CHAPTER 17
MAYHEM
There are many people who have been taken to the shed, and all of them deserved to be there. Still, I’ve never been this excited to get to the good part before. It’s all because his existence, the mission he’s given himself, puts my woman in danger. That is simply unacceptable to me.
The shed is built on our land and looks just like you would expect it to.
It’s a little rundown and looks like it’s been here just as long as the barn.
You would have no idea the horrors this little building has seen.
It’s a small structure nestled in the safety of the compound, but what it looks like is purposefully deceptive.
What you can’t see is the basement built underneath and the blood that has been cleaned from its walls many times. You can’t see the souls that have left this mortal plane in the concrete dungeon where the darkest of deeds are confessed and paid for.
I don’t even bother to keep track of the number of people who have paid for their crimes in the shed. Now I can’t help but wonder if there have been dirty cops here before. I know I haven’t dealt with any while I’ve been president.
I’d rather keep the dirty cops on my payroll and where I can see them. As long as they don’t betray the club, it is their own morality they have to answer for. And, frankly, that’s not really any of my business.
But the sins Wagner has committed aren’t against the club. They’re against the man he pretended to be and the wife who trusted him. My woman never asked to be pulled into his darkness, he did that by not being careful with his violence.
It’s time for him to pay the price.
When I walk through the doors of the shed, I lock eyes with each of my officers. These are the men who have sat around the devil’s skull table and looked at me to lead. I think I’ve done a damn good job of it, and part of that is because nothing that has touched the club has been personal.
This is different.
Wagner has been hunting my woman down all because she was a witness to his terrible acts. Even if Addyson wasn’t my woman, Wagner would need to pay for his wrongdoings.
As we always do when we enter the shed, we pull our cuts off and hang them from the hooks set up for this purpose. We all know who we are and the importance of the leather we wear. There’s nothing to prove by wearing them in the basement, and clean-up is a lot easier when everything can be burned.
I’m the first to step through the door leading downstairs. The sound of my boots and those of my brothers following me sounds like thunder.
As I step down into the basement, I make my way to the largest room because it can hold all of the brothers who have joined me to show their support and solidarity. I could have done this on my own, but the brotherhood ensures that I don’t have to.
I don’t have to look at Wagner to know he’s tied to a chair in the middle of the room after being stripped naked. I can feel his anger, but it’s the fear in the air that has me fighting a smile. A normal man wouldn’t be looking forward to this the way I am.
But he made my woman afraid. And it’s his words that have been haunting her for days.
Addyson might not realize it, but she hasn’t been sleeping quite as soundly as she thinks since arriving at my clubhouse.
I can always feel the shift in her, when fear is invading her mind while she’s sleeping with my body curled around her.
It’s subtle, a little whimper maybe, or the way her body tenses like it’s ready to run.
It’s woken me up and then I’m there for her, soothing her and running my fingers through her hair. I whisper to her how nothing can touch her and that I’ll slay all of her demons and then give her their heads on a stake.
Who knew the threat of violence would be the trick to keep those nightmares at bay and allow my woman to rest easier?
One day nothing will disturb her sleep. But I have a feeling it won’t happen until this piece of shit cop is taken care of.
And my woman deserves to never look over her shoulder again.
Her strength fills me with awe. Not only did she look Wagner in the eye and call him a murderer, but it took a lot of fucking courage to tell me to go and take care of it instead of staying with her and holding her close.
I’d much rather have my woman in my arms than be dealing with this piece of shit. But here we are and I know this needs to happen to grant Addy peace.
The peace she deserves.
The peace that never should have been shattered in the first place.
When I glance over at Anchor, a sinister smile curls on his lips. He presses a button on a remote, and a projector drops out of the ceiling. It’s encased in clear acrylic, just in case blood splatter gets away from us.
People tend to dig their heels in and deny their crimes unless confronted with proof. Wagner won’t be any different. Not when he’s convinced himself that he’s untouchable.
“Geoffrey Wagner. Age 32. Joined Internal Affairs two years ago after making a name for himself as a Narc,” Anchor relays the basics while Wagner’s chest heaves and he glares at my brother like it will be enough to help him escape his fate.
It won’t.
We all curl our lip at the man in front of us. His bio is enough and tells us plenty about the man he is. He’s a rat without a shred of loyalty.
“You’re making a mistake,” Wagner tries to sound tough, but I can hear the wobble in the words.
I walk over to where we keep our tools, my fingers ghosting over the instruments of destruction and pain we’ve curated for use down here. Each one of them is easily cleaned or replaced. None of them are sentimental because keeping something you shouldn’t is a good way to get caught.
No evidence.
No trace.
Clean.
Easy.
That’s the way we like things. It’s the way Battle taught me when it was time, and it’s a tradition I’ve kept up with unfailingly. Because I’ll never do something to put my brothers at risk.
Having the shed is enough of a risk as it is.
When I turn back toward Wagner, I have a knife in my hand. It’s big, mostly for the shock value of it, and it has a wicked blade for maximum damage.
Wagner eyes the blade, but he doesn’t say anything. Pity.
“You’ve really stepped in it now,” I warn him.
Anchor informs everyone of what I already know, “He’s been skimming from evidence and taking payoffs from dirty cops and criminals long before he joined IA.”
My brothers grumble and shift from one foot to the other. We might be criminals ourselves, but there are lines we don’t cross. Wagner clearly doesn’t have the same ideals.
Wagner perks up and admits, “Yes, that’s right.
Which means I can pay you off. I’ll pay you, just name your price, and then let me go.
You can even keep that bitch as long as you ensure she’ll keep her mouth shut.
” He smirks, the expression creepy as fuck on his pinched face, “I’m sure you can find a way to keep her quiet. ”
He says it like we share some sort of perversion. We don’t.
I step closer to him and notice the way sweat starts to bead on his forehead. As if I didn’t already know, it’s proof he’s all bluster and bullshit.
“That’s not going to happen.”
As the words land between us, he grins and offers, “I’d be happy to take her off your hands and take care of her. It’ll be cleaner that way anyway.”
Rampage chuckles and shakes his head in admonishment. When Wagner looks his way, my brother snarls, “You’ve really fucked up now. You’re suggesting we hand our president’s Old Lady over to a crooked cop who enjoys killing women? You’re off your fucking rocker if you think that’s going to happen.”
Wagner pales, but he doesn’t back down. “Like I said,” he sounds frustrated and on the verge of tears, which I almost hope he lets fall, “I can pay you. Give me a number.”
Anchor’s voice is full of knowing, “14 million.”
I glance toward my brother, surprised at how big the number is. The last time he filled me in, he had only found half that. I knew he wasn’t done digging, but still. Damn.
Wagner’s mouth opens and closes a few times, the man clearly struggling. “I, I,” he pauses and swallows hard, his voice shaking as he asks for clarification, “14 million?”
“I’ve found all your little hidey-holes,” Anchor tells the man.
He clicks the remote and the evidence he’s been compiling projects onto the wall. I don’t look at it; I don’t need to. No, I watch Wagner’s face.
I already know it’s all there. A money trail. Pictures, if any could be found. Files he’s altered or tried to destroy. Dossiers on his accomplices—the ones who wear badges and the ones who don’t.
“We’ll be cleaning up your mess for a few months,” I inform our guest with a glimmer in my eye. “I’m looking forward to it, but you won’t be leaving this shed.”
“You can’t do that. People will be looking for me.”
I tsk and shake my head, but it’s Anchor who informs him, “No. They won’t.
I’ve been putting breadcrumbs out there.
When your absence is noticed and they start the search, they’re going to find a fake path that you’ve been obsessively following to find your wife’s killer.
They’ll figure that your need for justice is what got you killed.
Or,” Anchor shrugs, his smirk much more dangerous than Wagner could ever dream of being, “in a few months when the truth of your crimes come out, they will assume that your own bad dealings caught up to you and Kendra was caught up in your mess.”
“The cops will spin it however they need to ensure they don’t look bad. Everything will be pinned on you, and your death will feel like absolution and relief,” I inform the man.
He starts to tremble and I’m not sure if it’s from rage or fear.
Not like it matters.
When I step closer to him, knife in hand, he glances around the room with the hope of finding an ally. I know it’s futile; he figures it out pretty quickly himself.