Chapter 41
Chapter
Forty-One
KADE
"That's him. He's leaving."
I watch Daniel Reid's sleek black Tesla pull out of the DA's office parking garage, my hands tightening into fists until my knuckles go white.
Every instinct screams to follow him now, to run him off the road and beat him until my fists go numb.
But rage without strategy gets people killed—or worse, gets them caught.
When I came back from Fallon's house yesterday, I called a house meeting. Didn't ask. Didn't explain first. Just told Jr., Havoc, and Beck to get their asses to the kitchen table because we had business to discuss.
The looks on their faces when I laid it all out—the bruises hidden under long sleeves and turtlenecks, the control that keeps her trapped like a bird in a cage, the way Daniel Reid beats and rapes his wife behind closed doors while playing the righteous District Attorney in public—those looks told me everything I needed to know.
They were in. No questions asked. That's what brothers do.
We made our plan then, piece by piece, covering every angle we could think of. Made contingencies for the contingencies. Now we execute it, and my blood thrums with violent purpose.
The four of us piled into this beater car with dummy plates we lifted off a junker in Riverside, stolen VIN that'll lead nowhere if anyone thinks to run it, nothing that traces back to the MC or our real identities.
Beck drives because he's got the steadiest hands and the coldest head when shit gets real.
He keeps a safe distance behind Daniel's Tesla as it navigates through downtown San Diego traffic, three cars back, never closer, never losing sight of him.
I watch the sleek black car three vehicles ahead, rage simmering hot and constant in my gut like a furnace that never banks. Every time the brake lights flare red, I see Fallon's face—the way she flinched with me yesterday.
"Easy," Havoc says from the backseat, reading my tension in the set of my shoulders, the way my jaw locks tight enough to crack teeth. His voice is low, steady. "Stick to the plan."
I force myself to nod, to breathe through my nose and count to five.
The plan. We need him on the specific stretch of road I scoped yesterday afternoon while pretending to run errands—industrial area east of the warehouse district, no cameras because the businesses are too cheap or too illegal to install them, minimal traffic this time of day when the evening shift hasn't started yet and the day crews are already gone.
Daniel's turn signal flashes—left, toward the industrial route. Perfect. He's heading exactly the right direction, taking a shortcut to avoid rush hour congestion on the 110.
"Get ready," I tell them, pulling the black ski mask from my jacket pocket.
The others do the same, movements synchronized from years of riding together, fighting together, being brothers in all the ways that actually matter.
No cuts, no colors, nothing that brings this back to the club.
We're ghosts. Shadows. Nobody and nothing that can be traced or identified or connected to the MC.
We follow Daniel onto the industrial route, warehouses looming on either side like sleeping giants, their corrugated metal walls rust-stained and tagged with graffiti. The road is exactly as empty as I predicted. Perfect. Fucking perfect.
"Now," I say, and my voice comes out flat, cold, nothing but purpose and violence.
Beck floors it, the beater's engine protesting with a rattling roar but responding.
We blow past Daniel, close enough that I see his face through the window—smooth, unworried, listening to probably some political podcast or classical bullshit that makes him feel superior.
Then Beck slams on the brakes and cranks the wheel, stopping dead in the middle of the road, blocking both lanes.
The Tesla's horn blares, sharp and indignant in the industrial quiet. I'm already moving, mask pulled down over my face, door swinging open before the car fully stops. My boots hit pavement, and I'm running.
Daniel's still fumbling with his seatbelt, probably trying to decide whether to back up or call the cops, when I wrench his door open with enough force to bend the hinges.
His expensive suit jacket—some Italian designer shit that costs more than most people make in a month—is right there in my fist. I drag him out by it, fabric tearing under my grip, and he hits the asphalt hard enough that I hear the breath whoosh out of his lungs.
Then we're on him like wolves on wounded prey.
Four on one. Not fair. Not even close to fair. I don't fucking care. Fair went out the window the first time this bastard put his hands on Fallon. Fair died when she lost a baby because of him. This isn't about fair—it's about consequences.
My fist connects with his pretty face—once, twice, putting every pound of muscle and every hour in the gym behind each punch.
Blood spurts from his nose, hot and bright red, spattering across his white shirt and expensive tie.
The cartilage crunches under my knuckles, satisfying as fuck.
Ash gets him in the ribs, driving his fist into the soft tissue between bones with the precision of someone who knows exactly where to hit for maximum pain.
Beck goes for his kidneys, systematic and brutal, each impact making Daniel jerk and gasp.
Havoc just keeps hitting whatever's open—face, chest, stomach—methodical and relentless as a machine designed for violence.
Daniel tries to fight back, throws a few wild punches that don't connect with shit, but he's soft underneath the suits and the swagger.
All political charm and calculated image, no real violence in his blood.
He's never had to throw an actual punch in his life, never had to fight for anything except votes and headlines.
The street doesn't work like a courtroom, and his silver tongue can't negotiate with fists.
We beat the ever-loving shit out of him until he's barely conscious, blood pouring from his mouth and nose, his expensive haircut matted red, his face already swelling into something his own mother wouldn't recognize.
His eyes roll back, trying to find focus, trying to understand what's happening to the man who thought himself untouchable.
Then I step back, breathing hard, adrenaline singing through every nerve.
"Hold him," I order, and my voice doesn't sound like mine—it sounds like something darker, something that crawled out of the part of me that learned violence in the cradle.
Havoc moves immediately, grabbing both of Daniel's arms and wrenching them behind his back with enough force that shoulders pop in their sockets.
Daniel cries out, the sound weak and pathetic.
Ash and Beck each take a leg, forcing them wide, spreading him out like a sacrifice on an altar of retribution.
Daniel's eyes finally focus enough to show real fear, the kind of terror he's spent three years inflicting on his wife. His mouth opens, probably to beg or threaten or make some kind of deal, but I don't give him the chance.
I kick him square in the dick.
He screams—high-pitched, broken, the sound of something fundamental shattering. The scream echoes off warehouse walls, bouncing back at us like an unholy chorus. Music to my fucking ears.
I do it again. And again. And again.
Each kick is for Fallon. For every bruise he put on her body, every cut and contusion and carefully hidden mark.
For every time she flinched because of him, every moment she spent walking on eggshells in her own home, every night she went to bed terrified of what morning would bring.
For the baby she lost because of this motherfucker.
I kick until I'm sure his dick is useless, until the bulge in his pants has to be nothing but pulp and shattered tissue, until there's no way he'll ever use that weapon against another woman again. My boot connects over and over, and Daniel's screams turn to whimpers, then to breathless sobs.
When I finally stop, breathing hard, sweat soaking through my shirt despite the cool evening air, the guys let go.
Daniel crumples into the fetal position, hands clutching his destroyed groin, sobbing like the little bitch he is.
Tears and snot mix with blood on his face, and he's making sounds I didn't know grown men could make.
Good. Only pussy bitches beat and rape women, and now he knows what powerlessness feels like.
We're done. I turn back toward the car, adrenaline still singing through my veins like electricity, making my hands shake and my vision sharp enough to cut glass. Beck and Ash are already there, pulling their masks off now that we're out of Daniel's line of sight, but Havoc's not with us.
I look back just in time to see him raise his boot and stomp down hard on Daniel's right hand where it's splayed against the asphalt. Bones crack with a sound like dry branches breaking, multiple fractures at once. Daniel's howl is inhuman, animal, beautiful in its agony.
I smile behind my mask. Now his hand and dick don't work. Let him try to control anyone with those tools broken.
We pile back in the car, doors slamming in quick succession, and Beck pulls away at a normal speed.
No rushing. No panic. Just four guys in a beater car, unremarkable and unmemorable, leaving Daniel Reid bleeding in the middle of an industrial road.
Someone will find him eventually. An hour, maybe two.
Long enough for him to understand exactly how small and powerless he really is without his position and his money to protect him.