Chapter 8
eight
. . .
“Fine, I’ll go.” I cut the call, already regretting my decision to meet the Colombian’s because Rayden decided he needed my brother. And of course he’d drop anything for that little shit.
Pocketing my phone, I headed out the club office, gesturing for four soldiers to follow me.
I was halfway down the corridor to the exit when I slowed my steps, glancing at Gian who’d fallen into step beside me with that restless energy he carried like a badge of honor.
Since the day I let him loose on Michael’s men, two weeks ago, Gian was angsty for action.
Apparently, bookkeeping and perimeter checks didn’t cut it.
“You’re staying.”
His head snapped toward me. “What?”
“You heard me.”
He scoffed under his breath. “I’m your right hand, not your receptionist. You don’t leave your right hand behind.”
“You’re still learning what that means.” I kept my tone calm but firm enough that it didn’t invite argument. “This isn’t a street brawl, it’s a sit-down. And if it turns into something else, I don’t need you charging in like a pissed-off bull.”
His jaw tightened. “I can handle myself.”
“I know you can,” I replied, and I meant it. “That’s not the point.”
He searched my face, looking for insult, finding none, which only seemed to frustrate him more. “If this is about Michael’s—”
“It’s about discipline,” I cut in. “You don’t follow me into every room until you learn which ones are traps and which ones need silence.”
For a second I thought he’d keep pushing. Pride sparred with obedience on his face before he exhaled hard through his nose and stepped back. “Fine. But if something goes sideways—”
“It won’t.” I ignored his grumbling and followed my men who’d already exited.
Outside, the night air carried the distant hum of nightlife, and I paused unsure what claimed my attention.
Wary, I let my gaze drift down the quiet alley before lifting to the rooftops.
Despite the darkness, I could’ve sworn I detected movement.
After my mystery fuck, I was eager to meet my stalker, sure they were one and same person.
Although nothing stirred, I smirked at the rooftop silhouettes, then slid into our vehicle with two men while the other two followed behind us.
The Colombians had chosen a warehouse two districts from the port, neutral ground in theory, though nothing about this business was impartial anymore.
We arrived twelve minutes ahead of schedule, the warehouse coming into view under pale industrial lights, long shadows stretching across cracked asphalt and a dark lot.
Parking, we stepped out. One man stayed by my side while the other three fanned out, scanning the perimeter with a quiet vigilance.
Leaning my ass against the trunk, I checked my watching with a curse. “Fuckers could’ve arrived early.” Annoyed, I lit a cigarette.
“You think they’re actually showing up to talk?” he asked.
“They’ll show,” I took a long drag on the cig. “Whether they talk is another matter.”
Three more seconds and a sudden prickle at my neck gave me pause. “Hold up,” I said softly, tossing the cigarette.
The men looked at me, frowning. “What is it, sir?” one of them asked.
His answer arrived in the form of headlights flaring to life in front of us, blinding and sudden, engines roaring from both sides of the lot. Black SUVs rolled in fast and tight, boxing us in with armed precision.
“Fuck,” someone cursed.
“Stay sharp,” I instructed, drawing my weapon, ready to give the Colombian fuckers an ass-whipping.
The first shot hit the back of my SUV, seemingly disorientated than intending to kill.
Flash-bangs detonated near our feet, white light exploding across my vision, the shockwave ripping through the air and flattening sound into a violent ringing.
I pivoted through it, firing toward movement instead of faces, catching someone mid-charge as he stumbled out of the smoke.
“Left!” one of my men barked.
I turned just in time to block a strike aimed at my head, driving my elbow into the fucker’s throat and shoving him back before firing point-blank into his chest. He folded, but two more replaced him immediately, disciplined and coordinated.
“They want you, sir!” one of men shouted, already bleeding from a split brow as he fought off a man twice his size.
Something cracked across my ribs, hard enough to knock the air from my lungs, but not deep enough to break bone.
I breathed through the pain, and retaliated quickly, grabbing the wrist, twisting until something popped and the man howled.
I drove my fist into his face and felt cartilage give under my knuckles.
More engines and more boots flooded the lot in waves, faces masked, movements precise. Someone shouted in Spanish from the back and the formation shifted, surrounding us.
“Back-to-back!” I ordered my men, but even as we moved, I felt the net tightening.
One of my men fell the same time something slammed into my spine from behind, dropping me to one knee.
Before I could rise, two men pinned my arms long enough for a sharpness to sting my neck.
Cursing, I stood, gripping one of them by his collar and smashed my forehead into his nose, feeling it collapse but the world tilted anyway, and my limbs buckled, dropping me to my knees.
Through the haze, I could see my men still fighting, teeth bared, fury carving their faces raw, their eyes trying to lock onto me.
“Boss!” one roared.
I tried to answer but my tongue wouldn’t move. Another blow struck the side of my head and the asphalt rushed up to meet my face.
Guess I was being watched after all, just not by my stalker was my last thought before darkness claimed me.
Awareness returned unmercifully slowly. My wrists burned first followed by the stretch of my shoulders and then the dull throb behind my eyes.
I forced them open, letting my gaze track my surroundings.
Chains secured each wrist, stretching them wide to tall poles planted into concrete on either side of me.
Ankles bolted to a steel chair kept my ass from moving.
Corrugated walls caged me in while a single overhead light hummed faintly above me.
I was in a warehouse. Clearly, not the one where I was supposed to meet the Columbian fucks, gauged by the heavy scent of anthracite. Across from me stood four men, hands behind their backs with faces spawned by the devil himself.
Immediately, I recognized Elio’s two cartel cronies and turned my head, looking for my uncle. Instead, I caught sight of my men, hanging by their wrists from a beam in the ceiling. Judging by their bloodied faces and closed eyes, I knew they wouldn’t respond to my call, so I didn’t try.
One of Elio’s men stepped forward, hands resting loosely at his abdomen, reminding me of a priest awaiting confession. I half expected him to make the sign of the cross. “Mataste a su hijo.” You killed his son.
I rolled my shoulders against the restraints, testing them without giving away effort. The chains didn’t budge. “Your point?”
The other three drew closer, one circled me and drove a baseball bat into my ribs with controlled force. The pain bloomed slow and heavy, telling me he’d bruised skin. They weren’t amateurs, merely pacing themselves.
“Pensabas que eras intocable,” You thought you were untouchable.
I turned my head slightly to meet his gaze over my shoulder. “You should’ve shot me.”
Boots connected with my thighs in rotation, one stepping back while another stepped in, avoiding chaos. Their rage was clearly methodical, meant to break before the kill shot.
“Esto no es interrogatorio,” the first man said calmly, crouching in front of me when the blows stopped. “Es castigo, cabrón.” This isn’t interrogation. It’s punishment, bastard.
Tasting blood at the back of my throat, I gathered it in my mouth and spat it out onto the floor between us. “I’ve had worse.”
“Dale,” he growled, urging them not to stop and the structured rhythm dissolved into something sloppier.
Fists slammed into my jaw, back and stomach.
Boots struck my legs, arms and shoulders, the chains rattling violently as my body absorbed the impact.
Metal cut into my skin, warmth spreading under my shirt, the smell of blood potent.
My vision blurred at the edges, one eye swelling until I was partially blind to depth.
An endless amount of pain later, a sharp command barked in rapid Spanish cut through the frenzy that pulled them away.
Elio’s other man stepped so close, I could see the red veins in his eyes “Had enough, cabrón?” His thick moustache twitched above his fat lips.
I felt the wet slide of blood running over my lips and down my chin as I lifted my head again, forcing my good eye open.
If they were expecting to see something crack inside me, that’s not what I gave them.
It started low in my chest, tearing its way out raw and jagged.
My laugh, cracked, feral, and closer to a dying hyena than anything dignified, filled the warehouse, earning their scowls.
“Keep going, motherfucker,” I rasped.
Was it smart to provoke them when I had no leverage, no blade, no men at my back? Of course not. But submission was a language I’d never learned, and pain had long ago stopped being a threat.
“Que sufra,” he ordered. Let him suffer.
They descended fully now, no more measured cadence, my body jerking against the restraints. The chair screeched against concrete but held. Each impact blurred into the next until sensation became one continuous hum beneath my skin, until fatigue dragged me under.