She tried to push forward one more time. Tried to move. Tried to breathe. But the pain won. With a final, shaky exhale, Brandi collapsed against the wet earth, her bodygoing stillas unconsciousness took her.
Chapter Twenty
The warehouse stank of sweat,motor oil, and fear. It was the kind of place where bad things happened, where ghosts of past violence still lingered in the cracks of the concrete floor. Gypsy barely noticed. His focus was locked on the man tied to the chair in front of him.
The asshole should be afraid.
He’d touched something valuable—something belonging to Gypsy and, more importantly, something that belonged to the club.
Wrench stepped up, rolling his shoulders, always ready to be the one to get his hands dirty. But Layla wasn’t his sister-in-law. Brandi wasn’t his problem either, even if she had become close with the brothers. No, this should have been Tool stepping up. That dumbass should’ve handled this himself.
The guy in the chair sneered through split lips. “Look, man, the bitch said she wasn’t part of your club.”
Gypsy caught the exact moment the realization hit—the way the man’s eyes flickered, the regret flashing too late across his face.
“Wrong thing to say, asshole,” Tool said from behind Gypsy, in a move that caught everyone off guard he stepped around his Prez.
The first punch snapped his head to the side, the chair wobbling. Wrench and Tabor pushed Gypsy back so they could flank Tool.
Tabor gripped the chair steadying the legs before it could tip over.
Blood dribbled from the guy’s mouth, thick and dark as he spit onto the ground at Tool’s feet.
“Untie him,” Tool ordered.
Wrench hesitated for half a second glancing back at Gypsy. When he nodded, he cut the rope. His gaze flicked to Tabor, unspoken understanding passing between them.
The second the bindings loosened, the guy lunged, knocking the chair backward. He slammed into Tool, taking him down.
Tool had seen it coming. Hell, he counted on it. He met the charge halfway, twisting into the impact. It was better to control a hit than let it take you down on its terms—that’s what he always said.
They hit the ground hard, but Tool moved fast, getting his arms around the bastard and using his momentum against him. He rolled, shifting his weight, and sent the guy crashing onto the concrete with a sickeningcrack.
The man let out a howl—something broken, maybe his ribs.
“Get up,” Tool growled as he stomped on the guy’s leg.
The guy scrambled to his feet, but Tool was already on him, shoving him back against the wall. The asshole’s head bounced off the bricks, and before he could register the pain, Tool buried a fist into his sternum.
A grunt. A sharp inhale. Then, suddenly, the guy swung wildly. His knuckles connected with Tool’s chin, snapping his head to the side.
Pain flared, sharp and electric, but Tool barely registered it. He shook it off, rolling his shoulders, bouncing on the balls of his feet as he watched the guy move.
The asshole dropped low, aiming for a leg sweep. Tool shifted just in time, stepping back, staying upright.
Enough of this shit.
He grabbed the guy by the hair and yanked him up. That was the mistake. He pulled him in too close.
The bastard drove his forehead into Tool’s skull.
White-hot pain exploded across his brow. He felt the skin split just above his left eye, warmth sliding down his cheek.
Rage. Cold and violent, surging through him like gasoline hitting fire.
He let out a sharp breath andsnapped.
He spun the guy around, locking an arm across his throat. With a brutal twist, he drove his elbow into the fucker’s neck, cutting off his air.
