Trent Wyatt was a dangerous man, and Vasquez had come to respect him. Their similar paths to wealth made him a dangerous adversary, and despite his desire to bury the Riders, he knew that any action would provoke a reaction.

The Riders would fight back.

For the first time since he strangled that drug dealer over twenty-five years ago, Vasquez was on the verge of a drug war. Everyone else had been too scared or too artificial to fight back, as his power and drugs swept across city after city like a hurricane.

But this was different.

This time, things would have to be done a little differently.

And with the end in sight, Vasquez was looking forward to the moment where he could look Trent Wyatt in the eyes, and let him know that he, Jose Vasquez, took everything from him.

Vasquez smiled, the anticipation of the evening’s events distracting him from the torture being played in front of him. He turned, adjusted the lapels of his expensive suit, and he stared at the man who could no longer beg for help.

His tongue was on the floor.

Edinson had cut it out when the man refused to give up the others who had been involved in an unsuccessful raid on one of their labs.

Vasquez didn’t remember the man’s name, but he did know he was tiring of the situation. Dramatically, he stood from his chair, buttoning his blazer, before walking towards the violence. Edinson stepped back, his powerful frame stretching the T-shirt that clung to his muscles for dear life.

The man was a mess.

Blood dribbled from his split lips and one of his eyes was swollen shut. A few trickles of blood ran from his hairline, and Vasquez could only imagine the bruising that was forming under the man’s clothes. Vasquez calmly leant forward, the man shaking with fear.

‘Your silence is not bravery. It is stupidity.’ Vasquez patted him on the shoulder before turning to Edinson. ‘Kill him.’

A faint roar of fear emanated from the man, which Edinson shut down with a brutal right hook. As the man hung by the binds of the chair, Vasquez stepped from the room, leaving Edinson to complete the task.

It wouldn’t be pretty, but Vasquez felt numb to it.

Violence was just part of the world he lived in.

The three-storey apartment block was just one of many crack dens that Vasquez funded. The police stayed away for a slice of the profits, and it gave his customers a place to spend their money. No one would come looking for the man, nor would they have cared about the screams of pain. All the rooms were occupied, filled with the despicable vermin whose addictions had consumed them.