Page 8 of Bleed (Two Wheeled Psychos #4)
“I’m sorry.”
It’s the last two words I quietly speak to my old friend as I plunge the knife up into his mouth and throat from under his chin.
It’s so sharp it slides right in, severing the back of his tongue, going through his spinal cord and the base of his skull.
It’s an instant death, and his final raspy breath comes before his eyes fall closed and he slumps forward onto the blade more.
He deserved instant in my opinion. His wife needs to hear that he didn’t feel anything. But the family, they will see and hear something different. They’ll listen to my story of how valiant he fought, and how gruesome it was to take his life.
Desecration of a corpse isn’t anything new to me, sometimes you need to chop and slice to discard of the evidence. This time though, I need to do it to create the illusion that it was a painful and slow death, just as he wanted it to be.
I brought us here to this dark and quiet lot on purpose. I wanted a spot where I could take my time and do what I need to without the fear of prying eyes and onlookers seeing me do what I feared I would have to.
His body leans against mine, the blade still in his neck, the blood pouring from the wound down my hand and arm, dripping off my jacketed elbow with quiet little splatters as it hits the ground.
I hold him tightly, as if we were in a loving embrace while I slowly withdraw the knife, making a wet squelching sound.
“Oh Gustapo. My friend.” I say as I slide the still dripping blade back into its sheath and toss his corpse over my shoulder. “Let’s finish this, so you won’t haunt me.”
He’s gotten a little heavier in his old age, and I need to take an extra step to keep from tipping over as he lands on me and folds over to my back, with his head and arms dangling like a ragdoll.
Looking around the lot, I find what I need in the back, barely in view of the one security lamp. A line of cement barricades, like what they use to make cattle chutes on the highway, line the fence.
“That’ll work.” I grunt, carrying him while I push Luna over into the dark corner by the short wall of concrete.
I could cut him into pieces or filet his skin off, but anyone with half a brain would know that was post mortem. I need something that looks violent and personal before death.
“Death to my friend by the one love of my life.” I say, dropping him onto his ass and propping him up against the barricade on the far left. “Forgive me Luna. I promise you’ll get a bath on the way home.
The motorcycle screams loudly as I fire her up, and back her up to right in front of my friend. Kicking his legs apart, I push Luna back even further until her rear wheel rests against the crotch of his pants.
Getting on her, I squeeze the brake with my right hand and hold the clutch with my left, using my foot to put her in first gear. The throttle twists back towards me and I gently let out the clutch until the rear wheel begins to spin.
It’s instant how the rubber of the tire catches the fabric of his khakis and rips them from his body, tossing shreds of the tan fabric into the air like confetti. I rev Luna harder and release more pressure from the clutch making her spin faster and louder.
Her engine screams and a burst of blue flames eject from her exhaust as the tire grinds against his body, making it jump and flail even though there’s no life left in it.
Blood splatters all over my back and the bike, shooting up into the air and raining back down like a crimson storm.
I can hear it splattering on my helmet, and the wet, disgusting sounds of his flesh becoming nothing more than liquefied goo from the friction.
It’s foul, messy, disgusting, but it’s doing the trick as the tire cuts him apart, spreading the destruction up his body as I push back slowly and steadily. When the tire catches the bottom of his jaw, I can hear the bones in his face shatter and feel them pelt my jacket.
“Jesus Christ.” I mutter to myself as I rev faster, and release the clutch the rest of the way, annihilating him and the evidence of a single clean stab.
Keeping my head down, I close my eyes, not wanting to see what I’m doing to him, not wanting to remember him like this. For a man who likes messy and bloody for his kills, this is too much, even for me.
I don’t lift my head or even open my eyes when I let go of the brake and shoot forward, the rear tire pushing off of him and grabbing the blacktop below.
I peel out for a half second before I’m shooting across the lot and out onto the deathly silent street.
It’s not until a car horn blares at me that I open my eyes and look where I’m going.
“Motherfucker!” I scream in to the night, leaning hard to the left to go around the oncoming car, just missing his front bumper.
I don’t know where I’m going, but my hands and body direct me without thought as I ride faster and faster through the late night. Luna seems to drive herself, like she’s possessed and I’m just a passenger along for the ride from hell.
I wanted a job to clear my head, to center myself and get back to normal.
I needed to erase the thoughts of Dani and relax from my frustrations in finding the Recluse.
But this, this isn’t what I wanted. I didn’t want more turmoil inside of me, and I’m pissed as fucking shit that Valentino did this to me.
It’s his house that my girl takes me to.
She knows the way, moving us from the city and back out to the burbs, past the still dark house of my late friend, past the park where I learned how to ride so many years ago, and right to the fucker’s massive driveway.
Unlike Gustapo’s house, his isn’t dark and quiet.
It never is with the twenty-four-seven operations happening inside.
I don’t bother shutting off the bike before pulling up, who gives a fuck, right? When I shut her down and hop off, my mood has worsened to the point that I want blood, his blood, for making me do what I just did.
“Valentino!” I yell out as I stomp up the front steps of his freaking mansion, my boots clunking on the highly polished wood. “Valentino!”
He doesn’t come out, and nothing changes in the house as I peer through the front windows, watching the men in flak jackets loading guns and drugs into crates that will be shipped out from the back of the house in unmarked box trucks.
That’s the family’s business. The restaurants are just a cover for them like they are for me.
Weapons and narcotics are hidden in boxes filled with produce and perishable foods so they mask the scent of the items and get past the dogs at the borders before they’re loaded on planes and moved across the world to the highest bidders.
“Valentino!” I scream as I kick in the front door, making it slam against the wall behind it.
Instantly dozens of guns are trained on me, the sounds of their safeties clicking off and hammers being cocked filling the room almost as loud as my voice.
I’m furious, my blood is boiling, and having fucking assault rifles pointed at me is just making it worse. I can feel I’m about to crash out, to rage, and to do something I know I’ll regret. I might even earn a visit from whoever will follow in my footsteps.
“Easy, easy everyone.” Valentino’s voice comes from the right where the large den leads off to the restaurant style kitchen. “Stand down.”
The sight of him and the smug look on his fucking face pushes me over the edge, and I storm into the room, pushing past men I don’t even know, knocking them out of my way as I ball my gloved and bloody hand into a tight fist.
“You.” I grunt, knocking over a small table holding at least a dozen rifles that clatter to the floor loudly.
“Yes, me.” He laughs, but his amusement fades when I strike out with a right hook and punch him in the stupid fucking face, snapping his head to the side, and earning me another round of weapons aimed at my head.
“What the fuck man? Gustapo?” I holler at him as he grabs his now red cheek and stares at me like I have three heads.
“It needed to be done.” He says calmly, rubbing the already bruising mark that’s swelling by the second.
“By me?”
I can’t help myself, the rage is too much, my heart is beating too fast, and the sight of all the gunmen training their sights on me doesn’t matter anymore.
“Yes.”
“Fuck you!” I shout, lunging at him, hitting him square in the chest with my shoulder, knocking him down, and going with him, my body landing on top of his.
A bullet ricochets next to us on the floor, fired by a silenced gun, but still I smash him into the hardwood floor, trapping his neck under my forearm, choking him. His hands grab at my arm, holding onto me, but he doesn’t fight back. He stills under me and narrows his eyes in disdain.
“Get off me before I get mad, Damien.”
Pressing down harder, I cut off his air supply, watching his face turn beet red, but still he doesn’t fight back or do anything except stare at me with eyes narrowed to slits and lips that are turning cyanotic.
“My friend. I wanted to feel better, not worse. What the fuck?”
I know he can’t answer me. If air can’t move through his neck, his vocal cords won’t work enough for words to be produced, but the sly curve to his blue lips into a devious smile is enough of my answer.
Thankful that I left my helmet on, I laugh a maniacal sound as I crane my head back then swing it forward.
My helmet smacks off his forehead with a sickening crack that I can feel as much as I hear.
His eyes close for a second, and the skin splits open, but the fucker has a hard head, and after a moment he jostles under me, his body shaking in laughter that can’t escape his mouth.
“Motherfucker!” I shout in his face, pressing down harder on his throat before letting up and allowing him to breathe.
He coughs and hacks, his spittle hitting me in the eyes through the open visor, then swings and slaps the side of my helmet with an annoyed smack.
“You done?”
“No.”
“Well you’d better be. Now, get back to finding the Recluse. You’re running out of time and I’m running out of patience for your bullshit.”
“Fuck you.”
“Fuck you too, brother.”
Grumbling, I climb off him and offer him my hand to get up. He’s right, we are brothers, in a fucked-up world and fucked up family. We may not be blood, but we’ve been through some shit together, and this, this is just a hiccup in our relationship.
Motherfucker.
With a slap to my helmet again he turns me around and pushes me towards the front door that’s still hanging wide open. The guns aimed on me lower, and I walk out of the house, feeling a little better, but not much.
“I’ll find her.” I say as I look back over my shoulder then walk out the door with an annoyed huff.