Chapter 65
“Some of the members say the man that led the raid on the club house was wearing a Legion Lords vest. Vintage. His face was covered, but the vest was clear.”
“Impossible,” Onyx declares, looking around the damage left behind.
“What was the name?”
“They didn’t see.” Riggs blows out a breath and rubs a hand over his face.
We are at the clubhouse, and it looks exactly like Riggs described it.
Bullets and bloodshed. It’s not surprising.
Violence is part of our life, but to know that it was possibly one of our own, perhaps a man who is in our circle.
Could it be one of the approximately 50 members in the club?
Possible. It’s plausible that one of those old members had some sort of vendetta against us, but the coincidence of the attack on our tattoo shop and Camryn’s gallery with the raid on the club feels connected.
“The only original members are Linc, Ansel, Cade, Easton, and us. Could they have gotten your uncle’s vest?” I ask, looking at him.
“No. It’s locked away with my aunt. My brother has access to it, but he’s as far away from the Legion as possible,” he states, talking about his older brother, who is still in Chicago, living with his wife and children.
Chaca’s vest is also with his widow across the country.
The only other option is Riggs’s father.
“Do you have your father’s vest? Could Hadrian have taken it?
” Riggs crosses his arms and looks between Onyx and me.
He knows what we are asking. Could Hadrian have been the one to kill his own members? “It’s locked away.”
So we are back at square one. “The cameras?”
Onyx touches the bullet holes in one of the walls. “Disabled.”
“Whoever it was was well armed,” Riggs mutters, stooping and picking up one of the many empty shell casings scattered around the clubhouse. Blood is everywhere, and the pungent smell of nitroglycerin coats the air.
“What types of weapons?” I ask when Onyx picks up a round and peers at it closely.
“Something tactical.”
“AR-15. FN-15,” Riggs confirms.
I’m not surprised. Military style weaponry is easily accessible on the black market for the right price, and it makes me think the Mestizos are definitely behind the raid on the clubhouse. “Where are the injured?”
Riggs sighs. “Dr. Campbell has them at his clinic. Most of them will be released tonight.”
“What are the injuries?”
“Gunshot wounds. Easton will most likely lose his eye.”
Fuck.
“A few others have knife wounds. Some will need stitches. Several the women are roughed up. Bruises. Cuts. Thankfully the attackers didn’t go further than that.
” After what happened to Denise, we all know what could have been the outcome, which makes me think of Camryn. Tonight was close. Too fucking close.
My mind goes to the cut she got on her foot.
It was slight and easily fixed, but it could have been so much worse.
She could have been alone in the gallery when that brick went through the glass.
She could have been alone when they spray-painted the walls, and there wouldn’t have been anything that I could have done about it.
I would have been hours away at the club or my cabin.
She’s vulnerable. Even now, I’m itching to get back to her, but being near her is the problem. I’m the indirect threat to her. Because of me, her gallery is destroyed.
Scout is there now and just reported that she is still inside her apartment.
He knows to shoot on sight if anyone shows up who isn’t supposed to be there.
He reached out and told me that her front windows and doors were repaired by the company I hired.
According to Scout, her brother hadn’t shown up.
He also hadn’t contacted me, which means Camryn hasn’t told him about the vandalism or what she heard.
The sight of her framed in her window will haunt me. The censure in her eyes.
Gritting my teeth, I walk past the bullet holes in the walls.
The utter silence of death. Most of the uninjured are staying in one of the other abandoned properties, a few miles from our clubhouse.
The large abandoned factory is well hidden.
It’s not the best accommodation, but for those who will stay, it’s better than nothing.
It’s the benefit of living in a ghost town.
Long-forgotten structures are excellent places to hide. Others are headed to the town motel.
Walking to the edge of the property, I look out onto the swamps. The sounds of nature calm me, remind me of what I am. A solitary predator with no conscience, no sympathy.
An alert comes in, and I open my app, which allows me to view a video feed of her apartment. I replay the last three hours. The first thing I see is her walking fully naked, full of fury, and pushing her couch in front of her door.
I wanted to go to her then when I found my clothes and boots discarded at the bottom of the stairs. She had thrown them down, not wanting them in her apartment. I didn’t blame her.
I wanted to open her door and apologize, but I stopped myself, holding myself still. The key I made, burning a hole in my pocket. Her anger is what I needed. Her hatred would protect her, keep her locked away from the transgressions raining down on my head.
The video continues with her glancing around, and when she sticks up her middle finger and walks in a circle, I know exactly what she’s doing.
I can’t help but smile. Fucking brat. My bratty countess.
Her words are mean and triumphant. “Fuck you! I’m going to find every single one of your spyware bullshit and throw them down the garbage disposal. You hear me!?”
I hear you baby, but I’ll always watch.
My cock hardens. I want to be there with her, put my cock in her snarling, angry mouth. Have her give me hell while I fuck her, or slap her ass until it’s bright pink. I replay the video, needing to see her beautiful fury on full display over and over. I watch the moment she looks out the window.
It was the moment I looked up at her. When she turns around, there are tears on her cheeks that she quickly dabs away before she walks out of her apartment.
The pain in my chest shouldn’t be there, but it hurts.
It hurts like the hurt I felt for Ivory the day she was assaulted.
There’s also rage and shame. Guilt. Love.
I can’t find my footing. Walking away from her was harder than I thought it would be.
I hurt her and I hate myself for it, but more than that, I hate that she’s right.
She does deserve to know. My fucking her is what caused the mayhem in her shop.
Her life. She is at risk because I couldn’t control the need to possess her, to own everything about her.
But giving her the truth would mean I would have to reveal my secrets to her.
The fullness of what I’ve done for the last two decades.
She knows about my conviction. The two bodies.
But she has no idea of the true depth of my sins, of my depravity.
I pull out the paper that was wrapped around the brick that broke through her glass. I unfold it. Visceral hate burns through my chest. The threat is direct. It’s a picture of her, inside her gallery alone. The picture tells exactly what they want me to understand. They can take her at any time.
Thankfully, she hadn’t seen it. Me watching her is one thing. But to tell her that a whole gang. That a very large, deadly gang is watching her. That their leader, a psychopath even more deadly than I am, a man who doesn’t want her pleasure, only her pain, is watching her.
Another alert comes in. I watch as she gets in her car and drives away.
I hold my breath when Scout pulls out behind her on the street in a nondescript sedan.
I’m glad he didn’t drive his bike. There’s no telling what Camryn would have done had a bike followed her.
She may have run him off the road. Her tracker shows her heading to her friend Kingsley’s place.
Good. That building is more protected. It will keep her safe.
For now, that insidious voice in my mind tacks on.