1. Brute
Brute
One minute, he’s yelling at the stunned barista at the street cart, and the next, his brains are plastered on the wall of the brick building behind him.
Releasing my tension on the trigger, I watch as chaos unfolds from a thousand meters away. People scream, run, attempt to hide, but none of them realize their hiding spots won’t stop my bullets. The high-caliber shot would penetrate right through the glass bus shelter, killing them in an instant.
That’s not my goal, however. It’s not what I was hired to do. No, today I had one mission, and while sending a text confirming the death, I receive an alert on my phone, signalling that the second payment has been deposited into the club’s account.
For forty years, the Kings of Anarchy Mississippi Chapter has been offering hits as our main source of income.
My pops was the club’s president until several years ago when he retired and handed me the gavel.
I think it had a lot to do with my being dishonorably discharged from the Rangers and coming home drunk every night.
The club was my childhood home until my mom took me away.
She hated that I would grow up in the outlaw life and did not want me turning out like my father and the other men who would influence me.
I grew to resent her over time and joined the army to have somewhere to release my anger when it would fester and grow, getting me into trouble.
Over those years, I was used as a weapon for the government, and then, when I did something that they didn’t approve of, they kicked me out. Turns out killing a handful of men for raping a ten-year-old girl in some dirty fucking hut in the middle of a war zone was the wrong thing to do.
I’ve never been accused of being a good man, never did anything right in my life, but on that mountain, in the dead of night, I knew I was in the right.
My best friend, Luka Barnes, or Axl as he’s known around the club, made a good call that night by informing me of what was going down and giving me an assist. Unfortunately, the girl did not survive the hell she went through, but at least those assholes will never do it again.
When I returned home, Axl came with me. We spent our entire Rangers career together, and he was in no better of a place than I was when Pops found us in a dirty motel with a woman between us. Sharing women is the only thing that makes either of us feel alive anymore.
Axl and I were given the option to become prospects in the Kings of Anarchy MC before patching in as members a year later.
Earning the respect of the club was difficult when we were just a couple of dumb kids entering our thirties, but we managed and eventually walked easily into our new positions.
I became club President, and Axl took over as Road Captain when Shorty was killed in a drive-by shooting by an enemy that was later extinguished.
Dismantling my rifle, I’m quick to exit the building the same way I entered, ensuring no evidence is left behind. I don’t know the guy’s identity, nor do I care. My ability to care died the night that girl did. She took my humanity with her, and I’m better for it.
Axl watches for me in the building’s lobby, waiting until I leave out a side door before he walks through the front.
After storing my weapon in the trunk of the blacked-out Bronco, I slide behind the wheel, drive around the block, and pick up Axl as he lingers at a hot dog stand on the street corner.
“Clear?” he asks, his voice still rough from the near hanging he endured last month. He couldn’t speak for about two weeks before his voice slowly returned. The trachea bruising was significant and something that pissed him off because he talks a lot of shit.
“Yup. Perfect day for a meatball sub.”
Axl snorts and hands me one of the hot dogs before turning on the radio.
“You heard it here, folks. If you or anyone you know is missing a loved one with brown hair and hazel eyes, who is in her early twenties and pregnant, please take a look at the studio’s website for more information and a picture of the woman with no memory.
Quite a remarkable story of survival.” The radio host's empathetic voice is something I haven’t been familiar with in nearly a decade.
“Damn,” Axl mutters.
He managed to hold onto his humanity. Don’t know if it’s lucky or not, but at least he feels things. I’m just a dark void of nothingness.
“Sucks,” I agree. And it does. For the girl. Not sure what happened, but it doesn’t sound good.
“Stop and see Easton?” Axl asks as we exit onto Highway 98 from Destin, Florida.
Easton Kincaid served with us until he decided to retire about a year before our discharge. We were good friends, raised in similar backgrounds, with an understanding of the kind of life we would inevitably live.
Easton comes from organized crime, I come from a 1% club that follows its own rules, and Axl is the son of a dead serial killer from New York. We’re all cut from the same cloth and woven into men who are intolerant of the world around them.
“Yeah, give him a call, see what he’s up to these days.” It’ll be good to touch base with an old friend. Take a break from this trip before heading home and back into the thick of it.
The drive is mostly done in silence, with the radio as background noise. There’s a lot of talk about this discovered woman, but few details, and her story piques my curiosity.
“You think it was her lover?” I glance at Axl as we merge into the Pensacola traffic, heading towards the Bay Bridge.
“Isn’t it always?” He laughs while searching up the website to get a look at the woman. “Damn. Image isn’t loading. They say she was found out by Bay Springs, half dead on the side of the road, and missed by dozens of drivers. Only reason she was found is someone had to take a piss.”
“She be dead otherwise?” I ask, my interest increasing.
“Holy fuck,” he grunts. “She was shot in the head. So, yeah, I’d say she’d be dead.”
“Who the fuck shoots a pregnant woman in the head?” Even I’m not that cold. Sure, killing people for money is my thing, but children are off limits.
“A lover.” My friend reiterates his previous statement about it being the father. Truthfully, he’s probably not wrong.
After a few more minutes of radio ads, Axl’s phone buzzes in the cupholder, and Easton’s name pops up on the screen. “Damn,” he says. “Easton’s out of town on business.” Too bad. “Next time.” Because we both know there’s always a next time in our line of work.
“Let Viking know our ETA.” Now that I’m driving straight through, we should only be a few more hours.
We ride in silence for a while before Axl speaks up, “You ever think about her?”
Her.
All the fucking time.
Finleigh Collins.
The sweetest and most satisfying piece of ass we’ve ever shared. “Yeah, I think about her.” We’d been on a job in Jackson when we ran into the woman in a dive bar, looking to celebrate her achievement.
We spent a weekend losing ourselves in her body.
Her perfectly round hips, big, juicy ass, and pert tits still make my mouth water.
The woman discovered a seductive side she never believed existed.
When we woke up that last morning, she was gone, with a note left behind thanking us for an unforgettable weekend, but stating that was all she wanted.
Leaving her alone was torture, but a few bottles of rum made it easier.
“Yeah, Ax, I think of her.” More than I’d like to admit.
“Ever want to head back up there, find her?” He’s getting at something.
“You looking to settle down, brother?” Meeting his eyes briefly, I recognize the want in the amber and honey-colored irises that show more than he tells.
“Been thinking about it.”
The thing about Axl and me, we want to share one woman.
His relaxed attitude makes it easier for me to connect because he takes the pressure off me.
If this is what he wants with her, I’m not opposed.
Finleigh is the only woman who’s ever made me think about a future, but I forced it down because of her wishes.
“Maybe you look her up, then.” His signature grin with one dimple in his cheek spreads wide across his face as he glances down at his phone before turning completely pale and muttering a string of curses that burns even my jaded ears.