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“Jesus, two people live in this monstrosity?” Jinx muttered, craning his neck to see the top of the house. “Fuckin’ why?”
“Because they can,” Tracker answered with a shrug. “Rich people do most shit just because they can.”
“Think she’s in there?” Lock asked.
Spec stepped in front of him and clasped the sides of Lock’s head. “In there or not, we’ll fucking find her, brother. This fucker knows where she is. Make him bleed.”
Lock gave a single nod.
Spec cuffed the side of his head and then grinned that same maniacal grin he’d had at the clubhouse. “Keep moving, boys.”
A television flickered from a first-floor window facing the front of the house—a dead giveaway to exactly where Oliver was.
“Like taking candy from a baby,” Jinx muttered. “Except your baby. He’s too smart to give up his candy.”
“You’re fucking nuts,” Tracker said with a laugh.
At any other time, Lock would have joined in. Tonight, he focused on the house as they stormed up the driveway.
He reached the giant black door with its gaudy brass knocker before his brothers. It was locked, of course, and too big to stomp open with his boot as he’d have loved to do. But thanks to his job, he always had a way in. He pulled his lock pick kit from his back pocket. He could do this shit in his sleep. Most people had no idea how easy it was for someone as skilled as him to open their locks. With a few fiddles of his tools, he had the door open in seconds flat. No cameras, no alarms, nothing sounded to alert Oliver to their presence.
Hell yes.
“Rich morons,” Jinx mumbled.
Always with the snark, that one.
Once in the house, he no longer gave a shit about being quiet. With his brothers at his back, he slammed the door open and thundered left toward the flickering television.
Oliver sat, feet up in a plush beige recliner. The second he saw six furious bikers descending on him, his eyes widened, and he scrambled backward. The recliner tipped, dumping him onto the floor. He didn’t miss a beat, clambering across the floor until Spec hopped onto the recliner like a kid on the playground.
“Don’t fucking move,” he barked, gun mere feet from Oliver’s stunned face. “He’s all yours, brother.”
Lock had his gun out and ready to fire. Just because he hadn’t used one in a real-life scenario didn’t mean he couldn’t or wouldn’t.
He strode to Oliver, planted a boot on the man’s chest, and flattened him to the floor. “Where the fuck is she?” he said with a deadly snarl as he felt the man’s ribs depress beneath his boot.
“C-can’t b-breathe.” Oliver gasped and clawed at Lock’s boot.
It’d be so easy to lean into that leg a little more and crush the man’s ribcage with a satisfying crunch.
After he tells you where Brenna is.
He counted to ten, letting the asshole feel the full effect of suffocation before he let up on the pressure a fraction.
“You better answer,” Spec said. “My finger’s getting tired over here.”
“I don’t know. I don’t fucking know. I swear it.”
Boom.
The gunshot rang out half a second before Oliver jerked. His agonized scream had Jinx chuckling.
“Pussy,” he said.
Blood bloomed across the man’s right shoulder, soaking his white polo shirt.
“So much for letting me lead.” Lock glanced at Spec, who shrugged with a sheepish grin.
