One of them reached inside and flicked on the overhead light, blinding me.
My hand flew up, shielding my vision. I squinted, afraid if I closed my eyes for even a second, they’d chop me into pieces.
Rock
“What the fuck is that?” Wrath gestured toward the garage, drawing my attention away from the back door of Crystal Ball.
You’d think we’d have the area lit up better. But there wasn’t a person in Empire who didn’t know this property belonged to the Lost Kings MC. You’d have to be suicidal to break into our garage.
I squinted into the darkness and barely made out the shape of a bicycle propped up against the side of the garage. A tall, skinny shadow fiddled with the lock on the double doors. It was a pretty flimsy lock, but like I said, no one should be breaking into the building.
Wrath chuckled, the sound more frightening than light-hearted coming from him. “It’s a kid. Let’s go scare the shit out of him.”
“Wait,” I said, throwing my arm out to stop him. “Let’s see what he does first.”
After the kid slid inside the doors, we crossed the parking lot. Wrath, stealthy as usual, slipped the lock off the doors and opened them wider. He smirked at me as we watched the kid bumble around in the near darkness.
The kid grabbed something out of the metal tool closet where we kept all sorts of parts and tools, including a lockbox that held no more than a couple hundred dollars. He didn’t bother with any of the tools—just the box. How the hell had this scrawny boy even known about it?
I guessed we’d find out.
He turned and froze. Wrath reached out and casually flicked the overhead light on, startling the kid. The lockbox clattered to the ground as he threw his arm up to shield his eyes.
“What’cha doin’, lil’ buddy?” Wrath asked. He crossed his arms over his massive chest and aimed his stony glare at the kid. I elbowed him in the ribs, but he seemed to be taking his role of “bad” biker seriously and didn’t relax the threatening pose. It’d be up to me to play “nice” biker—a role I wasn’t all that familiar with.
“Didn’t anyone ever tell you it’s rude to touch another man’s tool chest?” I asked.
The kid blinked and glanced at the metal cabinet. “Actually, it’s more of a tool closet.”
“Funny guy,” Wrath said, sounding less than amused.
“What’s your name, kid?” I asked.
He opened his mouth and closed it.
“Don’t lie to me either,” I warned.
“Spit it out or we’ll beat it outta ya,” Wrath added.
The color drained from the kid’s face, but he squared his shoulders and faced us head-on.
Brave little shit.
“Marcel,” he finally said.
I swept my gaze over him. Jeans short enough to show off bony ankles, worn sneakers, ill-fitting threadbare jacket. Chin lifted in defiance. “How old are you, Marcel?”
“Twelve.”
I raised a brow. Tall for his age. More than that, he was awfully young to be headed down the sort of path that would get him killed.
Without a doubt, if our president had been the one to catch him, Marcel would have been in the middle of a beating by now. Ruger wouldn’t care about the kid’s motivation for stealing, his age, or finding out who sent the kid to rob us. There were no gray areas for Ruger. No thought behind his decisions. Our president was a disappointing mix of reactionary violence, cruelty, and stupidity.
“Shouldn’t you be home watching cartoons?” Wrath sneered.
Marcel didn’t answer, but his jaw tightened and he dropped his gaze to the ground.
“Where you from, Marcel?” I asked.