• Killer •
From the corner of my eye, I see Pierce step into the dimly lit room.
“You’re late,” I growl lowly, irritated that I’ve had to wait longer than necessary.
This week has been one f*****g shitshow. A brother is dead, Cig was shot, and we still have no idea who the f**k we pissed off enough to come at us like this. Even Sherlock—who’s buried himself in his work since the attacks started—has come up with nothing.
We can all see he’s cracking under the pressure, but like the rest of us, he refuses to let it go. He’s the youngest patched-in member of the club, and even if no one says it, we’re protective of him.
“We had some problems,” Pierce says.
I scowl. “And we don’t? We’re the ones getting attacked—and we both know you’re probably the reason for it.”
Pierce snaps his finge
