Page 42 of Everest

He looks at me. "I understand this is personal, but keep your head straight."

I hold his gaze. "I know the drill."

He watches me for another beat. "Good." He then turns to Catcher. "Get the van and follow us." Riggs stands. "Cain, Fender, sit this one out. I need eyes and ears here at the clubhouse." There's a beat of silence. Nova and Fender would rather be on the frontline with the rest of us, but neither would argue with Riggs' order. "Let's move," he barks, and we file out of the room.

I slowly approach the door, briefly making eye contact with London before stepping out into the southern heat.

We don't waste time. Within minutes, Catcher is in the van while the rest of us roll out, heading deep into the city's underbelly.

The streets are narrow, lined with abandoned houses, their windows boarded up, and graffiti marking the walls everywhere. We pass women in short skirts with lifeless eyes standing on the corners while drug deals happen in broad daylight. We roll up to a dilapidated house, with the front porch sagging, at the end of a dead-end street.

Riggs signals, and we move in fast, weapons drawn as we rush the house, kicking the door in. Three men, sitting on a dirty sofa in front of a coffee table, bagging drugs, freeze.

Behind us, Wick and Kiwi cover the door while Catcher remains posted inside the van, prepared for trouble should it find us.

My eyes lock onto one of the motherfuckers, laid back, joint in hand, and a massive bruise on the side of his face. I recognize him immediately from the bar and gym. "Rollins," I mutter. His gaze flickers to mine when I speak his name, and the anger simmering inside grows. Does this fucker know who London is to me and the club? If he doesn't, he's sure as hell about to.

He doesn't flinch. "This ain't your side of town, motherfuckers."

"It is now." I step closer, my gun level with his smug expression.

"You know…" He exhales smoke, unfazed by our presence. "A dog that keeps pissing on someone's lawn eventually comes up missing."

My grip tightens, trying like hell not to pull the trigger.

One of his men shifts nervously and attempts to reach for a gun lying on the coffee table.

A gunshot rings out.

The man's body jerks back onto the couch, blood soaking through his shirt, where Riggs put a bullet through his chest. "You two, on your fucking knees," Riggs growls, his tone dangerous. One man rises slowly, his hands up. The motherfucker I want dead remains seated.

The son of a bitch blows smoke and glares between Riggs and me. "I don't kneel for anyone, especially a bunch of bikers thinking they run this city."

"You think this is about your little street game?" Every breath I take feeds the fire burning in my chest.

"Isn't it?" He never takes his beady eyes off me.

"This little visit is about the woman you grabbed last night.My woman."

He smirks. "Ohhh," he drawls. "You mean the feisty dancer with the mouth? She's yours?" Then he chuckles. "Small world." He cocks his head to the side. "She's been sticking her nose in my business, snooping around where she isn't wanted. She needed to be taught a lesson." Rollins grabs his crotch. "Shame things didn't go as planned. I was going to show her what a real man's cock feels like."

I lose my shit.

I reach down, grab the bastard by the throat, and rip him off the couch. I slam his body against the wall and then force-feed the barrel end of my gun down his fucking throat.

"Everest," Riggs warns, his voice sounding distant over the sound of blood thrumming in my ears as I struggle to keep from pulling the trigger. After a brief battle with myself, I slam the motherfucker to the floor. "A quick death is too good for you."

He coughs. "You have no idea who you are dealing with."

Wick steps in and quickly zip-ties both men's wrists, then slaps duct tape around their heads, covering their mouths.

"Load ‘em up and roll out," Riggs barks, and we drag them out the door, toss them into the van, and get the hell out of there.

The ride back to the clubhouse is quick. I keep my eyes sharp as I focus on the sound of my tires eating up asphalt and the low hum of anger simmering in my chest.

When we pull through the clubhouse gate and head toward the back of the property, the sun is high and hot on my back. We head for the shed, which has nothing but concrete walls, a concrete floor, a steel door, and no windows.

No sounds get in.

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