Chapter 36
Chapter Thirty-Six
Men cheered at the sound of a whip cracking. If she screamed, they cheered. If she remained silent, they laughed. This was yet another way for the thugs sitting in the room to humiliate her. The threat of being raped hung heavy in the room. Through her bruised and blackened eyes, she could see the way they wanted her. It was obvious as some of the attackers stroked their cocks while watching her be brutalized.
The whip cracked over and over, slapping at the floor. Each time it cracked, Sway flinched, and the men laughed louder. Beer and alcohol were thrown at her. Then the sound of wind whistling met her ears, and the men’s laughs and cheers silenced. When the leather tip of the whip connected with her back, she screamed. Struggling against the leather straps, she was determined to get free.
A hand slapped her across the face over and over until her head hung limply. When her head was yanked backwards, she bit down on her cheek, trying not to give them what they wanted. A man stepped in front of her, unzipping his pants. Jerking her head forward, she managed to slam her forehead into the guy’s nose, breaking it. Blood gushed from it, and that’s when she saw a knife in the guy’s hand.
The blade dug into the centre of her chest, and she cried out as the knife was dragged down to her sternum. The sound of a gun firing stopped everything. Her attacker’s eyes went wide, then he dropped sideways to the floor. Another shot rang out, and a man who had been behind her dropped against her and slid to the floor. Everything went still for half a second, then chaos erupted. Men were shouting as the sound of guns fired into the room. A bullet hit one of the straps, allowing one of her arms to drop down.
Using her freed hand, she forced the strap off it. The leather bit into her skin, ripping at her already-wounded hand. Sway didn’t care if it peeled the skin completely off as long as she got loose. Her hand came free, though not without being bloody. Dropping to the ground, she grabbed her discarded top and pressed it against the wound on her chest. Scrambling across the floor, she moved around bodies until she was so close to the door, she could taste her freedom.
Suddenly, one of her feet was grabbed, bringing her to the floor and dragging her backwards. Sway rolled over, kicking out with her other foot. She connected with the guy’s face and knocked him backwards. His hand still gripped her as Sway’s fingers grazed a gun that had been dropped and she snagged it. Pointing it at the man, she saw his eyes go wide as she pulled the trigger. The surprised look turned into a sneer as the gun clicked over and over. The gun was empty, but she pulled the trigger once more and a shot rang out, hitting the guy in the chest .
Vicious maneuvered across the room, needing to get to Sway. Holding his side, he tried stemming the blood that was seeping from his wound. He could tell he’d been hit in the shoulder as well. His brow was dotted with sweat, and his mouth suddenly dry. The gun in his hand felt heavy hanging at his side. Finally getting to Sway, his head began to get fuzzy. “Baby?”
Her chest had a gash running down it and blood was smeared over her breasts and stomach. Glancing at the dead guy, Vicious needed someone else to die for what they’d done to her. His knees went weak as he felt himself falling.
Sway looked up to see Vicious standing over her. His hand holding his side, blood was seeping through his fingers. As she moved to get up, Vicious collapsed beside her. Blood spattered his face and neck. Ignoring her own pain, Sway got to her knees. Moving to him, she ignored her own injuries, wanting to see how badly he was hurt. Shoving his shirt up, she saw the bullet wounds. “Vicious! Don’t you leave me, damn it.”
Touching his hand to hers, Vicious managed to open his eyes, and he saw the fear in hers. Fear for him. “Sway . . . baby . . . I don’t want to.” Vicious reached up, twisting a piece of stray hair in his fingers. His gaze was locked in a war with hers, both wanting more than what they’d been given. At least he was leaving her before she could leave him. He loved her more than anything. Things just never lasted for him. “Je t’aime, femme,” he told her.
“Tu m’as promis, Vicious. Tu as promis.” He heard her words through tearful sobs as darkness took him over .
Sway kissed him over and over, not wanting him to go. “Je t’aime.”
Lifting her head at hearing footsteps running through the hall, she grabbed the gun Vicious had and pointed it at the doorway. Teller came into view, guns in both hands, his face splattered with blood. Her hands began to shake as she protected Vicious’s body.
Teller moved into the room, scanning the surroundings as he did so. Everywhere he looked was blood and death. Approaching Sway cautiously, he saw the 9mm she had a firm grip on. The closer he got to her, the worse her hands shook. A deep gash ran down the front of her, and blood coated her chest and stomach. He could see bruising on the inside of her thighs and knew what had been done to the girl. Reaching out, he gently took the gun from her hands. Slipping off his jacket, he wrapped it around her body.
Sway stared down at Vicious. She felt the gun taken from her hands. The feel of something covering her naked body brought on tears, and her whole body shook. With nothing left to give, she collapsed across his chest, sobbing.
“Player, get Sway out of here,” Teller ordered the brother.
“No!” Sway fought the hands pulling her off Vicious as a familiar voice broke through the chaos. “It’s me, Sway. It’s Player. Teller’s gonna take care of him,” he said.
Teller shouted orders, telling his men to get Hemlock and Razor. Pressing his fingers to Vicious’s throat, he felt for a pulse and found one. It wasn’t as strong as he’d liked, but still, there was one. That meant there was a chance they could save him .
Razor ran through the room, dropping down next to Teller. “How bad?”
“He’s still got a pulse.”
“That’s good.” Razor pulled his switchblade and cut the front of his brother’s shirt. Ripping the fabric aside, he saw three bullet holes. The two in his side were losing enough blood to have a small pool spread underneath him. The one in his shoulder didn’t concern him. Rolling Vicious over onto his side, Razor saw two exit holes. Sighing, he was thankful the bullets were through-and-through. Pressing on the brother’s side and abdomen, he felt for any internal bleeding. “We need to get him to the hospital.”
Razor shrugged out of his cut and jacket then pulled his thermal shirt off. Balling it up, he pressed it to the brother’s back and rolled him back over. “Doc is on at the clinic. He’ll help us.”
“Tell me what you need.” Teller, watching Razor, followed his lead and gave up his shirt to press it to the wounds. Pulling off his belt, he handed it to Razor so they could use it to hold the fabric against the body while moving Vicious.
“Grab that fucking table and bring it over here,” Teller shouted at one of the brothers. Getting to his feet, he helped flip the table over then kicked the legs off the thing, making a body board out of it. Bending down, he grabbed Vicious under his arms while Razor grabbed his ankles. “On three.”
Razor nodded and counted it down. “One . . . two . . . three.” They hefted Vicious up and onto the tabletop. “Let’s get him moved and loaded into one of the trucks outside.” It wasn’t like anyone would report it stolen , he thought .
A few of the brothers helped carry Vicious out into yet another storm. Glancing back as they moved out of the building, Razor saw Player and Joker wrapping Sway in a blanket. She stared across the room as they carried Vicious away. “Player, we’re heading to the clinic. You two bring Sway and meet us there.”
Player swept Sway up into his arms and started across the room to where Hemlock was tending to a wounded Croon.
“How bad?” Squatch asked Hemlock before sweeping his gun hand over the room.
“He’ll live,” Hemlock stated, sticking a needle into Croon’s thigh. Pulling out his knife, he didn’t have time to pussyfoot around. “Croon, do not punch me.”
“What?” Croon asked, trying to focus on what Hemlock was about to do.
Hemlock cut the gunshot wound open and shoved his fingers into Croon’s leg, digging out the bullet.
“Fucker, I ought to hit you.”
“I said don’t.” Hemlock continued digging for the bullet. With his fingers spreading the wound open, he used the tip of the knife to force the bullet towards the opening. Once he had the bullet, he pulled out a roll of duct tape, tore a strip, and slapped it over the bloody hole. “Squatch, help me get him out of here.”
“Squatch, this fucker finger-fucked my thigh.” Croon struggled to stay focused. The leg of his jeans was ripped open and covered with blood. “Why do I have duct tape on my leg? ”
“I think the morphine is taking hold,” Squatch told Hemlock. “Focus, Croon, we need to keep you moving.”
Croon’s head bobbed backwards. “I’m moving?”
Squatch helped Hemlock hoist a doped Croon to his feet as some other brothers dragged the bodies of Dawson Franks, Jerome Michel, and one of Franks’s fighters out of the room.
Hemlock wrapped one of Croon’s arms around his shoulder to take some of the brother’s weight as they carried him out. “Yeah, he won’t feel anything for a while. I hit him with a strong dose.”
Off to the side, Truck was wiping guns and replacing them with different ones. When the cops arrived, all they would find was a shoot-out between sex traffickers.
“Everyone’s accounted for,” shouted Hemlock as he helped a wounded Croon out of the building.
Truck waved them on as he made his way back out the room. As he maneuvered around the bodies, he poured gasoline, and when he got to the doorway, Truck lit the fuel. In seconds, the fire was spreading along the floor. Jogging down the hallway, he tossed more gasoline and lit it. Making his way quickly to the exit, Truck watched as smoke began to fill the building.
It wouldn’t be long before the sprinkler system would go off, ruining all evidence they had ever been there. If there wasn’t any proof they’d been there, no one would come asking questions.
Closing the door, he made quick work of catching up with the others. With the amount of drug manufacturing supplies and ammo stockpiled inside, the cops would have no problem making the connections to human and weapons trafficking.
“Squatch?”
“Right here, Croon.”
“I have the urge to sing.”
“Croon, I don’t think this is the time for a ballad.” Squatch struggled to keep the brother moving as he heard Hemlock chuckle. “Don’t feed the animal, Hemlock.”
“Sorry.”
They managed to get Croon in the cage that the prospects were driving just as he started belting out “My Way” by Frank Sinatra. As the van drove off, Squatch turned around at the sound of moving feet. He saw Truck jogging over to him and Hemlock. “Did I hear singing?” he asked them.
“Croon,” both men groaned.