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Coming up from behind, I land two body shots on Riot’s attacker that’s gonna make it real hard for this asshole to shit right for the next few days. His knees buckle, but not before his swinging elbow lands on my temple. I step back and let him fall before my foot connects with his ribs, his back, and ultimately his chin. “Asshole.”
I see Riot and the other Iron Reapers can hold their own now, but it feels good, too goddamn good, to stop. I catch another Latin Mafia member with bleached blond hair coming my way, a look of determination written on his face as if he has something to prove.
Perfect.
I turn to face him full-on, watching to see what he does. I didn’t have to worry because the dick makes a beeline for me, swinging wildly before he’s close enough to land a blow. He hisses, “You’re dead, motherfucker.”
I smile and step forward, leading with my fist, but the kid isn’t the wimp he appears to be and dodges the shot easily. Too bad for him I’m not just a SEAL but also trained in multiple forms of combat. So, he doesn’t expect the hit that comes from my left hand cracking against his cheek.
“Too slow.”
He staggers like a drunk, hand cupping his jaw, his frown screaming payback. “You and your bitch are dead,” he snarls.
“Bad move.” I spit out the words like spoiled milk. I serve him two left hooks, a right jab, and the floor greets him like an old friend. He’s got guts, I’ll hand him that, swinging wild, clipping me a few times. But the moment he brings Sophie into this—shit gets biblical.
There’s a flip that switches inside me, and suddenly I’m the storm, the fury, the goddamn reckoning. My fists are hammers, and this kid’s nothing but a nail. Uppercut after uppercut, my jabs are my confession, my cross the final amen. The room blurs crimson, and the thud of my fists on his face is the only thing I hear.
There are no rules of engagement between these walls, and I unleash the feral animal in me, sending elbows flying when his buddies try to come to his rescue. There is no fucking rescue for this asshole, bringing my woman into this. A knee or maybe a fist hits me in the back, and I turn, standing to face the shot caller on the inside with the tattoo on the side of his face.
He glares at me like he hates me which is fucking weird since I don’t know this piece of shit, but I’m still in fight mode, and I don’t give it too much thought. “You’re fucking with the wrong crew.”
“You’re fucking with the wrong man,” I tell him and get in his face, but the fucker is too stupid to realize he’s about to go down. He stares me down, and I lean back, jerking my head forward until our foreheads collide in a cracking blow that drops him to his knees before he collapses face-first onto the cement floor.
A whistle sounds in the distance, followed by a familiar, intrusive buzzing sound. It takes me a minute to realize what it is, but the minute I do, I’m face down on the floor, waiting for the guards to do their thing. They go around and survey the wreckage left by me and the Reapers, picking up those in need of the infirmary before ordering the rest of us to our bunks.
“You just can’t stay the fuck out of trouble, can you?” the guard, Davis, whispers in my ear as he yanks me off the floor.
“I was protecting myself,” I tell him, barely able to hide my smile. “I swear.”
“Yeah, well, lucky for you, the system was down for a regular reboot, and no one can say otherwise.” He shoves me into my cell and laughs. “Today is your lucky day.”
I have a feeling that Riot or one of his brothers have something to do with the faulty system, but I don’t ask. I drop back onto my bunk and grin. “When’s lunch?”
“Gonna be late while we deal with the aftermath of the shitshow. Lockdown for the next twenty-four, which means meals in your pod.” He closes the door and moves on to the next door, giving the same talk.
I can’t help the smile that crosses my face. The high of battle makes my skin buzz, and I know the Latin Mafia will think twice about fucking with me or the Iron Reapers for a good long while. Oh sure, if they’re behind the threats to the MC, then this isn’t close to over, but for now, it’s one less thing I need to worry about.
“Dude, that was some sick shit. Are you like a UFC fighter or something?” My bunkmate bends over the top bunk with wide, excited eyes. “That combo you did was some straight pro shit!”
I smile because, yeah, I know it’s impressive because I worked for years to make it that way. “I’ve had some training.”
“No one’s gonna fuck with you ever again. First Olivera and now Malice and Crow and Gringo.”
I sit up. “Gringo the asshole with the bleached hair?”
“Yep. Looks like a fucking Backstreet Boy to me, but what do I know?” He laughs, shaking his head in pure amusement. “I saw him hit you first, you know if you need witnesses or some shit like that.”
The offer surprises me, and I nod my approval.
“Much appreciated,” I tell him in an even tone like it doesn’t matter either way. “What are you in here for?”
It’s a cliché question, but what the fuck else am I gonna do for the next twenty-four hours?
“Nothing, just a little bit of dealing. Fucking cop picked me up not long after I got my stash, so they’re trying to get me on intent to distribute.”
I let out a low whistle. “That’s gonna be some hard time.”
“Nah. The fucker asked me to hand over my drugs before he read me my rights. I’ll be out at my next court date and in my girl’s bed by lunchtime.” He’s shaking his head, clearly not his first time in lockup. “What about you, man? You got a girl counting down the days until you’re free?”
