Page 38 of My Reckless Biker

Dutch laughs again. "You really think I'm afraid of you? You really think some backwoods MC that protects its neighborhood like you're running a charity is going to make me talk? Fuck you. Do your worst."

Clint looks at me. "Diesel."

It's all he says. Just my name.

But it's permission.

"He's yours," Clint adds. "Extract intel. Then finish him however you want."

I holster my weapon because I don't want this fast and I don't want it clean. I want it personal. Want to feel every hit. Want him to feel every hit. Want this to hurt in ways that shooting him wouldn't.

Dutch's smile gets wider and he spreads his arms like he's welcoming me. "Come on then, boy. Let's see what you got. Let's see if you're half as tough as you think you are."

I move and he moves first, fast for someone his size, coming at me with a right hook aimed at my jaw that has real power behind it.

I duck under it and feel the wind of it pass over my head and I drive my fist into his ribs, hard and precise and angled up under the vest he's not wearing, and I feel something give under the impact.

Cartilage or bone or both.

He grunts and swings again, left this time, and it catches my shoulder, glancing but enough force to rock me back a step.

We circle each other in the open space between crates and I'm aware of brothers watching from the perimeter, aware of the prospects against the wall with wide terrified eyes, aware of Cain and Holt starting to haul product outside to burn it.

But mostly I'm aware of Dutch and the fact that his hands put Ray in the hospital. The fact that he did it smiling. The fact that he thinks this is funny.

He comes at me again and this time I don't dodge. I let him hit me in the ribs so I can get inside his guard, and the impact jolts through me but I ignore it, drive two fast punches into his solar plexus that make him fold slightly and gasp for air.

Then an uppercut that snaps his head back and splits his lip.

He staggers backward into a stack of pallets but catches himself, spits blood on the concrete floor, and that smile comes back.

"That all you got?" he asks.

I'm on him before he finishes the sentence. A combination that drives him back against the wall, body shots targeting his ribs, his liver, his solar plexus, places that hurt without killing quickly. He's bigger than me, outweighs me by forty pounds at least, but I'm faster and I'm angrier and every hit I land is for Ray, for the blood in his driveway, for the photos that made him a target, for the fact that Dutch thought he could do this and walk away.

Dutch gets his arms up and blocks two hits but the third gets through and catches him in the floating ribs and I feel them crack. He makes a sound like air being forced out of a tire and swings wild, catches me across the jaw with a backhand that has his full weight behind it.

My vision blurs. I taste blood.

But I don't go down.

I shake it off and come back harder, driving him against the wall with a barrage of hits that are less technique now and more just rage translated into violence. His nose breaks with a wet crunch under my knuckles.

His orbital bone cracks when I hit it straight on. Blood pours from both and spatters across my hands, my vest, the concrete floor.

He's still smiling through the blood.

Still fucking smiling.

"That supposed to hurt?" he says, words slurred from the broken nose. "Your boy in the hospital got it worse than this."

The words ignite something beyond rage, something colder and more focused. I grab his cut by the lapels and yank him forward off the wall just so I can drive my knee into his stomach hard enough to fold him completely.

When he doubles over I bring my elbow down on the back of his neck and he goes to his knees finally.

I should stop. I can hear Tate behind me saying something that might be my name. Can hear Clint's voice giving an order I'm not processing.

But I don't stop.