15. Match
15
MATCH
“Is this a joke?”
“I fucking wish,” Lifesaver says on the phone. “There’s no time to talk. When Brander has traced the number, call me back. We’ll pounce at sundown.”
I slam my phone on the pool table and perch on the edge of it. “Did you hear that?”
Brander turns my way. “Fucked up, but I’m not surprised. It’s always those you least expect. The ones with all the power.”
“Can we keep that from Alice? That her father killed her mother?”
Brander shrugs, attention focused on his phone screen as he scrolls down a page and inputs some numbers.
“All those years…” I continue.
“It’ll break her heart.”
“Don’t you think it?—?”
“No.”
Nothing puts a stop to conversation quite like Brander’s nos.
I slide off the pool table and take a swig of beer. It’s cheap stuff that doesn’t go down well, but my taste buds crave something alcoholic, and the half-full beer I abandoned two hours ago is the only thing available.
Peter the murderer. I wonder how that will go down in the papers if it ever gets out?
He probably speaks kinder words to dog shit on the bottom of his shoe than he did to us last night in the hospital. That daggered look he flashed Brander and me in the hospital told us all we needed to know about Lifesaver’s supposed “best friend”—that he’s an immoral son of a bitch. No better than the Venom Vultures.
Worse, even, for killing and then for pretending it didn’t happen. For lying to his darling “baby” about how her mother’s death was accidental. The Bratva are bad but Peter commits sins far deeper than anything those guys do. There’s one sin greater than killing, and it’s lying about it and pretending you’re the good guy.
I commend the Russians for at least acknowledging that they’re not saints.
I sniff a laugh. Take another sip of beer. How the man has the audacity to death-glare us like that when he’s committed far worse is beyond me.
And it was all for what?
Power?
“Rocking Rubies.” Brander snaps up from his phone.
“Excuse me?”
“Their hub. Rocking Rubies. It’s some sort of bar.”
I abandon the beer and cross the room to grab my jacket.
“Hey, Lifey,” Brander says into his phone. “I sent you a pin. Meet us on the Vegas Strip as fast as you can.”
We lock up the clubhouse, start up the Harleys and ride.
The sun sets in the distance, golden-orange streaks shining onto the road we travel down at full speed. My pulse drums so fast that it feels like it’s outrunning the bike. Alice has been gone a few hours. It’s not a long time, but they only need one or two hours to commit unspeakable acts. Pain cuts through my chest at just the thought.
Auctioning off girls is something that brings in millions of dollars. Even Grizzly, Prez of the club, found himself unable to steady his breathing when Merideth was captured and sold as a virgin in a Bratva auction.
The peanut butter toast consumed for lunch today swirls around in my stomach, threatening to come back up. I stifle a retch. Take a sharp inhale of breath to compose myself. Killing her would be pointless, but other activities could be pursued while they wait for Peter. Russians like to play games. Their favorite—how high they can stack the one-hundred-dollar bills?
And nothing brings in cash quite like a young, hot blonde girl.
I feel faint.
City lights grow close. Brander and I skip some reds, receive car horns, and park a block away from Rocking Rubies . Lifesaver arrives not a minute later, hopping off his bike. The sweat dripping down his face and his uncertain expression makes it look like he’s about to board a one-way flight into space or something.
He slips a hand beneath his leather jacket to activate the trigger of his shotgun.
Click!
“Alright. Let’s do this,” he says.
Brander takes out his iron rod, unscrews the gas cap on the Harley and inserts the steel contraption inside. He takes it out after a minute of swirling it around and allows excess gasoline to drip out onto the pavement for a moment.
“Better places to do this than the fucking middle of Vegas, man,” I say.
“I know,” he says, taking out a napkin to clean the end. A couple walk by and flash him a confused glare. “But it’s not like we’ve got all day to search for a quiet street.” He shrugs. “I could be a welder for all they know.”
Lifesaver snorts. “A welder dressed head-to-toe in leather.”
Brander sticks the thing between his legs to strike a match. Tossing the box aside, he grabs the iron rod and lights the tip. Angry flames consume the top, but reduce significantly in size after a few seconds, turning the tip a flaming hot red.
Brander points the thing to the ground. “Let’s do this, and quickly.” He glances at Lifey. “We can talk about your wife-murdering son-of-a-bitch bestie after we’ve saved his daughter.”
Walking together as three leathered up bikers definitely draws attention, but we get away with it. Vegas is a fantasy. Take the fake Eiffel Tower for example—it gives the illusion of Paris. The same goes for bikers strutting down the strip with hot iron rods and guns hidden under their jackets.
You’d be counting for a decade if you were to list all the sexual fantasies to exist…ever. Outlaw bikers are always popular, which is why most of the time, as paradoxical as it is, we get away with hiding our true identities. It’s why tourist women flash us discreet glances as they walk with their boyfriends, and why cops, as they patrol the streets, give us a once-over and move on.
Rocking Rubies boasts an impressive red sign and large blacked-out windows. The place is dead. Doesn’t open until six PM, according to the glittery sign pinned to the door. We come to a stop after snaking around the back entrance. Used cigarettes litter the ground, and garbage, balled up in large black bags, overflows both dumpsters that have been parked a couple meters away from the side door. My stomach goes uneasy at the sight of overflowing trash, and then again when my nostrils catch a whiff of antiseptic. That strong-smelling stuff is never a good sign, particularly around the back of a Bratva-owned club.
I wonder how many guests enter for a drink?
The supposed bartenders probably kill just as much as they serve.
I eye Lifesaver and Brander.
One…
Two…
We all nod.
Three.
I advance and pick open the lock. Then I click my fingers for Brander to join me.
He kicks down the door.
Easier than anticipated.
Maybe they should invest some of this blood money into better security.
One after the other, we fly in, Brander taking the lead. The hot iron rod, burning red, acts like a medieval torch. Where are the lights? Entering the main room, I spot many above us, hanging from the ceiling, but all of them are off.
I slip a hand into my jacket anyway, releasing the gun. A Takeshi knife rests downward in my pants pocket, but I keep that there for backup.
Brander’s face glows, partly confused in the faint red light.
I look around the room, my vision starting to acclimatize. Set against the back wall is an impressive bar with gold spirit bottles and expensive-looking stem glasses hanging upside down in holders. A glittery floor spreads across the entire place, like we’re standing on a starry sky. Curiosity taking over, I reach over and grab one of the menus, squinting to read the drink selection. The Imperial and Stoli vodka options are a big giveaway. Guests can also order expensive European wines—red and white—from privately owned vineyards, and pure still water that costs ten dollars minimum, depending on the type.
For one kill, these guys charge twenty-five thousand dollars, according to Lifesaver when he relayed his conversation with Peter to us earlier.
The boys are fucking swimming in it.
“I see you found us,” says a voice from somewhere in the room. Footsteps crescendo, and a body pops up from behind the bar. He’s tall, and the suit he’s wearing makes him look like he belongs behind a desk.
Brander launches forward over to the bar.
That’s when they pour out like insects—left, right, and center. Bullets splinter to the floor, and gunfire echoes around the whole room.
I duck. Slip out my gun and fire.
A suited figure approaches me, his weapon of choice a knife, but I spot it quick enough and manage to kick it from his hands. It clinks onto the ground, and I slam my boot over it, inches away from the trigger of my gun when another tackles me.
I land on the floor.
This one is dressed in all black, jeans and a fitted black tee. He snarls at me like a fucking dog, securing the dropped knife into his hand.
He points the sharp end my way.
“Get a new look,” he spits.
Fucking likewise.
My mind pauses in times like these. Shuts down. Intuition kicks in and tells me how to react, and in this instance, it’s to make use of my free hand and slip out the Takeshi.
But Levi Jeans gets there first.
Excruciating pain explodes in my arm.
“FUCK!”
Blood coats my skin, oozing out of me at an alarming rate.
The bastard withdraws the knife, laughs this childish, high-pitched garble and moves on to somebody else.
Scrambling up, I apply compression to my arm. Fuck. The plan wasn’t to be handicapped. At least not this early on. I wince, watching as the blood continues to pump out between my fingers, coating them in fresh, ruby-red blood that lightens my head.
Is it the sight of blood that makes passing out on the floor tempting, or the fact that I’m losing so much? Gunshots echo throughout the room, a bullet hitting one of the overhead spotlights with a BAM!
Glass rains to the floor. I slide out of the way. Duck.
Lifesaver, in the middle of a duel, glimpses me from the bar. His eyes drop to my arm and widen.
He winces for me.
That’s just what I need.
A doctor reacting to a wound.
Another body pounces at me, this one masked. The barrel of their gun crashes into me, but I don’t flinch. Taking advantage of my perfectly capable other arm, I throw myself into him at a side angle, releasing my wounded limb for a moment to bury my Takeshi deep in his thigh. The high-pitched garble plays familiarly in my ear, except this time it’s more of a cry than it is a laugh. Ha! It’s the same fucking guy that knifed my arm. He lands on his knees, rips the blade from his leg, and prepares to stand up—this time he’s probably aiming for the heart, but instead he collapses, giving in to the pain.
I turn over my other shoulder to see Brander staring nervously at my arm.
“Jesus, Match.”
“Yeah, I know. I’ll get Lifey to sort it out later.”
The bleeding has slowed at least. I reapply pressure to the wound. Wince some more. Nasty pieces of work, the Bratva.
But so are we.
I look around the room. Blood splats up the walls, and shards of glass litter the floor. A piece has been wedged into the body beside me. It cuts straight into their chest, blood spreading out rapidly from the wound.
Another body catches my attention up ahead, strewn across the bar wearing a very painful-looking scald mark across their forehead. They’re not dead. Not yet at least, unless Brander gets the urge to finish him off. It looks horrific. Like they’ve stuck their head in a bucket of fire. One of their feet spasms, and their mouth, wide open like they’ve lost control to close it, releases what sounds like a death rattle.
They outnumbered us to start, but now we’ve outnumbered them.
I take a seat at one of the booths, still unsure if I’m lightheaded because of the arm, or because of the situation. A bloodbath like this hasn’t occurred for some time now. Four years ago was the last time we stormed into Bratva territory to take the lives of people who deserved it, and back then it was an entire club outing. This feels like a miracle. How the hell did we manage to finish off a dozen Russians, just three of us?
I sag my shoulders. Stare into the room. Pools of blood collect on the floor. Occasionally, there’s heaving and groaning, but for the most part it’s radio silence. One able Russian remains, and he’s too busy trying to resuscitate his burnt ally across the bar.
Often, I wonder how my previous self would’ve reacted if, back in Buffalo, I visited a fortune teller or some shit and had my future all read out to me. “You’re Venom Vultures’ Secretary, and your full-time job is managing a bunch of criminals, and killing.”
I don’t think I would’ve believed it. Sometimes, I don’t even believe it now. One second alive. The next dead. Life and death share a very thin line, and it’s one a person can cross at any time, with zero warning too. Fate doesn’t exist. There’s no “It’s meant to be.”
Death is tragic and accidental…and also in your control if you know how to wield a weapon. The Russian I knifed in the thigh lies in the fetal position, the bloody blade beside him, abandoned. He seethes in pain, hand fumbling for a device in his pocket he can’t quite reach without irritating the wound.
At Venom Vultures, we tell ourselves that we’re heroes.
But what if we’re not?
Maybe we’re villains convincing ourselves that we’re doing good.
Like Peter.
Maybe we pride ourselves on our achievements to distract our minds from all the sins. Peter slaughtered innocents for his title, but doing good deeds and smiling at public conferences doesn’t just distract others from his sins. It distracts himself too.
You become what you think you are.
Ever since my initiation, the club has preached that we’re heroes.
But what if we’re not?
Do true protagonists wedge knives in people, shoot people dead and scald their skin?
Maybe not.
Four years ago was the last time I dug my knife into another person and hospitalized them. Although praised by the others for my work and quick response, guilt threaded through me in the days that followed. The guy could’ve had a wife for all I knew. A family. A small child that loved him so much.
That night, I dreamed of a baby girl repeating the word “Dada” until it became a crying scream. “Dada, dada,” screamed the two-year-old manifestation until my heart went into overdrive.
Now, though, looking out into the room, I feel nothing. Guilt doesn’t contort my chest the way it so often does after severely injuring another, and my breathing continues to ebb and flow steadily. Even the arm pain doesn’t bother me.
I only have two thoughts in my head.
One: Alice.
Two: How we’re going to save her.
“Hey!” Brander sticks two bloody fingers in his mouth and whistles.
The one able Russian at the bar, still trying to resuscitate his friend, turns his head. He laughs this deep, throaty cackle and returns to the floor, striding over and spitting something in Russian.
Brander replies something, Russian also.
Lifesaver cocks his brow at me.
“Where’s Alice?”
“Ha!” The guy folds his arms under his armpits and releases another cackle. “You mean Peter Dyson’s princess?”
Brander gives a curt nod.
“I was going to ask you something actually.” The man takes a step closer. Examines Brander’s face. “ Well . Not ask. More of a tit for tat.” He licks a drop of blood from his lips. “We’ll forget about the nine murders and two injuries if you’d be so kind as to remove the tattoo from the princess.” He steps closer to Brander and bares his teeth. What is it with Bratva men and their wolf-like complexes? “You see, she’s ours now, which means rights have sort of been…transferred.”
I shoot up, heart thumping in my chest.
The bastard turns his head to me, exposing daggered teeth. “What are you gonna do with one working arm?” Another laugh. “Come on. Give me your best shot.”
I lurch forward, but Brander knocks me back. His hand tightens into a fist around the hot iron rod. Then he raises it. Points it horizontally, inches away from the guy’s chest. “Which one will be more painful, I wonder?” Brander tilts his head. “Straight through the chest, or up the ass?” He furls his lip in debate. “Chest, probably. I’d rather wash off blood than shit.”
The guy takes out his gun and angles it at Brander.
I tense. Weigh up what’s around me. How can I perform a surprise attack?
That’s when Lifesaver, in one fell swoop, advances forward and karate-kicks the weapon.
I dive to the floor. Catch the shotgun before the guy does with his foot.
Extreme pain ripples through my arm, so intense that I’m tempted to slip out the Takeshi and cut the limb off.
But I stop myself. There’s no need for amputation. Not yet.
I toss Lifey the shotgun, and he catches it one-handed, circling around the Russian with it cocked.
“Tell us where Alice is, or suffer the consequences.”
Another laugh erupts out of his mouth. He narrows his eyes. The well-fitted suit and golden cuff links would suggest the guy is highly respected in the syndicate. Frontline combat isn’t something he’s done in a while, I can tell, because if he was a contract killer, the bullet would’ve cut through the air and landed in Brander’s chest by now. He’s one of those who sits behind the desk orchestrating attacks instead of carrying them out. The sharp-eyed look is a little too overpronounced to be sincere. It’s an act. A facade. Behind that is an ordinary man who’s tired of killing, but the cutthroat demeanor gives the sense that he’s in too deep. There’s no going back. The Bratva is family, and it’s who he is now. I’d wager he’s a similar age to us, perhaps even slightly older.
Perhaps he’s done this dance for so long he’s tired of it now.
But nobody has escaped the Bratva and lived to tell the tale.
Lifesaver continues to circle around him, and the hot iron rod in Brander’s grasp inches closer. Maybe this isn’t going to work. Maybe death is what the guy wants—his unflinching body would suggest that.
“Tell us,” Lifesaver says. He presses the muzzle of the gun against his back. “Dying is a selfish act. You don’t want to be selfish now, do you?”
Somehow he’s clocked onto my train of thought.
“How will your family and friends react?” he continues, “when they find out that you’re dead. Imagine them crying. Will you have an open or closed casket?” He pauses for a moment. “Closed would be better, I think. Coroners can only hide so much with makeup.”
“They’d have to put a mask on you to hide the burn.” Brander raises the iron rod higher, the burning red tip an inch away from scalding the man’s ear.
“That’s true,” Lifesaver says. “You’d be gone forever, but they’d be left to pick up the pieces. That’s not fair, is it? Don’t you?—?”
“Ursula and Hook,” spits the guy.
“Excuse me?” Brander lowers the iron rod.
“That’s where Alice is.”
“Why?” I ask.
“It’s a strip club. One of the biggest places in the syndicate for money laundering. She’s there.” The guy’s features curl now into more of a smile. Something about this pleases him, and my ears aren’t ready to hear it. “Apparently she’s bringing in lots of money tonight.”