Chapter 63
Slade
My hands white-knuckle the steering wheel as I sit outside a locked gate of the grounds that holds a small warehouse.
I have an earpiece which also doubles as a two-way microphone.
It’s smaller than my pinky fingernail and fits snugly inside my ear so no one can see it.
I don’t have any weapons, and the same goes for my ‘passenger,’ Pix.
Who is bound and in my trunk.
Is this going to work?
How can it work?
Suddenly, the far-fetched plan, that felt like it was feasible while we hatched it, feels ridiculous and unachievable.
I’m putting Pix right into a psychopath’s hands.
You’re the threat, Slade. Now, be a good girl, and bring me my next toy to break, Antwane’s words from my nightmare hiss in my head.
The silence in the car is heavy as my hands grip the steering wheel tighter.
“Slade. Baby.” Bane’s deep voice comes through the earpiece. “You need me to extract you?”
Bane, Len, and the team are close by, ready to intervene if needed. But if they do, that means I’ve failed, and Randolph and his network get to continue hurting innocent people.
“She’s good, Bane.” A female voice comes over the comms. “Aren’t you, girl?”
You’d think it would be Len, coaching and encouraging her asset to complete the mission, but it’s Pix. My captive, who I’m about to hand over to a madman that I have no idea how he’ll hurt her—or how he might make me hurt her.
All while people watch around the globe, escalating the bids in the live auction to buy me to be their personal lapdog killing machine.
Images rush through my mind of the video of Number Thirteen. With Antwane gripping my hand and the knife slicing her throat.
I close my eyes to try to block the horror.
I still have no actual memories of that. Did I torture her as well? Did I carve out the chunks missing from her body, flay the other parts? Burn her skin?
“Move,” Bane orders, and my eyes snap open.
I know his order isn’t for me to move; it’s for Len and her team to move in to stop the op.
“No.” My voice is weak, so I try again. “No. Stand down.” This time it’s steady and strong.
Then it’s too late because the warehouse door is opening, and Randolph stands there, looking at me.
Every ounce of air seizes in my lungs.
He’s the devil-incarnate, brought back from the dead. In person, he looks so much like Antwane, I can hardly control the demons that swell within me and against my rigid control, wanting to be unleashed. All the memories. All the Numbers’ screams.
His eyes are locked on me as the gate starts to slide open. People are talking in my ear, but I don’t hear them. Until it’s Bane’s voice.
“You got this, Slade. I’m right here with you. Listen to my voice. Feel the sting and ache of my tattoo on your throat. Remember, there’s absolutely nothing I won’t do for you.”
And there’s nothing I won’t do to protect him and the people I love. Including facing the hell I know that awaits me, trusting that Bane will be able to pull me back from hell if it comes to that.
The wheels of my car turn as I slowly drive toward Randolph, keeping my eyes on him.
His blonde hair blows in the wind, his blue eyes, just like his brother’s, gleam with a sick anticipation that he doesn’t even try to disguise.
His hands are casually tucked into the pockets of his finely tailored slacks, and his dress shirt is crisply pressed.
He looks exactly like the golden boy born with a silver spoon in his mouth, accustomed to the finest things in life.
He’d be the epitome of the guy your parents would love if you brought him home.
Except for the gleam in his eyes, which has taken a maniacal look as I stop in front of him.
“Well, isn’t this a surprise.”
My doors and windows are shut, but I can hear him clearly.
My throat is sandpaper, and I swallow against the harsh dryness as I open my door and stand beside the car, keeping the door between us.
“You’ve been quite difficult to catch, baby crow.” He tilts his head. “Peanut.”
He said those words to show that he has a line into the inner workings of the Havoc Guardians. To subtly, or maybe not so subtly, threaten me with it.
With Antwane—and with Randolph, I have to assume—it’s the psychological games and torment.
It’s how Antwane tried to break me; how he nearly did. If he hadn’t made that fatal mistake of keeping a small knife in his back pocket, and I hadn’t been able to stop him, I was close to breaking. Close to accepting whatever happened to me, if only to make the madness and pain stop.
Would I have been turned into a mindless murderer? A tool that Antwane pointed at his next victim, then gleefully watched me do his dirty work? Auctioned off to another heinous animal, just like him?
I’d like to say I wouldn’t have, that I would’ve ended my life the first chance I got, rather than face that. Become that.
But I don’t know. I had shoved every last emotion deep down, locking them up, including guilt and remorse and empathy. And I honestly can’t say.
I’m staring at Randolph, wondering just how badly I’ve fucked up by coming here. Putting myself—and worse, putting Pix—at his mercy.
Number Fourteen’s torture and death rushes at me. The sound of the drill grinding and burrowing into his shin bone. The sound of his screams before it all became too much and his body, mind, and soul gave up.
Number Thirteen’s death is next. The moment right before the knife sliced through her throat. But it's not the scene from watching the video; it's my own memories as my mind unlocks them and allows them to rush in.
Please. Don’t.
Shocked horror ripples through me at hearing those barely audible words that she whispered to me. At finally remembering her death.
Which is a very bad time for those memories to surface, because on its heels comes the swell of all the screams that want to bust loose from their cage.
Sweat dots my forehead, and my hand shakes as it grips the frame of the car.
“Slade Kowal,” Randolph damn near purrs. “You came to me.”
I try to formulate words, but my throat is closed, preventing the screams from physically erupting out of me.
“And isn’t that just lovely, my pet?”
Something alien and wrong slithers over me with his words.
“I’ve been searching for you.” His smile is warm, but he’s a snake drawing its prey in closer.
“But you know that already.” His gaze shifts beyond me to the empty road outside the locked gates.
“And where are your brothers and the Havoc Guardians?” His eyes shift back to me, and he glances at Bane’s name tattooed on my throat. “Your boyfriend?”
The way he says those last two words sends a ripple of fear through me, unlike anything I’ve ever experienced.
“I…” I swallow, forcing the words out. “I came alone. I want to talk. Make a deal.”
He presses his fingers together into a steeple under his chin. “Don’t you mean, you came to beg me for your life? To spare those heathen bikers you’ve been hiding out with.”
He starts to walk toward me, and it takes every ounce of my willpower not to shrink back in horror.
My throat aches, reminding me of Bane’s mark there and that I’m not alone. It reminds me of who I am. That I will stand my ground. And I will not bow or bend or break.
“Good girl, baby,” Bane’s praise comes over the earpiece, reinforcing that I’m not alone. I touch his mark on my throat as a way to tell him I heard him, that I know he’s here with me.
And that I know I’m not the helpless victim chained to the wall, being forced to watch Antwane torture and kill.
I'm no longer that victim.
And I’m here to end and kill Randolph, just like I did his brother.
That part of the plan is new. A pivot. But one I will die trying to make happen.