Chapter Six

Cutter

The night feels thick around us as Logan and I crouch in the shadows, watching the old warehouse. The only light leaks through busted-out windows, casting a faint glow onto the cracked concrete surrounding it. This place is eerie, forgotten since they rerouted the highway years ago.

I glance at Logan, his eyes fixed on the warehouse like a hawk on prey. Our brothers from the MC are out there, unseen but ready at their posts. I think of them, silent and vigilant, surrounding the place. We're all here for one reason—to get to Beathan before anyone else does.

My gut tightens with worry. Beathan's just a kid caught in a mess he shouldn't be part of. He's family, one of our own, and we don't leave family behind.

The night air is still, almost suffocating, when suddenly a bird's whistle cuts through the silence—a sharp, distinct sound that breaks the tension like a starter's gun. Logan and I exchange a quick nod.

It's time.

"Ready?" Logan's voice is steady, but his eyes mirror my resolve.

"Always."

We move forward, each step deliberate and quiet, shadows swallowing us whole. Tonight, we're ghosts in the darkness on a mission that means everything to us.

We slip inside, every sense on alert. The place is a labyrinth of discarded boxes, pallets, and industrial equipment. There's music playing, and each of my footsteps sounds loud to my ears as we advance, guns drawn, eyes sharp.

Peering through the gap between some old, rotting crates, I catch sight of two men inside the warehouse. They're armed, of course. I signal to Logan with two fingers, pointing wide to indicate he should flank them.

He nods and slips into the shadows, leaving me to decide my next move. A part of me wants to wait and come up with a better plan, but time isn't on our side. Beathan's in here somewhere, and every second counts. So, I holster my gun, take a deep breath, and walk straight into the lion's den.

The men spot me immediately. I stride forward with confidence, making my presence known. But as I get closer, my heart sinks. Two more men emerge from the shadows, making it four against one.

"Evening, gentlemen," I say, trying to buy time and keep my nerves steady. "I'm here for the kid."

They don't answer, but their weapons do the talking, aimed directly at me. I grit my teeth, hoping Logan and the others are ready. We've faced worse odds, but the stakes feel higher this time.

I hope my brothers are positioned well enough to overcome them before it's too late for Beathan and me.

The biggest one sneers, his gun raising higher to take me out with a head shot.

"Let's keep this simple," I say, my voice low and controlled. "Hand over the kid, and you walk away."

"Big talk for a man on the wrong end of a gun."

"Am I?"

In a flash, Logan and I spring into action. There's no hesitation. I know my brothers in the MC are here, and worse, I know the MacKenny boys will kill all of them to protect the boy.

One of them, a burly man with shoulders as wide as a freight train, inches closer. His eyes flicker with something feral, a hunger for violence that matches mine. He thinks he's got the drop on me, that I'm just another notch on his belt.

He's wrong.

With a sudden lurch, he lunges at me, his fist slicing through the air toward my face. It's a move I've seen a thousand times—too slow, too telegraphed. If he wants to use fists instead of guns, I'm happy to give him what he needs.

I pivot to the side, my feet light on the dusty concrete floor. My left arm shoots up, the motion practiced and precise, parrying his punch with a sharp slant of my forearm. His momentum carries him off-balance, and that's when I strike.

My hand balls into a fist, tight as iron, and rockets forward. There's no hesitation, no second-guessing. This is survival. This is retribution.

My knuckles connect with the sweet spot—right on the hinge of his jaw. A satisfying crunch echoes through the space, the sound of bone giving way, and I know it's a hit that he'll remember if he wakes up from it.

In that instant, I am every bit the storm they whisper about, a force of nature that will sweep away everything in its path. And right now, my path leads straight through anyone foolish enough to stand between the justice we've come to deliver and me.

Logan darts into the fray, a blur of lethal intent. His fists are hammers, his kicks scythes, each strike choreographed chaos. I watch for a split second, admiration mingling with my adrenaline.

A gunshot cracks through the chaos, marking a shift in the fight. Bullets cut through the air. One grazes my arm—a sharp burn that snaps me back into the moment. Blood oozes, warm and sticky, but there's no time to feel the pain. This fight is no longer muscle on muscle. It is now fought with guns. "Cover!" Kyle's voice cuts through the din. He and Sean materialize from the shadows like avenging wraiths.

They move with the same purpose as Logan and me, synchronized, honed by countless battles too many to count. Their arrival shifts the balance even further, the crack of their return fire lifting one man off his feet as he flies through the air, dead before he hits the floor.

I shake off the sting of my wound, refocusing on the task at hand because until every last one of these bastards is down, none of us can afford to be distracted by anything as trivial as a little blood.

The men opposing us might as well have been forged from a military mold—they pivot into formation with a precision that hints at countless drills. Yet, despite their training, their movements are textbook—predictable. In contrast, Logan, Kyle, and I are more than trained. We're battle-hardened, our tactics born of necessity and honed in chaos. Sean is ex-Special Forces and will know their moves before they do and act accordingly.

Logan ducks under a sweeping arm, his counterattack not just precise but vicious, exploiting gaps only he can see. Kyle's shots don't just hit, they incapacitate two enemies before they even realize they've been targeted. Sean's hands are blurs—each strike is a sentence of finality for anyone on the receiving end.

And me? I'm Cutter. I don't just fight, I dismantle. My strikes aren't just hard, they're ruinous, leaving nothing to chance.

One by one, they fall until the warehouse echoes with the thud of bodies hitting concrete rather than commands. The air is thick with gunpowder and sweat, and when the dust settles, it's clear we're not just better—we're dominant.

Only one man remains. The leader, chest heaving, eyes darting for an escape that doesn't exist. He knows it's over. We know it's over. But there's something else we need from him—Beathan's whereabouts.

"Where is he?" I growl, stepping forward, but Sean acts before the words leave my mouth. With a twist that speaks of both urgency and anger, the leader's neck snaps, the sound grotesquely loud in the sudden silence.

"Sean!" Kyle's scream cuts through the stillness, frustration and fear mingling in his voice. "We needed him! We don't know where Beathan is!"

Sean stands there, chest heaving, a mix of satisfaction and realization dawning on his face as the weight of his impulsive action sinks in. We needed answers, not another body. Now, we're back to square one, searching for Beathan with nothing but hope to guide us.

The silence is a living thing, oppressive and thick, filling the warehouse now the violence has ceased. I can hear the blood in my ears, the ragged breaths of my brothers-in-arms as they stand among the fallen enemies—a testament to our grim work.

From the shadows at the edges of the warehouse, more figures emerge, their faces smeared with soot and blood. They're the rest of our motorcycle club, those who have been fighting our enemy outside. The room feels suddenly crowded as they fill the empty spaces between us, their expressions grim, their eyes searching ours for answers we don't have.

"Beathan?" The question hangs heavy in the air.

We shake our heads, the collective defeat momentarily outweighing the triumph of survival. The dim light catches on the various cuts and bruises that paint our skin—proof of the battle. Logan leans against a crate, his knuckles split open, his chest rising and falling with labored intensity. Kyle wipes a smear of blood from his eye, his gaze fixed on the lifeless body of the leader while Sean stands motionless, his face a mask of self-reproach.

A silence descends upon us, the kind that follows a storm—the world holding its breath, waiting for what comes after. We all feel it, the hollowness of victory when the prize remains lost.

Then, cutting through the quiet like the softest whisper of wind comes a sound so faint it might be a figment of my desperate hope. A cry, barely audible, yet unmistakably human. It's small, scared, and pulls at something primal within me.

"Did you hear that?" Kyle's voice is strained, his earlier anger replaced with cautious optimism.

We all pause, our heads tilting, straining to catch the sound again. Logan straightens up, his warrior's poise returning as he zeroes in on the source. Sean's eyes, once clouded with regret, sharpen with renewed purpose.

The crying comes again, a plaintive whimper that echoes off the walls, guiding us, reigniting the fire within our chests. It's the promise that all our sacrifices might not have been in vain.

"Over there," Sean whispers, pointing toward the far end of the warehouse where stacks of crates create deep shadows.

We move as one, drawn to the sound, blood and exhaustion forgotten. The mission isn't over until we find Beathan.

Fanning out, each stride purposeful, each set of eyes scanning. I kick at a toppled crate, flipping it to reveal nothing but the dust it had cradled. Logan is a few steps ahead, his hands working methodically as he lifts and shifts debris with mechanical precision.

"Anything?" Kyle's voice cuts through the silence, impatient and tinged with frustration.

"Nothing!" Sean calls back, his tone matching Kyle's urgency. Their voices bounce around the cavernous space, a stark reminder of how empty the warehouse feels despite our presence.

Sweat mixes with the grime on my skin, creating streaks of muddy color. My fingers scrape against wood and metal, pushing aside boxes that look like they haven't been touched in years. The dim light from the high windows casts long shadows, making the ordinary seem ominous.

"Dammit!" My curse echoes as I lash out in frustration, the sole of my boot slamming down. But the sound isn't right—it's hollow. My heart hammers. I freeze, then shift my weight, feeling the slight give beneath me.

"Guys," I bark, my voice carrying an edge of command.

Dropping to my knees, I claw at the dirt and grime until my fingers find the edge of what can only be a trapdoor.

"Over here!" Sean is instantly by my side, Kyle and Logan close behind. Together, we clear the remaining debris, revealing the full outline of the hidden exit—or entrance.

I don't wait for consent or contemplation, my hands are already on the ring, pulling with all the might left in my battered muscles. The door groans in protest but gives way, opening to reveal darkness below.

A small gasp floats up, fragile as a soap bubble, and there, in the dim light seeping into the pit, I see him. Beathan. His face is streaked with dirt, and tears carve clean lines down his cheeks. His eyes, wide and shimmering with fear and relief, lock onto mine.

"Hey, little man," I say, my voice surprisingly gentle amid the chaos that has been our reality. "We've got you."

The cool air rushes past me as I drop into the pit, my boots thudding against the compacted earth below. Beathan flinches at the sound. My hands, still trembling from adrenaline, reach out and scoop him up with a gentleness that belies their bloodied knuckles.

"Uncle Cutter?"

"Hey, little man, you're safe now," I whisper against his matted hair, feeling his small arms cling to my neck with a desperation that wrenches at my insides.

His body shakes against mine, but it's over now, and we won't let anything else happen to him.

I crane my neck upward. Sean's outstretched arms are there, ready to lift us out of this darkness. The relief flooding through me is a palpable force, washing through me.

"Up we go, buddy," I say as I nod to Sean.

Strong hands grasp Beathan first, hoisting him into the light. His small frame disappears from my hold.

"Take him home, Sean," I call out, my voice steady despite my pounding heart.

The sight of Beathan being carried to safety is the silent promise that some things can still be made right.