The newcomer stepped closer. Breakneck heard the fear in the man’s voice, a quiver under the whisper. “He’s Tier 1. Navy SEAL. I accessed his file, and it wasn’t easy. He’s working for the DEA. If he goes missing, his buddies will be all over us. They shoot first and don’t give a damn about questions.”
Ryker’s voice turned lethal. “Get your pansy ass back to your post. We got word our shipment was intercepted because of that fuck-up with the border guard. We’re hitting your headquarters to get it back. Keep your head down. Ramos will have retribution. SEAL or no SEAL. He dies.”
The guard keeping watch on Breakneck stepped forward, leaned in close with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Don’t go anywhere.”
Then he turned and walked out.
Quiet settled around Breakneck like a final warning.
He waited one breath. Two.
Then he moved.
He pulled every ounce of strength he had left into his core. Pain flared white hot across his ribs, but he didn’t let it slow him. He flexed his hips, latched his hands around the chains, and drew his knees to his chest, then pushed upward in a brutal full-body press, driving with shoulders, back, chest, legs, every muscle screaming protest. He bowed his body, pushing into a reverse iron cross.
He held his breath, flexed his hips, and set his thighs on the beam, then used the chains to push his torso up until he could get to his knees. Once he had purchase, he hooked his wrists over the angle of the chain bracket, twisted, and dislodged the hook. One wrist came free. Then the other.
In a controlled pull-up, he lowered himself down as far as his arms would allow, then let go, landing hard on cold concrete, knees absorbing the shock. No pause. No hesitation. No pain acknowledgment. He didn’t have the luxury.
He scanned the small room he’d been beaten in. No weapons. Didn’t matter. Breakneck didn’t need one.
He grabbed his clothes from the dirt floor, dressing fast, ignoring the sting as raw skin met stiff fabric. Shirt first. Underwear and jeans. Then his cowboy boots. When his hands reached for the loops to snug his feet inside, they trembled once from the adrenaline flooding through him.
He didn’t get his callsign from the slang word for reckless speed. He’d noticed a sheath on the guy who took great pleasure in rearranging his insides and shocking his aching nads.
He smiled. Then he moved toward the exit, silent as a shadow, slipping into the darkness just beyond the barn light.
Death was stalking him, but it wouldn’t be his soul he was taking. The Reaper knew his scorecard.
He caught up to the guy while he was getting a shovel, tarp, and lime. It was child’s play to come up behind him, lift the knife, and slash his throat. Blood flew, soaked into his T-shirt; the metallic scent was much too familiar. He let him drop, stripped off the shirt, and wiped his face, then went to the entrance to the barn. Whoever Ryker had been talking to was gone.
Someone yelled loudly from the back, where he’d left the body. Ryker came running, pulling a piece from his waistband. No sense of caution, no idea what he was running into, and again, Break caught him, slammed into Ryker’s wrist with an open palm, sending the gun skittering across the concrete. Ryker threw a wild punch, but Breakneck ducked, drove his shoulder into Ryker’s gut, and lifted, using raw strength and momentum to slam Ryker against the nearest post. The impact rattled the entire barn.
Break grinned. “Fuck you, Ryker. Why don’t you come with me, and we’ll have a talk with RCMP and the DEA?”
“You’re dreaming, you little fucking rat.”
Ryker swung again, catching Breakneck across the cheek, snapping his head sideways. Pain flared bright, but Breakneck welcomed it. Pain meant he was awake. Pain meant he was alive.
Ryker grabbed for his throat.
He brought his knee up hard, catching Ryker under the ribs. He wheezed, grip faltering. Breakneck seized his forearm, twisted until the tendons screamed under his fingers, and drove Ryker down onto his knees.
“You’re coming with me,” Breakneck said, breath steady, voice low. “But you don’t know when you’re beat.”
Ryker spit blood. “Go to hell.”
He elbowed Breakneck, then lunged for the gun. Break went after him as he got his hand on the grip, started to turn to fire.
Breakneck looped his arm under Ryker’s chin, bracing his wrist behind Ryker’s skull. Ryker clawed at his forearm, boots scraping the concrete.
Breakneck tightened and with one controlled twist the crack echoed through the barn. Ryker went limp.
Breakneck let the body fall, chest rising and falling in slow, controlled breaths. His ribs screamed, his jaw throbbed, his wrists burned, but his mind was steady for the first time in hours.
He backed away from the corpse. He needed to get word to the DEA. “RCMP! Freeze!”
He stopped.
