Chapter Fifty-One
Gy
The stairs to the dungeon creak loudly as I quickly descend into the pit of despair below.
While above ground, our shed looks like a common place to stock gear, underground, it’s a completely different story.
The metallic tang of blood greets my nose, and I’m thankful for the gift Lassie brought me.
“Hey, VP, this piece of trash is ready for you.” Fenrir and Grim greet me, wearing matching maniacal grins.
Bloodthirsty heathens to the core. My eyes adjust to the darkness surrounding me, bringing two members of the Black Plague into view.
The guys have them handcuffed, tied to chairs, and prepped for interrogation.
It’s a beautiful sight.
Cracking my neck, I prepare to release my wrath on these useless pieces of shit.
And I have plenty of it to get out. Cujo didn’t even fucking tell me Willow was in danger—Cerberus and I didn’t find out until Fen, Lassie, Grim, and Pup returned with these assholes.
Because you failed to bond her when you had the chance.
Self-loathing slithers like a serpent through my veins. I have so much to make up for… and it begins here.
Red tinges my vision. “Tell me what happened,” I demand, and Lassie launches into the story of this morning’s events, including Cujo using his bike like a damn wrecking ball, then disappearing with our omega.
Neither of which have answered any of my damn phone calls or texts. Fucking dead. Cujo, not Willow, she’s perfect.
“Did you scrub the cameras?” I ask, heading over to our treasure trove of torture devices before selecting a tire iron.
“Of course. It’s not my first rodeo,” Fen gasps, mildly offended. “I would never let our boy get caught. No witnesses. No footage…” He glances at the men. “No bodies.”
A good motto to live by: “No body. No crime.” We’ll make these Plagues disappear, and Cujo will be in the clear. From the law, at least.
“They sing yet?” I ask, curious whether the men have gotten any information out prior to my arrival.
“Not much. They’re staying at campgrounds about six miles away. And this is all someone named Beatdown’s fault.” Fen motions toward Grim, who’s carrying a sharp blade, forward. “But we’ve only just got started.”
Seeing my brother, the two half-dead bikers yank at their binds, jabbering incoherently.
“Wonder how many are left.” I rub my beard, considering the best way to extract the information, but Fenrir speaks up.
“Yeah, I already put Garmr and Pup on it. They’re going to use a drone to find their campgrounds and scope them out. Pup even fitted a special camera they can drop at the location to give us a live view.” Damn. I wouldn’t have known that was an option, but I’m pleased with our enforcers’ ingenuity.
“Perfect. Now let’s figure out why the fuck they’re on our turf.” Hefting the tire iron into my hand, I turn toward the Black Plagues. They both stare at me with fear and malice in their gaze. My bloodlust rises. I was made for this. Made to destroy. To dish out pain without mercy.
“We can make this easy or hard. The quicker you answer, the less it hurts,” I lie. This is going to hurt a hell of a lot. Whether on purpose or by chance, these assholes put my omega at risk, and there’s no coming back from that.
“Fuck you,” the prisoner snarls. My blood sings gleefully.
“Ah, I see we’re choosing the hard way. Make my fucking day.
” I advance slowly, sending the tire iron whistling through the air, it touches the ground with a solid clang.
The tension grows heavy in the room. Mental torture as well as physical.
Many men can take a beating—but it’s their minds I need to break to bring their secrets to light.
Feinting to the left, I make the beta flinch. Then slam the tire iron down onto his right knee. He cries out, then begins to dry heave while his MC brother looks away.
“Who sent you to Broken Ridge?” The name on his patch says Cray, and I narrow my eyes. Wasn’t that the coffee shop guy who pissed off my omega? “Was it to retrieve Cindy?”
“She was just a bonus. Stupid bitch.” I thump the tire iron down once more, thrilled with the scream that rushes from his lips.
“You still haven’t answered my question,” I admonish. “I guess this iron isn’t getting the job done. Don’t worry. We’ll try harder.”
I pass the tool to Grim and smile when he swaps it for a set of rusty pliers. Fenrir comes up on my other side, baseball bat swinging in his grip.
“Now, what do you think we should pull out first?”
“Fingernails. Toenails. Either should work.” Fenrir laughs gleefully.
“Testicles,” Grim grunts, making Cray turn deathly white.
“Our Pres. He’s the one you want. He brought us here to sell drugs. Don’t touch my balls!” Cray wilts under the pressure, tears pouring down his face in rivers.
“Then why did you try to take my omega? If this is just about turf and drugs, why touch her?” Rage builds within me, making my heart pound.
“Shut the fuck up!” The other member speaks up, drawing my attention. In one swift move, I reach into my holster, pull out my gun, and aim it at his head.
Bang.
Before I have a chance to get a shot off, another rings out, cracking through the dungeon like thunder. The scent of leather, whiskey, and honeysuckle slides through the blood-soaked coppery air.
Cray screams as his brother’s brain matter sprays in his face.
“We weren’t going to hurt her, I swear. Just bring her to our president so he could give her to the fancy pack that’s been supplying the drugs. They pay us to be here.”
Cujo steps closer to the Black Plague, cocking his weapon.
“They pay you for the mice, too?” Cujo growls like an animal poised to strike.
“Yes. But I didn’t do that one. Gears did.” Cray’s body slumps; he knows the end is near. “Make it quick. Please.”
Stepping forward, I place my hand on Cujo’s arm, stilling his overeager trigger finger.
“We will. What was the name of the pack? Where do you meet with them?” I already know in my heart that the Black Plague are working for Pack Mordred, but perhaps through them we can find these bastards.
“Pack Mordred,” he confirms my suspicions. “I don’t meet with them. Beatdown does.”
Cujo’s arm vibrates, and another crack splits the air.
“What the fuck! He was still talking.” The urge to punch Cujo so fucking hard builds in my gut.
“We got what we needed. He tried to touch our omega. So now he’s dead.” It’s simple. To the point. And it makes me irate.
Fucking Cujo—showing up here, smelling like sex. He stole my bond, and now my kill.
“Fuck you!” I snarl, shoving him hard. He slips in the spilled blood, arms pinwheeling.
“What the hell, old man?” His hand lands on Cray’s bloody face to steady himself. But I’m not done yet. Anger surging within me, I slam my fist into his gut. Cujo’s breath gusts out, and he doubles over.
Footsteps pound on the concrete as Fen and Grim run over from the other side of the room.
“How could you not tell me she was in danger? How fucking dare you?” I spit, lunging for him again, only to come up short when Grim’s strong arms hold me back. “Where is my omega?!?”
“She’s sleeping. She’s safe.” Cujo doesn’t move to hit me, instead putting his hands up in supplication.
“You just fucking left her? After she was attacked?” Venom coats my tongue. How dare he?
“She was asleep, in her pseudo-nest, snuggling Bruce. I wanted to be sure we got everything we needed.” His explanation should be enough, but it’s just insulting.
“You think we can’t handle a damn interrogation without you? I’ve been doing this longer than you.” The coppery blood permeates my nose, and I’ve had enough of being in this decrepit basement. “Stay down here with the fucking bodies. Cleanup is your job. It’s my turn to care for Willow.”
Spinning on my heel, I march toward the exit. Fuck this room, and fuck Cujo.
Taking the stairs two at a time, I rush up into the shed, then out into the evening air. My strides eat up the ground, but then a voice slams into me.
“Gytrash, I need a report. Now.” Cerberus. And his irritation is clear. Club before love. “It sounds like we need to move fast.”
It’s gonna be a long night.