Page 4 of August 20

The wrench slipped. His knuckles scraped the edge of the chain. He grunted, more in frustration than pain. Every minute delaying him from returning to the house left him more irritated.

He'd spent too long preparing everything to have an easy repair on his bike fuck everything up.

Hell, he had plans A, B, and C.

He wasn't going to fail.

One more crank, and he turned the wheel, testing the tension on the chain. Satisfied, he put the guard back on and picked up his tools, putting them in the pouch under his seat.

Looking around to make sure he was alone, he opened his duffle and retrieved the pistol, tucking it under his belt. He couldn't be too careful, considering he was within city limits.

He straddled the Harley and rode away from the clubhouse. Adrenaline filled him. Jagger had given him time to get his shit together, but the pressure to finish his business weighed him down.

He would either get his life back or end up back in prison. If he failed, it wouldn't matter where he ended up. His life would be over.

The golden arches were his next step. He went through the drive-thru and ordered. While he waited, he opened his duffle. Once the food came, he put everything in the bag and rode off.

He took the first turn off the main strip heading out of town that wound up the ridge. He'd bought the house because of its location. It sat higher than the neighbors with a clear view of the coastline. The constant wind would carry any noise far away without anyone knowing what was happening inside the house or on his property.

Because of the elevation, those living below his house could not see who came and went. He'd walked the four corners of the property multiple times to ensure everything was perfect.

Three sides were steep, almost cliff-like, enough to make navigating off the property impossible. The fourth side was the opposite. A bank high enough it was a literal wall over thirty feet tall. The only way in or out was by the driveway.

It'd taken him many nights working for Havlin Motorcycle Club to save enough money to purchase the house. That was a lot of fucking dead bodies he needed to get rid of for the club—and one of the highest-paying positions in the MC.

He slowed, shifting down.

The gray cedar shake siding on the house came into view. Seasoned by the coastal salt air, the house had aged well. Two bedrooms with a living room in the front and a small kitchen with an attached dining room opened into a family room in the back of the house made it perfect for his plan.

He took in everything, relieved to see an older blue, four-door Honda parked in the driveway. He held control over the adrenaline rush. Everything had to go perfectly.

All his focus went to the end result of his plan. No matter what he had to do between now and then, he'd regain what he lost.

He stopped, shut off the Harley, and toed the kickstand. There was no time to waste. He needed to move forward immediately and gain control of the situation.

He grabbed his duffle and stalked to the front door. Turning the knob, he found the house locked. Shifting the bag to his other hand, he dug out his keys and unlocked the door.

Without any hesitation, he walked into the house.

Brooke Harrison screamed in surprise on the other side of the living room, picking up a plastic laundry basket off the couch and holding it above her head. In her panic, she failed to understand the basket wasn't a weapon that would stop him.

"Get out of my house." She threw the basket.

He let it bounce off him and motioned for her to sit down. His gaze went behind her to where the kitchen was located. He cocked his head, listening for any other sounds. Needing to know the person he was after was here, he became impatient.

Brooke backed away from him, moving toward the hallway. Seeing her intent, he pointed for her to stop and stepped across the room.

She jumped in front of him, blocking the hallway. His respect rose. At least she put the child's safety first.

Movement behind Brooke caught his attention. Everything inside of him hardened. He couldn't look away.

The young girl was a baby the last time he'd seen her. Hell, she'd spent most of her time running around in her Barbie panties, showing them off to everyone because she was proud of being a big girl.

Now, she was a big girl.

All the baby fat on her small arms and legs was gone. In its place was a thin young girl with long brown hair, the color of mahogany, that hung straight down her back. She wore pink shoes and a white tank top with yellow daisies printed across the front.

Her feet were bare.

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