Battle Hearts (Storm MC Reloaded 3)

Crouching next to him, I demand, “You ready to tell me what I want to know or do we need to keep going here?”

His filthy glare hits me before his words do. “Go to hell. I’m not telling you anything.”

Grabbing his shirt, I pull him to his feet. “Yeah, you fucking are.” If it’s the last fucking thing I do tonight, I’ll get the information out of this motherfucker.

I punch him repeatedly until he lands on the floor again, at which point, I stand over him and grasp his bloody and bruised face. “You done yet?”

He cracks an eye open. “Get fucked.”

My phone rings, drawing my attention. When I see Ransom’s name flash on the screen, I answer it. “Yeah?”

“Thorn’s gonna be okay, but Doc has concerns for Memphis.”

My body tenses. “What kind of concerns?”

“The kind where we may be planning a funeral.”

I eye the asshole on the floor. “Keep me updated. I’m still working on Albert.”

Shoving my phone in my pocket, I thunder, “You’re gonna start talking and you’re gonna fucking do that soon!”

It’s not often I lose control, but I lose it now.

Forgetting the friends Albert has who could harm my club, I succumb to the dark desire I have to inflict pain.

I deliver a beating the likes of which I never have.

My mind lets my body take over.

My fists control me.

The blood and grunts of pain urge me on.

I chase retribution for what’s been done to my men.

God fucking help whoever did this to them.

They will pay with their own blood.

By the time I’m finished with Albert, I’m not even sure he’s still breathing. My breathing is laboured, but I can’t hear his.

Prodding him with my boot, I order, “Open your eyes.”

When he doesn’t open them, I kick him harder. “Open your fucking eyes!”

He opens them and looks up at me, but he doesn’t spit back another of his “get fucked” responses.

Pulling my phone out, I say, “You’ve got twenty seconds to talk before I send the first photo to your wife.”

I’m deadly fucking serious, too. I’m done with playing nice. When I’m dragged from my wife at night, and when my men are hurt, I’m fucking done.

“Zenith ordered the hit,” he finally grunts.

I crouch again. “And who the fuck gave that order? Who runs Zenith?”

“I don’t know.”

“Bullshit.”