Page 31 of Rage's Heart

“We’ll talk when I get back,” I promised, brushing my thumb across her cheek. It was a cop-out and we both knew it, but I didn’t have time to navigate the minefield we were walking into.

Mac’s eyes searched mine before finally she released me with a nod. I could see the questions still swimming in her eyes, but I had somewhere to be, so it was going to have to wait.

Straightening, I grabbed my gun from the nightstand and tucked it into the waistband at the small of my back, not missing the look on her face. It was a reminder of the big fucking canyon between my world and hers.

Rosie’s was a fifteen-minute ride from my place, but I made it in ten. Killer and Reign were standing in the parking lot next to Dread’s bike when I pulled in.

I cut the motor just as they started in my direction. “What’s the situation?”

Killer’s face was set in hard lines, his jaw tight. “Six of them fuckers are inside. Started hassling Rosie about protection money.”

“Feckin’ Gobshites,” Reign muttered, his Irish accent thicker because he was pissed. “Don’t they know whose territory this is? Christ on a bike, they’ve got shite for brains, these lads.”

I kept my face neutral. Reign’s temper was legendary but add in the swearing in his thick Irish brogue and it was funny as hell.

“Keep the bloodshed to a minimum,” I reminded him, checking my piece. “We’re just sending a message.”

“Aye, and what a feckin’ message it’ll be,” he growled, cracking his knuckles. “They need to learn some respect.”

The Silver Talons, as we’d recently learned who they were, had been making moves for weeks now. Small shit at first—riding through the streets we ran, tagging buildings with their insignia. But this… hanging out in establishments that were under our protection… this was a big escalation.

“Killer inside?” I asked, adjusting my cut.

Dread nodded. “Went in about two minutes ago. Said to wait for you.”

“Let’s not keep him waiting then,” I said, leading the way toward the entrance.

The smell of stale beer and cigarettes hit me as soon as we stepped inside. Rosie’s was a typical dive bar—dim lighting, worn pool tables, a jukebox in the corner playing ACDC.

Scanning the room, my eyes immediately found Killer at the bar, his broad back to us as he faced down six big dudes wearing cuts with the Silver Talons’ insignia on the back.

My steps faltered when I got a look at the leader of their little group.

That’s who was running this fucking crew? Spike?

Fuck! I couldn’t tell you how many men let down their guard with the crazy bastard.

He was unsuspecting as fuck at five foot six. He had a wiry build, a platinum blonde mohawk, and enough facial piercings to set off a metal detector from fifty feet away. What he lacked in size, he made up for in viciousness. The crazy fucker had done time for aggravated assault, and rumor had it he’d shanked his cellmate over a pack of noodles.

“Looks like the gang’s all here,” Spike sneered, his pale eyes flicking over each of us.

“You’re in the wrong place,” Killer shot back. His voice was deceptively calm. I knew that tone all too well. It was the one he used right before shit usually went sideways.

Spike smirked, taking a deliberately slow sip of his beer. “Free country, ain’t it?”

“Quit the shit! You’re trying to shake down businesses under our protection,” I said, stepping up beside Killer.

One of Spike’s guys, a lanky fucker with neck tattoos, laughed. “Protection? That what you call it? ’Cause this ain’t the first time we’ve been in here and we ain’t never seen you motherfuckers before. Some protection.”

“Careful, boy,” Killer growled, his massive frame tensing like he was ready to pounce. “Next words outta your mouth better be ‘sorry’ and ‘goodbye’.“

I surveyed the bar quickly. Most of the regular customers had cleared out, leaving only a few diehards huddled at tables far from the confrontation. Rosie herself stood behind the bar, her face tight. Her arm was held low and I was fairly certain her hand was attached to the shotgun she kept under the counter.

“Look,” I said, turning back to Spike. “You’ve got two choices here. Walk out now, or get carried out. Your call.”

Spike’s eyes narrowed. For a moment, I thought he might actually be stupid enough to start something. Then he snorted, drained his beer and set the empty bottle on the bar with exaggerated care.

“We were just leaving anyway,” he said, sliding off his barstool. “Shitty beer anyway.”

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