King (Sydney Storm MC 7)

Shaking his head, he said, “There’s no problem, King.”

I watched him leave, the beast inside roaring to life.

Blood.

I needed to see it.

I needed to feel it.

I fucking needed to spill it.

“The rain isn’t helping any of us,” Nitro said five hours later when I called to check in with him. “It’s fucking pouring down on this side of town, slowing us down. And the fucking cops are out in full force thanks to it, too. I’m not sure we’re gonna have much success tonight.”

He was right; the rain had turned torrential. Some streets were beginning to flood.

“I’ve got one more place on my list. How’s everyone else’s list going?” Nitro was the one keeping tabs on our operation, ensuring every last corner of Sydney was checked.

“They’re making progress, but we’re not even close to finding this guy. Either no one knows a fucking thing about him or he’s paid them well enough to keep their mouths shut.”

My guess was the latter. “The rain’s not stopping us, brother. Push everyone harder. I want him found.”

“Fuck, King. I feel you, but—”

“No fucking buts, Nitro. We keep fucking going.”

I stabbed at my phone to end the call before eyeing Devil. Jerking my chin at the house we stood outside of, I said, “You take the back.”

He nodded and quickly made his way around the side of the house while I headed for the front door. Already soaked, I barely noticed the rain or the mud as I stalked through it.

Before I reached the

door, it opened and a guy barrelled out, coming at me with a gun and a roar of anger. Mine was aimed and ready to go, and the sound of gunfire mingled with the heavy rain as we both pulled our trigger.

His bullet just missed my right arm. I was so fucking hyped up that I hardly registered it. I picked up my pace and charged at him. My bullet ended up in his stomach, slowing him down, so I had little trouble getting my arms around him and taking him to the ground.

I had never heard of this guy until an hour ago when another asshole we’d talked to gave me this address. He’d told me that this guy hadn’t shut up about a friend of his going after Storm’s business. I figured that, based on the welcome party I’d received, we were a step closer to finding Clark Kent.

“Jesus, King, you good?” Devil asked, joining me back out the front of the house.

“Yeah. Help me get him inside.”

The guy kicked and screamed, trying desperately to escape our hold, but Devil and I managed to carry him inside. I was covered in his blood and mud by the time we dumped him on his couch. In an effort to control him, I punched him hard in the face. “Shut the fuck up!”

He spat up at me. “Fuck you! I’m not telling you anything.”

I reefed him back up, spun him around, and shoved him hard across the room. When he landed on his ass, I took my gun and shot him in the leg before crouching in front of him. “I’ll riddle your body with bullets if I have to, but I’m not leaving here until you tell me everything you know about what your friend is doing.” Taking aim, I shot his other leg and snarled, “And if you ever fucking spit at me again, I’ll dedicate hours to making you hurt.”

The guy roared in pain, his face an angry red mess of hostility and agony. When he continued carrying on with his anger rather than giving me what I wanted, I yanked out my blade. Gripping his jaw, I said, “You know what my favourite thing to do to assholes like you is?” I pressed the tip of the knife to his chest, my beast feeding off his fear. “Some call it stabbing, some refer to it as slicing, but I like to think of it as carving. I like to create fucking masterpieces of flesh and blood.” I reached for his shirt and slashed it in half down the front. “And I like to take my fucking time. So settle in, because we’ve got a long night ahead of us.”

As my knife pierced his skin, he screamed out, “I’m not fucking ratting him out!”

I carved a deep gash down his stomach, near the bullet wound I’d already inflicted. “You will,” I promised, my demons blazing to life.

Devil held him down while I continued to slice into his skin. I had to give the asshole props; he didn’t squeal for a while. It wasn’t until I’d carved my way down to his fingers that he finally started talking.

With blood dripping from his body, he panted, “Fucking hell, he’s left town. Don’t cut my fucking fingers off…. I’ll give you whatever you want.”

He shared everything he knew after that, which wasn’t too fucking much, but it was enough to know we weren’t going to find his friend in Sydney. Clark Kent had gone back to Brisbane to source more coke.