Page 4 of Raze
We’ve spilled blood together, patched each other up, buried brothers who didn’t make it. This club is my family, the only one that’s ever mattered, and I’ll burn this town to the ground before I let anyone fuck with us.
We’re parked just outside a rundown warehouse on the edge of town, engines growling low under the sodium glow of a flickering streetlight. The tip came from one of our runners—some lowlife crew’s holding our stolen goods here, thinking they can play big.
Idiots.
The warehouse is a crumbling heap of concrete and rust, windows shattered, walls tagged with faded graffiti. It smells like piss and motor oil, even from out here.
I signal to Tank and Kash, and we dismount, boots crunching gravel.
My .45 is holstered at my hip, loaded and ready. Tank’s got his Glock, and Kash grips a crowbar, his favorite toy for sending the kind of message that doesn’t need a reply.
We lock and load, moving as one, silent and deadly, like the wolves on our patches.
The night air’s thick, heavy with the threat of a storm. My blood’s pumping, a familiar heat that comes before a fight.
I live for this—the hunt, the reckoning.
Whoever’s in there is about to learn what happens when you steal from us. I know I’m going to hell, but I’ve sent enough men there myself to know that this is the life we chose—and the life comes with risk and reward by the bucket load.
I kick the warehouse door open, the metal screeching as it slams against the wall. The sound echoes like a gunshot, and we storm in, weapons drawn, eyes scanning the shadows. The place is a maze of crates and rusted beams, lit by a single flickering bulb swinging from a frayed cord. It’s deserted. Or so I think.
“Fuckin’ empty,” Tank growls, his voice low, like he’s itching to break something.
“Hold up,” Kash says, nodding toward the back. His sharp eyes catch movement, and I see it too—a figure leaning against a stack of crates, casual as hell, like he’s waiting for a bus.
What the hell…
It’s just a kid.
He looks barely old enough to drink, all sharp cheekbones and defiant eyes that glint under the dim light. The boy’s messy black hair falls into his face, and his leather jacket’s unzipped, showing off a tight black tee that clings to a lean frame. He’s got our goods—crates stacked behind him, marked with our supplier’s code.
My first instinct is to end him right here, one bullet, clean and done.
Nobody steals from the Wolf Riders and lives to brag about it.
But something about his fearless grin, the way he stands there like he’s got the upper hand, makes my trigger finger hesitate. My blood’s running hotter than it should, and I don’t like it.
“Well, well,” the kid says, his voice dripping with cocky charm. “You boys lost? This ain’t the strip club. There’s no booty popping around here…”
Tank snorts, and Kash mutters,
“This kid’s got a death wish.” I don’t laugh.
My jaw tightens, and I close the distance in three long strides, boots heavy on the concrete.
Each step feels like a countdown, but to what, I’m not sure.
The kid keeps talking, spinning some bullshit about being a delivery boy, no clue what’s in the crates.
I’ve heard it all before, every lie in the book, but his confidence is something else.
The boy’s not scared, or if he is, he’s hiding it damn well. Those blue eyes lock onto mine, bold and unyielding, and I feel a pull I don’t want to name.
I grab his shoulder, hard, pinning him against the crate.
The boy’s breath catches, but he doesn’t flinch.
Up close, I can see the defiance in his face, the way his lips curve like he’s daring me to do something. Scars on my knuckles brush against his jacket, and I smell leather, cheap coffee, and something faintly sweet, like trouble I don’t need. He’s younger than I thought—maybe twenty-one—and too damn pretty for his own good. It’s messing with my head, and I don’t domess.
