’d all done what was necessary to prepare.
The entire Club, minus two guards at the compound and one watching over Cleo, was present. They all copied me, climbing off their bikes and arming their weapons.
“Say whatever prayers you need. Tonight there are no half measures. Got it?”
The men nodded, jaws tight.
Mo handed me a pair of bolt cutters. I felt like a fucking senator about to cut a city’s ribbon. Handing Beetle my semi, I wedged the cutters through the metal links holding the flimsy gate together.
The chain snipped apart, slithering to the dirt, resting beside the pathetic padlock.
The gates swung open.
The Crusaders had tried to guard their home, but the barbwire on top of the fence was merely decoration when they chose to lock their gates with something as useless as a fucking chain.
I paused, glancing around the compound. We’d all studied blueprints, courtesy of a disgruntled Club bunny who’d been raped and left for dead by a prospect of the Crusaders. She’d spent a year as their slave before managing to escape. Now she wanted nothing more than revenge.
I understood her wish completely.
Pointing at the unprotected Clubhouse, I took the first step. Instantly, a ripple of action ferried through the men. We drifted forward as one.
Our boots crunched over twigs and dandelions. The moon remained hidden as if it didn’t want to witness what would happen.
My eyes narrowed, seeking out weaknesses or problems.
This was no longer a Clubhouse but a battlefield. Luckily, there would be no civilian victims. The compound was out of the city limits, built illegally on an abandoned refuse site that no one touched due to chemical waste. Didn’t they give a shit about their health?
I smirked in the darkness. Not that they’ll have to worry about their health tonight.
Motioning in the air, I signaled the men to spread out.
Silently, our group thinned, forming a moving wall, ready to surround the building like gift wrap. Extra bullets were palmed, safeties flicked, and grenade pins pulled.
We’d come prepared for Armageddon.
Once we’d finished, there would be no Club, no compound, no nothing.
My father and brother would be pieces of meat.
I would finally find salvation.
Reaching the bricked wall, my men pressed up against it, fading into the night. Grasshopper’s blue eyes narrowed, waiting for my next command.
Hefting the weight of my gun, I glared at my Pure brothers. “We all know the plan. Kill every motherfucker but leave the women and children alone. Anyone comes across Rubix or Asus, you leave those bastards to me.”
Men smiled, pressing their fingertips to their lips in an age-old oath.
My word was their law.
Mo flanked me. “Perimeter check complete. No sign of life. Either they’re all fucking high or complete assholes to not fortify.”
“You take the left; I’ll take the right. Kill can go in through the front door.” Grasshopper slapped my leather cut. “After all, it’s about the fashionable entrance.”
Mo chuckled quietly. “You good with that, Kill?”
“Yep. You take a third, Hopper takes a third, and I’ll meet you in the middle with the rest.”
Mo didn’t hesitate.
Slipping back into shadows, he darted down the lineup of bikers. Snapping his fingers, he summoned a third to go with him. His army disappeared around the side of the building in the first flank.
With a salute, Grasshopper summoned his third and moved in the opposite direction. We’d already discussed how we would attack: all at once from all fucking angles.
It would ensure swift victory. We would win.
I waited until Grasshopper disappeared with his group, before glancing at the remaining men. There were ten, eleven including me.
Each man bristled with armament, their eyes cold and focused.
They waited wordlessly, ready to begin. Looking at Matchstick then Beetle, I slinked forward.
I stayed hunched and low, fondling my semiautomatic. The safety was off. Tempers high. Adrenaline flowing.
Men deserved to die. My father deserved to die.
Boggy mud squelched around our boots as we inched around the building.
Beetle reached the front entrance first. He inspected the metal-reinforced door, seeking weaknesses.
I climbed the stoop. “Can you do it?”
Along with Beetle’s past of shoplifting and anarchy as a kid, he was also a magician with locks.
Beetle squatted, eyeing up the mechanism. “It’s an upgraded tumbler system. It’ll take a minute, but I should be able to crack it.”
Matchsticks hemmed us in. “Do it quick, else our edge will be gone.”
The other men stood patiently, watching corners, weapons drawn.
Beetle unrolled his lock-picking arsenal and set to work. Matchsticks tapped his foot. My palms grew damp.
A minute screeched past, slicing my veins with impatience.
Beetle cursed, making a fucking racket with whatever tool he used.
“Enough,” I hissed. I couldn’t wait any longer. “What’s the holdup?”
Beetle frowned. “Dunno. Something’s jammed from the inside.”
“I say we saw the fucking hinges or just blow it.” Matchsticks pulled a grenade from his overstocked belt.
Christ.
I pinched the bridge of my nose. So much for a stealth entry. Grasshopper and Mo would’ve made their way around the building. They’d seek other ways inside. But a bomb would give Dagger Rose and Crusaders time to mobilize. We’d planned on being quiet and dispatching as many people as possible before being noticed.
That idea was out the damn window.
“Any other way?”
Matchsticks shook his head. “The windows are barred. The only way in from this direction is through this door.”
Shit.
Grabbing Beetle by the shoulder, I tugged him away. Matchsticks grinned, knowing what that meant.
“Blow it,” I growled.
We had to get this done fast, otherwise our odds of a clean victory diminished.
Beetle didn’t argue. We all moved back as Matchsticks unpinned his bomb and placed it at the foot of the door. Swinging his rucksack over his shoulder, he grabbed a few sticks of plastic explosive for extra insurance. Slapping TNT to the door handle and central hinge, he stuck a countdown device with a connecting wire between the two.
Once both were armed, he pressed a button and two red digits appeared.
20
19
18
Shit.
We stumbled for cover. Damn asshole. I thought he’d just use the one grenade, not an entire truckload.
17
16
15
“Move back.” I herded Beetle and the men farther away. I wasn’t afraid of gunfire the moment the bomb went off—but I was afraid of ricocheting shrapnel. The pressure of anticipation fogged around us. Men breathed hard, waiting to attack.
4
3
2
I tensed for deafening war.
Then, it happened.
The explosion tore through my eardrums. My eyes watered at the crescendo. The colossally loud noise cracked through the early morning sky, ripping at the once peaceful silence.
“Now!” I yelled, springing up and charging. “Go. Go. Go!”
We shot forward.
Smoking rubble and dust formed a barricade. Vision was shit as we bowled through the demolished do
or. There was no more door—only a cloudy pile of metal and smashed bricks.
Our boots clattered as we scrambled from night into reeking corridors. Marijuana, rubbish, and cigarettes punched us in the face as we streamed into the Clubhouse like an infectious disease, fanning out, clearing room after room.
Gunshots rang out, shouts, curses, screams.
It happened at mach speed.
Eight fucking years I’d waited for this and it felt as if the entire world fast-forwarded.
I wanted to feel this. To have my revenge.
But I turned into a machine, aiming, firing, shutting down to focus on staying alive.
Charging into a den three doors down, I ducked as bullets rained into the wall where my head had been. In a split second, I catalogued two bikers trying to kill me and three junkie whores on the floor.
I didn’t think.
I fired.
A spray of bullets mowed them down, sending the two men face-first to the gross carpet.
The girls screamed, scrambling together as if there were safety in numbers.
I didn’t check patches or discern who was what. Dagger, Crusader—it no longer mattered. All that mattered was finding my father and brother.
Where the fuck are they?
Ducking back into the corridor, I wheezed on brick dust and sulfur smoke. A barely dressed woman bolted toward me, her chest daubed in blood. I stepped to the side, letting her pass.
A biker charged after her.
I didn’t give him a free ticket.
My finger squeezed the trigger.
He collapsed.
The Clubhouse was a fucking mess. Bikers, old ladies, my men, their men. It was an anthill with madness around every corner.
I lost count how many bullets I dispensed and how many lives I stole.
I didn’t play favorites or hesitate.
No half measures.
This was what I’d been waiting for. I was owed this.
I shot without discretion, striking guts and legs, hearts and heads.
Every man I maimed didn’t slate my bloodlust. Every room I entered didn’t tame my heartbeat.
Only putting an end to my father and brother would do that.
Reaching the kitchen at the back of the house, where meth packets and bongs littered the countertops instead of cereal and milk, I bumped into Mo.
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