16. Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fourteen
Reno
Bronx and I crept along the back alley. Our boots barely made a sound on the cracked pavement, our breaths controlled despite the adrenaline pumping through my veins. Ginger's uncle—that piece of shit who'd stolen her childhood—had no idea we were coming. No idea that tonight, his past was about to catch up with him in the form of two men who had nothing to lose and everything to avenge.
"There," Bronx whispered, nodding toward a sagging one-story house with peeling yellow paint and barred windows. "Second window from the left has a broken latch. Ginger confirmed it."
I nodded, my jaw clenched so tight my teeth ached. Ginger. Sweet, damaged Ginger with her haunted eyes and scars that ran deeper than skin. She'd finally broken down three nights ago, curled against my chest in the darkness of our bedroom, and told me everything. Every fucking, horrible detail of what her uncle had done to her.
"You good?" Bronx asked, his massive frame casting a deeper shadow in the alley's gloom.
"I'm better than good," I replied, checking the knife strapped to my thigh. "I've been waiting for this."
We moved toward the house like ghosts, staying close to the fence line where shadows gathered thickest. The neighborhood was the kind where people minded their own business, where screams in the night were met with turned-up televisions rather than 911 calls. Perfect for what we had planned.
The window was exactly where Ginger had said it would be, its latch visibly damaged, a thin gap between the bottom and the sill where it couldn't close properly. And best of all, it was one of the few without bars over it.
Bronx gave me a boost, and I slid the blade of my knife into the gap, working it until I could push the window up enough to slip through.
The smell hit me first—stale beer, cigarettes, and something rancid that might have been forgotten food or might have been the scent of a soul rotting from the inside out. I hung suspended half in and half out of the window for a moment, letting my eyes adjust to the dimness inside. Then I pulled myself through, landing silently on worn carpet that felt sticky beneath my palms.
I reached back and helped Bronx maneuver his larger frame through the opening. He barely made a sound despite his size—a skill honed through years of breaking and entering for the club. We stood motionless, listening to the house breathe around us.
A distant snore broke the silence.
I signaled to Bronx, pointing toward the sound. We moved through what must have been a kitchen once, though now it was little more than a graveyard for fast food containers and empty liquor bottles. The linoleum floor was torn in places, revealing concrete underneath. A cockroach scuttled across our path, disappearing into a crack in the baseboard.
"What a fucking dump," Bronx mouthed silently, his disgust evident even in the near-darkness.
We passed through a narrow hallway decorated with peeling wallpaper and water stains. No photos hung on these walls. No memories worth preserving, I guessed. Or maybe he'd removed any evidence of Ginger's existence after what he'd done to her.
The snoring grew louder as we approached what had to be the living room. I peered around the corner, and there he was—Ginger's monster, sprawled in a threadbare armchair that sagged beneath his weight.
Martin Reed didn't look like a monster at first glance. He was in his fifties, with thinning gray hair and the bloated face of a longtime alcoholic. An empty bottle of Jack dangled from his limp fingers, and a cigarette had burned itself out in an overflowing ashtray beside him. He wore stained boxer shorts and a wifebeater that stretched across his substantial gut.
But I knew what lurked beneath that ordinary exterior. I knew the depravities he was capable of. Looking at him, seemingly defenseless in sleep, did nothing to diminish my rage. If anything, it intensified it—the casual way he could sleep while his niece still woke screaming from nightmares.
Bronx and I exchanged a glance, a silent confirmation passing between us. We'd done this kind of thing before—not exactly this, but close enough. The club had its own justice system, its own methods of dealing with those who violated our code. This wasn't club business officially, but Bronx had volunteered without hesitation when I told him what we needed to do.
We moved as one, silent until the last possible moment. I circled around behind the chair while Bronx positioned himself directly in front. Then, with a sharp nod from me, we struck.
Bronx clamped one massive hand over Reed's mouth, stifling the startled cry that bubbled up from his throat. At the same time, I grabbed him by the shoulders and yanked him sideways and down, sending him sprawling onto the cold floor.
The bottle of Jack shattered against the floor, the sharp scent of whiskey filling the air as Martin's eyes flew open, wide with confusion and fear. He tried to scream, but Bronx's hand muffled the sound to nothing more than a pathetic whimper.
"Hello, Martin," I said, my voice surprisingly calm given the storm raging inside me. "Bet you didn't expect to see visitors tonight."
He struggled, his flabby arms flailing as he tried to break free. I planted my boot on his chest, pressing just hard enough to restrict his breathing without stopping it altogether. I wanted him conscious. I wanted him aware.
"Do you know who I am?" I asked, leaning down so my face was inches from his. "My name is Reno. I ride with the Dark Wrath MC. And the man currently keeping you from screaming is Bronx."
Recognition flickered in Martin's eyes, followed by a deeper terror. The Dark Wrath's reputation in this city was well-earned. People knew what happened to those who crossed us.
"But we're not here on club business," I continued, increasing the pressure of my boot slightly. "This is personal."
Martin's eyes darted around the room, perhaps looking for escape, perhaps trying to understand what was happening. The dim light from a streetlamp outside cast strange shadows across his face, highlighting the sweat that had begun to bead on his forehead.
"You're wondering why we're here," I said, crouching down beside him while maintaining pressure on his chest. "You're thinking back, trying to figure out what you did to piss off the Dark Wrath, or the two of us in particular."
I leaned closer, close enough to smell the sour whiskey on his breath.
"Does the name Ginger mean anything to you?"
His body went rigid beneath my boot. Even in the dim light, I could see the blood drain from his face. He knew. Of course he knew.
"Your niece," I continued, my voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "The little girl you were supposed to protect after her parents died. The little girl you abused for years instead."
He tried to shake his head, to deny it, but Bronx tightened his grip, those massive fingers digging into Martin's cheeks hard enough to leave bruises.
"Don't bother lying," I said. "She told me everything. Every. Fucking. Detail."
Around us, the sparse living room seemed to pulse with the weight of unspoken horrors. A broken television sat in one corner, its screen cracked. Faded curtains hung limply from a crooked rod. Empty beer cans formed an aluminum monument on a scarred coffee table. This room had witnessed so much, absorbed so many screams, and now it would witness Martin's reckoning.
"We're going to have a conversation, you and I," I said, nodding to Bronx, who adjusted his grip to allow Reed to speak but still kept him restrained. "And you're going to tell me exactly what you did to her. Every time you touched her. Every man you sold her to for an hour, a night, or even a week. Every nightmare you created."
"I don't know what she told you," Martin gasped when Bronx loosened his grip slightly, "but she's always been a liar. Always making up stories—"
My fist connected with his jaw before he could finish the sentence. His head snapped back, and blood sprayed from his split lip.
"Wrong answer," I said, wiping his blood from my knuckles onto his wifebeater. "Try again."
Martin's body trembled beneath my boot, not just from fear but from the beginning stages of alcohol withdrawal. How convenient that we'd caught him between benders.
"Please," he whimpered. "I don't know what you want—"
Bronx's turn. His massive fist crashed into Martin's stomach, driving the air from his lungs in a pained whoosh.
"We want the truth," Bronx growled, his normally quiet voice harsh in the dim room. "And we're going to get it one way or another."
I looked around the room, taking in the details of Martin's miserable existence. The scattered remnants of fast food meals. The overflowing ashtrays. The stains on the walls that might have been food or might have been something worse. This was a place where hope came to die, where innocence was sacrificed on the altar of one man's perversions.
"We can do this all night," I said, reaching down to grip Martin's thinning hair, forcing him to look at me. "Or we can move this conversation somewhere more private. Your choice."
His eyes darted toward the front door, toward windows too small for escape. The desperate calculation of a trapped animal.
"No one's coming to save you," I said, correctly reading his thoughts. "No one even knows we're here. No one will hear you scream."
That broke him. I saw the moment his resistance crumbled, replaced by the recognition of his inevitable fate. His body went limp beneath my boot, his eyes dulling with resignation.
"There's a basement," he mumbled through bloodied lips. "Door in the kitchen."
I nodded to Bronx, who hauled Martin to his feet with one powerful movement. Reed swayed, unsteady from the blows and the alcohol still in his system.
"Lead the way," I said, pressing the tip of my knife against the small of his back. "And remember—we're just getting started."
As we forced him toward the kitchen and the basement door beyond, I thought of Ginger. Of how she flinched at sudden movements. Of the scars on her wrists from failed suicide attempts. Of the night terrors that left her screaming and clawing at phantom hands. I thought of her tears soaking through my shirt as she finally told me the truth about her uncle.
And I knew that whatever happened next, it would never be enough to balance the scales. But it would be a start.
The basement welcomed us with damp air and darkness so thick it felt like another presence in the room. Bronx shoved Martin down the creaking wooden stairs, not bothering to catch him when he stumbled and fell the last few steps. I found the light switch, and a single bare bulb flickered to life from the ceiling, swinging slightly on its cord and casting moving shadows that made the concrete walls seem to breathe. Perfect. No windows. No neighbors to hear through the concrete foundation. Just us, Martn, and all the time in the world to extract his confession.
Martin lay at the bottom of the stairs, whimpering as he tried to push himself up from the stained concrete floor. Blood trickled from his nose where he'd face-planted after Bronx's shove. The basement was surprisingly large—probably spanning the entire footprint of the house above—but mostly empty except for a rusted water heater, some broken shelving, what looked like an old workbench pushed against one wall, and the one thing that made my stomach twist — an old stained mattress with shackles bolted to the wall above it.
"Get him in the chair," I said, nodding toward a metal folding chair leaning against the wall, half hidden by the shelf. Bronx grabbed it, set it up in the center of the room directly under the swinging bulb, then hauled Martin up by his armpits and slammed him down onto it.
I circled them both, taking in our surroundings more carefully now. The concrete floor sloped slightly toward a drain in the center—convenient. Dark stains marked the area around the drain. I wondered briefly if we weren't the first to use this space for an interrogation, but the thought slipped away as I focused on the task at hand.
"Zip ties," I said, holding out my hand. Bronx pulled several from his back pocket and passed them over. I secured Martin's wrists to the arms of the chair, then his ankles to the legs. Not tight enough to cut off circulation—not yet—but enough to hold him securely.
Martin's bloodshot eyes followed my movements, darting occasionally to Bronx's imposing figure as he stationed himself directly behind the chair. Fear had temporarily sobered him, though I could see the tremors in his hands that spoke of regular, heavy drinking.
"Please," he started. "Whatever she told you—"
I backhanded him across the face, the sound echoing sharply in the concrete room. "You don't get to speak unless I ask you a question. Understand?"
He nodded, a thin line of fresh blood appearing at the corner of his mouth.
I pulled another folding chair from against the wall, set it up facing him, and sat down, close enough that our knees almost touched. Behind him, Bronx cracked his knuckles, the sound loud and echoing.
"Here's how this works," I said, keeping my voice calm, conversational even. "I'm going to ask you questions. You're going to answer honestly. Every time I think you're lying, Bronx here is going to hurt you. Every time you try to minimize what you did, I'm going to hurt you. Simple enough?"
Martin swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing in his scrawny neck. "What do you want to know?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
"Everything," I replied. "Let's start with the basics. Ginger came to live with you when she was what—nine? Ten? After her parents died in that car accident?"
"Eight," he corrected, then seemed to regret speaking at all. "She was eight and a half."
"Eight and a half," I repeated, letting the words hang in the stale air between us. "A little girl who'd just lost everything, who needed protection, love, security. And instead, she got you."
His gaze dropped to the floor, unable to meet mine.
"How long did you wait?" I asked, my voice hardening. "How long before you started?"
"I don't know what you—"
My fist connected with his solar plexus, driving the air from his lungs in a pained whoosh. He doubled over as far as the zip ties would allow, gasping.
"Wrong answer," I said. "Let's try again. How long did you wait before you started abusing your niece?"
He coughed, struggling to regain his breath. "It wasn't—it wasn't like that."
Bronx stepped forward, his massive hand closing around the back of Martin's neck, squeezing just enough to make his point. Martin's face began to redden, his eyes bulging slightly.
"One more chance," I said.
"A few years," Reed gasped when Bronx released him. "Maybe less. I don't remember exactly."
"You don't remember," I repeated, my voice flat. "You don't remember when you first molested your niece."
The single bulb swung gently overhead, casting our shadows in a slow, hypnotic dance across the floor. Martin's sweating face alternated between harsh light and forgiving shadow with each swing.
"It was Christmas," he suddenly said, the words tumbling out as if he couldn't keep them in anymore. "She was crying in her room. I went in to check on her."
My stomach turned, but I kept my face impassive. "Go on."
"She wanted comfort. I just—I was trying to make her feel better." He licked his lips, his eyes darting around the room like a cornered animal. "Things just... happened."
I stood up so quickly my chair skittered backward across the concrete. In two steps, I was directly in front of him, my hand shooting out to grip his throat.
"Things don't 'just happen,'" I snarled, squeezing just enough to restrict his airflow without cutting it off completely. "Men like you make choices. Deliberate, monstrous choices."
I released him and stepped back, trying to control the fury that threatened to overwhelm my careful approach. This wasn't about my rage—this was about Ginger. About giving her justice, about making Martin admit what he'd done.
"How often?" I asked, once I'd regained my composure. "How often did you abuse her?"
Martin hesitated, calculating. I could see him trying to determine the right answer, the one that might hurt him least. Bronx saw it too and slammed his fist into the back of the chair, making Martin jump.
"Two or three times a month," he finally admitted. "In the beginning."
"And later?" I pressed.
"More," he whispered. "More often."
I thought about Ginger, about how she flinched when people moved too quickly around her. About how she couldn't stand to be in enclosed spaces. About the night terrors that left her screaming and drenched in sweat.
"Did you hurt her physically?" I asked, though I already knew the answer from the scars I'd seen on her body.
Martin's gazze shifted away to the general direction of the old mattress. "Sometimes she wouldn't cooperate."
Bronx moved without warning, his massive fist connecting with Martin's kidney. Martin screamed, a high, thin sound that bounced off the concrete walls. The chair rocked but didn't tip over.
"You fucking broke her arm when she was thirteen," I said, my voice deadly quiet. "You told the hospital she fell down the stairs. Was that because she 'wouldn't cooperate'?"
Martin spat blood onto the concrete between us. "She was threatening to tell a teacher."
I closed my eyes briefly, trying to control the red wave of fury that threatened to drown me. When I opened them again, Martin flinched at whatever he saw in my gaze.
"You took everything from her," I said, each word precise and cutting. "Her childhood. Her sense of safety. Her trust in the world."
Bronx moved around to stand beside me, his face a mask of cold fury. "You took everything from her," he repeated, our voices joining in a damning chorus.
Martin's face twisted. "She wasn't innocent," he sneered. "She knew what she was doing, always walking around in those little shorts—"
I didn't consciously decide to move. One moment I was standing still; the next, my fist was connecting with his face, the impact sending a shock up my arm as his head snapped back. Blood erupted from his nose, splattering across his chest and my knuckles.
"She was a child," I roared, grabbing him by the hair and forcing him to look at me. "A fucking child!"
Bronx put a steadying hand on my shoulder. "Easy, brother. We need him talking."
I nodded, forcing myself to step back. I wiped Martin's blood from my knuckles onto my jeans, leaving dark smears against the denim.
"Tell me about the other girls," I said after taking a deep breath.
Reed's swollen eyes widened. "What other girls?"
"Ginger said there were others," I lied, watching his face carefully. She hadn’t said shit about it, but men like him? That hadn’t been his first time. "Girls from the neighborhood. From her school."
The flicker in his eyes told me everything I needed to know.
"Jesus Christ," Bronx muttered behind me.
"How many?" I demanded.
Martin licked his bloody lips. "Three or four. Maybe five. Neighborhood kids. I'd pay them to do chores sometimes."
The basement seemed to grow colder as the implications of his words sank in. It wasn't just Ginger. There were others. Other children whose lives he'd destroyed, whose innocence he'd stolen.
"You took everything from them," I said, my voice barely above a whisper.
Martin's face crumpled, not with remorse but with the dawning recognition of his fate. "Look, I know I made mistakes," he babbled, blood and saliva dripping from his swollen lips. "I've got problems, okay? I need help, not—"
"Help?" I interrupted, incredulous. "You think you deserve help? After what you did?"
I turned away, pacing the length of the basement, trying to process the magnitude of his depravity. The single bulb cast my elongated shadow against the wall, rage pulsing through me.
“What about the other men? The ones you traded her to in order to repay debts or sweeten deals?” I asked.
Martin hung his head, whether in shame or simply from the pain of his injuries, I couldn't tell.I struck him—calculated blows to his ribs, his stomach, his face. Not enough to knock him unconscious, but enough to ensure he felt every moment.
Blood mixed with sweat on the concrete floor beneath his chair, pooling and slowly making its way toward the drain. Martin's sobbing became unintelligible, a broken stream of pleas and excuses that meant nothing.
"Please," he finally managed to articulate. "I'll do anything. Turn myself in. Go to prison. Whatever you want."
I stepped back, breathing heavily from exertion. "What I want," I said carefully, "is for you to feel every ounce of pain you inflicted on Ginger and those other girls. I want you to experience the terror, the helplessness, the violation. But that's not possible, is it? There aren't enough hours left in your miserable life to balance that scale."
I looked at Bronx, a silent communication passing between us. He nodded once, his expression grim but resolved.
"Ginger thinks you're already dead," I told Martin, watching his bloodied face contort in confusion. "Car accident, three states away. That's what the police told her this morning when they found your ID on an unrecognizable body." I smiled thinly. "The club has connections everywhere, even in small-town police departments. It cost us, but it was worth it to give her peace."
Understanding dawned in Martin's swollen eyes. "You set me up. You were always going to kill me."
"The moment she told me what you did," I confirmed, "you were already dead. This—" I gestured around the basement, at his broken, bleeding form, "—this was just so you'd know why."
I pulled my knife from its sheath on my thigh. The blade caught the light from the swinging bulb, sending reflections dancing across the concrete walls.
"You took everything from her," I said one final time, my voice dropping to a whisper.
Bronx moved behind Reed, his massive hands coming to rest on the man's shoulders, holding him steady. "And now we’ll take everything from you.”
Martin began to scream then, the sound too loud in the confined space. I sliced off one of his ears. Bronx removed a finger. Neither of us stopped. One piece at a time, we made the asshole pay. When I knew he was nearly gone, I sliced his throat in one clean, practiced motion. His scream became a wet gurgle, then silence.
We watched as his life drained onto the concrete floor, mingling with the sweat and blood from his earlier injuries. The single bulb continued its lazy arc overhead, the shadows shifting and dancing as if celebrating the grim justice we'd delivered.
When it was done, when Martin was nothing more than an empty shell slumped in the chair, I wiped my knife clean on his wifebeater.
"We need to clean up," Bronx said, his deep voice breaking the silence that had fallen.
I nodded, still watching the blood as it made its inexorable journey toward the drain. "This place is a fire hazard. No reason we can’t make it burn."
"You good?" Bronx asked, his hand landing heavily on my shoulder.
I thought about Ginger, about how she'd curled against me last night, finally sleeping through the darkness without nightmares. About how she'd believed the lie we'd told her, that her monster was already dead, that she was finally free.
"Yeah," I said, meeting his gaze. "I'm good. He got what was coming to him."
Bronx nodded, his expression solemn. "For Ginger."
"For Ginger," I echoed, looking one last time at the empty shell of the man who had caused so much pain. "And for all the others."
I felt a weight lift from my shoulders. This wouldn't erase what Ginger had suffered. It wouldn't heal all her wounds or stop all her nightmares. But it was a start. A bloody, brutal start to her healing.
And I would be there for the rest, for as long as she needed me.
Before Bronx and I left the house, we used Martin’s alcohol bottles to douse the place, then set fire to it. We walked to our bikes, where we’d left them a block away, then watched in silence. There was little more than ash left by the time we heard the first sirens. Good. No one would find the asshole, or if they did, I doubted they’d try too hard to find his murderers.
It was over.