Page 34 of Edge
The quiet in the room suddenly took on a different shape.
Rye worked his jaw like the air had gone thick, as though he was trying to chew words that didn’t want to come out. Drift stepped back just enough for me to stand in front of him. Axle leaned against the frame, looking at ease but coiled tight and ready to strike.
I rolled my shoulders, and my leather cut creaked. Wrench stepped into the room and handed over my kit—a small, battered metal case I never left behind. It held less than people assumed and more than they could handle. My hands were steady when I reached for it, my lips curling into an almost gleeful smile.
“Here’s what’s gonna happen,” I told him lightly, as if we were scheduling lunch. “You’re going to tell me who else touched her. Where the rest of your rats are nesting, who bankrolled this, and who the fuck put my name in your sick head. Then I’m guessing you’ll pray. Not ’cause prayer works, but just to hear what your own voice sounds like before I take it away.”
He spat at my boots. Brave…or stupid. Didn’t really matter which. He tried to grin, but the fear was clouding his eyes. “You won’t kill me.”
“Not right away,” I snorted as I snapped the case latches open, and the sound seemed to go through him. “What fun would that be? I have a message to send and a punishment to administer. It’s a packed agenda, and not a lot of time to complete all the tasks. But after I’ve ticked off every box, it will end with your screams, right before your heart stops beating.”
His breath went shallow, and a little thrill raced through me. That was much better.
Axle’s voice moved through the room. “Make a point but make it fast. Jax flagged three cruisers wandering three blocks out. He can hold ’em off with a traffic diversion for ten, maybe fifteen. Need to be ghosts by then.”
“Copy.” I didn’t look over. My attention was on Rye’s hands. Scuffed knuckles, one split where he’d clearly struck someone. Callie’s cheek flashed in my head. My smile flicked, quick and knife bright. “You have a nice swing. Shame about the follow-through.”
He lunged—because of course he did. I guess he ditched any bravery for stupidity.
Drift stepped in and taught him how it felt to hit a wall face-first. His nose crunched, and teeth hit the concrete, breaking another he had to spit out with blood.
“Easy,” I murmured to Drift, a hand lifted, not to stop him, just to adjust the tempo. “We’re not in a hurry. We’re in a mood.”
Drift’s mouth crooked, and he shrugged. “Your show, brother.”
Nitro’s voice crackled in the comm in my ear. “Package is en route to the compound. Savannah’s on standby with Cage. Jax says perimeter cams are still looping. But you’ve only got eight before the city remembers how to drive.”
“Plenty,” I answered, and set the case on a table that had seen many bad days already. It wobbled. I steadied it with one palm, then laid my tools out as if we were about to fix a carburetor. Pliers. Zip ties. A short roll of duct tape. A little stainless penlight. An old hand drill with a bit that gleamed cleaner than anything else in the room. Nothing dramatic. Nothing cinematic. I didn’t build for show; I built for outcome.
Rye tried to talk. Likely trying to form the words of a bargain. I leaned in and captured his chin between my fingers, not hard. Just enough that he felt as if he had a choice to make.
“You’re going to answer every question like you believe in redemption.” My voice was deadly. “Because the alternative is me. And I don’t redeem shit—I break it down, piece by fucking piece.”
His eyes flicked to Axle, like there might be mercy tucked into my club brother’s shadow. But my club brother’s expression didn’t shift. “You laid hands on a Redline Kings woman. There’s no pity left for you to borrow.”
The first answer came quickly, as they often did when a man recognized the shape of his own ending. He coughed up a name. Then two. Followed by a place we could pull like a thread later to unravel the rest of the fabric.
“Who else hurt her?” I asked for the last time.
“Only me,” he wheezed, trying to drag that into something like pride, as if claiming it would gain him spine.
My smile was what most people would consider…wrong. “That’s what I hoped you’d say.”
Axle’s head angled, a small movement that translated to “time.”
“Seven minutes,” I told him.
“I want you gone at five,” he countered, already pushing off the frame.
Nitro’s voice came through again. “I handled the toys outside. Left a little message, two little love notes—low profile. Trip the wrong door tomorrow, and they’ll paint the asphalt with what’s left of ’em. Won’t light up the sky, but they’ll get the point.”
A breath that might have been a laugh ghosted through me. “You’re getting soft in your old age.”
“Only where babies and fireworks are concerned,” he drawled. “Everything else? I’m still the one who makes magic when things go boom.”
“Make it hum,” I murmured.
“Always.”
