29
TEX
Leaving Rowan felt wrong.
Every instinct I had screamed to stay, to post up outside that mill and make damn sure nothing and no one got near her. But I couldn’t.
Not when the cartel had taken her ranch and burned her barn.
Not when they’d shot up my clubhouse and left my brothers’ bodies behind. They’d drawn blood and now it was time to return the favor.
We regrouped fast. No wasted words, no second-guessing, just men preparing for war, and it felt good to do so—to be doing something.
Two prospects, Confessor, Moose, Swampy, Bear, JD, and I rolled out in two trucks and two bikes, heading toward the private flight field JD’s contact had flagged. The place sat on the edge of county lines, quiet and tucked away. It was the kind of place you used when you didn’t want to be seen. Exactly the kind of place a cartel would use.
The closer we got, the quieter the men became, our minds and bodies ridding themselves of nervous energy until there was nothing left but one goal—kill them all.
Engines cut a mile out and we finished the approach on foot. We cut through trees and walked across open dirt.
And then we saw it—a private jet.
It was sitting on the runway like it owned the place, big and bold. Nothing discreet about it. It was confirmed now. We weren’t just chasing ghosts anymore, we were hunting something real.
“Son of a bitch,” Moose muttered.
JD gave a small nod and we armed up, checking guns were loaded and knives were in place. We’d already strapped on bulletproof vests below our T-shirts and cuts because no risk was going to be taken today, not when Rowan’s life hung in the balance.
Then we moved.
We moved fast, silent and deadly, keeping low to the ground where the grass was long and only rising to our full heights when the grass cut down to ankle length and it was futile to hide any longer.
It didn’t make a difference though. The first guard never even saw us. So bold and obnoxious these men were to assume we wouldn’t find them. That we would be licking our wounds and waiting for what happened next instead of hunting them down like dogs.
Bear ran up behind the man and snapped his neck clean, and then dragging him into the shadows before the body had even hit the ground.
Two more men were near the hangar door, assault rifles in their grip, but their hold was loose and relaxed, unaware of the death squad at their back door.
Swampy dropped one with a suppressed shot and I took out the other, my knife sliding under his ribs, quiet and efficient. We breached the hangar and everything exploded into organized chaos as we killed without mercy or restraint.
Gunfire erupted, echoing off metal walls. Men shouted in Spanish, scrambling for weapons, but they were too slow and too unorganized. Too fucking arrogant to not expect that we’d eventually find them and attack.
Moose dropped a man near the crates and JD took out two more coming from a back office. I fired twice, both hits clean through-and-throughs as two men stood up from their hiding places.
I watched as the two prospects we’d brought with us grabbed a man from behind, dragging him to the ground before stabbing him clean through the heart.
Bodies fell and blood sprayed, and chaos turned into slaughter.
They hadn’t expected us.
That was their first mistake.
The last man tried to run but Bear tackled him hard, slamming him face-first into the concrete. Blood sprayed from his crushed nose, and his front teeth smashed, forcing him to bite down on his tongue. He screamed and blood poured from his mouth.
He fought and cursed us, spitting up blood as Bear swung him over onto his back. The man continued to curse at us in Spanish.
“Hijo de puta!”
“Pendejo,” Moose laughed and cursed back.
