Hulk stood in front of him with his arms crossed over his chest. At six-foot-six and nearly three hundred pounds, he didn't have to do much to intimidate people. Most men took one look at him and started talking—or crying. This one was doing both.
"Please," the man sobbed. "I told you everything." Across the room, Buck leaned against an old tool chest, his expression hard.
"No," Buck said. "You told us what you thought we'd believe."
The man shook his head frantically. "I swear—" The crack of bones echoed through the warehouse, and the scream that followed bounced off the concrete walls. Buck sighed and walked across the room. Hulk rolled his shoulders, knowing that the man had forced his hand. His VP hated wasting time. The Kings of Anarchy didn't enjoy violence the way outsiders thought they did. Violence was simply a tool. Sometimes it was the only language people understood.
Hulk crouched in front of the man; his broken finger bent at an unnatural angle. "You sold information to the Black Vultures."
The man's eyes widened. "I didn't—" Hulk grabbed another finger, and the man screamed before he even applied pressure. Guilty men were always predictable.
"You were saying?" Hulk asked.
"I did it!" the man yelled. "I did it!" He finally got the truth out of the guy, and Hulk felt a smug satisfaction about that.
Buck pushed away from the wall to stand in front of him. "Who were you working with?" Names started pouring out of the guy’s mouth. He filled them in on meeting locations, payment information, phone numbers, and drop sites. They had everything they needed. The rat sang like a choirboy.
Ten minutes later, Buck tucked his phone into his pocket and nodded at Hulk. "We've got enough."
The traitor immediately started crying harder. "Please," he begged. "Please don't kill me." Hulk didn't react because men like him always wanted mercy when consequences finally arrived.
Buck walked toward the exit. "Hulk,” he called back over his shoulder.
"Yeah,” Hulk asked.
"Make it quick,” Buck said. The warehouse door slammed shut behind him, and silence settled over the room. The man started praying, and Hulk stood there and listened for a few moments before pulling his knife out of its sheath.
The traitor's eyes widened. "No—" All it took was one movement, clean and efficient, to make the prayers stop. Hulk wiped the blade clean and slid it back into its sheath. Another problem was solved, but it gave him no satisfaction or regret, because this was about duty. Being the club's enforcer wasn't about enjoying violence; it was about protecting his brothers,and sometimes that meant doing things nobody else wanted to do.
Hulk grabbed his jacket and headed outside as snow drifted from the dark Manitoba sky. Winter was settling in hard. Most sane people had already parked their motorcycles for the season, but Hulk had never been accused of being sane. The ride back to the clubhouse helped clear his head as the cold wind bit through his leather kutte, but he welcomed it. Pain kept a man sharp.
The Kings of Anarchy compound came into view forty minutes later, and the place always felt like home. The clubhouse lights glowed against the darkness, warm and inviting, and for a man like Hulk, it was the closest thing he'd ever had to a family. He parked his bike and headed inside, letting the familiar sounds greet him immediately. Music and laughter filled the room as pool balls cracked and the scent of beer and fried food hung in the air. They were his brothers—his family.
A prospect behind the bar slid whiskey toward him without being asked, and Hulk took a long swallow. "Rough night?" He turned to find Wren sitting at the far end of the bar. She sat with her laptop open, surrounded by spreadsheets and paperwork. Since becoming Buck and Ghost’s woman, she'd somehow become everyone's accountant, therapist, and pain in the ass.
She peered at him over her coffee cup. "You have murder face."
Hulk snorted. "I always have murder face."
"True,” she agreed. She returned her attention to the computer screen. "Leah says hi.”
His grip tightened around the glass, and damn it, Wren noticed immediately. Of course she did, because the woman missed nothing. "Okay,” he breathed as though just the mention of Leah’s name didn’t make him hard.
A slow smile spread across her face. "Oh, that's interesting." Hulk stared into his whiskey. The last thing he needed was Wren poking around in his personal business, not that there was any business to poke around in. Leah Sinclair wasn't his, and she never would be. She worked with Wren at the local Canadian Wildlife Service office in town, and every time Hulk saw her, he forgot how to form complete sentences. It was irritating the way that the woman was beautiful without trying. Her dark hair, bright eyes, and smile that could bring a man to his knees got on his last nerve. Unlike most women, she wasn't intimidated by him. She treated him like he was just another person, and that made her dangerous.
"Don't start,” he grumbled.
Wren's grin widened. "Oh, you're definitely interested in her."
Hulk drained the rest of his drink. "I'm going home." Before Wren could continue tormenting him, her expression changed, and the teasing vanished. "What?" he asked.
Wren closed her laptop. "Leah got a call today."
Every muscle in his body tightened because he could tell that she was about to tell him something that was going to piss him off. "What kind of call?"
"A bad one,” she said.
The cold feeling that settled in his chest had nothing to do with the Manitoba winter. "What happened?"
