Chapter Thirty-Four
Ravage
As the video ended, a chilling finality settling in the air, I stared at Sypher, who still hadn’t looked at me once since I arrived.
King was pacing church like a caged animal, his club brothers parting like the Red Sea, utter silence their only defense against the raging beast, lest they become his next victim.
Standing there, I scanned the faces of men who had chosen this life, men who supposedly knew the dangers and the rot that dwelled deep within our enemies, and yet they stood stoically, frozen by the unspoken fear emanating from one man, their eyes glued to him as if hypnotized.
But it wasn’t just fear I saw; it was something more complex, a shared burden, a carefully guarded secret.
My attention snapped back to Sypher, a cold dread prickling my skin.
My hand, almost of its own accord, moved to my side, fingers brushing the cool, familiar grip of my machete.
This weapon, a symbol of my strength, my resolve, now felt like a ticking bomb, an extension of the rage that was beginning to consume me.
Sypher flinched. The tiny movement was enough.
Cash took a tentative step forward, a flicker of desperation in his eyes, as if trying to mediate a conflict he himself was afraid to acknowledge.
All eyes were now on me. The silence that followed was heavier than any spoken word. They were hiding something.
Something they didn’t want me, or King, to know.
The instinct to protect, to uncover the truth, warred with a nascent unease, a whisper of suspicion that perhaps ignorance was the kinder path. But that was a path I had never walked.
Before anyone could blink, before my own wavering resolve could fully solidify, I had Sypher out of his chair, his back slamming against the rough church wall. Seething, I leaned close, my breath hot against his fear-widened eyes. My voice, a low growl, vibrated with suppressed fury. “Tell me.”
He gulped, a pathetic, choked sound, and shook his head, his eyes pleading.
His silence was an answer in itself—a poisonous confirmation that twisted in my gut, a stark reminder of my own perceived inadequacies.
This wasn’t just about them hiding something; it was about my failure.
I was supposed to protect her, to be the shield, and this knowledge they were hoarding was proof that I hadn’t been enough.
The shame was a bitter bile rising in my throat.
I closed my eyes, the weight of their silence crushing me, and I released him.
The effort to let go, to resist the urge to force the truth out of him, was agonizing.
Taking several steps back, I shook my head.
The knowledge of what Sypher and the others knew, and refused to articulate, seared a brand into my mind.
I didn’t blame them. If I were in their place, with the same chilling understanding, I would have done the same.
The instinct to preserve the fragile peace, even a peace built on lies, was a powerful one.
But it went against everything I stood for.
I believed in truth, in confronting darkness head-on, not in cowering from it.
Taking a seat, I leaned forward, my elbows digging into my knees, and grabbed my head, a guttural roar escaping my lips.
Pain lanced through my soul, not just from the current revelations, but from the echoes of past failures.
My failure to protect her, my failure to be the man I was supposed to be, engulfed me.
I was trapped in a cycle of my own making, forced to choose between the brutal truth and the agonizing silence, and in that moment, both felt like betrayals.
My own morality, my belief in action and honesty, was being chipped away, replaced by a suffocating sense of helplessness.
I had failed, and the weight of that failure, coupled with the knowledge I had to now carry, was a burden I wasn’t sure I could bear.
I had made a bad choice, a choice to embrace the darkness that festered in their silence, and I knew, with a certainty that chilled me to the bone, that I would regret this moment for a very long time.
Time no longer existed. It was irrelevant. Hours had passed and no one knew anything. We had no direction, no clue to where they could be. Waiting was the hardest. I wanted so much to hunt for her, but without a single lead, even I didn’t know where to start.
King moved to step toward me, but his brothers surrounded him, halting him. “What do you know?” he asked.
“She’s alive, King,” Cash resolutely said.
“That’s all you need to know.” Cash’s words hung in the air, stark and unsatisfying, a lifeline frayed at the edges.
King’s face twisted, equal parts rage and desperation.
I saw the hope flicker behind his eyes, desperate to believe, yet terrified of what lay beneath those simple words.
No one else moved.
No one else spoke.
I realized then that the truth, whatever it was, had carved a chasm between us all—a gulf that only honesty could cross, but none were willing to make that leap. The silence wasn’t just a shield for Grace and for Karlyn; it was a prison for all of us.
“What the fuck does that mean?” King shouted, grabbing my attention as he faced off with Cash.
Cash shook his head and was about to elaborate when King’s phone rang. Pushing his brothers away, he answered it, placing the phone on speaker so we all could hear as a sinister laugh filled the room.
“Lose something, asshole?”
“Fuck you, Skinner. Where are they?” King’s voice was a low growl, but beneath it, a tremor of desperation. I wanted to believe he was in control, needed to believe that he was the ruthless, level-headed leader I knew him to be. But the gnawing uncertain fear pricked at the edges of my composure.
“Tell me, King, didn’t Steele teach you anything?” Skinner’s voice rasped, dripping with malice. “Patience. How to play the long game. Or perhaps”—he chuckled, a dry, brittle sound—“he taught you the value of things you can’t possibly afford to lose.”
“I’m going to rip off your head and shit down your throat.” My brother’s threat was visceral, a primal urge to lash out, to impose order through brute force—a method I’d always scorned in others but found myself increasingly drawn to now.
It was so much simpler.
“Tell me something. How much is she worth to you?” Skinner’s voice lowered, a silken thread weaving through my already fraying nerves. “Because your precious Grace is about to become a very valuable commodity.”
And just then, a ping arrived, letting everyone know King had just received an incoming text message.
Some brothers looked away, a flicker of unease in their eyes, while others stiffened, anticipating the inevitable storm.
This was King’s fight, but it was their burden too, the silent weight of loyalty pressing down on them.
With shaky fingers, King opened the attachment and froze. The image was everything I’d dreaded, and more. Moving to stand next to him, I saw the grainy image of Grace appearing, naked, beaten and bound, her eyes wide with a terror I knew all too well.
My gut clenched.
This wasn’t just about the Death Dogs anymore. This was something far more sinister, a game of leverage where Grace and Karlyn were the ultimate prize. The laughter that followed was a chilling crescendo, a testament to the depravity of the men who held her.
“This one’s got spunk, doesn’t she?” another voice, slick and oily, slithered from the speaker as another text appeared, and I braced myself, knowing who it would be.
“Almost made me forget the mess her father made. Almost.” His implication hung in the air, a dark cloud of unspoken history.
My blood ran cold. Karl Ingalls Sr., the serial killer who had blazed a trail of blood and destruction in his wake before Declan killed the son of a bitch.
A knot of pure, unadulterated rage tightened in my chest, a familiar beast stirring from its slumber.
But with the rage came a cold dread, a chilling certainty that this was not just about revenge for the past, but a deliberate, calculated torment aimed at my vulnerabilities.
My face was a mask of cold fury, but behind my eyes, a battle raged. I wanted to believe King could command his men, that his word was law. But the sight of Karlyn, so vulnerable, so broken, ignited a desperate, reckless impulse.
I knew King was warring with himself. He could order Sypher to trace the call, to do the calculated, strategic thing.
Or he could rip this place apart with his bare hands, a futile act of pure, unthinking violence that would achieve nothing but his own destruction, and potentially Grace’s too.
I saw the options laid out before him, stark and unforgiving: preserve his reputation and his men by playing the calculated game, or shatter everything in a desperate gamble to save the woman he loved more than he ever thought possible.
I knew with a sinking heart that whatever choice he made, a piece of him would die with it.
And with one look at Sypher, he made his decision.
Fingers flew across Sypher’s keyboard as he broke into King’s phone, tracing the call. I stood beside him, resolute, and watched as his hands clenched into fists, the urge to smash the screen, to silence the digital breadcrumbs, warring with the chilling necessity of following this trail.
He was King. The president of the Silver Shadows. He was supposed to be untouchable. But right now, I knew he felt utterly exposed, a pawn in a game he had never intended to play.
“You’ve got until dawn. Meet me at the falls in Wyoming. And bring the fucking bitch!”
“JACKSON!”
“KINGSTON!”