Page 45 of Breaker

The engine roars. My blood rushes in my ears. I lean forward, lowering myself closer to the handlebars, moving with the bike as I speed through traffic weaving in between cars, ignoring traffic lights. The scream of brakes and angry shouts barely register through the rage boiling in my head.

Fucking Zane Devin.

The bastard is lucky he still has his hands.

The tires squeal as I make a sharp turn, and skid to a stop in front of the metal gate. Leaning over, I tap the code into the control pad. The chain link rattles as the gate opens and I ease the bike through into the empty parking lot. The building loomsbefore me, dingy metal and concrete blocks cracked with age cast in a yellow glow of sunlight. Bright graffiti mars the outside, even as high as the second floor.

I ride up to the giant bay doors, heart thundering so hard it’s setting my teeth set on edge. Gripping the handles, I lower my head, trying to focus on anything other than Cora’s face as that sack of shit grabbed her.

That familiar urge to ruin grates inside my chest. Destroy Zanes fucking face. The restraint it took to not slam him down to the concrete and kick the shit out of him should earn me a fucking medal.

Self-control is a sign of true power. Father used to tell us that. You control your emotions. The second you allow another control over how you feel, they own you.

Funny coming from a man who was constantly manipulating how we felt and behaved every single day.

Once I feel calmer, I climb off the bike and remove my phone, opening the app to unlock the bay doors. The large, metal bay slides upwards, the vibrant graffiti of a smiling skull disappearing from view. There are a few more words and images added to the building since the last time I was here. I’ll have to check the cameras to find out where these kids are slipping through the chain link fence around the property.

A hollow drip of water echoes through the room as I wheel my bike inside. The bay door buzzes and rattles, slamming into place with a metal thwack as it hits the concrete floor.

After I kick the stand in place, I slip off my helmet and breathe in deeply, muscles still taunt, body amped and coiled too tightly. It’s only been three weeks since we’ve been here and already the musty smell Viper worked so hard to remove is settling back in. I hit the buttons lining the wall and the large, open space floods with a pale sodium light.

We purchased the old factory years ago because of its location. It was easy to go unnoticed in this area. The only people who paid attention to us were the homeless wandering around and the drug dealers that dared to enter this part of town.

Everyone knows who runs this neighborhood and few want to risk that fat, track-suit bastards’ wrath.

My boots thud against the rough concrete floor, that damn insistent dripping water, drilling into my head. I shrug out of my jacket and toss it on the worn couch in the center of the space and continue to the metal stairs leading to the second floor.

When Viper said we should use the place as a hub, it seemed like a good idea. It was close enough to town that we could keep an eye on the girls, and we didn’t have to worry about renting a place while we gathered intel.

Little did we know this run down, damp, and dilapidated building would become our home for such a long time. I stop on the second-floor landing and glance around, checking to make sure all is how we left it. The entire floor wraps around the open factory floor like an overlook, the outer walls lined with offices we converted to rooms. Strike and Reaper each took a room towards the front while Viper and I snagged the other two at the back.

My body aches, my head hurts. I need to sleep after riding all night to get here. I head toward my room, my bed calling, but stop, and take the stairs to the third floor, instead. I spill out onto a massive open loft where we store all our equipment.

What I need is a distraction.

And a plan.

When I left, vowing to our Tiny Thing that I’d keep Cora safe, I didn’t have any plan. It was a reaction, my specialty. I just knew there was no way I could live with myself, knowing she was here, alone, scared, and in the hands of the people we’re trying to take down.

Now I’m here and thank fuck I am. Seeing Zane’s hands on her nearly sent me into a blackout rage. What will he do if she’s alone with him? Clyde Harlow provides a small amount of safety, the man is insane, and no doubt would shoot Zane’s head off, but what happens when he’s not around?

And what happens if we can’t organize ourselves fast enough and Cora ends up marrying that prick?

Just the thought of him touching her heats my blood, rage so blinding roiling in me, I grip the railing to steady myself. How dare he think he can place a ring on her finger, binding her to him as if she belongs to him and not us.

I’ll kill him.

Fucking gouge his eyes out.

Sucking in a deep breath, I shove the brutal images away, my rage easing some as I center my thoughts. I tap the metal railing, then move forward, locking my gaze on the far wall.

I need a plan.

One that I can enact on my own.

God what was I thinking? Taking off alone? I’ve never been away from them. Since I stepped foot in that school, Striker, Viper and I have never been apart for more than a few days. Reaper only that week when he went out in the wilderness.

Even when we were out there, we stuck together. We always have. At any cost, we’ve kept each other safe.

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