Page 59 of Fatality

“Fuck!” I shout across the garage.

Every head turns toward me.

“We've got a fucking problem.” My jaw clenches. “Some bastards think they can beat our rookies.” A pause. “My rookies.”

I let the words sink in. I watch their expressions shift—from attention to fury.

“So we go there...” My voice drops lethal. “And we show them who the fuck Crimson Velocity is.”

Nobody cheers, nobody roars. This isn't celebration, this is war.

Some little fuckers dared to touch what belongs to us.

To me.

I slide into my car while everyone else rushes toward their own vehicles.

Bikes or cars, armed with cyber knives fitted with unbreakable blades, guns, steel bars, tire irons—Whatever they can get their hands on.

My Charger roars to life, and I burst out of the garage in reverse.

I slam through the gears, crank the wheel, yank the handbrake, and spin into a perfect one-eighty before burying my foot on the accelerator.

I glance into the rearview mirror, everyone's following.

We've got some bitches to tame.

When we all pull up at the place, my eyes narrow the second I see the scene.

Rookies bleeding across the concrete, some barely moving, one of them has his neck bent at the wrong angle.

My knuckles whiten around the steering wheel.

Then I see a broad bastard raising a steel bar over a rookie already lying on the ground, the kid crawls backward, crying, pleading.

That's it.

I slam my foot down and drive straight at the fucker.

A roar tears out of my throat, fueled by rage and the need to make an example out of someone.

The man doesn't even have time to turn, my Charger hits him at full speed.

Skin and bone slam against the hood, everything cracks at once.

His body rolls over the windshield before disappearing over the roof.

I slam on the brakes and climb out before the engine even dies. I stalk toward the broken body, he's still alive.

I grab him by the collar and yank him toward me.

“You touched my rookies,” I snarl. “What belongs to my gang.”

The man whimpers in pain, I shake him violently, making him cry out.

“Where's your boss?”

“F-Fuck... y-you.” he spits.