2. Havoc
Havoc
The guy spits a tooth onto the concrete. It skids across the floor and lands near my boot.
I grin. “That one looked expensive,” I tell him.
He tries to lunge at me again, which I respect. It’s stupid, but I respect it. His right eye is already swelling shut. Blood runs from his nose in a steady drip that matches the rhythm of the music thumping through the warehouse speakers.
This isn’t the mission. This is warm-up.
He swings. I step inside it and drive my fist into his ribs. Something cracks. He wheezes. I like that sound. It means I hit correctly.
Around us, a loose circle of men watch. Some laugh. Some place bets. A few look bored.
I’m not bored.
“You done?” I ask pleasantly.
He spits blood at me. I take that as a no.
I grab him by the collar and slam him against a stack of wooden pallets. The impact echoes. He slides down halfway before I catch him and haul him back up again.
“You talk too much,” he slurs.
“I haven’t even started,” I say.
I hit him again. Controlled. Precise. Not trying to kill him. Just reminding him that I could.
His knees buckle, and I let him drop this time. He lands hard and curls inward like that might help.
I step back and roll my shoulders, feeling the stretch of old scars under my shirt. My knuckles sting. I flex them once.
“Still breathing,” someone calls out from the side.
“See?” I say, flexing my hand as the man coughs blood onto the concrete. “I show restraint.”
He tries to laugh and ends up choking instead.
I crouch slowly in front of him, not rushing it, not needing to. His back is against a metal support beam, one eye nearly swollen shut. He smells like sweat and fear and whatever cheap cologne he thought would make him untouchable.
He wasn’t.
I hook my fingers into the collar of his shirt and haul him upright until his forehead bumps lightly against mine. “Let’s make this simple,” I tell him, keeping my voice low and conversational. “You touched my things. Twice. That tells me you’re either very brave or very stupid.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he rasps.
I smile. That’s my favorite lie.
Behind me, the warehouse stretches out in concrete and shadow.
Industrial lights hum overhead. A folding table sits against the far wall with a laptop open, one of the tech Saints pretending not to listen while recording everything.
A few others stand in loose clusters, jackets off, sleeves rolled up, watching without interfering.
The Brotherhood doesn’t rush.
We observe. We assess. We correct.
Pain is just another form of correction.
I backhand him once. His head snaps to the side and a thin spray of blood arcs across the floor. He makes a broken sound in his throat.
I tilt his chin back toward me. “Nobody touches my sandwich. Nobody, big guy.”
To be honest, this isn’t just about this idiot stealing my hamburger. Once in a while, I feel the need to remind people who’s in charge. They should never forget who Havoc is.
The guy on the floor laughs through a mouthful of red and tries to swing at my knees.
I step back easily. “Don’t embarrass yourself,” I tell him. “You had your moment.”
This isn’t a sanctioned interrogation. This is Friday night.
Concrete warehouse. Music thumping low from someone’s speaker. Half a dozen men leaning against crates or sitting on overturned barrels, betting cash and bruises. Some of them are Brotherhood. Some of them are Brotherhood-adjacent. All of them know the rules.
No knives. No guns. No permanent damage.
Everything else is fair.
The guy in front of me—Rafe, I think—lunges again. He’s broad, mean-looking, built like a brick wall with anger issues. He’s grinning despite the split lip. “Still holding back?” he taunts.
I grin back. “Always.”
He swings hard this time. I let the punch graze my shoulder just to see the hope flash in his eyes before I pivot and drive my fist into his ribs. The air leaves him in a sharp grunt.
There’s a ripple of laughter from the sidelines.
“Break something, Havoc!” someone calls.
“Buy me dinner first,” I reply.
Rafe comes at me again, this time with a tackle. We go down in a mess of limbs and concrete and impact. My back hits the floor, but I use the momentum, twist, and roll on top of him.
He laughs, breathless and feral. “This all you got?”
I slam my forehead into his nose. Now he’s the one seeing stars.
I stand up slowly, offering him a hand like a gentleman. He slaps it away and pushes himself up without help. “You’re getting sloppy,” he says.
“You’re getting slow,” I answer.
Around us, the men circle tighter, enjoying the show. There’s no point to this. Not really. And I like it that way.
I crack my neck and step forward again, letting him land one this time. It splits my lip. The metallic taste hits my tongue and I smile wider. “There it is,” I say approvingly.
Rafe charges.
I sidestep, hook his arm, and use his own weight to slam him face-first into a stack of pallets. The wood shudders. He groans.
I grab the back of his shirt and haul him upright. “You done?” I murmur in his ear.
“Not even close.”
I like that answer.
I let him go just enough for him to turn around before I drive my fist into his jaw. He staggers back when I let him go, blood running from his nose in an enthusiastic stream.
He grins. “That all you got, old man?”
Old.
I laugh and roll my shoulder where he clipped me earlier. The scar there pulls tight under my shirt, a souvenir from a desert that tried to keep me.
“Careful,” I tell him. “I’ve been shot more times than you’ve had serious relationships.”
A couple of the guys snort.
Rafe wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “You talk too much.”
“I multitask,” I correct, and then I’m on him again.
He swings wide. I duck and drive my elbow into his ribs. Controlled. Always controlled. I could break him. I don’t. I’m not here to ruin him.
Not tonight.
He tries to tackle me. I let him get close enough to think it’s working before I pivot and use his weight to slam him into a support beam. The impact echoes. He drops to one knee, coughing.
I step back and flex my hands. The pain in my knuckles is familiar. Comfortable. It reminds me I’m here.
Around us, the warehouse smells like sweat and dust and old oil. A handful of men lean against crates, watching with varying degrees of approval. Some of them wear the same quiet mark I do. Some don’t.
It doesn’t matter. They know who I am.
Rafe spits blood at my boots and laughs again. He likes this. They all do. This isn’t about grudges. It’s about edge. About reminding ourselves that we can still take a hit and stand back up.
I offer him a hand. He slaps it away and pushes himself upright without help.
Good.
“Still holding back,” he accuses.
“I don’t break toys unless I’m done playing,” I reply.
There’s another ripple of laughter from the side. One of the newer guys mutters something about my temper. I hear it.
I always hear it.
They think I’m unhinged. They’re half-right.
I step forward again, but slower this time, letting Rafe breathe. I circle him once, measuring. He’s strong. Sloppy, but strong.
He glances at the faded tattoo peeking from the collar of my shirt. “This isn’t your fucking battlefield, Havoc,” he says.
A flash of my old life in front of my eyes. The military. The uniform. The sanctioned violence that came with medals instead of disapproval.
I don’t miss flags folded too neatly. I don’t miss the smell of sand baked into flesh. What I miss is clarity. Out there, the enemy wore a different uniform.
Here, the lines blur.
I move without warning and catch him in the jaw. He stumbles, then throws a wild punch that splits my lip. The metallic taste hits my tongue.
There it is. I smile wider. “That’s better,” I murmur.
He lunges again, and this time I don’t sidestep. I meet him head-on, drive him backward, and slam him flat on his back. The concrete shudders.
I plant a boot on his chest and lean down slightly. “You done?” I ask.
He coughs, then laughs up at me, defiant. “Not even close.”
I step off him and let him roll to his side, groaning but intact. No bones shattered. No joints dislocated. He got off easy. I turn slightly, scanning the circle. A few of the men look eager, like they want a turn. A few look relieved it wasn’t them.
This is how we bleed off the noise. Some people drink. Some people pray. I fight. Violence is the language I’m most fluent in.
I rub my knuckles together and glance at the entrance just as the energy in the room shifts. Not fear. Recognition.
Knox is there.
“That’s enough.” Knox’s voice carries across the warehouse without needing to rise.
I resist the urge to roll my eyes.
“Motherfucker,” Rafe says from the ground.
“All this over a sandwich?” Knox says. I can feel his disappointment oozing from all his stupid pores.
“Yeah, it was my fucking sandwich.”
Even though I can’t see his face, I can feel him shake his head. “You enjoy this too much.” He stands at the edge of the circle, arms crossed, expression carved from stone. He looks like he regrets every decision that led him here.
“Define enough,” I say without looking at him.
“You’re not extracting information,” he replies. “You’re entertaining yourself. You know what they say about pointless violence.”
“I do,” I say quietly. “But nobody steals my food and gets away with it either.”
“It’s just one stupid sandwich,” he says.
I imagine caving his handsome face in, and that gives me momentary joy.
“Sure, if you say so, boss.” My voice is full of disdain.
Knox is younger than me by almost a decade.
I don’t take orders from him. Well, not unless they’re coming straight from the Brotherhood.
I hate it when the elders prefer communicating with him over me.
Knox steps closer. His boots are quiet, deliberate. He doesn’t raise his voice. He never does. “We have an assignment.”
Now I look at him. “And this is cardio,” I say.
He doesn’t smile.
Vale stands behind him, half in shadow. Blond hair catching the low light. Blue eyes unreadable as always. He watches the man bleeding at my feet like he’s waiting for something holy to happen.
It won’t.
“You done?” Knox asks me again.
I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and turn fully to Knox.
“Fine,” I say. “What’s the damage?”
“Apostle’s directive,” he replies.
That gets my attention. The noise in the warehouse seems to dull around the edges.
“Specific?” I ask.
“Yes.”
I grin slowly. Now we’re talking.
Vale steps forward just enough that the light hits the side of his face. The scar pulls tight when his jaw clenches. “Target’s been operating quietly,” he says. “Not quiet enough.”
“Alive?” I ask.
“For questioning,” Knox answers.
I sigh dramatically. “You always ruin the fun.”
“You ruin the mission,” Knox says evenly.
Fair.
Knox steps closer so the others can’t hear. “Stay on task tonight.”
“I always do.”
“You don’t.”
I grin wider. “That’s your job,” I say. “Rein me in.”
Vale’s gaze flicks between us as the air shifts. This isn’t warehouse sport anymore. This is work. And I can feel it now, under my skin. That familiar hum. The one that starts in my chest and spreads outward like lightning looking for a place to land.
“Tell me it’s not paperwork,” I call out.
“It’s not,” Knox says.
The hum under my skin sharpens instantly. That restless energy that never really leaves me tightens into focus.
“Good,” I reply, already feeling it. “I was getting bored.”
Knox’s jaw shifts almost imperceptibly. Vale doesn’t smile, but there’s something darker in his eyes.
We don’t celebrate the same way. I’m louder about it. I enjoy the clarity of it, the finality. Killing is Decisive. Honest. Knox treats it like a task that needs to be done correctly. Vale treats it like a sin that needs to be committed.
“Alright,” I say, rolling my neck once. “Let’s go ruin someone’s night.”