Ansel looked up at him. “Did your dad die too?”
The question hit like a blow. Breakneck swallowed. “Yeah. When I was seven.”
Ansel nodded slowly, as if recognizing a brother-in-arms. “I’m really sorry for you. I know how that feels.”
Breakneck’s vision blurred for a second. He blinked fast.
Ansel studied him, head tilted. “Did you have your mom, though?”
Breakneck’s stomach twisted so violently it felt like he’d been punched. “Not really.”
Ansel nodded, solemn and certain. “Then you’re an orphan like me. It’s a good thing we have Boomer and Taylor.”
The words landed in Breakneck’s chest like an arrow, clean, painful, true. Then the memories crashed over him in a single, sickening wave. Crying all over Boomer, the confession, the woman in the bathroom, the emptiness, the whiskey, the man’s throat under his hand, the pleasure in the violence. The shame.
His stomach lurched.
He shot to his feet, stumbled past Ansel, barely made it to the bathroom before he hit the floor and vomited violently, body shaking, hands braced on cold tile.
Behind him, in the doorway, Ansel stood silent, small, steady, patient in that uncanny way he had, just a quiet presence, the way Breakneck had once been for Boomer.
God help him, the kid didn’t flinch.
Breakneck rinsed his mouth, splashed water on his face, and didn’t look in the mirror. He already knew what he’d see there—a stranger in his own skin. When he stepped out of the bathroom, Ansel was still in the hallway, small and steady and too knowing.
“Thanks,” Breakneck muttered, voice raw.
The kid just nodded. Like he understood. Like he didn’t judge him.
It almost broke Breakneck all over again. He grabbed the vest and jeans, grimacing at the memory of how he’d dressed himself up like bait. He didn’t even want to put the clothes on, but he also didn’t want to get pulled over for indecent exposure or stopping traffic with his fuckable body.
He could hear it now. Sorry, officer, I didn’t mean to cause an accident.
Even his own joke fell flat.
He couldn’t face Boomer. Couldn’t face Taylor. Couldn’t face the kindness or the questions or the goddamn worry written all over both their faces. So he murmured a thank you that barely made it out of his throat, ducked his head, and slipped out the front door before either of them saw him.
Outside, the morning light was too bright, too sharp, too real.
He retrieved his bike from the driveway, the Harley’s chrome glinting like a mirror he refused to look into. His hands shook when he put on his helmet. His stomach twisted when the engine roared to life. He rode home fast and silent, the cold air punishing his skin, exactly what he needed.
He showered the second he stepped inside, scalding hot, steam filling the tiny bathroom until the walls dripped. He scrubbed until his skin hurt, until the woman’s perfume and the bar stink and the cheap whiskey were gone.
None of it washed off the shame.
He forced himself into uniform after that, something solid, something structured. The fabric, the weight, the patches…all of it reminded him of who he was supposed to be. Who he desperately wished he still was.
He headed straight for the cages.
The minute he opened the metal door, the familiar scent of oil, metal, and gunpowder hit his bloodstream like oxygen. Breakneck sat at the cage table, towel rolled under his forearms, watching the silence settle around him the way it always did here, steady, familiar, clean. His weapon lay where he’d left it. Not just a rifle. His rifle. His anchor.
Most guys on the regular teams took whatever loadout they were assigned.
In Tier 1, the sky wasn’t the limit. Breakneck was.
Every operator built his platform from the ground up, but Breakneck had tricked out this beauty piece by piece, tuning her with the same obsession some guys reserved for bikes, cars, or women.
He reached for her, fingers brushing the cool metal like greeting an old friend. The chassis was a custom McMillan A5, dense, rigid, built for recoil management and precision stability. A carbon-fiber barrel shroud he’d fitted himself, vented just enough to keep the heat signature low. The bolt assembly tuned down to ounces, smooth as butter, quiet as breath.
