Page 38 of Ginger

Chapter Fourteen

Reno

Bronx and I crept along the back alley. Our boots barely made a sound on the cracked pavement, our breaths controlled despite the adrenaline pumping through my veins. Ginger's uncle—that piece of shit who'd stolen her childhood—had no idea we were coming. No idea that tonight, his past was about to catch up with him in the form of two men who had nothing to lose and everything to avenge.

"There," Bronx whispered, nodding toward a sagging one-story house with peeling yellow paint and barred windows. "Second window from the left has a broken latch. Ginger confirmed it."

I nodded, my jaw clenched so tight my teeth ached. Ginger. Sweet, damaged Ginger with her haunted eyes and scars that ran deeper than skin. She'd finally broken down three nights ago, curled against my chest in the darkness of our bedroom, and told me everything. Every fucking, horrible detail of what her uncle had done to her.

"You good?" Bronx asked, his massive frame casting a deeper shadow in the alley's gloom.

"I'm better than good," I replied, checking the knife strapped to my thigh. "I've been waiting for this."

We moved toward the house like ghosts, staying close to the fence line where shadows gathered thickest. The neighborhood was the kind where people minded their own business, where screams in the night were met with turned-up televisions rather than 911 calls. Perfect for what we had planned.

The window was exactly where Ginger had said it would be, its latch visibly damaged, a thin gap between the bottom and the sill where it couldn't close properly. And best of all, it was one of the few without bars over it.

Bronx gave me a boost, and I slid the blade of my knife into the gap, working it until I could push the window up enough to slip through.

The smell hit me first—stale beer, cigarettes, and something rancid that might have been forgotten food or might have been the scent of a soul rotting from the inside out. I hung suspended half in and half out of the window for a moment, letting my eyes adjust to the dimness inside. Then I pulled myself through, landing silently on worn carpet that felt sticky beneath my palms.

I reached back and helped Bronx maneuver his larger frame through the opening. He barely made a sound despite his size—a skill honed through years of breaking and entering for the club. We stood motionless, listening to the house breathe around us.

A distant snore broke the silence.

I signaled to Bronx, pointing toward the sound. We moved through what must have been a kitchen once, though now it was little more than a graveyard for fast food containers and empty liquor bottles. The linoleum floor was torn in places, revealing concrete underneath. A cockroach scuttled across our path, disappearing into a crack in the baseboard.

"What a fucking dump," Bronx mouthed silently, his disgust evident even in the near-darkness.

We passed through a narrow hallway decorated with peeling wallpaper and water stains. No photos hung on these walls. No memories worth preserving, I guessed. Or maybe he'd removed any evidence of Ginger's existence after what he'd done to her.

The snoring grew louder as we approached what had to be the living room. I peered around the corner, and there he was—Ginger's monster, sprawled in a threadbare armchair that sagged beneath his weight.

Martin Reed didn't look like a monster at first glance. He was in his fifties, with thinning gray hair and the bloated face of a longtime alcoholic. An empty bottle of Jack dangled from his limp fingers, and a cigarette had burned itself out in an overflowing ashtray beside him. He wore stained boxer shorts and a wifebeater that stretched across his substantial gut.

But I knew what lurked beneath that ordinary exterior. I knew the depravities he was capable of. Looking at him, seemingly defenseless in sleep, did nothing to diminish my rage. If anything, it intensified it—the casual way he could sleep while his niece still woke screaming from nightmares.

Bronx and I exchanged a glance, a silent confirmation passing between us. We'd done this kind of thing before—not exactly this, but close enough. The club had its own justice system, its own methods of dealing with those who violated our code. This wasn't club business officially, but Bronx had volunteered without hesitation when I told him what we needed to do.

We moved as one, silent until the last possible moment. I circled around behind the chair while Bronx positioned himself directly in front. Then, with a sharp nod from me, we struck.

Bronx clamped one massive hand over Reed's mouth, stifling the startled cry that bubbled up from his throat. At the same time, I grabbed him by the shoulders and yanked him sideways and down, sending him sprawling onto the cold floor.

The bottle of Jack shattered against the floor, the sharp scent of whiskey filling the air as Martin's eyes flew open, wide with confusion and fear. He tried to scream, but Bronx's hand muffled the sound to nothing more than a pathetic whimper.

"Hello, Martin," I said, my voice surprisingly calm given the storm raging inside me. "Bet you didn't expect to see visitors tonight."

He struggled, his flabby arms flailing as he tried to break free. I planted my boot on his chest, pressing just hard enough to restrict his breathing without stopping it altogether. I wanted him conscious. I wanted him aware.

"Do you know who I am?" I asked, leaning down so my face was inches from his. "My name is Reno. I ride with the Dark Wrath MC. And the man currently keeping you from screaming is Bronx."

Recognition flickered in Martin's eyes, followed by a deeper terror. The Dark Wrath's reputation in this city was well-earned. People knew what happened to those who crossed us.

"But we're not here on club business," I continued, increasing the pressure of my boot slightly. "This is personal."

Martin's eyes darted around the room, perhaps looking for escape, perhaps trying to understand what was happening. The dim light from a streetlamp outside cast strange shadows across his face, highlighting the sweat that had begun to bead on his forehead.

"You're wondering why we're here," I said, crouching down beside him while maintaining pressure on his chest. "You're thinking back, trying to figure out what you did to piss off the Dark Wrath, or the two of us in particular."

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