Page 7 of Riot’s Revenge

Something about it didn’t sit right with me. I studied the photographs again before shaking my head once. “No.” My finger tapped one of the photos, a blurry shot of the alley behind Miller’s. “Kings didn’t run when they heard us coming last night.”

Shadow’s eyes lifted to mine immediately. “No,” he agreed.

I leaned back slightly in my chair, exhaustion making my temples ache. “That means they thought they’d win,” I said. “Which means they’re planning something.”

Shadow’s expression turned ugly fast, his hand tightening around the whiskey glass hard enough for his knuckles to whiten. “Those fuckin’ rats wanna start a war?” he growled. “Fine by me.” He slammed his whiskey onto the table hard enough to crack the glass beneath it. “We ride in ten.”

Chairs scraped back instantly. Prospects scattered toward the gun lockers while brothers reached automatically for weapons and kuttes.

The warehouse sat near the river, surrounded by rusted fencing and dead weeds that swayed in the cold wind coming off the water. The second we rolled up, the hair on the back of my neck stood up.

Shadow kicked the side door open hard enough to crack it against the wall.

Inside smelled like damp concrete, old oil, and stale cigarettes. Dust floated through weak light coming from the windows overhead, and somewhere, water dripped steadily into silence.

Spider disappeared toward the offices while Boxer started checking crates stacked near the wall. “Empty,” he called.

“Ammo box . . . empty,” somebody yelled.

“Bikes are gone.”

I crouched beside a folding table littered with ashtrays, takeout cartons, and beer bottles. One cigarette still smoldered weakly in the tray, and when I picked up a carton, it was still warm. “They left in a hurry,” I muttered.

Movement flashed outside. I turned just in time to catch one of the Kings bolting around the side of the warehouse.

“Mine,” I muttered, already moving.

The idiot barely made it halfway across the yard before I caught him. I grabbed the back of his kutte and slammed him face-first into the fence hard enough to bend the metal beneath the impact. Blood sprayed instantly across the wire as he screamed in pain.

“You boys really thought hitting Shadow’s kid was smart?” I asked calmly, dragging him upright again by the back of his collar.

“Fuck you,” he spat through blood.

I smashed his face into the fence again, harder this time, hard enough for the metal to rattle violently beneath the impact while his knees nearly gave out under him. By the time Boxer grabbed my shoulder and hauled me back, the bastard was barely conscious.

Shadow crouched beside him slowly, shotgun resting across his knees. “Who ordered the hit?” he asked almost conversationally.

The King spat blood near Shadow’s boots instead of answering.

Shadow smiled slowly. “You stupid little cunt,” he muttered before slamming the shotgun stock into the guy’s ribs hard enough to make him scream.

“Pres,” Boxer warned carefully, “cops’ll be crawling this area soon.”

Shadow grabbed the bastard by the throat and hauled him upward slightly. “Kings don’t leave this city breathing,” he growled.

By the time we got back to the clubhouse, the mood had somehow gotten worse.

Shadow didn’t even stop for a drink before storming straight into church again, the rest of us following automatically behind him.

Ghost sprawled across one of the chairs, holding an ice pack against his head, while Reaper lowered himself carefully beside him, ribs obviously bothering him more than he wanted anyone to know.

“You look like hammered shit,” Hawk told him.

“Fuck you.”

Spider spread more photographs and notes across the church table while the brothers settled around us again.

Shadow’s phone rang halfway through Hawk talking about retaliation routes, and the room quieted almost instantly. He answered without even checking the screen. “What?” A pause, then, “Yeah.” His expression darkened slightly before he finally grunted, “Fine,” and tossed the phone onto the table.