Page 17 of My Enemy Biker

Hand signals from Clint. Holt and Diesel around back. Tate and Knox on the side. Cain and Clint through the front.

We move.

Front door isn't locked. Amateurs or arrogant, doesn't matter. Clint goes in first, I follow close.

Main room has two men, both scrambling for weapons when we enter.

They don't make it.

Tate comes through the side, takes the first one down hard, movement so fast and efficient it's over before the guyunderstands it started. Holt appears from the kitchen, handles the second with similar speed.

Both are on the ground, conscious but controlled. No weapons drawn on our side yet. Don't need them.

"Basement," I say to Clint.

We head for the stairs. Knox behind us. Door at the bottom is locked. Knox kicks it, wood splinters, we're through.

Walt's in the basement. Tied to a chair, face bruised but eyes alert. One man with him, standing near the back wall.

Sully. The scar across his throat is unmistakable even in dim light.

He reaches for a weapon. Tate shoots first.

Not to kill. Shoulder. Sully goes down, gun skittering across concrete.

I move to Walt, cut the zip ties. "You hurt?"

"Bruised. They didn't get far with it." His voice is steady but I can see the fear underneath.

"You're good. We've got you."

Clint secures Sully, who's bleeding but not critically. Tate retrieves the weapon. The two men upstairs are brought down, hands zip-tied, faces showing they understand exactly how badly they miscalculated.

Clint crouches in front of Sully. "Who ordered this?"

Sully doesn't answer. Blood spreading across his shirt from the shoulder wound but he's not talking.

"You're bleeding," Clint says conversationally. "Could bleed out if we leave you here. Or you could answer the question and we get you help."

Still nothing.

I step forward. Crouch beside Clint. Look at Sully directly. "You approached Anna Reeves this morning. Grocery store parking lot. Threatened her."

His eyes flick to me. Small tell but there.

"That was a mistake," I continue. "She's under Vigil protection. You touch her, look at her, breathe near her, you answer to me personally. Understood?"

Sully's jaw tightens, but he doesn't respond.

I reach down, press my thumb into the shoulder wound. Not hard, just enough. He makes a sound, can't quite hide it.

"Understood?" I repeat.

"Understood," he grits out.

"Who ordered Walt's grab?"

Three seconds of resistance. I press harder. He breaks.