Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
Torment
Soulless Sinners’ clubhouse...
The clubhouse felt wrong the moment I pulled into the lot.
It was too quiet. Too still. Like a body with no pulse, lying there cold and lifeless under the harsh glare of the streetlights.
I killed the engine and sat there for a moment, staring at the building that had been my second home for the better part of a decade.
The Soulless Sinners’ clubhouse in New York City had always been alive—music thumping through the walls, bikes lined up like soldiers at attention in neat rows, brothers coming and going at all hours of the day and night.
There was energy here. A constant buzz of activity.
Purpose. A sense that we were part of something bigger than ourselves, something that mattered, something worth fighting for.
Now it looked like a mausoleum. A tomb waiting to be sealed.
Only a handful of bikes sat in the lot, scattered across the pavement like forgotten relics.
Mine. Mercy’s custom Harley with its distinctive chrome work.
A couple others I recognized as belonging to the New York Chapter—brothers who’d stuck around despite everything falling apart around us.
That was it. No Alabama brothers yet. No one from the other chapters because there were no other chapters anymore.
They were gone. Absorbed. Destroyed. Scattered to the wind.
Just us. New York and Alabama. The last two standing. The last remnants of what had once been a powerful, sprawling organization.
I climbed off my bike and headed for the entrance, my boots echoing too loudly against the pavement in the oppressive silence.
The sound made my skin crawl, made every nerve in my body stand on edge.
It was the kind of silence that came before something broke—before violence erupted or bad news landed or the world shifted beneath your feet, and nothing was ever the same again.
We were sitting ducks. That was what kept running through my mind as I pushed through the front door, the hinges creaking in protest. With the Death Dogs circling like vultures, waiting for their moment to strike, and the Golden Skulls watching from the shadows to see if we’d survive long enough to be worth their investment, we were exposed.
Vulnerable. Weak. One good hit and we’d be done.
Finished. Another cautionary tale about what happened when you let your guard down.
The thought should have scared me. Should have had me running for the hills.
Instead, I felt a strange sense of pride swelling in my chest.
We were still here. Still standing when everyone else had fallen. Still fighting when most would have given up. That had to count for something. It had to mean something.
The main room was empty, abandoned like a ghost town.
No music blaring from the speakers. No laughter echoing off the walls.
No brothers shooting pool or getting drunk or fucking club girls in the back rooms. Just silence and shadows and the faint smell of stale beer and cigarette smoke hanging in the air like a memory of better times.
I made my way down the hallway toward Mercy’s office, my footsteps the only sound in the entire building, each one seeming to echo endlessly.
It felt like walking through a graveyard at midnight.
Like I was the only living thing left in a place that used to pulse with life and energy and brotherhood.
As I passed Bane’s office, I caught a glimpse of him hunched over his workstation, confused and frustrated. The DNA database was his baby, and I didn’t stop to ask about it. Not tonight.
Mercy’s door was open, a sliver of light spilling into the dark hallway.
I found him sitting at his desk, hunched over his laptop like he’d been there for hours, his fingers flying across the keyboard with practiced efficiency.
He didn’t look up when I walked in, didn’t acknowledge my presence, but I knew he’d heard me.
Mercy always knew when someone was in his space.
He had that kind of awareness that came from years of watching his back.
“You look like shit,” I said, dropping into the chair across from him with a heavy sigh.
“Thanks, Doc. Real helpful.” He kept typing, his jaw tight with tension. “You here to shrink me or are you actually going to be useful tonight?”
“Depends. You planning on having a breakdown?” I crossed my arms, watching him carefully.
“Not tonight.” He finally looked up, his eyes bloodshot and tired, dark circles underneath them. “Ask me again tomorrow.”
I leaned back in the chair, studying him with the clinical eye I’d developed over years of practice.
Mercy had always been the steady one. The guy who kept his head when everyone else was losing theirs.
The rock we all leaned on when things got rough.
But the last few weeks had worn him down, ground him into dust. I could see it in the lines around his eyes, the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands never stopped moving—always typing, always working, always trying to fix something that might be beyond fixing.
He was running on fumes and sheer determination.
“Bane and Tessa are on their way with Montana,” Mercy said, closing his laptop with a soft click. “Should be here any minute.”
I couldn’t help it—I laughed, a short bark of sound. “Montana’s going to be in rare form.”
“That’s putting it mildly.” Mercy rubbed his face with both hands, exhaustion bleeding through every movement.
“Bane’s been texting me nonstop for the last hour.
Says Montana’s being a stubborn bastard.
Refused to stay another night in the hospital.
Told the doctors to go fuck themselves when they tried to keep him for observation. ”
“Sounds about right.” I shook my head, a wry smile tugging at my lips.
“Yeah, well, he’s going to get himself killed if he keeps pushing like this.” Mercy’s voice was flat, emotionless, but I heard the worry underneath—the fear he was trying to hide. “He’s not healed. Not even close. His body needs time to recover. But try telling him that.”
“You think I haven’t tried?” I shook my head. “Montana doesn’t listen to anyone. Never has. You know that.”
“Doesn’t mean we stop trying.” Mercy’s eyes met mine, hard and determined.
I didn’t argue. Mercy was right. We couldn’t stop trying, even if it was pointless, even if we were talking to a brick wall. That was what brothers did. They kept showing up, kept fighting, kept trying to save each other even when it was a lost cause, even when the outcome seemed inevitable.
“What about the others?” I asked, changing the subject.
Mercy shrugged, his shoulders tight. “Vicious and Fury are on their way. Payne and Rage should be here soon. Storm’s bringing Shame. Pippen will be here too.”
Mercy leaned back in his chair, his expression grim, resigned. “We’re spread too thin, Torment. We don’t have the numbers to fight a war on multiple fronts. If the Death Dogs hit us again—”
“They will.” My voice was flat, certain.
“I know.” He met my eyes, and I saw the weight he was carrying, the burden of leadership. “That’s what tonight’s about. Figuring out what the fuck we do next. How we survive. How we fight back.”
Before I could respond, a voice boomed through the clubhouse, loud enough to rattle the walls and shake the foundation.
“I DON’T GIVE A FUCK WHAT THE DOCTOR SAID, BANE. I’M FINE.”
Mercy and I exchanged a look, a silent communication that came from years of brotherhood.
“Here we go,” Mercy muttered, pushing to his feet with a groan.
I followed him out of the office and down the hallway toward the main room, my pulse quickening. Montana’s voice grew louder with every step, punctuated by Bane’s equally loud protests and what sounded like Tessa’s quieter attempts at mediation.
“YOU’RE NOT FINE, YOU STUBBORN ASSHOLE. YOU JUST GOT OUT OF THE HOSPITAL. YOU SHOULD BE IN BED, NOT CALLING CHURCH.”
“I’LL BE IN BED WHEN I’M DEAD. UNTIL THEN, I’VE GOT A CLUB TO RUN.”
We rounded the corner just in time to see Bane and Tessa half-carrying, half-dragging Montana through the front door like he was a sack of stubborn, ornery potatoes.
Montana looked like hell—pale as a ghost, gaunt like he’d lost twenty pounds, moving like every step cost him everything he had.
But his eyes were sharp, blazing with determination, his jaw set in that familiar stubborn line, and his voice was strong enough to wake the dead in three counties.
He was pissed. And determined. A dangerous combination in the best of times; potentially lethal now.
“Need a hand?” Mercy called out, his tone somewhere between amused and exasperated.
“What we need,” Bane snapped, his patience clearly worn to nothing, “is for this idiot to get back in the fucking car and go home.”
“Not happening.” Montana’s voice was a growl, low and threatening. “We’ve got business to handle. Important business.”
Tessa looked exhausted, completely drained.
She’d been by Montana’s side since the attack, barely sleeping, barely eating, holding him together through sheer force of will and love.
Now she just looked done, like she’d reached the end of her rope.
“He won’t listen,” she said, her voice tight with frustration and fear.
“I tried. Bane tried. The doctors tried. He doesn’t care. ”
“Damn right I don’t care.” Montana shook off Bane’s grip with more force than necessary and straightened, wincing but refusing to show weakness, refusing to let anyone see how much it cost him.
“I’ve got brothers to lead. A club to protect.
I’m not sitting on my ass while everything falls apart around us. ”
I moved to his other side, offering support without making it obvious, slipping my shoulder under his arm. Montana hated being coddled, hated looking weak. But he also wasn’t stupid enough to refuse help when he genuinely needed it, when pride could actually kill him.
“Boardroom,” I said quietly, keeping my voice low and calm.
He nodded once, sharp and decisive, and together—Mercy on one side, me on the other—we guided him down the hallway.
Bane followed close behind, still muttering under his breath about stubborn bastards and death wishes and brothers who didn’t know when to quit.
Tessa trailed behind us, her expression a mix of frustration, resignation, and bone-deep worry.
We got Montana into the boardroom and settled him into his chair at the head of the table, the president’s chair.
He sank into it with a barely audible grunt, his face going a shade paler, sweat beading on his forehead.
But he didn’t complain. Didn’t ask for water or painkillers or a moment to catch his breath and recover.
He just sat there, waiting, gathering his strength.
The others started arriving a few minutes later, filtering in one by one.
Vicious and Fury came in together, both looking like they’d rather be anywhere else, doing anything else.
Vicious’ jaw was tight, his eyes hard as flint.
Fury’s expression was unreadable, carefully blank, but I could see the tension in the way he held himself—coiled tight, ready to snap at the slightest provocation.
Neither of them said a word. They just took their seats and waited, faces impassive.
Payne and Rage entered next, silent as ghosts, moving like shadows.
Payne’s face was a mask, giving nothing away, every emotion locked down tight.
Rage looked like he was barely holding it together, like he was one wrong word away from exploding, his hands clenched into fists at his sides, knuckles white.
They sat down without acknowledging anyone, their presence heavy and oppressive, filling the room with unspoken tension.
Storm walked in a few minutes later with Shame trailing behind him like a lost puppy.
Storm moved with his usual easy confidence, that natural swagger he’d always had, but I could see the strain around his eyes, the cracks in his armor.
Shame looked worse—hollow, haunted, like he was carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders, and it was crushing him inch by inch.
The room filled slowly, each brother taking their place around the table in their designated spots.
The silence was thick, suffocating, pressing down on all of us.
No one spoke. No one made eye contact. We just sat there in the oppressive quiet, waiting for Montana to start, waiting for him to tell us what came next.
Pippen sat quietly in his chair at the far end of the table.
Somehow, he’d slipped in without me noticing. The club was scattered, broken, held together by mere threads. This was our reality now.
This was what we had left.
Montana looked around the table slowly, his gaze sharp despite the pain I knew he was in, taking in each face. He took his time, meeting each brother’s eyes in turn, assessing, calculating, reading the room like he always did.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he spoke.
“We’ve got a lot to talk about,” he said, his voice rough but steady, commanding attention. “And not a lot of time to do it. So let’s get down to business.”
The room seemed to hold its breath, the tension ratcheting up another notch.
“Where the fuck is Silver?” Montana barked.
“She didn’t come back from Nebraska,” Mercy answered. “She disappeared after Malice died.”
“Find her,” he growled.
Montana shifted in his chair, and I knew this was it. The moment we’d all been dreading. The moment we’d have to face the brutal reality of what we’d become and decide what came next, what we were willing to fight for.
Montana leaned forward slowly, wincing slightly, his hands flat on the table in front of him.
“The Soulless Sinners are at a crossroads,” he said, his voice carrying weight, authority.
“We’ve lost brothers. Good men. We’ve lost chapters.
Territory we built over decades. We’ve been forced into a patch-over we didn’t want, didn’t ask for.
And now we’re sitting here, wondering if we’re going to survive the next month, the next week, maybe even the next day. ”
No one argued. No one protested. Because it was the truth, harsh and undeniable.
“So here’s what we’re going to do,” Montana continued, his voice gaining strength. “We’re going to figure out how to stay alive. How to protect what’s left of this club. How to keep our brothers safe. And how to make sure the Death Dogs pay for what they did to us, to our family.”
His eyes swept the room again, hard and unyielding, burning with determination.
“This is our club. Our family. Our brotherhood. And I’ll be damned if I let anyone take it from us without a fight.”
The silence that followed was absolute, deafening.
Then, slowly, one by one, the brothers nodded in agreement, resolve hardening on every face.
We were ready.
Ready to fight. Ready to survive. Ready to do whatever it took, pay whatever price was necessary.
Montana sat back in his chair carefully, his expression grim but determined, steel in his eyes.
“Let’s get to work.”