10. Casualties
CASUALTIES
CUTTER
Just past three in the morning we ease our bikes into the back alley of a bathroom factory a couple blocks from the tattoo shop and dismount, rolling the machines onto their kickstands.
I take off my cut and hand it to Callan.
He opens his saddlebag and folds them inside, leaving us in hooded sweatshirts and black slacks. Adrenaline bubbles in my veins.
“Let’s go,” Callan demands, taking off at a light jog.
I follow close behind, sweat coating my skin, my hair soaking beneath the hood. There’s not a single gust of wind offering relief from the summer heat cooking us alive.
Coming to a stop, Callan points to a window. “It’s that apartment.” Concrete stairs lead to a standard front door. There are no lights on from what I can tell at this angle.
“You ready?” I ask, pulling on gloves. My skin tingles. My mouth goes dry. I feel like I’m on drugs. There’s always a high that comes with taking a life—and this time is no different.
“Ready.”
The sky’s dark and silent cloak is fitting for the backdrop of the sinister plan that’s about to unfold.
I’d known Callan nearly my whole damn life.
I can tell when shit bothers him. He didn’t like this fate for these people.
He steels himself against his inner turmoil, taking the lead, marching toward the apartment with determination set squarely upon his face.
He takes the stairs two at a time. This is to protect Kit.
I’d kill a thousand innocent people if it meant she was safe. So would he.
Dropping to one knee, he slips on his own gloves and looks through the letterbox before surveying our surroundings, making sure we’re alone. I do the same, coming up behind him.
His arm disappears inside the small rectangular hole then the door gives with a soft click. Pulling his arm back, he shakes his head at how reckless people are with their own safety. They make it too easy.
With one last check over his shoulder, he pushes the door open and we enter the residence of Wynona Knight.
Thirty-two.
Unmarried.
No family outside of a distant aunt who posts “Happy Birthday!” once a year on her social media account.
In debt and on the cusp of losing her shop.
And Eric York.
Thirty-eight.
Unmarried.
Mother in an old folks’ home. Brother serving time for a drug offense.
No social media presence but a criminal record for a violent offense and a bank balance in the negatives.
The carpeted hall dulls the sounds of our footsteps creeping through the apartment. We come to a living area consisting of a couch, a small TV, and a coffee table with a goldfish swimming around in a bowl.
Callan holds up a finger, motioning to the open kitchen.
Nodding in understanding, I take slow, measured steps across the tiled floor, surveying the countertops and then opening the drawers one after another until I find what I’m looking for.
Motive. I hold up the pile of bank statements and debt collector notices for evidence and lay them on the counter, signaling for Callan to proceed to the bedroom with me bringing up the rear.
Callan opens the bedroom door, and light from an adjoining bathroom spills over the bed, highlighting our targets.
Eric is outside the covers, sleeping on his back with one arm slung over his face.
He’s wearing a tank top, boxer shorts, and socks.
All I can see of Wynona is her dark hair spanning across a pillow and her toes peeking out from a sheet.
A fan makes a whooshing sound from the corner of the room, circulating the fog of body odor and heat.
I make it to Eric’s side of the bed when Callan takes a step and a floorboard creaks.
Eric stirs, moving quick for a big fucker who was asleep a nanosecond ago.
Reaching for something under the bedside table, he falls off the bed, his knees thudding against the floor.
I seize his movements with my gun, pushing it into the back of his head.
Jerking him to his feet, I warn, “Don’t fucking try anything stupid or I’ll throw the bitch to her death from the window.
He holds his hands up, his breathing rushed. “Okay, okay.”
I scan the room, finding Callan with his gun pointed at the small figure beneath the sheet. She hasn’t moved, but her eyes are wide open, staring straight at me. I hold a finger to my lips. “Shhh…”
She jerks her head, understanding the command.
Shoving Eric toward the wall, I keep my gun on him while reaching under the bedside table, my fingers grazing metal. Ripping the gun from its strap, I hold it up to show Callan.
We’d planned to smother Wynona then force feed Eric a bottle of pills, but this works better. Quicker for them and us.
Taking purposeful steps, I force Eric to stand by Wynona’s side of the bed. Callan backs up, keeping his gun aimed between the pair. “Open your mouth,” I order.
“No, please don’t,” Eric begs. “You can take whatever you want.” You’re broke asshole.
“You have nothing we want,” Callan states.
“Why are you doing this?”
“Because we have too,” I tell him truthfully.
“What did I do?”
“Nothing,” Callan snaps, his eyes darkening.
The question is unimportant. It doesn’t matter why.
I want to force the gun into his mouth but need this to look voluntary.
Callan eats up the space between him and Eric, gripping a fistful of his hair and grasping his jaw.
“Open your fucking mouth and it will be quick for both of you,” he tells him.
“If you don’t,” I add, “I’ll take a blade to your bitch and cut her up real slow while I make you watch then I’ll fuck your ass with the same knife.”
The sheet begins to shake with Wynona’s sobs.
Eric’s lips part, his teeth clattering against the barrel.
The smell of piss punctures the air as it drips down his leg, puddling at his feet and soaking into his socks.
I pull the trigger, the sound cracking like lightening through the room.
The back of his head paints the wall and ceiling, dropping down like red rain in pitter-patters to the floor.
Before his body even hits the ground, I turn the gun on Wynona.
She screams into her hands, and Callan grabs a pillow, placing it over her head.
I pull the trigger, putting a bullet through it, and her body stills.
Releasing the pillow, Callan stares down at the hole and the feathers surrounding it, his face screwed into a grimace. “Let’s get the fuck out of here.”
I place the gun in Eric’s hand then step around his body, careful not to leave any footprints in the brain matter and piss.
Following Callan through the apartment, I stop at the kitchen and grab a plastic bag.
“What are you doing?”
“Taking the fish.”
“Cutter, don’t be fucking crazy.”
“The cops will think Eric flushed it.” I push the bag into the bowl and let the water pour in, sucking the fish in with it. “Got it.”
“Well done. You’re a fish hero,” he mocks. “Can we get the fuck outta here now? Someone could have heard the gun shots.”
We spill out of the apartment, checking our surroundings.
It’s like everyone vanished off the face of the earth, allowing the monsters to roam freely.
Keeping to the shadows, we jog back to our bikes, stripping out of our hoodies.
I chuck mine at Callan and take my cut from him, pulling it on, finding comfort in the weight of the leather over my shoulders.
I fix my helmet in place and stash the fish in my saddlebag while Callan stuffs the hoodies in his.
Cocking my leg over my bike, I bring her to life and tail Callan home.
The rumble of our engines echoes through the night like rolling thunder as we pull into the compound. As we park, a couple brothers greet us as they head out on a run. “Early one?” Callan asks, detaching his saddlebag.
“Early bird catches the worm.” Dodger waggles his brows, and Podge’s throaty laugh makes him cough. “We have a pickup at Dolls and Poles.”
“Don’t let any of those bitches play with your worm or the only thing you’ll be picking up is the clap.” I shudder, taking the fish from my bag.
“Worth it,” Dodger howls, climbing onto his bike.
“I’ll deal with these and update my old man,” Callan informs me, taking off before he even finishes his sentence.
Dodger and Podge rev their engines and cruise past me with a salute. “Have fun, you dirty bastards,” I call out.
Heading inside, the club is quiet aside from the soft thrumming of music and groans of pleasure coming from an open bedroom door.
I’ve seen way too much of Green’s ass for a lifetime.
My boots pound the route to Kitty’s room, and I knock this time, waiting the few seconds it takes for her to open the door.
She’s a light sleeper—unless she pounds beers all night, then she sleeps like the dead, mouth agape, dribble on her chin.
And fuck me if it still didn’t turn me on.
“No,” she says, swinging the door open and immediately pushing it back.
I put my boot in the space, preventing her from closing it fully.
“Fuck off, Cutter. No, you’re not doing this to me again.” Her voice is deep with sleep, stroking over me like unraveling silk. “Why do you do this?”
“Do what?” I fucking know what but I want to hear her say it.
“Make me so drunk on you that I forget all the ways you hurt me.” Fuck, that’s not what I thought she was going to say. “If I let you in, are you going to stay?”
“No.” I didn’t come here for this and don’t like the pressure weighing down my chest at her words, at her pained features. Fuck, this was a bad idea.
“You have to stop making a fool out of me.”
“You’re not a fool.” I am .
“Yes, I am.” She squeezes her eyes closed. When they open, torment shines back at me. “I’m a fool begging a man who doesn’t want me to choose me. Love me.” She swallows, her cheeks flushing bright pink.
Just say it . I want to tell her I love her more than I’ve ever loved anyone—any thing .
That I want to punch a fist through my chest to stop it from aching to be close to her.
That I know her scent, her taste, the map of her body, sound of her voice, her laughter, her soft moans when she comes, the gasps of breath that escape her when I thrust inside.
My breath comes in heavy pants. I stare at her, the words on the tip of my tongue, not finding sound.
My silence burns everything between us. Soot fills my mouth. “Take this,” I say, shoving the bag with the fish darting around inside at her.
A tear leaks down her cheek as she wraps her arms around the bag without even questioning what the fuck I’m doing with it. I finally broke her.
“I hate you, and I hate myself for hating you,” she croaks, slamming the door in my face.
Placing my palm on the wood, my head dips, and I finally find the words.
“I love you too.”