Page 98 of Boulder's Weight

I drop to one knee, steadying my aim, and put a round through the shooter's chest.

He staggers back, firing wildly into the air as he falls.

Another one charges me, screaming something in Spanish I can't make out over the roar of the flames now consuming the stash house.

He swings a machete in a wide motion toward my head.

I duck under the blade, driving my shoulder into his midsection and lifting him off his feet.

As he goes airborne, I grab his arm and twist sharply.

The bone snaps with an audible crack, and he shrieks in pain.

I follow him down to the ground, my knee landing hard on his chest, driving the air from his lungs.

Before he can recover, I wrap my hands around his throat and squeeze, pressing my thumbs into his windpipe until I feel it collapse under the pressure.

His eyes bulge as he thrashes beneath me, fingers clawing weakly at my arms.

Doom shouts, his bike already running. "Boulder! We gotta go! C’mon, let’s get the fuck outta here!"

I give one final squeeze, feeling the last tremors of life leave the man beneath me, then rise to my feet.

My knuckles are raw and bleeding, my breathing ragged, but Doom’s right—we have to leave.

The stash house is fully engulfed now, flames shooting twenty feet into the night sky.

The heat is intense, the sound of the fire a roaring beast in my ears.

It's beautiful in a way, and I allow myself a moment to appreciate our handiwork before sprinting to my bike.

I kick it to life as bullets ping off the pavement around me.

Razor and Python lay down covering fire as the prospects and I pull out of the alley, the others right behind me.

We roar into the night, the burning building fading in our rearview mirrors, the smell of smoke and blood clinging to our clothes.

The adrenaline is still pumping through my veins as we head back to the clubhouse.

The rumble of motorcycles surrounds me, the familiar vibration of my bike between my legs grounding me after the chaotic shit that went down tonight.

Taking down one of Andrés's stash houses was supposed to be a simple run—get in, destroy product, get out.

But nothing's ever that simple, is it?

My knuckles are raw, blood drying between my fingers from the fights.

The memory of crushing that man's windpipe, of watching the life fade from his eyes, sits in my mind.

In this life, you either deal out death or receive it.

Tonight, I was the dealer.

The compound comes into view, lights glowing against the dark Mexican night.

As we pull in, I can see figures moving in the windows of the main building.

The old ladies always know when we're coming back from a dangerous run.

---