Page 1 of Brew
PROLOGUE
Brew
Three years ago
The chain around my neck feels heavy. It’s only silver, and not thick in size or weight, but her name feels like it’s burning into my skin. The one I loved. The woman who never came back to me.
I close my eyes, trying to remember that if I kill everyone in this room, I won’t be getting answers.
My brother, Haze, waits patiently. Me? I’m not a patient man.
I see.
I point.
I shoot.
No regrets.
My beautiful Valencia.
We went our separate ways, but she was always in my heart. She was the only one who could get through to me when I’d had enough of this world, and all the assholes in it. But now she’sgone. Trafficked. Used as a sex slave. And I’m here to kill the men who were involved.
Ridgely is the head honcho, and a man I plan on hunting down if it takes me the rest of my life. He went underground when there was a big raid after Valencia’s death, and he’s flown under the radar for quite some time.
One way or another. I will have my vengeance.
It’s taken me years.
Blood.
Sweat.
No fucking tears, though. Tears are for the weak.
I will avenge her. I will always come for her.
Years ago, a small part of me thought I would find my sweet girl. Hell, I even planned on saving her when I realized she’d been snatched. Traffickers only go for the weaker of the herd. Women who are vulnerable, naive, and usually traveling alone. Valencia was an easy target. Ridgely and his cronies didn’t care. They care about nothing but money and greed.
Maybe a small part of me still hopes for her return. That somehow, they got it wrong.Igot it wrong. She’ll come walking back through the door, her high ponytail swinging as she sings in Italian. But that’s only in my wildest dreams, because deep down, I know it isn’t true.
My throat burns.
The rage feels like it will pop every cell in my body, but I’m well beyond rage. No, this feels nuclear.
“All of you are going to die here today,” I say, still crouched, examining the tattered cloth in front of me. Part of Valencia’s clothing, at least, that’s what one of the motherfuckers admitted when I spent most of yesterday torturing him. Then again, it’s amazing what you’ll agree to spill when you have a blowtorch burnin’ patches into your skin. “It’s just a matter of how slowlywe drag it out. There is nothing beyond this room, only misery. So I can make it quick, or I can make it real slow.”
The boys around me are on edge. Aside from Haze; my older brother Logan — also known as Hustle when we want to annoy him into joining the MC — Cash; the Prez of NOLA Rebels MC, the club I love and honor every day I wear this cut. Tag and Harlem, his right-hand men, and a couple of the other boys; Hawk, Bronco and Ryder, the VP, keeping watch at the door.
“Looks like nobody feels like talkin’,” Cash mutters. “I guess that means we start cutting some limbs? Great thing about Sol, the knife sharpener, he does a really good fuckin’ job. Just had my done today, the blade slices like a knife through butter, see.” Cash slices the dude closest to him and he howls in pain. Half his ear hangs off his head, blood oozing out all over the floor.
I’ve never been a fan of blood, but it’s a small price to pay to get what you need.
The man, though gagged, withers around in pain, moaning. It brings little comfort to my stone, cold heart. Nothing can revive me, that much is certain.
I give Tag a chin lift. He knows this is my gig, and mine only. He rips the bleeding guy’s gag down. “Speak, asshole, or the next cut will be your balls.”
“I swear to God!” he begins, but he’s no use to me now. I plunge the knife into his throat and move to the guy next to him as he chokes to death.
