Chapter Fourteen
CAMDEN
“’Bout time you got here. Where’s Kinsey?”
“Left her at her brother’s. Needed to give you all my full attention. What do we know?” Rogue asks as he joins us inside our meeting room. His hair is pulled back in a bun, his face fierce and tense. I know he’s torn, the fact that he wasn’t here, the fact that he’s glad he wasn’t at the same time.
“Widowmakers made a huge play for territory. A few days ago, the presidents of the top clubs in Washington State met in Oakhaven to discuss the threat hitting all of us,” Sin fills him in as I sit on the edge of my chair, my body and mind exhausted but focused.
It’s been three days since we were attacked, three days since Saige ran out of here like a thief in the night.
“I knew that, then Chaos brought back Saige. Coincidence?”
“Don’t you dare fucking go there. She has nothing to do with them. She has a visceral reaction to clubs; she isn’t involved with the shit that went down,” I snap, my voice thick with warning. My hands ball into fists on top of the table, my eyes squinted at someone I consider to be a best friend.
“If I could finish,” Sin says, looking annoyed as hell as he rests his big forearms on our table. “Pestilence, the president of the Widowmakers MC, took out several of the presidents while they were there.”
“No fucking integrity. Is it gone? Are we the last remaining few that have it? That’s supposed to be neutral fucking territory!”
“Seems that way, brothers,” I say, bracing my forearms in front of the Hell’s Heathens insignia burned into the top of the table.
The weight of the room presses in, my patched brothers quiet, their eyes locked on mine, waiting.
We’ve taken hits before, but this one wasn’t just a rival club sending a message, it was a declaration.
“The Widowmakers, Pestilence, came into our territory, hit us where it hurts, and left five of our men bleeding out on the floor. That’s not just disrespect, it’s war.”
Rolo shifts in his seat, the chair creaking under his weight. “Do you want us goin’ in tonight?” he asks, his voice low and ready for violence. He’s always the first to want action, the first to drop an iron fist onto anyone who dares to cross us.
“No. We don’t move reckless, that’s what they want.
They think we’re too rattled to think straight, and I won’t make those mistakes again.
” I look around the table, Sin, Malice, Rogue, Noose, Rolo, and Wrath nod.
“We aren’t going to just strike, we’re going to cripple, then we end them.
Let’s make them miserable first. We do it smart.
Wrath, I want names, locations, routines, who they trust. Malice, start preparing the prospects.
Rogue and Noose, get a game plan together for when we travel, we do so safely, coordinated and tight.
” But then I add one last thing, something that’s been eating away at me for days.
“Make sure we don’t disturb Amberwood or any community we go through.
We’re here to protect the peace and fight for those who can’t fight for themselves.
We can’t do that if we’re fighting battles out in their streets, or orphaning children because of accidents. ”
“Heard.”
“You got it, Prez.”
“This isn’t just about revenge; this isn’t a battle. We end this completely. They have no idea who they’re dealing with. We’re Hell’s Heathens. We’re brothers, we don’t forget, and we sure as hell don’t forgive. Everyone have their orders?”
A few nods and knocks on the table, and then everyone is up and moving.
I feel a shift in the air, the fire and rage that burns in each of them.
This time, we won’t just respond, we’re going to redefine the game completely.
I learned my lesson last year: you cut off one head, two more grow back in its place.
But if you cut it off and seal it with hellfire, they’re gone for good.
We’ll meet them with fire and make them wish they never took us on.
“Where’s Saige?” Rogue asks, my spine straightening at hearing her name.
“She took off.”
“And you didn’t go after her?”
“My place is here!” I snap. “She doesn’t want to be here, and I don’t blame her! I can’t force her!”
“Did you even open up to her? Give her the human side of you, or did she just see Chaos, the club president whose heart is stone?”
“Everyone clear the goddamn room,” I yell, slamming my palms down on the bar top. “Everyone but you.” I point to Rogue as he leans back on his barstool, way too fucking relaxed for how he just spoke to me. The men leave, walking outside or back to their rooms or the kitchen.
“Don’t fucking call me out like that in here. I’ve warned you too many goddamn times. Show me a little respect, Rogue.”
“I’m Reid right now, and I’m talking to my brother, Camden.
You just dismissed church, so don’t you dare give me that bullshit.
You shoulder the blame for Lucas and Lena’s deaths, and let me make something clear, something I should have done years ago, and I’m sorry it took so long to do it.
You are not responsible for what happened to them.
They both knew better than to be out late at night and unprotected, they took that gamble.
The Iron Wolves took them and killed them. It was never on you.”
His words force emotion from me, like a tide being sucked out to see before a tsunami.
“I should have fucking saved them! I should have protected them, prevented it! I failed my own brother, failed Lena and you!”
“No, you didn’t. Lucas died knowing you loved him more than anything, that you’d have died in his place if you could have.
But it is not your fault. I healed, Camden.
I let them go. Lena wouldn’t want me roaming through that darkness forever.
She brought Kinsey into my life, and I’m damn near positive Lucas brought you Saige.
There’s no way that fucker isn’t somewhere laughing his ass off watching her kick your ass and challenge you every two seconds. ”
I laugh at his point. It’s definitely something Lucas would do.
“I don’t know how to heal from it, brother.”
“Go find your woman. Love on her the way she needs to be loved, and accept it in return. The healing will come.”
The next few days, I live with Rogue’s words on repeat while I focus on putting my club back together.
It’s easy for him to tell me to go get my woman when he doesn’t have the full story.
No one but Saige and I knows the magnitude of how twisted and deeply rooted our lives are together.
How can I ask her to be mine when she’ll never be able to look at me without seeing the man who’s responsible for her family’s death?
How can I look at her and know what I’ve done?
So instead of facing my problems, I throw myself into putting the club above all else.
Prospects have been tasked with clean-up duty, while the rest of us prepare to slowly hunt down each and every Widowmaker.
We’re hunting them like animals, learning their routines, watching them as they come and go, taking their lives one at a time.
My phone goes off with a text notification, and I reluctantly pull it from my pocket.
Malice: I’ve got a lead, bringing in a ranked member. 5 mins out
Me: Good work
Sin: We’ll be ready for you. Meet us in the basement
Me: Is this another fucking group chat?
Malice: No…..
Wrath: Why would you think that?
Me: Because it’s literally multiple people in one chat. Group. Chat.
Sin: I don’t think that’s what it means
Me: That’s exactly what it means
Me: We’re a motorcycle club, we don’t need a fucking group chat
Sin: Actually, probably the best reason TO have a group chat
Wrath: He’s not wrong, and that’s saying something cause he usually is
Malice: Here, here!
I close out of the chat with an eyeroll, pocketing my phone back into my pants just as a truck pulls into the driveway.
I watch as Malice and several prospects drag a dumb-looking motherfucker from the backseat.
He’s hog-tied, and the four of them carry him together across the gravel driveway and through the outdoor steps that lead to our basement.
I walk through the house, the windows covered with tarp and Duct Tape until our new ones arrive for install, the furniture already replaced out of my own pocket and not the club’s. I want to make sure everyone is always at home here.
I reach the basement just as Malice slaps the ugly fucker on the cheek several times.
He’s tied at the waist to a wooden chair, his forearms flat against the armrests and tied down at the wrists.
He really is an ugly one, with lopsided eyes that sag at the waterline, a scarred face, and yellow and black rotting teeth.
They sure know how to find them over at that club.
And this one supposedly has all the brains.
“What up, dumbass? Picked the wrong day for a haircut, huh?” Malice says as he swings on him. His head is pummeled to the side, blood spraying from his mouth onto the concrete below us. “Where’s the clubhouse hiding?”
“Fuck you, I’m no rat!”
“The thing about rats, Knuckles,” I say, flicking his name patch, seeing the word treasurer right under it, “is that they all squeal when a fire is under their ass. So, do you want to talk, or do you want to burn?” Malice lights a blowtorch, and the whooshing sound of the lighter fluid releasing and the flame coming to life fills the room.
Knuckles’ eyes go wide with fear, but he doesn’t speak. Fine by me.
His screams are immediate as Mal aims the blowtorch over the top of his hand, melting away the first few layers of skin. The smell of burned flesh makes my stomach roll, my subconscious trying to pull me to a time that I wish I could forget.
When Malice pulls back, I squat down on my haunches in front of Knuckles, his mouth leaking a mix of blood and drool, his eyes red with pain.
“Where is your clubhouse? Where is Pestilence hiding?” I wait a beat, and he says nothing. “Okay, then.” I nod at Malice, who focuses on the side of his face this time, slowly melting off the skin like sugar on a dessert.
“Let’s try something else then, huh? You’re clearly the money guy, so if I open up my phone, you’d be able to give me account numbers. You want to do that for me, Knuckles? I can make the pain stop.” Nothing. “Okay, then. Malice, get the shears, let’s see how he likes missing some fingers.”
Malice doesn’t waste any time, using gardening shears to snap off three of his fingers, one by one. The crunching noise of bone as it snaps melds and mixes with the screams from Knuckle’s throat. A symphony of torture.
“Okay! Okay!” Malice stops with the shears open, the fourth finger resting against the blade.
“You gonna give me the numbers or tell me where Pestilence is hiding?” When Knuckles doesn’t answer right away, there’s a sickening pop and crunch as Malice cuts off the next finger, a spray of blood gushing in my direction and painting my cheek and neck. “What the fuck, Mal?”
“Damn, he’s a squirter! Did you see that?
That went over two feet! Better cauterize these before they get infected, good sir.
You should probably talk soon, this is gonna hurt like a bitch.
So I’ve heard. Haven’t had it done to me before.
I’m not a knucklehead like you. HA. KNUCKLEhead.
” Malice cracks the joke and drops his head back while he laughs like a maniac at himself.
I use the back of my sleeve to rub away the rivulets of blood dripping down my face, cursing Malice as I do.
“The accounts. Obsidian Financial Group, first account is three, five, five, five, two, five, five, three, zero, zero.” I bring up the account information, finding it loaded.
“Well, buddy, that’s a fat stack. What the fuck are you all involved in? I know that isn’t all coming from drugs or arms.”
“Then you know your answer, don’t you?”
“Last chance to tell us where the clubhouse is, motherfucker. You’re gonna die here today, but I’ll at least show you a kindness and put a bullet between your eyes.
Or I can let Malice play with you until he gets bored.
” Malice bares his teeth at Knuckles, his eyes large and wild, as he sticks out his tongue and drags his finger across his own neck, making a gurgling sound.
“Let the last thing you do on Earth be making a smart decision. Where the fuck are they?”
Knuckles spits, his blood showering my pants and boots. I tsk. “Not a very smart man, I see,” I say as I turn my back and head for the door. “Don’t make too much of a mess, Malice. Last time was a little much. The brain matter really clogged up the floor drains.”
“No brain matter. Got it.” He salutes, slapping the heels of his boots together like an actual soldier. I shut the door to the basement behind me, just as Knuckles’ screams start, bleeding together with Malice’s maniacal laughter.
Thank fuck the basement has been soundproofed.