Page 1 of My Ex-Military Biker

Chapter 1 — Tate

The knife comes at me from the side.

I see the arc before I register the man holding it. Drop into the movement, feel the blade pass close enough that I catch the air displacement against my neck.

One inch different and I'd be bleeding out on a service road off Route 9. The thought is clinical. I've already moved past it.

My elbow drives back into soft stomach, and the Marrow guy makes a sound like a punctured tire. His knife hand drops. I'm already turning, getting my hand on his wrist, applying pressure to the specific point that makes tendons stop cooperating. The knife hits gravel.

Behind me, Cain's got the other two occupied.

I hear boot meeting ribs, the sound of cartilage breaking, someone going down with the kind of wheeze that means they won't be up fast.

Good. I've got work to do.

The van's back doors are already open. Inside, cardboard boxes stacked neat with grocery store logos printed on the side like this is a legitimate delivery.

It's not.

I pull my knife and start cutting boxes. White bricks wrapped in plastic reveal themselves. Fentanyl. Enough to kill half the county if it gets where Marrow wants it going.

I drag the first box out, drop it. Start on the second. The knife guy behind me is still on his knees, trying to remember how lungs work. I track him peripherally while I move boxes.

Threat assessment is automatic. He's down but not out. File that information. Keep working.

I'm on the third box when I hear footsteps. Fast and unsteady.

I turn.

He's up. Still has the knife. Must've had a backup. His face tells me everything I need to know, all anger, no sense.

These are the dangerous ones. Not because they're good, but because they're stupid.

He comes at me wild.

I sidestep. Should be easy. Would be easy except the service road is loose gravel and my boot catches on a rock that wasn't there a second ago.

I compensate but not fast enough. The blade catches me across the ribs.

The burn is immediate. Shallow cut, I know this before I look, I've had worse. I’ve done worse. The blade was clean enough, angle was poor, he didn't commit to the strike. If he'd committed I'd be in real trouble.

As it is, I'm just bleeding.

I don't stop moving. Get inside his reach while he's still processing that he actually landed a hit. Drive my knee into his thigh. Feel something pop.

He goes down screaming, but stays down this time.

I turn back to the van and finish the job. Cain appears next to me thirty seconds later. His knuckles are split and already swelling, and he's breathing harder than I am.

"You're bleeding," he says.

"Yep."

"Bad?"

"No."

We don't talk after that. Just work.