44. Chapter 38
Chapter 38
Breaker
I only have a few hours, so I have to move quickly. My heart ricochets in my chest, blood pounding in my ears as I leave the docks and drive Ben’s sports car to the hotel. My footsteps acho as I stride through the lobby, making sure to walk in front of the camera’s, as I head up to my room, winking at the group of young women gathered at the desk, smiling at the concierge, and chatting with the bellhop in the elevator on the way up to my suite.
Once inside my room, I grab my bag and change into my gear, gathering up my supplies and tucking them into my pockets. Then I grab my helmet, slipping my mask and it over my head.
When I booked the room for Ben, I chose this one because of the security . My room has a camera aimed down the hall toward the elevator, but I knocked it a few degrees to the left, aiming it away, so I could slip in and out without being seen. The only thing the footage will show is the wall. It doesn’t matter because the others recorded Ben walking up to him room, the guests and staff can attest to seeing me if questioned.
I slip back out of the room, and take the staff elevator to the first floor, then walk through the parking garage, out to the street, and head down to the garage a few blocks away where have my bike.
My heart hammers, but it’s no longer nerves. It’s the familiar, skin heating feverish anticipation that washes over me right before a mission. And this time, I’m not following orders. This time I’m running on instinct, which heightens the intense, almost heady sensation, buzzing though me.
No one ever tells you how difficult it is to change patterns. It’s not just habits or words we speak to ourselves late at night or the things we see inside ourselves when we look in the mirror that require breaking. It’s a breaking of who we are and who we were and everything we thought we’d be.
In order to change our lives, we have to cut out everything that feels safe. We have to be scared, terrified even. Because it’s that discomfort, that pain that makes us realize we need to change.
My father is one of the worst men I’ve ever met and yet, he was familiar. His cruelty felt safe because I knew what to expect. I knew how to talk to him, how to make him act nice. How to get him to speak kindly to me. And when that kindness came my way I saw nothing but evidence that deep down he loved me like a son.
I willingly became his soldier, molded by him to react exactly as he needed me to. I was shitty when he wanted me to be. I was kind when he knew I would be. Harsh and cruel like him when he bent me to it.
I was after all his favorite son. Just like him. Capable of great things. Capable of terrible deeds.
Capable.
That’s what I feel right now. I don’t feel like Breaker, the man who can’t take orders, or when he does, it’s only because he’s scared of the consequences. I feel like justice. Revenge. I feel like a protector of innocent things.
Like the man my mother needed when she was being hurt the day I was conceived. Like maybe, this was my purpose all along. Not to destroy things for money, or to gain even more power and influence for my father, but to break and take and ruin any and every bad thing that tries to snuff out the good in this world.
Which is what I’m about to do.
***
Bright beams of sodium colored light slant over the parking lot. I pull the bike up to the wall surrounding the lot, keeping to the shadows and wait.
He’s due to meet Rune at his club in exactly three hours. Zane will be leaving to head back to his house—
There he is. Right on time.
I watch as Zane descends the ramp, staggering as the light waves from the inlet shift the dock up and down under his feet. He stumbles a little, catching himself on a light pole on his way to his car. He drops his keys at one point, nearly falling over as he bends to pick them up.
Fuck. The idiot is drunk.
Is it wrong of me to let him drive? The question sits in my thoughts as the sharp beep of his car unlocking breaks the quiet and he tugs the driver door open.
I debate leaving my bike and just driving the fool home, but that would be a bad idea. I’d have to get back here to retrieve it, which would present more problems and more questions.
The car alarm cuts through the quiet parking lot, then abruptly stops. Still wobbly, he climbs into his little sports car and slams the door with such force the sound echoes through the lot.
Now that he’s securely inside his car, Zane fiddles with his phone long enough that I start to question if he forgot what he was doing. Right before I lose patience, the engine turns over. He puts the car in reverse and shoots from the parking lot, tires squealing in his wake.
Releasing the throttle, I take off a minute later, I following at a safe distance. Not that I have to worry too much. Zane’s driving intoxicated and has no security team to keep an eye on him. All his focus is on the road right now, at least I hope. Dread builds in my gut that I shouldn’t have let him drive, so I inch closer to the shiny red car. But I’m not worried.
It’s never going to cross his mind he’s being followed.
We weave through traffic, stopping at red lights, and head further west, away from the city. Zane bought a massive estate in a new subdivision a few years ago. While I can appreciate the beauty and luxury, that’s not the reason I’m taking note of the distance between the homes, the high concrete and stucco walls separating one property from another, the low lighting, or how each home is surrounded by lush plants and large trees, all for privacy.
It works well for what I have planned.
When he turns onto his street, I fall back some, turning my lights off. The low rumbling of the engine seems too loud as I creep along the street behind him, but he’s not even slowing down. He pauses long enough to let the metal gates in front of his house open, then drives though slowly. When the gates are almost closed, I lean forward, rolling the throttle and drive through just as the gate slaps closed.
His car comes to an abrupt stop. The door opens.
Idiot. Who the fuck gets out of their car when a stranger drives up?
“Get the fuck off my property,” he shouts.
Even though it’s dark, the only light from the round globes atop the gate posts, I can see the fear spread across his face when he sees who I am. Part of me wonders if he realizes exactly who I am now. I’m not just the biker who humiliated him outside the office.
I’m one of them .
“My security team is going to fucking—“ His words cut off as I release the kickstand and climb off my bike.
His phone clatters to the ground. Zane scrambles to get back in his shitty little sports car, but I grab him by the back of the neck just as he tries to dip inside. Panic makes his body go stiff.
Fight, flight, or freeze.
Then he’s all movement, legs flailing, arms twisting, hands fisting to punch. One lands on my helmet with a loud thud. He attempts to kick back, trying to connect with my knee, but I know it’s coming so I dodge it and swipe his feet from under him with my boot. He goes down hard. I help him, still gripping his neck to make sure he lands flat on his stomach, face to the rough concrete.
“You motherfucker!” he screams, palms flat to the ground, trying to push up. His angry growl gets cut short as I grip the back of his head by his hair and smash his face down to the driveway. The crack of his nose hitting sends a jolt of electricity through my veins, almost orgasmic with its intensity.
So, I do it again.
His gravelly screams come to an abrupt stop. Dark blood splatters the concrete and my boots, the low lights making it gleam like glittery paint. Satisfaction at seeing the dark spray across the ground curls in my gut.
Standing upright, I release him, but he’s too stunned to move, curling into himself as he cups his face.
“You broke my fucking nose.” A gurgled groan comes out in a gasp. He spits out blood. “You broke my nose .”
A broken nose is about to be the least of his problems.
I grab the phone he dropped, shoving it into the pocket of my jacket. Fisting his hair in one gloved hand, I pull him to his feet, my blood starting to run smoothly, like heated oil in an engine as I half drag him toward his house.
Bet he’s regretting not replacing his security team.
Trying to function, much less see with a broken nose, is tough when you’re dealing with it for the first time. On top of it he’s drunk which makes him slow to react. Not that I care. But it’s why he’s not fighting me much, his loafers scraping on the concrete drive trying to keep his footing with my long strides as I drag him to his front door.
His loafers catch on the first step. Irritation scrapes across my skin. I tug him harder, jerking his head back to set him right. Zane releases a weak groan, his hands flying up to scratch at my thick gloves. I tighten my grip and shake him until he stops, then shove him up the steps.
This is where I’m taking a huge risk. His security camera is recording us right now, and there’s a possibility that Rune can see this footage live. He may be receiving notifications as I press the code into the keypad on Zane’s front door. If he’s tracking Cora, he’s tracking Zane.
The door unlocks with a loud click. I turn the knob and kick it open. Zane squeals as I push him through the doorway still holding his hair. Lights pop on, flooding the entryway with bright white light as I step in after him.
“ Welcome home, “ Alexa says as I stop us in the foyer to scan the space.
“Alexa, call the—“ Zane’s words cut off as my fist meets his throat.
His knees buckle, hands now at his neck as he coughs, blood splattering on the floor in front of us. Zane stumbles but I keep him upright and turn him to me. I shake my head slowly, waggling my finger in his face.
No. No. No. Zane. We won’t be doing that.
“ I’m sorry, I didn’t catch that ,“ Alexa says. “ Do you want me to play your favorites? ”
Zane coughs again.
“ Okay, “ Alexa says, and the melancholy notes of Chopin’s Nocturne op.9 No.2 play throughout the house.
I nod appreciatively.
More lights come on in the rooms off either side of the entryway, showcasing dark woods and deep forest greens. In fact, everything is a deep green, from the walls to the sections of velvet furniture I can see, to shelves, and if it’s not green it’s a dark polished wood.
I want to tell him he as a really good decorator, but then my voice would give away that I’m also Ben and then I’d have to kill him.
Which I’m still debating. We’ll see how the next hour goes.
With my boot, I kick the door closed and the sound echoes through the near empty foyer. It seems to wake him up a little.
“What the fuck do you want?” Zane asks, recovering enough to realize the danger he’s in. He swings for my helmet, but it’s sloppy, poorly aimed, and I knock his fist away, annoyed.
Releasing his hair, I grip his shirt by the collar and drag him with me to the keypad to type in his code disarming the security system. Rune’s enough of problem. I don’t need the county deputies coming to check on him.
“I have money,” Zane says, stumbling as I release his him and he faces me.
No shit.
His eyes dart around, swimming in his head as he looks for an escape. First to the door behind me, and I can practically see the wheels turning sluggishly in his head as he realizes he’ll have to go through me. He eyes dart to the office to our right. He debates, and dismisses that idea, then he looks to the large sitting room to the left. Another debate makes his face go slack. Appears Zane doesn’t like that idea either.
His brows pinch.
He turns and runs.
Finally.
My heart kicks. I take off, stalking behind him, my boots thunking along with the beat of Chopin’s nocturne. Before he’s even through the kitchen door, I kick. My boot lands behind his knee and he crumbles, going down so hard. He skids, head smacking with satisfying crack on the hard tile floor.
The impact stuns him, so he’s down for a minute, but he shakes it off, and scrambles to his feet. Not even looking over his shoulder, he breaks into a run.
I’m a little disappointed. I honestly thought he’s put up more of a fight. But cruel men tend to be weak when faced with enduring the fear they’ve elicited from others.
When he’s almost at the sliding doors at the back of the large kitchen. I pick up pace, taking note of the woods and greens in here too.
I really like his house. I need to tell Viper we should decorate our house on the coast like this. Cora would look so pretty in a room with deep greens, all cuddled up with Delilah on a velvet couch.
The picture in my head is enough to spike my blood. Fire and heat and rage scalding through me that he fucking took her from us. Planned to breed her, when the only men allowed to ever touch her, are us.
Me.
He must see my reflection stalking toward him in the glass because he slams into it, blood coated fingers slipping franticly over the lock trying to get it open. Zane lets out a scream as my hand latches on to him, and I snatch him away from the door. With his blood smattered shirt, I turn him to face me, using all my force to slam his back into the glass. It rattles, glass shaking. Zane screams, fear making his voice rise a few octaves.
I slam a hand over his mouth to shut him up, mostly because his constant screams grate my nerves and wince when I take look at his nose. Blue is already coloring under his eyes, his nose swelling, blood congealing, just a thin trickle smearing under my glove. The bridge is smashed and slightly crooked
Fuck. That’s got hurt.
Good. He deserves worse.
“What the fuck do you want?” His muffled screech turns my stomach. Fucking coward. “I have money. Lots of money. Just fucking let me go and you can have whatever you want.”
The fact he still has no idea who I am sends red waves of anger shooting down my arms, to my hands, making me shove him back harder into the glass door.
Is he really this fucking stupid?
Does he really think we’re just going to let him have Cora? The arrogance makes me release his mouth and grip his throat, then I drive him again into the glass. It rattles so hard, I debate doing it again and again until he crashes through it.
“Fuck.” The curse is cut off as his head hits the glass, knocking his vision off balance. His eyes swim for a second then land on my visor. “I have money in my wallet.”
Asshole. Always about money with him.
“I have pills too,” he says. His pulse is beating so hard, I feel it thumping through the gloves, pulsing into me. I tighten my grip, ready to consume his terror, letting it fuel my rage.
This fucker put his hands on our girl. He hurt her in some way that she refuses to fucking talk about. He scared her, hit her, then shamed her into silence. I grind my teeth, wanting to press my hand brutally into his windpipe, crushing it until he chokes on his blood and terror.
“There’s pills up upstairs,” he chokes out. Blood drips into his mouth. He licks his lip. “And other stuff. Name it and I have it. It’s yours. You can take it all. The pills are the good ones. Prescribed stuff.”
I shake my head. That seems to hike his terror up a few degrees. Little does he know he’s going to need those pain pills.
Gripping his hair again, I drag him toward the kitchen table. I have a good three to four inches on him and at least fifty to sixty pounds of muscle. Fighting me has already proved futile. Using my boot, I kick out a chair and slam him down into it. He goes so easily that I almost laugh.
Does he really think if he cooperates, I’m going to go easy on him? Has he really no sense of the things he’s done? Maybe he’s a true psychopath. Maybe he really doesn’t comprehend why I’m here, right now, pulling wire from my pocket.
“Why do you have that?”
Jesus.
He tries to get up, tries to kick, which makes my heart skip a little. But I punch his temple, which hurts like a mother fucker, but worth it with the way his eyes roll around dazed. My next hit lands to his gut and has him doubling over, so he’s not fighting me.
I grab one of his wrists and wrap the wire around it, then place his palm on the table, smashing it down with my fist to keep it from wiggling free as I secure the other end of the wire around the table leg, repeating the same wrapping and securing with the other wrist, until both his palms are on the table surface.
“What the fuck do you what?” Zane tugs the restraints and releases a sharp hiss as the wire digs into his flesh.
Doesn’t take him long to realize that if he tries to wriggle free, if he tugs too hard, the wire will end up slitting his wrists. He’ll bleed out and it’ll be his doing.
Taking his hand, I pull his phone from my pocket and use his thumb to unlock the screen. It takes me only a second to find the security app that controls the cameras. I disable the ones in the kitchen, the hallway and outside. The videos are uploaded to the cloud so I can’t delete the footage of us arriving, but I can at least make sure what happens next isn’t seen or heard.
The song playing through the speaker changes to Beethoven’s Appassionata .
This man is a raging asshole with a murderous streak, but he has really good taste.
I place my hands on my hips nodding, then twirl my finger in the air, silently telling him I like his choice of music. When Zane tries to break free again, I tick my finger back and forth, and back away to the center island, rooting through the drawers collecting tools. On my way back to the table, I snag the paring knife from the block. Reaper loves these little knives. They’re always sharp.
While I collect items, Zane tracks my every movement, wincing each time I pull out a new utensil to inspect it. Maybe he’s not so dumb after all. He’s finally figured out he’s fucked.
Maybe he even knows why.
“Did she send you?” he asks. My arm freezes mid air, but I keep moving trying not to show my surprise. “I did as she asked.”
That makes me hesitate, but I cover it up by inspecting the mallet I pull from a drawer, holding it up to the little hanging fixture over the island so he can see the light glinting off it.
Satisfied with my selections, I head his way.
“Fuck man,” he says, growing panicked when he sees the utensils I’m carrying. “I called it off like she wanted, okay? Tell her I did. I fucking called it off and told Rune I didn’t want to marry that whore.”
I scuff. I can’t help it. If Cora did send me, he’s really not helping his case with the name calling.
He takes a shaky breath when I place the garlic crusher down, followed by the paring knife, and mallet. I don’t have much time, so we need to get started.
“He asked me why I was suddenly changing my mind, okay? And I told him that I didn’t want to marry a Julian, just like she told me to say.”
Cora. We’re going to have a talk. She must have done this today. Our sweet little fighter. She’s blackmailing this asshole. I think this warm tingling feeling isn’t just pride, but I think I actually love her. Really truly love her. She’s so perfect. Of course she’d not wait to be rescued. Our Little Red would take matters into her own hands. She’s been fighting for her life for as far back as she can remember and here I thought I was going to swoop in and keep her safe.
Fool.
Even back home, being held hostage, not knowing her fate, she fought us, sassed us, stood her ground every step of the way.
She hit Reaper for fucks sake.
I shake my head at the memory and pick up the paring knife.
“He said he understood.” Zane’s voice gets a slight squeak to it. “He said it was fine, that he’ll find another use for her.”
That makes me pause and I don’t give a fuck that I have just given myself away. In fact, I want him to know this is coming from us. He needs to understand that when you fuck with us, when you try to harm one of us, when you kill one of us, when you think you can take what’s ours, we’re aren’t going to run.
No. We’re going to destroy you bit by bit. Piece by piece. Remove you from this earth one tiny part at a time until you’re wishing we’d just kill you.
Just like he did with the other’s. Those poor souls in the images Harlow smuggled out. The same images that live in my head, bleeding into my dreams as nightmares.
Just like they did with Hunter.
“What are you doing with that?” he asks as I flip the little knife in my hand.
His eyes move around in panic, growing wide the longer I stand flipping the knife and catching it by the blade. Funny how everyday kitchen utensils take on an ominous look when you’re strapped to a table.
I flatten his palm to the surface. He whimpers and goes to move. I don’t have to apply too much pressure to keep him still. He remembers quickly the wire will rip into his flesh if he tries to free himself.
“What are you do—“ His scream fills the kitchen as I slip the tip of the blade under his fingernail. He forgets about the wire and jerks, then screams as it cuts. Heat fizzles through me, shooting straight to my chest. It eases the pressure there slightly. I slip the knife out, amazed at how little blood flows from the wound. “Please, man.”
Begging already. I bet all those people begged. But I know Hunter didn’t. He was far braver than this sack of shit.
Zane whimpers again, looking up at my helmet with pleading eyes. I wonder if he sees what a coward he is in his reflection. “I don’t know what you want.”
He eyes the knife. I set it down. His shoulders relax. That makes my skin itch so I pick it up and stab it down, driving it with all my force until it cuts all the way through his hand, digging into the wood table. He screams, this high shriek of a sound that grates out of him. His other hand lurches upward and the wire slices into the back of his wrist.
Better be careful.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck!”
I watch him stare at his hand, the knife through the center, blood pooling, then running in a river down to the table. He slowly calms, easing into and accepting the pain. His lashes flutter and he tilts sideways. I swear to god if this is what makes him pass out, we’re never going to make it to the good part.
I pick up the mallet.
“Oh, my god,” he shrieks. “Please no.”
It makes a loud click as metal hits metal and the knife digs further into the table. Zane lets out more of a groan than a scream, eyes pinching closed.
“I don’t understand,” he says. “I don’t understand what you want.”
Revenge.
It’s quite simple. Universal.
When I pick up the garlic press, his hazel eyes flash with fear, going wide. His face does this melting thing, which looks a lot like dread. He winces as he tries to remove his hand again. Blood gathers on his wrists. It’s up to him how this will go.
He’s being given a choice, which is rather lenient of me considering he gave our girl none. He tried to do god only knows what to her. If Harlow hadn’t stopped him like she said, I can imagine the things he’d have done to her. Him and Rune and since I can’t touch Rune, Zane’s going to have to do.
But Rune will get the message. He’ll know, even if this idiot can’t figure it out.
I suck in air, wishing I didn’t have to wear the helmet to hide my identity. If I wasn’t wearing it, I could smell the pungent fear that’s pooling in the pits of his dress shirt. Take it into my lungs and let it ease this painful rope knotted around my chest. But I can’t, so the only thing that will feed the dark thing inside me, will be his screams.
“Please,” he whimpers as I slide the garlic press over his pointer finger, positioning the knuckle over the little bowl.
My insides shiver, but not with excitement. This is going to hurt like a motherfucker .
“Fuck, man. Please don’t”
Despite the slick feeling sliding through me, despite the undeniable satisfaction snaking through my lungs, I don’t like this.
I never have.
I picture Hunter’s face.
Remorse means I have a conscience. A conscience means I’m capable of empathy. And empathy means I’m not as horrible as I’ve been told. Maybe I was created.
Created by our father to destroy. To wreck.
To break.
But right here, right now, I’ll gladly be all those terrible, hideous things for her. I’ll exact her revenge, brutally. I’ll be everything my father told me I was. Monstrous, ruinous. The breaker of things, of rules, of men.
All for her.
When I slam the device closed the sickening crack fills the room and that feeling in my chest eases.
Just four more to go.