Page 69 of Rage

I grin at where he is going with this.“It seems that he is there right now, according to the cameras I hacked into.”

“Fuck yeah,” Caiden yells out and fist-bumps me.

We all start our bikes, and I take one last look at the clubhouse before we head out.

The roar of engines drowns out everything else.My blood sings with anticipation.Tonight, we hunt.

Lane and Kyle lead the pack, their bikes cutting through the night like dark angels of vengeance.The rest of us fall in line, a well-oiled machine fueled by rage and brotherhood.

Techy’s voice crackles in my ear.“Target’s still there.Getting nice and sloppy.”

“Perfect.”

We weave through traffic, civilians scattering like frightened rabbits.Good.Let them fear us.

The bar appears, a shithole on the edge of town.We kill our engines, rolling silently into the shadows of a nearby alley.The sudden quiet rings in my ears.

Lane turns, eyes glinting in the dim light.“Remember, we need him breathing.For now.”

Dark chuckles ripple through the group.My fingers flex, itching for violence.

“Caiden, Christopher, watch the door,” Lane barks.“Rest of you, with me.”

We move as one, leather creaking, boots thudding on pavement.The bar door slams open under my boot.Patrons scatter, leaving only our prey and a wide-eyed bartender.

Peterson’s father looks up, confusion morphing to terror as he recognizes us.“What the fu?—”

My fist silences him.Bone crunches beneath my knuckles.Blood sprays.He topples from his stool onto the dirty floor.

I haul him up by his collar, fabric tearing.“Hello, asshole,” I snarl, his rancid breath hot on my face.“Time to talk about your boy.”

His eyes dart wildly, searching for an escape.Finding none, he tries for bravado.“You have no idea who you’re messing with,” he spits, blood staining his teeth.

Lane steps forward, all predatory grace.“Oh, I think we do.Question is, do you know who we are?”

The color drains from the man’s face as he takes in our patches.Understanding dawns in his watery eyes.

Kyle’s voice is deceptively calm.“Now, you’re gonna tell us everything.Every dirty secret, every skeleton.And if you’re very, very lucky, you might walk out of here.”

I tighten my grip, fabric creaking under my fingers.The man whimpers.“Let’s go for a little trip, shall we?”

He tries to run but I have a tight grip on him

The man struggles weakly as we drag him from the bar, his expensive loafers scuffing against the grimy floor.Outside, the cool night air hits us, carrying the stench of fear and stale beer.

A nondescript van idles nearby, engine rumbling low.We shove Peterson’s father inside, his head cracking against the metal interior.He groans, dazed.

The drive is tense, silent save for our prisoner’s ragged breathing.Streetlights flash by, casting eerie shadows across grim faces.No one speaks.We all know what comes next.

After what feels like hours, we pull up to an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of town.Weeds choke the cracked pavement.Graffiti mars the rusted metal siding.This place has seen better days.

Inside, the stale air reeks of mildew and something darker, old blood, perhaps.Our footsteps echo in the cavernous space as we drag our captive to a back room.

A single bulb casts sickly yellow light over bare concrete and rusted metal.In the center sits a chair, bolted to the floor.Stains of questionable origin mar its surface.

We strap Peterson’s father down, zip ties biting into soft flesh.He struggles weakly, eyes wild with terror.

“Please,” he whimpers.“I’ll give you anything.Money, drugs, women, whatever you want!”

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