Page 19 of Damron (Bloody Scythes MC #1)

Chapter eleven

Damron

T he second we walked into the club, every head pivoted toward us.

There was a flicker of recognition, a handful of wary nods.

Nobody trusted a senator in their midst, even if she had bled all over the carpet last time she was here.

Come to think of it, I didn’t trust senators either.

I watched the tension stretch between her and the club like an elastic band, waiting to snap.

Carly said nothing, cradling her arm against her ribs like she was afraid I’d break the other one.

She looked half-alive, half-ghost, eyes rimmed red but clear.

She clocked the chaos, sized up the threat, and gave nothing away.

That was what made her dangerous. And what had almost gotten her killed.

I stomped over to Nitro, who didn’t bother with pleasantries. He spat into a trash can, thumbed toward the far end of the bar. “Got a present for you,” he said. “Gift-wrapped and everything.”

He jerked his head, and I saw it: a kid, maybe mid-twenties, zip-tied at the wrists and ankles, duct tape gag hanging around his neck like a sad party streamer.

His face was a pulp of blood, snot, and something yellowish I didn’t want to identify.

He wore a prospect vest, brand new and barely broken in.

The patches said “DIRT” and “RAT” and “SANTA FE.” His left eye was already closed up, purple and swollen. His shoes were missing.

“He firebombed us?” I asked, keeping my voice low.

Nitro grinned, a flash of wolf teeth. “Tossed two Molotovs through the side window. Third one bounced and damn near took off his own eyebrows. That’s when we nabbed him. Little shit tried to run, but Augustine got him with a barstool.”

Augustine, the club's SAA, raised his glass from across the room. “Fucker bit me,” he said, showing off a bandaged hand. “I’m getting rabies shots tomorrow.”

I circled the prospect, watching him like a coyote eyeing roadkill. He looked up, tried to meet my gaze, but couldn’t keep the tremor out of his chin. He spat a gob of blood at my boots. Missed by a mile. I crouched, elbows on my knees. “Name?” I asked.

He didn’t answer. I could see the calculus running behind his eyes: if he talked, he’d get gutted by his own club; if he didn’t, he’d get gutted by mine. No way out but through. I smiled, slow and patient. “You want to do this the hard way? You’re not the first, kid. You won’t be the last.”

He sneered, lips split and leaking. “Fuck you.”

I straightened, nodded at Nitro. “Hold him.”

Nitro braced the kid’s head against the bar.

I leaned in, grabbed his jaw, and forced his mouth open.

“You want to play hero? You get the hero’s treatment.

” I clamped two fingers down on his tongue, hard, until he gagged.

He bucked and tried to bite, but Nitro kept him in place.

“Listen, Prospect,” I said, close enough to feel his breath on my knuckles.

“I’m gonna ask you one more time: who sent you? ”

He tried to spit again, this time catching my cheek. I laughed, wiped it off, then snapped a backhand across his face. The sound echoed off the cinderblock walls, and the club fell dead silent.

“Let’s try again,” I said, “before I start breaking things you’ll actually miss.”

Behind me, I heard Carly shift, her voice low and careful. “Damron, don’t.”

I shot her a look. “You want him to hit you with a fucking car next time? Shut up and let me work.”

She held my gaze, but said nothing more. That was the trick with her—never let them see the fear.

I leaned in again, voice even colder. “You don’t talk, I pull your tongue out with pliers. I’ll even let your own brothers watch, maybe livestream it for their next recruitment drive. Who sent you?”

He rolled his head, spat a tooth onto the floor. “Eat shit, old man.”

I whistled. “Old man, huh?” I turned to Nitro. “Give me the bag.”

Nitro ducked behind the bar, came back with a canvas tool sack we kept for special occasions.

He set it on the table and unzipped, laying out the contents like a chef prepping a roast: wire cutters, pliers, a blowtorch, duct tape, a hammer with the grip taped for blood.

I picked up the hammer, weighed it in my hand.

The prospect’s eyes went wide. He started to shake, but still said nothing.

“Let’s start easy,” I said, laying his left hand flat on the bar.

Nitro pinned the wrist down, and I brought the hammer down on the first knuckle.

The sound was wet and sharp, like stepping on a fat bug.

The finger crumpled sideways, bone poking through the skin.

He howled, tried to pull away. Blood spattered the bar and my jeans.

I grabbed another finger and did it again.

This time, the screaming was wordless, animal.

The club watched, nobody moving, nobody even blinking.

I bent close. “You want to lose the whole hand? Or you want to tell me who gave the order?”

He gasped, hyperventilating, then gritted his teeth. “You’re dead anyway. Doesn’t matter. You’re all fucking dead.”

I smashed another finger, then another. The hand looked like a bowl of chili by the time I was done.

He sobbed, blood and snot and tears all running together. “It was Giammati,” he choked out. “Giammati paid the club.”

Nitro glanced at me, eyebrows up. “Santa Fe, right? Dire Straits?”

The kid nodded, wild, desperate. “Said to burn the place. Make a message. That’s all I know.”

I let him go, straightened, and dropped the hammer back into the bag. “See? Wasn’t so hard.”

The room was dead silent. I wiped my hands on a bar rag, then pointed at Augustine. “Call in the doc. Fix him up, but not too much.”

The kid slumped, sobbing, as they dragged him off. Nitro followed, eyes never leaving the blood trail on the floor.

Carly stepped closer, her face pale but steady. “You didn’t have to do that,” she said.

I looked at her, hard. “No, Senator, I did. You still don’t get it, do you?”

She glared, but her hands were shaking.

I stepped into her space, voice low. “They don’t play by your rules, Carly. They only understand pain. You want to survive this? You get mean. You get ugly. Or you don’t come back at all.”

She didn’t look away. That’s why I married her, once.

I left her standing there, alone in the carnage, and went to see if the prospect had anything else left to say.

###

Nitro had dragged the prospect into the back room by the time I got there.

The space was a windowless box with a workbench, a few busted lockers, and a dirty linoleum floor that had seen more blood than a slaughterhouse.

Twisted—the name was stitched above his heart in crisp white—was slumped in a plastic chair, zip-tied to the arms, one hand a ruined claw of pulped fingers.

He whimpered when Nitro propped him upright, but there was fight left in his eyes.

Good. Broken men were useless. I needed him scared but thinking.

I closed the door behind me, leaving the noise of the club on the other side. Nitro stayed just inside, arms crossed, boots spread, eyes flat as winter sky. He didn’t move, didn’t even blink, just watched like he was seeing whether I’d finish the job or hand it off for extra credit.

Twisted spat a mouthful of blood at my feet. “You think this’ll matter? You’re fucked. You don’t even see it yet.”

I grinned, crouching to eye level. “Kid, I’ve seen more fucked than you can count. But you? You’re not even close to bottom yet.”

He jerked at the ties. “You gonna kill me, then do it.”

I snorted. “Not yet. First, you’re gonna tell me everything you know about the job. Then I’ll see if you’re worth killing.”

He hesitated, eyes flicking to Nitro, then back to me. I could see the wheels grinding: was this a test, or just more pain? Most kids cracked after the first bone. This one might actually hold out. I reached for the hammer, still slick from the last round. He went white, then green.

“Let’s talk,” I said, “about the part you’re not telling me.” I bounced the hammer in my palm. “Because you had inside info. The windows you hit, the timing—someone gave you a playbook.”

He shook his head, teeth gritted. “No. Just… just orders.”

I grabbed his bad hand and pressed the ruined fingers against the chair arm. “You ever play piano?” I asked.

He screamed as I pressed down on the snapped bones. “FUCK—shit—stop, stop, stop—”

I let up, wiped my hand on my jeans. “We’re gonna keep going until I get a name, Prospect. Start with the club. Which one sent you?”

He sobbed, head hanging. “Dire Straits. Out of Santa Fe. I’m—was—just a prospect. They said it was a test.”

I cocked my head. “That’s not enough. You don’t get this kind of job unless someone pulls the trigger from above.”

He flinched when I reached for the next finger. Nitro broke the silence, voice like gravel in a blender. “He’s stalling, boss. You want the pliers?”

I nodded. Nitro fished a pair from the tool roll, wiped them on his shirt, and handed them over with a flourish. I admired the clean, cold bite of the jaws.

“Last chance, kid,” I said. “Otherwise I start deconstructing you, one piece at a time. I’ll leave the dick for last, since you probably don’t use it much anyway.”

He was shaking hard, lips grey. “You’re insane.”

“Sometimes,” I agreed, clamping the pliers on his thumbnail. “But I get results.” I started twisting, slow and even. The sound was wet, the nail coming away from the bed like a strip of old paint. He shrieked, feet kicking, and the chair nearly toppled.

“Jesus Christ,” Carly said, somewhere behind me. I didn’t turn. She must have slipped in during the commotion. “Damron, stop! This is torture. He’s just a kid!”

I shot a glance at Nitro, who shrugged. “He firebombed us, Senator. We’re just grading the test.”

She moved forward, anger and horror warring on her face. “This is—this is inhuman. You don’t need to—”

I cut her off with a look, ice cold. “You want to take over, or you want him to try again next week? Maybe with a bullet, not a bottle?”

She recoiled, silent.

I turned back to the kid, who was sobbing and snotting and bleeding all over the floor. “You’re doing great, Twisted. Now let’s talk about the man who paid your club.”

He shook his head, eyes wild. “You’ll kill me.”

“I’ll kill you slow if you don’t.” I reached for the next nail.

He howled, voice cracking. “Giammati! The money came from Giammati’s people. I never met him, but everyone knew the name. Said it was politics, not club beef. Just a job.”

I pulled the pliers away, let the new wound bleed.

“Who gave you the target?” I asked. “Who told you to go after Carly?”

He was breaking now, shaking so hard the chair rattled. “Orders came from the top. Dire Straits president, but he don't make calls like this without backing." His voice was barely a whisper now, each word dragged out like broken glass. "There's a connection. Someone who knows both sides."

I leaned closer, the pliers still in my grip. "What kind of connection?"

"Don't know names. Just heard... heard there's someone feeding intel. About the club, about her." He jerked his chin toward Carly. "Someone close."

I glanced back at Carly. “You have a rat in your circle.”