Beetle squatted, eyeing up the mechanism. “It’s an upgraded tumbler system. It’ll take a minute, but I should be able to crack it.”

Matchsticks hemmed us in. “Do it quick, else our edge will be gone.”

The other men stood patiently, watching corners, weapons drawn.

Beetle unrolled his lock-picking arsenal and set to work. Matchsticks tapped his foot. My palms grew damp.

A minute screeched past, slicing my veins with impatience.

Beetle cursed, making a fucking racket with whatever tool he used.

“Enough,” I hissed. I couldn’t wait any longer. “What’s the holdup?”

Beetle frowned. “Dunno. Something’s jammed from the inside.”

“I say we saw the fucking hinges or just blow it.” Matchsticks pulled a grenade from his overstocked belt.

Christ.

I pinched the bridge of my nose. So much for a stealth entry. Grasshopper and Mo would’ve made their way around the building. They’d seek other ways inside. But a bomb would give Dagger Rose and Crusaders time to mobilize. We’d planned on being quiet and dispatching as many people as possible before being noticed.

That idea was out the damn window.

“Any other way?”

Matchsticks shook his head. “The windows are barred. The only way in from this direction is through this door.”

Shit.

Grabbing Beetle by the shoulder, I tugged him away. Matchsticks grinned, knowing what that meant.

“Blow it,” I growled.

We had to get this done fast, otherwise our odds of a clean victory diminished.

Beetle didn’t argue. We all moved back as Matchsticks unpinned his bomb and placed it at the foot of the door. Swinging his rucksack over his shoulder, he grabbed a few sticks of plastic explosive for extra insurance. Slapping TNT to the door handle and central hinge, he stuck a countdown device with a connecting wire between the two.

Once both were armed, he pressed a button and two red digits appeared.

20

19

18

Shit.

We stumbled for cover. Damn asshole. I thought he’d just use the one grenade, not an entire truckload.

17

16

15

“Move back.” I herded Beetle and the men farther away. I wasn’t afraid of gunfire the moment the bomb went off—but I was afraid of ricocheting shrapnel. The pressure of anticipation fogged around us. Men breathed hard, waiting to attack.

4

3

2

I tensed for deafening war.

Then, it happened.

The explosion tore through my eardrums. My eyes watered at the crescendo. The colossally loud noise cracked through the early morning sky, ripping at the once peaceful silence.

“Now!” I yelled, springing up and charging. “Go. Go. Go!”

We shot forward.

Smoking rubble and dust formed a barricade. Vision was shit as we bowled through the demolished door. There was no more door—only a cloudy pile of metal and smashed bricks.

Our boots clattered as we scrambled from night into reeking corridors. Marijuana, rubbish, and cigarettes punched us in the face as we streamed into the Clubhouse like an infectious disease, fanning out, clearing room after room.

Gunshots rang out, shouts, curses, screams.

It happened at mach speed.

Eight fucking years I’d waited for this and it felt as if the entire world fast-forwarded.

I wanted to feel this. To have my revenge.

But I turned into a machine, aiming, firing, shutting down to focus on staying alive.

Charging into a den three doors down, I ducked as bullets rained into the wall where my head had been. In a split second, I catalogued two bikers trying to kill me and three junkie whores on the floor.

I didn’t think.

I fired.

A spray of bullets mowed them down, sending the two men face-first to the gross carpet.

The girls screamed, scrambling together as if there were safety in numbers.

I didn’t check patches or discern who was what. Dagger, Crusader—it no longer mattered. All that mattered was finding my father and brother.

Where the fuck are they?

Ducking back into the corridor, I wheezed on brick dust and sulfur smoke. A barely dressed woman bolted toward me, her chest daubed in blood. I stepped to the side, letting her pass.

A biker charged after her.

I didn’t give him a free ticket.

My finger squeezed the trigger.

He collapsed.

The Clubhouse was a fucking mess. Bikers, old ladies, my men, their men. It was an anthill with madness around every corner.

I lost count how many bullets I dispensed and how many lives I stole.

I didn’t play favorites or hesitate.

No half measures.

This was what I’d been waiting for. I was owed this.

I shot without discretion, striking guts and legs, hearts and heads.

Every man I maimed didn’t slate my bloodlust. Every room I entered didn’t tame my heartbeat.

Only putting an end to my father and brother would do that.

Reaching the kitchen at the back of the house, where meth packets and bongs littered the countertops instead of cereal and milk, I bumped into Mo.

He grinned, a smear of blood over his forehead. “Sup.”

I saluted. “Keeping score?”

“Too many to count.” His lips twitched.

Mo was a seasoned fighter—he had the scars to prove it.

Tag teaming, we moved as one. Leaving the kitchen, we melted into bedrooms, dispatching men before they had a chance to shout and aim.

Mo grinned, completely in his element.