1. Hades
Hades
Eighteen years old…
“Ya ready, son?”
I square my shoulders as I smirk at my father.
Hank ‘Bodybag’ Hunter is the president and founder of Dead on Arrival MC and not a man anyone wants to fuck with.
I can get away with more than most, but now that I’m eighteen, any leniency I’ve been shown disappears under the weight of the legacy I was born into.
Danny, my best friend and the son of the club’s vice president, snorts, which earns him a punch to the gut by Bodybag.
“I can kick your sorry ass outta here just as easily as I can initiate you in,” my dad snarls, yanking Danny’s head back by his too-long hair. “What’s it gonna be?”
My gaze slides to Shifter, Danny’s dad, and there’s no mistaking the tension in his shoulders as he watches his son get manhandled.
But he doesn’t step in because he knows better.
This is how the club works. Once a child born into the club turns eighteen, they’re initiated into full patched status.
No prospecting, no grunt work, no sponsor.
Some have made the mistake of assuming that we’re given the keys to the kingdom, so to speak, on a silver platter, but we’re put through a different sort of ringer than those who join the club by more universally accepted means.
“I’m in,” Danny snaps, breaking free from Bodybag’s grip.
Both our fathers grin before turning around and opening the large steel door that serves as the ‘employee entrance’ to The Factory. This is the first time Danny and I have been allowed inside this building, but we’ve heard stories.
The abandoned industrial park that Bodybag purchased at auction years ago has several buildings.
The building closest to the road is the clubhouse.
It’s where parties and club meetings are held.
The largest of the buildings sits on the east side of the property, and it’s been renovated and serves as the living quarters for members and their old’ ladies, club whores, and prospects.
The third and final building is The Factory.
As Danny and I follow our fathers inside, my eyes dart around the space.
In the middle of the room are four large structures without solid tops or bottoms, and they’re equally spaced apart to span the length of the building.
Conveyor belts run across the ceiling and floor with industrial-sized eye hooks attached and threaded through with chains.
The second structure has different weapons secured on the tempered glass walls.
The third one has two spinning cylinders on either side of the box, and it reminds me of an automated car wash.
The most notable difference is that instead of spinning cloths to wash a vehicle, the cylinders spin with barbed whips swinging around.
The fourth and final structure has what appears to be a super-sized shower head above it and a drain below.
While those three structures are scary enough, they aren’t what’s holding my attention.
In the first box, a woman is standing on the conveyor belt, her wrists and ankles secured to the eyehooks with chains, and she’s naked.
Despite her head lolling to one side, I recognize her immediately, and Danny’s sharp intake of breath tells me he does too.
“Welcome to The Factory,” Shifter says, an evil grin splitting his face.
“What the fuck is going on?” I demand, rushing forward and standing just outside the box the woman is in. “What is Ginger doing in there?”
A large hand settles on my shoulder and squeezes. “Ginger has been tried and found guilty,” my father snarls. “This is her sentence.”
“Guilty of what?” Danny demands.
Ginger is a club whore who’s been around for as long as I can remember. Both Bodybag and Shifter, as well as every other brother in the club, have taken advantage of her services.
“Treason.”
“Motherfucker,” Danny grits, knowing that if anyone is caught committing treason against the club, death is guaranteed.
Moans come from Ginger, and bile rises up the back of my throat.
Danny and I may have never stepped foot in The Factory until today, but it’s obvious what is expected of us.
We’re to carry out Ginger’s sentence, and if we don’t make it as painful as possible, I have no doubt that we’ll be eliminated, club blood running through our veins or not.
A shrill bell rings, and the doors open to allow club brothers to enter. One by one, they file in and line the wall behind us. Completing our initiation isn’t enough… It has to be witnessed by all patched members.
Taking a deep breath, I steel my spine. “Ginger,” I call out. She tries to lift her head but fails. “Look at me!”
Yelling at her feels wrong, but I don’t have a choice.
Danny steps up next to me, and I can practically feel the heat radiating off of him.
Yes, Ginger is a club whore, but she’s also the only woman in my friend’s life who has remained a constant.
His mother ran off when we were kids, and Ginger stepped in.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper to him, making sure no one else can hear.
“Me, too,” he replies before lifting his hand to the controls outside the box.
He presses a button labeled ‘Seal’. The container walls extend to the ceiling, completely boxing her in. Next, he stabs a finger at the button labeled ‘Lights’. The entire space goes pitch black, and the brothers begin to shout and cheer for mayhem.
I squeeze my eyes shut for a few moments, knowing that when I open them, they’ll naturally adjust to the dark a bit.
Rather than make Danny continue causing Ginger’s suffering alone, I reach out and hit the button labeled ‘Music’.
Shrieking sounds fill the container. The container must be soundproof because the obnoxious techno music is muffled to my ears.
This first part of Ginger’s sentence is psychological torture.
I’m as certain of that as I am about my name.
In an effort to make it worse, I continuously press the red button for the lights, making them flicker on and off, repeatedly.
As I do this, I count. When ten minutes have passed, I stop with the light on.
Ginger’s flinging her head from side to side, her eyes wide and unfocused.
“Jesus,” Danny mutters and turns the music off.
“Are you ready to talk?” I demand of the woman, lowering the walls.
It takes a minute, but eventually, her eyes land on me. Her tongue darts out, and she tries to lick her dry, cracked lips. I have no idea how long she’s been hanging there, but Bodybag and Shifter are ruthless, so I’m sure she wasn’t recently strung up.
“Wh-what do—” Ginger coughs, and blood dribbles down her chin. “Wanna kn-know?”
“Do you know why you’re here?” Danny asks.
“F-fuck—” She sputters again, unable to finish.
“Move on!” one of the brothers shouts.
“Make her suffer!” another adds.
“Fucking bitch is a traitor!”
Their jeers and shouts continue, but I tune them out.
Instead, my eyes move to the lever protruding from the floor to the right of the container.
I move to pull it, and when I do, the side walls of containers one and two rise, and the conveyor belt moves, transporting her to the second round of torture.
As soon as she’s centered in the second structure, the walls lower again, but a door opens on the front.
Danny and I exchange a look before entering, and the door quietly clicks shut.
My friend grabs a serrated knife while I take the torch from its perch on the wall.
I want to grab the pistol and put Ginger out of her misery with a bullet between the eyes, but I know that’ll only earn me a place next to her.
“Why are you here?” Danny snarls, pressing the tip of the knife to the pulse point at her throat.
Ginger whimpers, her defiance disappearing under the weight of the situation. No doubt she knew death was inevitable the moment she was placed in the restraints, but she’s never been one to give in without a fight.
Danny and I spend the next three hours trying to extract information from her, utilizing the remaining torture options.
The brothers continue to shout and holler, bringing the mood in the large space to one of chaos.
By the time we turn the acid off in the final container, Ginger is dead, and her skin is sloughing off.
A hand clamps down on my shoulder. “You think you’re done?” Bodybag bites out.
I glance over my shoulder at him, ignoring the way Danny continuously tries to swallow what I’m sure is this morning’s breakfast that’s trying to make a reappearance.
“No,” I reply, the word drawn out.
“Is that an answer or a question?” Shifter barks.
“It’s a fucking answer,” my best friend shouts.
My father nods toward the carnage in the final container. “She’s not completely liquified yet,” he says unnecessarily. “You two are here for the duration. Only when there’s nothing left are you permitted back at the clubhouse.”
With that, he and Shifter turn on their heels to exit The Factory, the rest of the brothers following behind them. As soon as the door closes, Danny whirls around and vomits.
Breathing through my nose so I don’t do the same, I peer at the controls on the container and turn the acid back on.
“How long ya think this’ll take?” I ask Danny.
“Fuck if I know,” he responds.
Turns out, it takes two days. Two long, hellish days for a body the size of Ginger to liquify to the point that she can be washed down the drain.