Chapter 1
Ricochet
My breath hissed out as the cold water sent shivers racing down my back. It created a sharp chill that cascaded throughout my whole body. I reached for the shower knob and rolled it back, wincing as the water got even colder.
I wasn’t one of those masochist types or health nuts that took cold showers for the fun of it.
I could tell you I did it to cool the rage inside me, to ice down the monster within.
That would be bullshit, too. At least it would be good bullshit.
Almost believable. It made me sound like I was doing humanity a kindness.
I wasn’t sure I was capable of being gentle or caring any longer.
No, I did it because it was something I could feel. Really feel. I didn’t enjoy being cold, but I enjoyed numbness even less. And I’d been living without feelings and emotions—besides anger—for too long now.
Letting my skin take the punishment of the cold water, and taking on that pins and needles feeling as the spray hit my body, was far better than the emptiness in my soul.
Before all this I wouldn’t have subscribed to the theory of souls and shit, but once you fuck up the way I had?
You started to believe. The absence of it was driving me insane.
I spent my days unable to connect with anything or anyone around me.
Not even my MC brothers, and they were some of the most important people in my life.
That numb aching feeling was getting worse.
I wasn’t sure how much more I could take before I did something drastic and stupid.
Standing in the shower, now that I was accustomed to the temperature, I went about the business of scrubbing myself down.
Getting worse was an understatement. A black inky weight was slithering over that part of me I once thought was mythical.
All I wanted to do was find my enemies and torture them until they writhed in pain.
Finish them once they couldn’t absorb another moment of torment.
Let them bleed out and die. That wasn’t normal, right?
My head dropped, heavy with the weight of my urges, and the water pelted the back of my neck.
Icy cold fingers spread over my skin, creeping down my body until they disappeared through the drain and it started all over again.
I didn’t have any enemies at the moment, they were all dead, but the urge was still there.
I needed to find new enemies. Someone to expel my rage onto. Needing that couldn’t be good either.
Last night we raided the cult. Executed the extremists and freed the women and children. I thought I was ready to get back into the fight. Hell, it sounded easy enough. Crazy cult leader, fanatical men who rape and abuse women. I had no issue with killing those types. That wasn’t the problem.
I hadn’t been ready for what was actually going to happen. Butcher tried to warn us, warn me, that with these cults it's never that easy. I thought we’d be fighting crazy men. Adult men.
I wasn’t ready for the kid. Ten, maybe eleven years old.
I had a nephew that age. Still playing with Legos but not yet looking at girls.
In a different world the kid from last night could have been going to school with my nephew, they could have been friends.
In any sane world he should have been in with the group of women and children we were rescuing.
The other two—while still young—had been old enough to make their choices.
The kid… The kid, though, shouldn’t have been there. Shouldn’t have shot at Hellfire.
I reached for the knob and rolled it back slightly. A new round of shivers engulfed my body with the colder water. It was the only thing that was helping to chase away the memories.
No. This was the real world. At least the one that boy had lived in.
The one I’d helped take down. And he’d been carrying a rifle.
He’d gripped that gun, and he’d been ready to use it.
He had used it. When I saw him I froze. In my life, in all my service with the Navy Seals, my time on the teams, I only ever froze once.
When I had, my best friend had been killed.
I was the reason his wife was a widow. His children were growing up without their father.
My best friend had died because I’d hesitated.
Swallowing hard, I squeezed my eyes shut, as if that could block out Jack’s face from my mind. As if that one movement could somehow erase the fact that he was gone. He was buried in fucking Arlington, and I was still here. The cold and memories bled together, making it hard to breathe.
Last night when I saw that kid, I froze again.
Hellfire was nearly killed because of it.
My limbs had weighed a ton and it was as though I was anchored to the ground, and because of that the kid shot my brother.
I honestly wasn’t sure for a minute if I was awake, or if I was stuck in the middle of one of my fucked up dreams. Then I’d heard Riptide.
I was able to move again. My training kicked in and I killed a kid. Again.
That was when I lost it. I wasn’t sure I was ever going to regain my sanity after this.
When you’re forced to end the life of someone who was so young and should still be innocent of the evil in this world?
It did things to you. Things I never wanted to experience again, but they were my constant companions.
Voices inside of me, whispering all the fucking evil things I shouldn’t think about.
Behind that kid had been a man giving orders.
My brain went from sluggish and unable to process to hyper efficient.
I saw the man—Bruce had been his name—and realized he had been the one to arm the kid, to make a child soldier.
He had been the one to put me in a position to kill a kid for the second time.
Berserker is what my brothers call it. When I lose my shit the way I did last night.
A blind rage overcame me. Some guys called it seeing red.
I didn’t see much of anything, other than the target of my rage.
I’d beaten Bruce to death. With my bare hands.
Broke two of my fingers and dislocated two more.
This wasn’t the first time I’d gone Berserker, but it certainly was the worst. I’d get into bar fights, lose my temper, and take it too far.
I’d just lose sight of when to stop. This rage, this fear, always took hold, telling me that if I stop, the person I’m fighting will hurt someone else that I care about. So I didn’t stop.
Looking down at my hand, I flexed it. Crash—a special forces medic we’d known from back in the day—had reset the two dislocated fingers and splinted the other two.
The pain hadn’t registered. Crash was a bit of an oddball.
Even Butcher gave him a wide berth, when possible, but the look he’d given me when I’d refused any pain relievers told me he thought I was the crazy one. He wasn’t wrong.
My knuckles were scabbing over, but a few hours ago you could almost see bone.
That was a new one for me. I’d never hurt anyone that badly when I’d gone Berserker in the past. It was building, growing…
getting worse. I wasn’t sure how deep this rage and numbness could go. Or what would happen when I lost it.
Usually I just beat someone's ass, wounding them, maybe breaking the occasional rib. I’d never beaten someone to death with my fists before.
Killed plenty of men, and I wouldn’t feel bad for that.
Not for killing for my country, or for my club, but men were entirely different than what was haunting me. Or should I say who?
According to Riptide, if anyone deserved what happened to him, it was this Bruce fellow. His death didn’t bother me. The blind rage and lack of control was worrying. It was a problem, both for me and for the motorcycle club.
I knew my brothers wouldn’t just throw me out.
But they couldn’t rely on me. Pain stabbed through my heart, making me gasp out loud.
It’d been so long since I’d felt a fucking thing besides that rage, the zip of emotion physically hurt me.
My brothers couldn’t trust me. Why should they?
I couldn’t even trust myself. Soon we would have to deal with this. And I had no clue how to begin.
Leaning my arm against the wall, I rested my head on it, closing my eyes and trying to block out the images from last night.
My ears were filled with the sound of water and static.
Nothing penetrated my bubble so long as I was in here.
But I couldn’t live my life in the fucking shower.
At least I wasn’t using up all the hot water.
I shut the shower off and stepped out to begin drying myself.
Walking past the mirror, I refused to glance over.
I was in no condition to look at that guy right now.
Instead, I went to my phone. I had a text from my sister.
Despite living in the city, I hadn’t seen her in some time.
She wanted to know if I was free to come visit.
Somehow, she always knew when I needed her. I used to be able to tell the same for her, but that instinct had been silent for a few years now. Ever since I’d gotten home from my last deployment. Since Jack’s death. Since the last time a death from my hand had haunted me.
If there was anyone who could calm the raging beast inside, it was my twin sister Gwen. Staying with her and her kids might help me keep myself under control. Fuck knew I couldn’t be here right now. All it would take would be one pitying look and I’d lose the tenuous hold I had on my control.
My MC brothers were my world; that didn’t mean I didn’t need room to clear my head. I always needed space, more and more so over the years as this disease grew inside me. How could I join my brothers and enjoy life when I never knew when the rage would break free?
One thing I knew for sure, I’d kill myself before ever laying a hand on my twin or her kids.
They were safe from me. I couldn’t say the same for my brothers at this point.
It didn’t matter how much I loved them, something was broken inside of me.
I was afraid, more than ever, that in my spiral I’d take them down with me.
They wouldn’t abandon me; they would allow themselves to fall before leaving me.
I couldn’t allow that either. They deserved better.
Decision made, I dressed and packed a duffel bag.
I’d stop and talk to Lockout on my way out.
He’d understand. He wouldn’t stop me from leaving.
I knew it would be a short reprieve—because Lockout wasn’t going to let me slink off like a dog with its tail between its legs—but I needed it.
He’d understand that. My president was far too fucking perceptive for his own damn good. And mine.