Page 38 of Ripper's Redemption

“Commander, huh?” I say, exchanging a glance with Bama and Stiletto.

He nods, understanding the weight of the situation.

This isn’t some small-time operation.

This is big, dangerous.

Keeping my tone intense, I let him know what’s up. “Well, you’re comin’ with us.”

“Please, just let me go. If you take me back and let me go, the Commander will kill me.” he pleads, tears mixing with the blood on his face.

“Sorry,” I say, meaning it just a little since he’s so young. “But you’ve got answers we need.”

“Ripper,” Stiletto says quietly, placing a hand on my shoulder. “We should move. Quickly.”

“Yeah,” I agree, pulling the kid up firmly. “Let’s get back to the clubhouse. We have a lot to talk about.”

“Sorry about this,” I mutter, slamming my fist into the kid’s jaw.

He crumples like a rag doll, unconscious before he hits the ground.

My knuckles sting, but it’s a good kind of pain—a reminder that I’m making a difference.

“Stiletto, keep an eye on him,” I say, pulling out my phone.

My fingers move fast, dialing Zane’s number.

The line clicks, and his gravelly voice fills my ear. “Yeah?” Zane answers, no-nonsense as always.

“Got a situation,” I say, keeping my tone level. “Need a van at the corner of Fifth and Main. Got a kid dealing the Commander’s shit.”

“Commander?” His voice sharpens. “You sure?”

“Positive,” I reply, glancing at the logo on the scattered bags. “Bags have his emblem. I figured you’d want to bring ‘em in for a chat.”

“Damn straight,” Zane says. There’s a rustling sound, probably him grabbing keys or some other necessary item. “Send me a pin to your location.”

“Done,” I confirm, hitting send.

A pause hangs in the air, heavy with unspoken words. Then, Zane breaks it.

“Good job, Ripper,” he says, and my chest tightens with something unfamiliar—pride.

“Thanks, Prez.” I manage, ending the call.

For a moment, I just stand here, phone clutched in my hand.

Good job.

Two simple words, but they mean everything coming from Zane. Hell, coming from anyone.

“Ripper, you all right?” Bama asks, concern lacing his voice.

He’s rubbing his wrist, still fresh from being released from the clubhouse, but he looks steadier than he has in weeks.

“Yeah,” I say, pocketing my phone. “Just... thinking.”

“Don't hurt yourself,” Stiletto quips, smirking, but there’s warmth in her eyes.

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