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The first punch to my gut knocks the wind out of me. I choke, gasping for air, and taste blood in the back of my throat. The next blow comes hard across my jaw, snapping my head to the side. White-hot pain shoots through my skull, radiating into my neck, but I refuse to make a fucking sound. I know guys like this. Like me. They get a thrill out of this shit. Out of inflicting pain, and the last thing I plan on doing is giving Demarko or any of his henchmen what they want. The metallic tang of blood fills my mouth, warm and bitter. It dribbles from my split lip as I slump in the chair, arms tied behind me, and I spit it out onto the concrete floor.
They want me to talk. But I don’t.
Another fist crashes into my ribs, and I feel something crack, maybe break. Fuck, it hurts. My vision blurs, spots dancing in front of my eyes, but I hold on. I have to. For her.
I hope to fuck my girl is gone by now. I know she was smart enough to take off the moment she had a safe opportunity and make it back to the bike, get the gun, the keys to my bike and get the fuck away from here. My mind clings to the thought of her flying down the highway, wind whipping through her hair, getting as far away from this nightmare as possible.
Another punch lands, square in my face this time, and my head snaps back. Blood splatters across the floor in front of me, and my ears ring with the force of the hit. They’re relentless, each strike heavier than the last, like they want to break me down piece by piece. But they won’t.
“You gonna start talking, or do we have to get creative?” One of the men sneers, circling me like a predator. The guy is tall, and by his cheap clothing, he’s not very high up on the pay list. It brings a dark and twisted smirk to my face knowing this piece of shit is probably thinking that beating me might get him higher up the ranks. That each punch might bring me closer to giving him answers to his fucking questions. But it won’t.
His fate was secured the moment he fucked with me.
The moment theyalmostfound my girl.
I’ll kill him.
I’ll kill all of them.
His knuckles are stained with my blood, and he wipes them off on his jeans, eyeing me with contempt.
“Fuck you,” I rasp cockily. My throat is so raw I’m barely able to get the words out. My chest burns with every breath I manage to take. My left eye is swollen shut, but I can still see enough to know that the bastard standing in front of me not only wants to break me, he wants me dead.
He’s got that look in his eye. It’s the same look I’ve seen in the mirror.
Demarko is sitting casually in the chair across from me and hasn’t said much. He’s just watching, waiting for me to crack. His arms are folded across the back of the chair, his posture lazy, like this is all just a game to him. He tilts his head slightly, his dark eyes glinting under the dim light.
“Who the fuck sent you, cabrón?” he asks, his voice calm, almost bored. “And what do you know about us?”
I let out a low, pained laugh, coughing as more blood drips from my mouth. “I don’t know shit about you,” I say, glaring up at him through my good eye. “I’m here for one reason, and one reason only.”
He leans forward, curious. “Oh? And what reason is that?”
“To kill every last one of you.”
The room goes quiet for a second. Then he smiles, a slow, mocking grin, and nods to the man closest to me. Another punch, this time to my kidney, and I double over in the chair, gasping for air. The pain radiates through my body, sharp and unforgiving, but I bite down hard, refusing to let them hear me scream. I won’t give them that satisfaction.
They want to know who sent me, who I’m working with. But who sent me doesn’t matter. This would’ve happened one way or another, even without the CIA sending me here. This is personal. It’s always been personal. Twelve years of chasing ghosts, tracking down leads, and putting together the pieces until they led me here.
To this fucking warehouse. To these men.
To the piece of shit leader who killed my father.Demarko.
Ironic, isn’t it? How my rage and want for revenge got me here, but my obsession and need to protect my girl kept me here. My little fucking nightmare got me right where my father was all those years ago.
Now, I’m going to die the same way he did. Beaten, broken, and left for dead by the men who took everything from me.
It’s pretty fucking fitting. Like, poetic justice or some shit. Meeting my end at the same hands that took him.
I blink through the haze of pain, my thoughts drifting to Cara. Her face flashes in my mind, bright and vivid, and I cling to it, needing something,anything, to hold on to.
I never told her to run if shit went south, but I made damn sure she knew where the gun was. Where the keys were. My girl’s smart.
Shit, she’s smarter than me, that’s for sure. She’s been waiting for the moment she could get away. A chance to be free of me, to finally cut loose from this twisted mess and my control over her. Now she’s got it. She has to be long gone by now, riding as far from this nightmare as she can.
I don’t even blame her.
Another punch slams into my ribs, but the pain barely registers anymore. My body’s gone past the point of feeling. It’s all just numb now. The questions blur together, the threats, the hits—it’s all background noise. I’m not even here anymore. Not really.
