Epilogue
Fourteen months later
Storm
I’d known the names of the men who’d gone out to ‘acquire’ new fighters since shortly after we’d stormed the castle and left with the fight-ring’s hard drives.
Today, I was sitting in a courtroom, waiting for yet another of them to be sentenced.
Two of the three who’d already gone to trial had received life in prison, the other had gotten fifty years.
None of the guards had gone to trial yet, but one had made a plea deal that only put him behind bars for twelve years, and that pissed me off, but at least he’d see some time.
He’d managed the deal because he told the FBI where the bodies were buried, though.
Hundreds of bodies. Hundreds of families who got horrible, terrible, gut-wrenching closure.
Magnum told me he’d have it worse in prison, since the deal meant everyone else would get stronger prison sentences, with proof of so many people dead, so I guessed it was a matter of quantity versus quality, maybe.
The man who’d taken Mason had died in jail while awaiting trial, and I hadn’t asked Magnum if the club had been behind it.
Maybe they had, maybe they hadn’t, but I couldn’t bring myself to get worked up about it, either way.
He’d been killed by another inmate, so they hadn’t done the actual act, but I knew it was possible they’d paid to make it happen.
If the men who’d raped Mason were being raped in jail, that information hadn’t made it to me. I kind of hoped they were, but the former guards and trainers are badasses, so I didn’t figure it was likely.
I know all the arguments against vigilante justice, but I’ve always kind of thought the eye-for-an-eye thing makes sense. My biggest concern is in making sure you aren’t hurting someone who’s innocent, and that wasn’t an issue here.
The important thing, though, is that the victims who survived are free, and their former captors are not. Mason comes to some of the MC’s parties and seems to still be doing fine.
I walked out of the courtroom happy that this man who’d kidnapped so many of society’s vulnerable had been nearly in tears when he’d learned he would likely die in prison.
He was forty-seven years old, and he’d been sentenced to fifty years.
Not enough, since he’d ‘acquired’ more than seventy people over the four years he’d worked for the fight-ring — and since so many of them had died in captivity.
But it would have to be enough, since we don’t put people in front of a firing squad anymore. And since public hangings have long-since gone out of fashion. Shit, can you imagine the outcry if they were brought back?
I don’t really want to see people hanged in the town square, and yet, something needs to change, to act as a deterrent for the worst of our society.
Victor Preston, the rich hedge-fund guy Ember had enjoyed bringing down, was out on bail, and that royally pissed me off, but he was a guest and not an organizer.
He’d been kicked out of the pro-fighting league, but he was a partner in the hedge fund, so it wasn’t like he could be fired.
A lot of people pulled their money, but not everyone, so he was still working.
It wasn’t looking like he’d manage to skate, though.
There were serious human trafficking/sex trafficking/coercion charges against him because he’d paid to rape one of the women fighters who was speaking up.
There were also some serious charges around the gambling, and it sounded like he’d get at least fifteen years, possibly forty or more, though his legal team was successfully delaying the trial, so it’d be a while.
A lot of the guests had similar stories, and I was keeping up with them, too.
After talking to the victims and finding out who’d visited them the most in the Lucite rooms, I was making the worst of the rapists into fucking household names, talking about how much they’d bet, how often they’d attended the fights, and noted the extra payments on the books showing they’d paid to rape the fighters.
Most of them didn’t have someone testifying to the rape, and thus weren’t being charged for sex trafficking, so I was doing what I could to make the publicity hurt — to make it so they couldn’t show their face in public.
I blew out a long breath when I hit the open air, and then saw Magnum on his bike, waiting for me, and my heart soared.
But I had some work to do, so I pulled my phone out, went to the page I’d already put together with the title, the keywords, and the description — and I held my phone up and shot a fast video to give the verdict and a handful of observations.
It took less than two minutes to shoot it and send it through to make it live, and then I made my way down the steps to Magnum, sitting on his bike, waiting patiently.
And just the act of walking down the steps in heels made my clit pulse a little.
I’ve always worn dressy heels with suits, but they’re a little higher these days, and I walk so fucking easily in them, even on steps.
I wasn’t in a cincher or butt plug, but the shoes alone were enough to remind me about the fun parts of my life while I walked to the man on the motorcycle.
We were only two weeks out from my last maintenance session — at the point where it’s behind me and I’m not focused on the next session, still two months out.
As much as I hate the whole maintenance thing, I also know he can’t stop doing it, and can’t even push the timeline out much farther.
In ways I don’t want to analyze too much, the way he fucks my ass defines us.
He makes the rules and it doesn’t matter how much I fight him, beg, or cry.
I handed my body and my autonomy over to him, and every ten weeks, he proves that to both of us.
I finally made it to the bottom of the steps and walked to the love of my life.
How did I know it was him? The bike, the helmet, and the way he sits on the bike. Also, the way he turned to look at me. No one can mimic that. I didn’t need to see his face to know it was my Master.
Magnum has all these rules about me being in sturdy clothes and riding boots before I get on his bike, but our hotel was two city blocks away in slow traffic, so he was making an exception.
And no, he hadn’t ridden his bike all the way here. He’d had Heather bring us in a plane big enough to also stow his bike.
I accepted the helmet, strapped it on, climbed on behind him, wrapped my arms around him, moved my feet to the pegs, and patted his stomach.
I’d be sitting in courtrooms for years, making sure the men I’d helped bring down weren’t forgotten.
I know some of them were hoping to spend a few years in jail before making a nice, quiet plea deal that let them completely off the hook, but I wasn’t going to let it go quiet.
And yeah, maybe someone will come after me again because of that, to try to make me go away, but I’m pretty good at taking care of myself, plus I have a much bigger safety net now than I did before.
“He’ll die in prison, or at the very least be ancient when he comes out,” I told Magnum through the helmet mics.
“And what did you tell your viewers?”
“That he had tears in his eyes when he left the courtroom headed for prison, and that it isn’t enough, but it’s the best our justice system can offer.”
I had several hours of work to do once we hit the hotel room, but he’d booked a couple’s massage for us later, and we were seeing a play that evening.
And after the play, I had someone to follow and research on another story I’m chasing. Magnum had brought tons of spy equipment to help me find out what I could about this man, because sometimes, he truly enjoys helping me.
Little did I know just how much my life would change when Bud drove me to Magnum’s lake house.
I’d thought I was walking into a temporary safehouse, but it turns out, I’d stepped into my future — and now I’m the luckiest woman in the world.
I have the man of my dreams, the Master of my soul, and a life of high-protocol that doesn’t require me to sacrifice even an iota of my career.
“I’ll order room service,” Magnum said as the rumble of the engine vibrated under us when he changed gears. “I know you have to be starving, but you’ll want to get more than the basics up and public as fast as you can.”
“Yeah, sounds good.”
Because he was right about both my need for food and the importance of getting the full story uploaded as quickly as possible.
He’s almost always right, but his ego is plenty big enough without me pointing that out, so I rested my helmeted head against the solid expanse of his back and caught our reflection in the wall of windows beside us — two people on a motorcycle, between cars, stopped at a light.
Magnum was in jeans and a black T-shirt with his riding boots on the ground, while I was behind him in a pale lavender business suit with my fancy lavender heels hooked over the pegs, my arms wrapped around his waist, completely at home on the back of his bike.
Exactly where I belong.
Thank you for reading MAGNUM.