Page 117 of Ride or Die

“Where you need to go?”

“None of your goddamn business.”

Jagger nods slowly, eyes narrowing a touch. “Well, I ain’t lettin’ you drive my truck when you’re shakin’ the way you are, so you can either let me take you where you gotta go, or you can call a fuckin’ Uber.” He makes a point of looking around, meeting me again with a shrug of his shoulder. “Uber might take a while.”

Teeth gritted, I glare at him for a beat before huffing a hard breath. “Fine, whatever. Let’s fuckin’ go.”

I race for my truck, grabbing my pistol from its holder under the seat. Jagger’s mouth forms a harsh line when he sees me tuckthe weapon into the waist of my jeans, but thankfully he doesn’t say nothin’ as we move toward his truck parked at the end of the line.

Jagger pulls up outside the back of the slaughterhouse, and I glance at him to find him checking out the nondescript building with obvious caution.

“Thanks,” I mutter, quickly hopping out of the truck. But when I hear another door close, I turn to find him hopping out too.

I shake my head. “You can’t?—”

My words are stopped by the unexpected sight of the pistol in his hand, his gaze set firm on me as he racks the slide before tucking it into the back of his waistband and, I know fuck all about this fella, but that move alone proves he’s the kind of guy I can trust to act first, and ask questions later. So, turning, I head toward the entrance and lift my chin at the hulking security guard standing by the door as he lets us pass.

Jagger follows closely as I navigate the corridor, the air turning thick and cold the deeper we weave through the bowels of the slaughterhouse. Stopping by the door I know opens to the same cold room we were in just last week, I knock once before letting myself through, pushing aside the plastic flaps and stopping the second my eyes adjust to the dimly lit space.

In the center of the room, hanging from a meat hook by bound wrists, is a shirtless asshole dressed only in black jeans, his upper body covered in streaked blood, face unrecognizable to whoever might know him. As I get a good look at him, I size him up. I imagined him to be bigger. More threatening. Thisguy couldn’t be no more than one-seventy, soaking wet. Fuckin’ small-man syndrome.

Butch sits in a chair in the far corner, watching on silently, while two of his guys take turns, punching, whipping, cutting. Cruz stands toward the back with a couple of other men, watching on as the guy groans, muttering incoherent words. I cast a quick glance over my shoulder, checking on Jagger, but thankfully he looks unperturbed by the scene, his face void of any emotion.

I meet Butch’s gaze and he juts his chin at me, his unspoken approval, and I step forward, shouldering the two men out of the way to get a better look at the guy. His bloodshot, almost entirely swollen-shut eyes find me, dazed and confused before dropping to the concrete below.

Grabbing his chin, I force his face back up to look at me. “Cain.”

He groans, and I don’t know if he’s not making any sense because he’s been beat to shit already, or he can’t form words on account of the teeth that have been knocked clean outta his mouth.

Balling my hands into fists, I crack my knuckles, giving him no more than three seconds before I connect with his jaw, his head swinging to the side with a grunt accompanying the sound of bone cracking. My hand stings with the kind of pain that lights a fire in my belly, and suddenly I’m swinging punches left and right, his face, his gut, wherever I can land a blow, every single emotion that’s been warring inside of me the last few days—hell, the last few weeks—coming out of me in wave after wave of unbridled rage.

“Look at me you pussy-ass motherfucker,” I spit out again, fisting a handful of his matted hair to hold his head up for me to land another jaw-shattering blow.

He groans, but it’s mixed with a gurgle; the kind of sound that’ll stay with a man and haunt him for the rest of his life.

“You think you can come here, to my fuckin’ town and try take what’s mine?” I yell right in his face, shaking his limp body in the hope it might rattle a response out of him.

“You think you can put your filthy fuckin’ hands on a lady and get away with it?” I seethe.

He makes a sound, and I pull back, getting a better look at him, my heart in the back of my throat.

Yanking my gun from the back of my pants, I slide the rack, loading the chamber, the click resonating throughout the room and bouncing off the tile and concrete. Staring down at him, I hold the barrel to the center of his forehead, getting so close I can almost taste the metallic tang of his blood on my tongue.

“Why’re you here?” I hiss, pressing the barrel harder into his skin.

He starts to pant—breathless, garbled, agonized puffs of air like he’s choking, grunting—his body thrashing in vain to get his wrists free. My finger itches to squeeze the trigger because he’s giving me nothing. Fuckin’ nothing.

But then he says something. A garbled murmur of words I can’t quite make out.

“What’d you fuckin’ say?” I inch closer, but just when I’m close enough, just when his lips start to move again, a gun goes off somewhere, a bullet skating past me before puncturing the guy’s head, his skull exploding right in front of me, blood spattering all over my face.

Silence ensues, my ears ringing, heart pounding in my ears. I spin around, eyes blazing as I search, landing on Cruz with his motherfuckin’ pistol still smoking.

“The fuck’d you do that for?” I yell, storming toward him and shoving him in his chest.

He staggers before righting himself, his face switching to a murderous glower as he fists the front of my T-shirt, yanking me off balance.

“See this badge, motherfucker?” He taps his badge with the barrel of his pistol. “I’m in fuckin’ charge, y’hear?”