I must have been born under a haze of gun smoke, surrounded by a slew of dead bodies during a deadly shootout. Born August Aaron Knox V, into a life of madness and murder, I couldn’t nor have I ever tried to outrun the trouble I had inherited or the mayhem that was embedded in my DNA. I had embraced this life I was given, lived in it and even found easier, faster ways to cause and get out of trouble.

As a member of the August Knights Motorcycle Club, I’d become the club’s enforcer years ago due to my brute nature and unapologetic attitude. I’d never known what it was like to live a normal, worry-free life. I reckon it was a pretty boring-ass existence.

Instinctively, I ducked as a bullet whizzed past my head and yanked me out of my thoughts. Its pounding impact struck the concrete cinder block behind me, causing chunks to fly up and pepper the skin on the back of my neck. I brushed pieces of the concrete out of my shoulder-length hair.

Actively engaged in a gunfight, I was more irritated at being shot at than I feared being shot. The vein in my forehead swelled as my anger grew more intense. The New York gang had sadly underestimated the amount of danger they would face when dealing with me and the people I conducted business with.

I’d been a well-behaved guest of the city for nearly a week, waiting for the shipment of guns from my supplier. We had planned these exchanges beforehand to ensure a smooth transition. We had several covert locations across five states that we pick at random to keep this type of unwanted attention at bay. This location, which we will no longer be able to use, had somehow been leaked to a local New York gang.

“Max, cut the fucking lights,” I barked through gritted teeth to one of my crewmen. Apparently, the gang of about eight had assumed they could steal a shipment of guns worth more than two million dollars. What they hadn’t counted on was that we would be ready for them or the fact that my supplier would protect the product from start to drop.

Not only did my supplier have armed men to deliver the shipments to me, the men had remained with me to ensure my protection and would stay until I released them. Plus, I always brought at least a three-man crew of my own and we stayed packed with the kind of heat that could make it rain fire and pour blood.

Within seconds, Max made the lights in the underground parking structure we’d used for the past two years, go black. My men knew if I called for a blackout, we were going full-on black ops with night gear. Many of my associates, business partners, and I were ex-military, so this New York gang was so far in over their heads that they were better off putting a bullet in their own brains.

Once the lights were out, the shuffling and screeching of tennis shoes were easily distinguished inside the echo-inducing garage. The whisper of nervous commands versus the dead silence of my crew told of our vast differences. The silencers we had on our pistols spoke volumes about our criminal professionalism versus theirs.

It had taken minutes, and we had killed five of the gang members. There were three left. Make that two. I’d just splattered one’s brains all over his buddy’s clean white T-shirt. Who in the fuck wears a white T-shirt at night during an attempted robbery?

The act of putting a bullet in someone and watching their worthless body cling to the last remnants of life calmed my anger considerably.

“We need to keep one alive,” I said to my group in a low, easy voice. “Make that alive enough for him to get the message back to his crew.”

“Got it.”

“Okay.”

“Yep.”

I heard all three responses clearly through my earpiece. My men spread throughout the garage, acknowledging my words.

I had better shit to do than this, like getting these guns to the people who were waiting for them. This immature gang was slowing up my progress and losing their lives because they were too damn dumb and impatient to execute a well-thought-out plan.

Minutes later, I stood over the last surviving gang member just as Max turned the lights back on. The sound of lights flipping on echoed throughout the sub-basement level of the huge structure. Big, terrified, gray eyes stared up at me as blood oozed from a knife wound in the man’s shoulder and from the gunshot to his shattered kneecap. The pain of his injuries caused him to grit his teeth in agony. The darkness behind my blue-eyed gaze was cast down on the injured man.

“Tell your people the next time they interfere in the August Knights Motorcycle Club’s business, they will be paid a visit.”

I snapped my fingers in front of the man’s face when his eyes tried to flutter closed. “Focus, motherfucker!” I yelled, making his head snap up.

His gaze widened as he shook his head vigorously.

“You remember the Crimson Hill Gang?” I asked him.

The man shook his head, denying knowing the gang I had mentioned.

“Exactly. Their gang disbanded because we killed twenty of those motherfuckers in one night. CHG no longer exists because they fucked with the wrong group.” I shook my pistol in front of the man’s wide-eyed gape. “A bit of advice. Always know who you’re fucking with before you fuck with them.” I stared at the man with cold, dead eyes for a half minute, just to fuck with him. Then, I proceeded to fuck with him some more.

“Based on that tattoo on your arm, you’re one of the Elm Street Kings. Your gang has been around for about seven years. Your main crew consists of about seventy members, minus the ones that have carelessly gotten themselves killed here tonight. You claim Elm Street, but most of you live in Mable Grove.”

The man’s eyes had grown about as wide as saucers. He no longer cared about his pain. His dread-filled gaze remained on me, glaring as if I was a ghost and likely wondering how the hell I knew so much about his gang.

I shook my head at him, but I didn’t vocalize my thoughts. That’s right, motherfucker, I do my homework, and you should have done yours. If the poor bastard had any good sense, he’d heed my words because I didn’t give a damn about killing him and every member of his gang.