Page 39 of My Reckless Biker

I grab Dutch's hair and pull his head back so he's looking up at me with blood running down his destroyed face and I ask, "Where's Crane?"

"Fuck you."

I drive my fist into his face. Once. Twice. Three times. His orbital bone was already cracked and now it shatters completely, the bone giving way under my knuckles in a way I can feel. Blood pours faster.

"Where is he?" I ask again.

"Go to hell."

I hit him again and his cheekbone cracks and the smile finally disappears, replaced by something that might be pain or might just be shock.

"Diesel!" Tate's voice is sharp now, commanding. "Pull back. That's an order."

I don't pull back. I hit Dutch again and the rage is demanding more, demanding I keep going until he's not breathing, until Ray is properly avenged, until this man understands what it costs to touch people in Vigil's orbit.

My fist pulls back for another hit and Tate's hands are on my shoulders pulling me backward with force, and I shrug him off and turn and I must look dangerous because he raises his hands.

"He's done," Tate says, and his voice is hard but not angry. "He's out. You got him. Now we get what we can and we get out of here."

I look back at Dutch slumped against the wall.

His face is destroyed, unrecognizable, blood everywhere. Both eyes swelling shut. Nose sideways. Orbital bone shattered on the right side. Cheekbone cracked. Ribs broken from the earlier body shots. Breathing but barely, each breath wet and ragged.

He's going to survive. But he's going to carry this for the rest of his life.

Good.

I step back, hands covered in his blood, knuckles split open and bleeding, and I can feel my jaw swelling where he landed that hit. My ribs ache where he caught me. But none of it matters compared to the satisfaction of seeing him broken on that concrete floor.

Clint crosses to Dutch and crouches beside him. "Where's Crane?"

Dutch's eyes are swollen almost shut but he manages to look at Clint through the slits that remain. When he speaks, his voice is thick with blood and broken teeth.

"He's coming for all of you," Dutch says. "For your club. For your families. For your women. For everyone you've ever given a shit about. He's done being strategic. Done being patient. He saw those photos of his daughter with your boy there and something broke. Now he just wants you dead. All of you. Burned to the fucking ground."

"Where is he?" Clint asks again.

"Don't know. Doesn't tell us shit anymore. Just sends orders through intermediaries and waits. But he's planning something big. Something that'll hurt you worse than anything we've done so far."

Clint stands and looks at Cain. "Get what you can from him. Medical details, operational structure, anything useful. Then we leave him."

Cain comes over and starts asking questions in the methodical way that means he's extracting intelligence rather than just hurting someone for information. Dutch answers some, refuses others, but Cain gets enough.

I step back and try to get my breathing under control. My hands are shaking now, adrenaline and rage still flooding my system. Tate approaches slowly, like he's assessing whether I'm solid or about to do something else reckless.

"You good?" he asks quietly.

"Yeah."

"That was too far, brother. You took hits you didn't need to take because you were focused on punishment instead of neutralizing the threat. You went reckless. Clint's going to have words about it."

"I know."

"You do that again and you're getting benched. You understand that?"

"I understand."

He studies my face for a few more seconds, then nods. "Let's finish this."