Page 100 of Ruger's Rage

"Who?" I ask, dread pooling in my stomach.

He shows me the screen—a string of messages detailing club movements, security rotations, even the location of the tunnels. The contact name simply reads "B."

"Who the hell is B?" I ask.

Ruger's expression grows cold, deadly. "Someone who's not going to live to see tomorrow."

Then it hits me.

B.

B is for Bailey.

CHAPTERTHIRTEEN

Ruger

Blood stains the gravel as brothers carry Sarah to a waiting truck.

Porter hovers beside the makeshift stretcher, his face carved from stone, eyes never leaving his wife's pale form.

I don’t want to say this out loud, but she doesn’t look good.

"Easy," he growls when someone jostles her. "Fuckin’ watch it."

Sarah's blood has soaked through the bandages, but she's still breathing, still fighting, and that’s something.

I organize the brothers into groups—some to secure the perimeter, others to track Marco's escape route, the rest to assess everyone else in the club.

Three prospects are down with injuries. None dead, thank fuck.

Coin returns with his daughters, the relief on his face damn near heartbreaking as he gathers his girls close.

"Thank you," he tells Tildie, voice rough with emotion, now looking at Kinsey too. "Girls said you both got them to safety."

Tildie nods, exhaustion evident in the slump of her shoulders. "They were brave."

I keep her tucked against my side, unwilling to let her out of my reach after coming so close to losing her.

My hand traces constant circles on her lower back, needing a reminder that she's here, she's safe.

For now.

But Marco's still out there, Striker too.

This isn't over.

Bloodhound approaches, holding up a phone. "Found this on one of Marco's men. Striker's been feeding him information for months. Almost everything is on here—how we operate security wise, how our shifts work, tunnel locations, our safehouses. He’s told them everything."

I grit, “Slimy, betraying bastard.”

Bloodhound's expression goes grim. "That's not all. Check the messages."

He hands me the phone, where a string of texts details our every move for the past six months.

Meeting times. Warehouse locations. My fucking schedule.

All sent from a contact listed simply as "B."

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