Chapter 7 — Diesel #2
"You must be the one fucking Crane's daughter," he says, and his voice carries across the warehouse floor. "Saw the photos going around. She's got a nice ass on her. Thick. Real thick. Bet she's real grateful for the protection, shows her appreciation on her knees."
The words are designed to provoke and they work. The rage spikes so hot I can feel it in my hands, in my jaw, in the way my vision narrows to just his face and that fucking smile.
But I don't react. Not yet. Not until I'm supposed to.
"Where's Crane?" Clint asks, stepping forward.
Dutch's attention shifts lazily. "You think I'm telling you shit? You think you scare me?"
"You're going to tell us everything. Question is whether you're conscious when you do it or whether we extract it other ways."
Dutch laughs, the sound rough and wet. "Go ahead. Try. Your club's been soft for years. You protect civilians, you follow your little code, you act like you're better than the rest of us. But you're not. You're just MC pretending to be something you're not."
Clint doesn't rise to it. Just turns to Cain. "Check the product. See what we're dealing with."
Cain moves to the crates stacked near the back wall, crowbar in hand, and pries one open with a shriek of nails pulling free. He looks inside and I can see his expression change.
"Heroin," he says. "Bricks. A lot of them. Rough count puts this at fifty, maybe sixty kilos. Street value somewhere around two million."
"Burn it," Clint says without hesitation. "All of it."
He turns back to Dutch and his voice is flat and final. "Here's how this works. You tell us what Crane's planning. Where his operations are. What moves he's making. Where he's positioned. You give us everything. And maybe you walk out of here with just broken bones and a story to tell."
Dutch laughs again. "You really think I'm afraid of you? You really think some backwoods MC that protects its neighborhood like you're running a charity is going to make me talk? Fuck you. Do your worst."
Clint looks at me. "Diesel."
It's all he says. Just my name.
But it's permission.
"He's yours," Clint adds. "Extract intel. Then finish him however you want."
I holster my weapon because I don't want this fast and I don't want it clean. I want it personal. Want to feel every hit. Want him to feel every hit. Want this to hurt in ways that shooting him wouldn't.
Dutch's smile gets wider and he spreads his arms like he's welcoming me. "Come on then, boy. Let's see what you got. Let's see if you're half as tough as you think you are."
I move and he moves first, fast for someone his size, coming at me with a right hook aimed at my jaw that has real power behind it.
I duck under it and feel the wind of it pass over my head and I drive my fist into his ribs, hard and precise and angled up under the vest he's not wearing, and I feel something give under the impact.
Cartilage or bone or both.
He grunts and swings again, left this time, and it catches my shoulder, glancing but enough force to rock me back a step.
We circle each other in the open space between crates and I'm aware of brothers watching from the perimeter, aware of the prospects against the wall with wide terrified eyes, aware of Cain and Holt starting to haul product outside to burn it.
But mostly I'm aware of Dutch and the fact that his hands put Ray in the hospital. The fact that he did it smiling. The fact that he thinks this is funny.
He comes at me again and this time I don't dodge. I let him hit me in the ribs so I can get inside his guard, and the impact jolts through me but I ignore it, drive two fast punches into his solar plexus that make him fold slightly and gasp for air.
Then an uppercut that snaps his head back and splits his lip.
He staggers backward into a stack of pallets but catches himself, spits blood on the concrete floor, and that smile comes back.
"That all you got?" he asks.
I'm on him before he finishes the sentence.
A combination that drives him back against the wall, body shots targeting his ribs, his liver, his solar plexus, places that hurt without killing quickly.
He's bigger than me, outweighs me by forty pounds at least, but I'm faster and I'm angrier and every hit I land is for Ray, for the blood in his driveway, for the photos that made him a target, for the fact that Dutch thought he could do this and walk away.
Dutch gets his arms up and blocks two hits but the third gets through and catches him in the floating ribs and I feel them crack. He makes a sound like air being forced out of a tire and swings wild, catches me across the jaw with a backhand that has his full weight behind it.
My vision blurs. I taste blood.
But I don't go down.
I shake it off and come back harder, driving him against the wall with a barrage of hits that are less technique now and more just rage translated into violence. His nose breaks with a wet crunch under my knuckles.
His orbital bone cracks when I hit it straight on. Blood pours from both and spatters across my hands, my vest, the concrete floor.
He's still smiling through the blood.
Still fucking smiling.
"That supposed to hurt?" he says, words slurred from the broken nose. "Your boy in the hospital got it worse than this."
The words ignite something beyond rage, something colder and more focused. I grab his cut by the lapels and yank him forward off the wall just so I can drive my knee into his stomach hard enough to fold him completely.
When he doubles over I bring my elbow down on the back of his neck and he goes to his knees finally.
I should stop. I can hear Tate behind me saying something that might be my name. Can hear Clint's voice giving an order I'm not processing.
But I don't stop.
I grab Dutch's hair and pull his head back so he's looking up at me with blood running down his destroyed face and I ask, "Where's Crane?"
"Fuck you."
I drive my fist into his face. Once. Twice. Three times. His orbital bone was already cracked and now it shatters completely, the bone giving way under my knuckles in a way I can feel. Blood pours faster.
"Where is he?" I ask again.
"Go to hell."
I hit him again and his cheekbone cracks and the smile finally disappears, replaced by something that might be pain or might just be shock.
"Diesel!" Tate's voice is sharp now, commanding. "Pull back. That's an order."
I don't pull back. I hit Dutch again and the rage is demanding more, demanding I keep going until he's not breathing, until Ray is properly avenged, until this man understands what it costs to touch people in Vigil's orbit.
My fist pulls back for another hit and Tate's hands are on my shoulders pulling me backward with force, and I shrug him off and turn and I must look dangerous because he raises his hands.
"He's done," Tate says, and his voice is hard but not angry. "He's out. You got him. Now we get what we can and we get out of here."
I look back at Dutch slumped against the wall.
His face is destroyed, unrecognizable, blood everywhere. Both eyes swelling shut. Nose sideways. Orbital bone shattered on the right side. Cheekbone cracked. Ribs broken from the earlier body shots. Breathing but barely, each breath wet and ragged.
He's going to survive. But he's going to carry this for the rest of his life.
Good.
I step back, hands covered in his blood, knuckles split open and bleeding, and I can feel my jaw swelling where he landed that hit. My ribs ache where he caught me. But none of it matters compared to the satisfaction of seeing him broken on that concrete floor.
Clint crosses to Dutch and crouches beside him. "Where's Crane?"
Dutch's eyes are swollen almost shut but he manages to look at Clint through the slits that remain. When he speaks, his voice is thick with blood and broken teeth.
"He's coming for all of you," Dutch says.
"For your club. For your families. For your women.
For everyone you've ever given a shit about.
He's done being strategic. Done being patient.
He saw those photos of his daughter with your boy there and something broke.
Now he just wants you dead. All of you. Burned to the fucking ground. "
"Where is he?" Clint asks again.
"Don't know. Doesn't tell us shit anymore. Just sends orders through intermediaries and waits. But he's planning something big. Something that'll hurt you worse than anything we've done so far."
Clint stands and looks at Cain. "Get what you can from him. Medical details, operational structure, anything useful. Then we leave him."
Cain comes over and starts asking questions in the methodical way that means he's extracting intelligence rather than just hurting someone for information. Dutch answers some, refuses others, but Cain gets enough.
I step back and try to get my breathing under control. My hands are shaking now, adrenaline and rage still flooding my system. Tate approaches slowly, like he's assessing whether I'm solid or about to do something else reckless.
"You good?" he asks quietly.
"Yeah."
"That was too far, brother. You took hits you didn't need to take because you were focused on punishment instead of neutralizing the threat. You went reckless. Clint's going to have words about it."
"I know."
"You do that again and you're getting benched. You understand that?"
"I understand."
He studies my face for a few more seconds, then nods. "Let's finish this."
Outside, Cain and Holt have piled all the product in an open area fifty feet from the warehouse. Wooden crates broken open, bricks of heroin stacked in a pyramid. Two million dollars in street value about to disappear.
Knox pours accelerant over the whole pile, the sharp chemical smell cutting through the night air, and steps back. Clint tosses a road flare and the entire thing catches immediately, flames shooting fifteen feet high, heat so intense I can feel it from where I'm standing.
We watch it burn for thirty seconds, the flames reflected in the warehouse windows, smoke rising black against the night sky.
Then Clint says, "Warehouse too."