God damn it. Should’ve taken Diesel and Smoke. “Focus.”
Ripper grunts, tapping his blade against his thigh. He’s getting impatient. “Where the hell are they? Starting to think you’re full of shit,Trouble.”
Our third growls out his anger and grabs at Ripper’s shirt, ready to give the other a good shake, not caring about how high the stakes are.
Snarling as anger fills me, my hands ball up into fists, one for both of them. “I’m going to kill you both if you don’t—”
An explosion rings out without warning, making all three of us jerk.
We agreed on guns and knives. Who thefuckbrought something that explodes?
“You think that was the front door, or the back?” Ripper slaps away Trouble’s grip, his smile growing. “Don’t you love it when things go to plan? God, I bet it was Diesel. Think he’s still pissed about the fire?”
Shoving past both of them, I’m on the move at the sound of gunfire.
Cursing everything that has already gone wrong under my breath, I hunt down the side door. Knowing damn well that there isn’t any point in paying any attention to the cameras up ahead, I reach a steel door. Locked, by no surprise.
Trouble punches in the code in the keypad, his body relaxing when it still works.
Once the door opens, the attack starts immediately. The world dissolves into noise and violence.
Three bikers are already on their feet, chairs scraping back, hands fumbling for weapons. The other three are slower, caught mid-laugh or mid-drink. We have a heartbeat. Just one.
I don’t think. I move.
My fist connects with the first biker’s throat. It’s a brutal, crushing blow. I feel the cartilage give way with a sickening crunch. He gurgles, eyes wide with shock, and drops, clutching for air. Trouble is a blur to my left, a hammer of fists and elbows. He drives a punch into a second man’s chest, follows it with a savage uppercut that snaps his head back.
Then the guns come out.
A pistol barks, the flash blinding in the dim clubhouse. The bullet tears past my ear, so close I feel the heat of its passage, hear the high-pitched zip of displaced air.
And just like that, I’m not here.
I’m on the ground, blood filling my lungs. Hovered over by Ripper, begging me not to die.
“Judge!”
Ripper’s roar is a lifeline, missing the fear that covered it all those years ago. He’s grappling with a giant of a man, using the biker’s own bulk against him as he sinks his blade into their shoulder. Another shot rings out. This one slams into the wall beside my head, spraying splinters of drywall and brick.
Blinking, I shake my head to force the thoughts away. Now is not the time. The blood-soaked concrete bleeds away, replaced by the grimy, beer-stained reality of the clubhouse. The fear is still there, a cold knot in my gut, but now it’s fuel. Pure, undiluted rage fills me.
I launch myself forward, no longer a man but a force. The biker with the pistol is lining up another shot. I don’t give him the chance. My fist, hardened by a lifetime of breaking things and people, smashes into his wrist. I feel the bones crack. He screams, a high, thin sound, and the pistol clatters to the floor.
He’s still screaming when my other hand closes around his face. I drive him backwards, using his own momentum, and slam his skull into the wall with a wet, final thud. He slides down, silent.
Don’t kill them, Judge. You’ll need them.
To my right, Ripper is an artist of carnage. His knife is an extension of his will, a silver flicker in the chaotic light. A biker charges him with a broken bottle. Ripper sidesteps, his blade tracing a crimson line across the man’s forearm, severing tendons. As the man howls, Ripper’s other hand grabs his hair and pulls his head back, exposing his throat.
“Zip ties!” Growling out the word, I watch Ripper hesitate before letting out his own sound of impatience as he smacks the guy with the end of the handle instead, knocking him out.
Six men to start, and only one remains standing.
He’s big, scarred, and his eyes are wild. He grabs a leg to a bar stool and easily throws it in my direction. I don’t block it. I take the blow on my forearm and side, the impact a dull, satisfying ache, and step inside his guard.
My fist drives into his ribs. Once. Twice. I feel them crack under the assault. He grunts, his breath exploding from his lungs. He tries to grapple, to use his weight, but my rage makes me stronger. I shove him off, and as he stumbles, I deliver a final, piston-like punch to his jaw. His head snaps to the side, and he collapses in a heap.
“Keep smiling like that, Prez, and you’ll look like you’re having fun.” Ripper pants, his breath ragged as he collects himself.
