Breakneck ran a hand through his hair, forcing the adrenaline down. He could sell ice to someone living in the Arctic, and making a cartel believe he was just a good old boy hungry for fast cash wasn’t hard. But one misstep and the whole house of cards went up in flames. He wasn’t going to fuck up this op, not while he drew breath.
Ice would probably tell him that he didn’t need to prove anything to anyone. But it wasn’t anyone he cared about. It was Ice. It was the team. It was the brotherhood. The DEA’s choice in him was sound. He needed it to be sound. He needed to believe he wasn’t the fucked-up product of a man he despised.
He rolled his shoulders back, grounding himself, letting that cold edge he trusted settle into place. He needed to double down, slide deeper, get close enough to Ramos to make himself indispensable. He was more than halfway in. Ramos was almost ready to offer him a slot, almost tipped over the edge about grooming him.
Piece of cake.
All he had to do was discredit Ryker, unsettle the man’s grip on the boss, and snag himself the number two slot before Ryker realized Breakneck’s real threat wasn’t ambition. It was competence.
The blow landed before Breakneck even surfaced from sleep, a hard, cracking burst of white behind his eyes that ripped him straight out of the bunk and into the floorboards. He didn’t have the breath to curse. A boot slammed into his ribs, rolling him onto his back. Hands seized his arms, rough and unforgiving, hauling him upright as the bunkhouse spun in a dizzying rush of darkness.
He tried to plant his feet, but another fist crashed into the side of his jaw, snapping his head sideways and turning the world into a smear of noise and shadow. He felt the sting of cold night air as they dragged him outside, boots scraping gravel, someone cursing at him to move faster.
Breakneck fought to clear his head, but the blows had come fast and without hesitation, the kind meant to stun before a man could orient himself, the kind he had delivered to enemies in quieter, deadlier places. His thoughts were a sluggish crawl, refusing to lock into place. He caught the shape of a truck. The glint of metal. Ryker’s voice somewhere behind him.
A final hit caught him at the base of his skull. The world snapped out.
He came back in pieces.
Pain arrived first, a thick, suffocating pulse that radiated down his arms and across his chest. His wrists burned, stretched above his head, the pressure grinding into his shoulders. The air was cold against his skin, and it took him a moment to realize why.
He was naked.
Chains rattled softly overhead as he lifted his head. His arms were pulled taut, secured to a heavy beam above him, ankles barely touching the ground. His pulse pounded in his ears, each beat anchoring him further into the moment, dragging him out of the fog of unconsciousness.
Footsteps crunched across the dirt floor.
Breakneck forced his eyes open, vision sharp in increments, until the dim light resolved into Ryker standing directly in front of him. Ryker’s face was a mask of triumph and fury, the kind of look men wore when they believed they had finally cornered the thing they feared most.
“Looks like we found our rat,” Ryker said, voice low, almost gleeful.
Breakneck didn’t respond. He let his breathing even out, slow and steady, a sniper’s instinct even while chained naked to a fucking beam. He rolled his shoulders a fraction, testing the tension, cataloging pain, location, strength required, distance to the floor, stretch angle of his wrists. He didn’t have many options. He’d make some.
Ryker stepped closer, breath thick with beer and arrogance. “You’ve been real busy, haven’t you? Riding like a pro. Working like you own the place. Asking questions between the lines. Real slick.” He tilted his head. “Too slick.”
Breakneck let a faint, humorless smile pull at the corner of his mouth. “If you’re gonna monologue, can you do it without breathing on me? Your beer’s turning.”
Ryker’s eyes went flat. He hit Breakneck hard across the face, the kind of blow intended to break teeth and shatter resolve.
Breakneck took it, head snapping sideways, blood flooding his mouth from where his teeth cut into his cheek. His wrists pulled tighter against the chains, but he didn’t give Ryker the satisfaction of a sound.
Ryker circled him once, slow and deliberate, boots scraping across the packed dirt. “You want to tell me who you’re working for? DEA? RCMP? Somebody paying you more than we are?”
Breakneck lifted his head again, eyes steady, jaw tight. “Thought I was working for you.”
Ryker slammed a fist into his ribs. “Don’t play stupid.”
Breakneck’s breath left him in a hard rush, but he drew another in, slow, controlled, dragging discipline through the chaos. He needed to stay conscious. He needed to survive long enough to understand how deep this went.
Ryker leaned in, voice nearly a whisper. “You had a good run. Almost fooled me.”
Breakneck smiled again, small and dangerous. “Almost.”
Ryker’s jaw clenched.
Somewhere behind Ryker, Breakneck heard another step. He didn’t know if it was Ramos. He didn’t know if this was the end.
But he knew one thing with absolute clarity, even through the pain.
