Chapter 38
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Vicious looked at himself in the mirror. He’d looked better, but what did he expect? He’d been shot multiple times four weeks ago. Pressing his fingers to the bandages, he hissed as the pressure brought tears to his eyes. Pussy. Running a finger across his bottom lip, Vicious was tired of being locked down in his room at the clubhouse. He was done being poked and prodded by Hemlock and Razor. For being medics, they had horrible bedside manners. He was tired of crappy takeout and restless nights worried about Sway. What he wanted . . . needed . . . craved was his woman. He wanted to put his eyes on her.
Teller told him she was fine, that she was healing physically and mentally. That she was safe. The problem he had was that she was doing it without him. His eyes locked on the image in the mirror. “It’s better if you let her go,” he told himself. Maybe he should listen , Vicious thought. Let her move on and live a normal life without him. Leave her before she left him. He chuckled at the thought. Sway had already left him. No matter what he heard her say when he was bleeding on the cold floor, love did not bind someone to you.
“What are you mumbling about?”
Turning from the mirror, Vicious ignored Teller’s question. Walking back over to the bed, he picked up a thermal shirt and tugged it on. Grabbing up the belt, he slid it through the loops and fastened it. He went about dressing as Teller moved around the room. “If you’re here to keep me from leaving, you’re wasting your time, Teller.”
“I’m here to give you a ride.”
“I’d appreciate it.”
Teller tossed the brother’s leather jacket and cut onto the bed. “I thought you might want those.” He saw Vicious nod. “When you’re ready, we’re taking a ride.”
“Where to?”
“The farm.”
The farm was where they took care of the shit business. The disavowing of brothers. The torture of enemies. He wondered how long it would take Teller to get around to taking him out.
Picking up his cut, Vicious looked at the black and red patch blazed across the back. “What’s out there we need to deal with?”
“It’s a surprise.”
“I’d rather you be fucking straight with me, Teller.”
“Fine. Have it your way, but it would be so much sweeter if you’d trust me. ”
Trust him? Ha, that was a fucking joke. The man was probably planning multiple ways to take him out once there. Fine. Fuck it. “Okay, I’ll wait for the damn surprise.”
Pulling on his jacket and cut, Vicious watched Teller leave the room. He took his time arming himself. It was his normal routine, or what it had been. Stepping into the hall, he was flanked by Player and Joker. Neither one said a word as they all walked toward the main area.
The place was quiet. Not even the girls were around, from what he could tell. As they walked across the room, brothers came into view. Every face was stoic as they filed in behind Player and Joker. Fuck, this was it. They were taking him to the farm to bleed him. Keeping his head up, Vicious pushed open the front door as the setting sun was just sinking behind the skyline. Every bike was lined up . . . all but his. “Where’s my fucking sled?”
“We’re taking the cage,” Tank said as he stepped from behind him. Player and Joker gave him a sideways glance as they headed for their bikes.
“I can ride.”
“You might wanna save your energy.”
“Fuck.” Climbing into the front passenger seat, Vicious closed the door with a resounding pull. He sat there, listening to the sounds of the bikes as they fired up and watched as Teller signalled it was time to ride. One by one, the bikes rolled out the parking lot. When Joker pulled out last, Player blasted down the oncoming lane and took up his position in front of the pack, followed closely by Double Tap and Road Rage. Everyone else fell into position behind them, and Vicious didn’t miss the vacant spot in the order where he normally would have been. It felt like seeing his future riding down the road, but that didn’t exist.
The interior of the cage was silent. No one even spoke. If Vicious had to bet, Teller wouldn’t have given the three prospects any pertinent information. They were just the guys responsible for getting him to his destination. With nothing else to do, Vicious kicked back in the seat and closed his eyes. He did the one thing he’d done for the past month—he thought about Sway.
Vicious felt the change in the road as the cage turned right. They were headed down the dirt road leading to the property. This was it , he thought, the last five miles of freedom .
When they came to a stop, Tank turned off the engine. “Thanks for the ride, boys.” Vicious went to get out and Tank stopped him. “They want you to wait in the car until one of them comes to get you,” the prospect said.
Letting go of the door handle, Vicious nodded and watched as all three prospects exited the cage. In a flash, they had melded into the blackness of the night. He watched the time tick by as he waited. Finally, a knock at the window broke through the silence. Opening the door, he eased out of the front seat and shut the door behind him. “You boys coming in with me?”
“Nah, we’re on security.”
Vicious headed for the big red barn and whatever awaited him. Coming closer, he heard music coming from inside. Opening the door, Vicious came up short as it was closed behind him. “The look on your face, Vicious, tells me you were worried what was about to happen,” Teller said right behind him. “Here, have a fucking beer. The party’s about to start.”
“What fucking party?”
Vicious followed Teller as the brother signalled him to do. As they walked through the crowd of brothers, he was patted on the back. Some of them hugged his damn ass. Then he saw them. They were hooded, hands bound behind their backs, and on their knees. Vicious clenched his fists. He didn’t need to see the faces of the assholes. “What did you think was about to happen, Vicious?” Teller let out a laugh.
“Fuck you, asshole.”
“Brother, if I wanted you dead, I’d done it personally back at the clubhouse just to prove a point.”
For the first time since meeting Teller, Vicious was positive the words the brother spoke were the stark truth. “I’d appreciated that.”
“I know.” Teller draped an arm across Vicious’s shoulders as he pointed at the hooded figures with his beer bottle. “Are we doing a little partying before torturing these three assholes, or are we getting down to the fun shit first?”
Vicious eyed the table off to the side and walked toward it. Booker gave him a teasing smile before he removed the black cloth that covered the array of weapons and tools laid out before him. “Get ‘em on their fucking feet.”
Taking off his cut and jacket, Vicious stripped down to just his jeans and boots. He laid his own weapons aside with his clothing. “Do you need a pole, Vicious?” Grinder, one of their newest members, shouted from across the room. Vicious flipped him off and turned his attention to the three hooded figures.
Jagger and Cage dragged them to their feet. Signalling for them to take the hoods off, Vicious watched the three men’s faces. He knew who two of them were—Dawson Franks and Jerome Michel. The third man he didn’t know by name but recognized from the warehouse.
The image of that one motherfucker assaulting Sway was one he’d never get over. Reaching back, he grabbed the modified expandable baton and extended it. The small ball at the end had been sheared off and replaced with a metal tip. Three long strides and he was wielding the weapon repeatedly against the asshole’s knees until the guy was lying on the ground, begging for his life. Kicking him onto his back, Vicious stood over him. Everything went silent in his head, then he let loose the demons that haunted him.
Dropping to his knees, Vicious slammed the baton through the guy’s chest. Ripping it back out, he tossed it aside. Punch after punch, fist over fist, Vicious pummelled the guy’s face until it was unrecognizable. When the body beneath him stopped thrashing and lay motionless, he got to his feet. Unzipping his pants, Vicious pulled his dick out and pissed on the motherfucker. When he was done, he tucked his dick away and zipped up. “Don’t move him. I want these two assholes to have something to look at for a while.”
Walking to the table, his own fucking wounds throbbed, but he embraced the discomfort. Wiping off his hands, Vicious picked up his beer and polished it off. Another beer was offered up by Player along with a shot of whisky. He took the beer but passed on the whisky .
Resting his ass on the table, Vicious ignored Franks and Michel, who were pleading with anyone who would listen. They promised anything and everything to be let go. With a backward look, Vicious caught Dawson Franks’s stare and slid his hand across his throat, letting the man know his end was near.
Vicious stayed quiet while the demons from his past played in his head. Every unwanted touch he’d endured. Every time he was abandoned and let down and he blamed himself. Each and every time the devil raised his ugly head and dragged him down into the gutter. Vicious sat there, letting them all play together as one. They liked being let out to play. Glancing down at his chest, he saw the splatter of blood slashed across it.
“She wanted my cock!” one of the two losers screamed. Laughing, Vicious got up from where he sat. Picking up a gun, he tucked it in the back of his waistband then picked up a Bowie knife and stepped up to Dawson Franks. Tapping against his crotch with the flat side of the weapon, Vicious ran it under Dawson’s balls.
“I didn’t say it. I didn’t say it,” Franks shouted as he struggled to get away from the knife.
Vicious kept his eyes on Dawson Franks, watching the sweat drip down the side of his face. “Get Michel on the hooks,” he shouted. The sound of some of the brothers cheering was barely audible in his head. He was focused on his own emotions. The blood on his woman’s body. The bruises and wounds that she carried when he last saw her. The deep laceration down her sternum.
The knife was plunged into Dawson Franks’s side without warning. Vicious held it there, his fist wrapped around the hilt as it rested against the man’s naked flesh. He felt the rush of warm liquid as blood ran over his hand.
He left the knife sticking in Franks as he turned his attention to Jerome Michel. “Who killed Tesh Roussin?”
“Jerome did,” Franks moaned. But Jerome was already shaking his head as he stared at the knife in Dawson’s side. Vicious pulled the gun and fired off a shot, taking two of Franks’s toes off. “Who did you say killed Tesh?”
“Clay killed him on Dawson’s order,” Jerome shouted.
“Nobody likes a snitch, Jerome,” Vicious said flatly. “Hoist his ass up higher, boys.”
“No. No. Please, man. I’m not the one you want.”
“Fuck you, Jerome,” Dawson said as he spit blood from his mouth.
Another shot was fired. This time, it was Jerome screaming as his kneecap was blown out. Dawson dropped to his knees at Vicious’s feet. Leaving him where he lay, Vicious moved toward Jerome.
“Teller, you think this is taking too long?” Jagger asked until he saw the look on Vicious’s face when he heard him speak. Holding up his hands in surrender, Jagger stepped back.
“I think it’s gonna take as long as Vicious wants it to take. His woman, his retribution,” Teller said loud enough for everyone to hear.
The first one-two to the sternum had Jerome jerking violently, trying to get free. Vicious grabbed him by his belt, stopping his body from swinging. Taking two steps back, Vicious came around with a kick to the rib cage. He was rewarded with Jerome screaming like the limp dick sack of shit he was. “Who’s been behind the attacks on the Bastards?”
Jerome shook his head as it hung down.
Vicious cracked his neck as Jerome swung back toward him. Striking out, Vicious landed another hit to the guy’s sternum, taking his breath from him. When Jerome’s body twisted, Vicious took his building anger out on the asshole’s kidneys. His reward was Jerome losing all control of his bodily functions, and he began crying. Vicious grabbed him by the hair on his head, yanking him forward. Through the tears, snot, and smell of piss, Vicious got the answer he wanted.
“Dawson wanted a fight between the Scorpions and the Bastards.
“To what end?”
“So he could run Montreal.” Jerome choked on his sobs.
“And Sway? Why?!”
“Jerome wanted her humiliated for denying him,” Dawson mumbled.
He’d had enough. He’d spent too much time allowing his demons to run free, and now, he was bored with the whole thing. Using the gun in his waistband, Vicious put Dawson out of his misery with a shot to the head. Jerome jerked and kicked, trying to get himself off the hook. His jacket ripped, sending him to the ground. He tried getting up, except his damaged knee had him dragging that leg.
As Jerome made his way toward the exit, Vicious slowly tracked him through the barn. Other men shoved and hit him. The popping sound of gunfire landed him face down mere inches from the door.
Vicious stood over Jerome as the guy writhed in pain. “Say goodbye, Jerome.”
“No!”
Vicious pulled the trigger, ending Jerome Michel’s life. Everything was silent. No music. No cheering. No anger. He was calm. Tired. Turning from the body, he handed the gun to Jagger, who he knew would take it apart and melt it down. His brothers were already taking care of the bodies, then Truck would clean the place on the off-chance someone came snooping around.