Page 20

Klutch

The world is a goddamn filthy place and I’m the bastard about to make it even dirtier.

That’s the thought in my head as I pull up to Eternal Peace, the funeral home the club owns.

The building is unassuming—beige siding, tasteful sign, even some fucking flowers planted out front.

No one would ever guess the torture and murder that happens in the basement when someone fucks with us.

Cutting the motor, I sit on my bike for a minute, trying to calm the monster inside me begging to unleash payback on those who hurt my woman. “Motherfuckers.”

I can still see Demi’s battered face staring up at me full of fear, her busted lip that will no doubt leave a scar, and the desperation in those blue eyes I’ve grown to need more than my next breath.

I know what pieces of shit like Frankie and his sidekick do to women.

I’ve seen the aftermath. If I hadn’t shown up when I did. ..

My hands clench around the handlebars, knuckles going white. The rage inside me feels like a living thing, clawing at my insides, demanding blood.

I dismount and head around the building to the back entrance. Undertaker’s standing there waiting, his usually relaxed expression is gone, and in its place is a look of fury.

“They’re downstairs,” he says, holding the door open. “Yukon and Beast started without you.”

I nod, too furious to speak.

The hallway leading to the basement is lit by a single bulb in the ceiling, the walls are painted a soothing sage green. Calming colors for grieving families who have no fucking clue of the depravity that goes on below their feet.

As I make my way down the stairs, each step starts to feel lighter than the last. These fuckers wanted blood. A flash of Demi on the floor in her apartment with her shirt torn flashes in my mind. Instinctively I ball my fists. I’m about to make these motherfuckers pay.

The basement door is solid steel, reinforced and soundproofed. I punch in the code and the lock disengages. When I push it open, the smell of bleach and copper hits me first.

Beast looks up when I enter, his face like stone.

Yukon’s leaning against the wall, arms crossed over his chest. And there, in the center of the room, are Frankie and fuckboy Johnny, tied to metal chairs that are bolted to the concrete floor.

A drain sits in the middle of the room, right between them. Convenient? Sure as fuck is.

That’s the thing about funeral homes—blood and DNA are expected. Add the industrial-sized incinerator in the next room, and you’ve got the perfect place to make all your problems disappear.

“Well, look who finally decided to join the party,” Frankie sneers, his face still swollen and bloody from our earlier meeting. “The attack dog himself.”

I don’t respond. Don’t even look at him as I walk to the steel tool chest in the corner of the room.

“You have any idea who I work for?” he continues, his voice taking on an edge of panic now. “You kill me, and the Valenciaga Cartel will rain hell down on you and your little club of losers. They’ll burn your clubhouse to the ground with everyone inside!”

I open the top drawer of the chest, still ignoring him.

“That pretty little bitch of yours?” Frankie taunts. “They’ll pass her around until there’s nothing left but a shell.”

My hand closes around a roll of duct tape. I turn, my expression blank as I walk toward him. His eyes widen slightly, finally sensing that his words aren’t having the effect he hoped for.

“You should shut your mouth,” Yukon warns him, but it’s too late for warnings.

I tear off a strip of tape and slap it over Frankie’s mouth. Then I methodically secure his hands to the arms of the chair, wrapping the tape tight enough to cut off circulation.

“Get fucked,” Johnny spits at Yukon.

Beast’s fist connects with Johnny’s jaw before the last syllable is out. There’s a sickening crunch, and a tooth skitters across the concrete floor.

“Nice hook,” I comment, my voice eerily calm even to my own ears.

Beast flexes his hand. “Thanks, brother.”

Turning back to the tool chest, I open the third drawer—the one with my specialty tools. My fingers close around a pair of shrub shears and a small blow torch. Gardening tools, technically. But they work just as well for other things.

Frankie’s eyes bulge when he sees what I’m carrying. He starts thrashing in his chair, muffled screams trying to force their way past the tape.

Without saying a word, without giving him time to brace himself, I position the shears around his pinky finger and squeeze the handles shut. There’s resistance, then a wet snap as the finger drops to the floor.

Frankie’s muffled screams break through the tape as blood spurts from the stump where his finger used to be, painting the concrete in crimson splatter.

I flick on the blow torch, the small blue flame dancing in the dim room. His eyes widen in horror as I bring it to the wound, cauterizing it with a sickening sizzle and the smell of burning flesh.

When I rip the tape from his mouth, Frankie’s face is ashen, sweat pouring down his forehead as drool drips from his mouth.

“You have no fucking idea the war you’ve just started,” he snarls, spit flying everywhere.

I laugh, but there’s not an ounce of humor in it.

Nothing about what happened to my woman today is funny.

“The war I’ve started? Motherfucker, you shot up our clubhouse.

” I move closer, getting right in his face.

“Yeah, bitch. I saw the black Escalade in the parking lot at my woman’s apartment.

Same one that was spotted driving away from our clubhouse after the drive-by three weeks ago. ”

Frankie’s eyes dart away, and I know I’ve hit the mark.

“Wait,” Johnny pipes up, his voice pitched high. Fucker is scared and for good reason. “I’ve got information. I’ll trade you!” He looks to Frankie then back to me. “Information for my life.”

“Johnny, shut the fuck up!” Frankie roars.

Johnny’s head whips back toward his boss. “Fuck you! I’m not dying over this shit!”

I tilt my head from side to side as I consider the proposition. Information for his life… Finally I shrug my shoulders. Fuck it. “All right. Talk.”

“The Renegades,” he blurts out, wasting no time. “They’re working with the Valenciaga Cartel. Trafficking women.”

My blood runs cold. The Renegade Bastards. The club we split from nine months ago when they decided to get into human trafficking. Fuck. This isn’t good news.

“Shut your goddamn mouth!” Frankie screams, his face an alarming shade of red.

I ignore him. “How?”

Johnny licks his bloody lips. “They’re snatching up women from all over. Here, Cali, Vegas, Nashville. You name the big city and they are grabbing bitches and sending them down to Jacksonville. From there, they’re auctioned off to the highest bidders. Rich guys mostly. A lot go overseas.”

My stomach turns. There’s dirty business, and then there’s this kind of filth. Even at our worst, the Bastard Saints never went near trafficking. Hurting women and children is a hard line we will never cross.

“And the hit on our clubhouse?” I ask.

“The Renegades ordered it,” Johnny confirms. “They’re pissed you left the club and joined ranks with the Saints. They want blood. Rogue especially. Says you’re all traitors who need to be put down.”

Rogue. My former Prez and the cocksucker who put money over family when he brought it to the table he wanted to get into the skin trade.

“Is that all you know?” I ask, studying Johnny’s face.

He nods frantically. “That’s everything, I swear to God.”

I believe him. Not because I trust him, but because fear has a way of making men honest. And right now, Johnny stinks of fear.

I nod, processing what he’s told me. Then I turn back to Frankie, pull out my Glock, and shoot him point-blank between the eyes.

The report is deafening in the concrete room. Blood and brain matter spray the wall behind him. His body slumps forward, held up only by the restraints.

“Wait!” Johnny screams, thrashing in his chair. “We had a deal! I told you everything!”

I turn to him, a smirk playing on my lips. “You put your hands on my property.” I aim the Glock at his forehead. “This is for Blue.”

The second shot echoes around the room. Johnny’s head snaps back, a perfect round hole appearing in his forehead before his chin drops to his chest.

For a moment, the room is silent except for the ringing in my ears.

“Well, that was fucking messy,” Beast says like he’s talking about the weather.

I shrug, tucking my gun back into the holster. “Needed to be done.”

Yukon pushes off the wall, coming to stand beside me. “Never seen you lose it like that.”

That’s because I’ve never lost my shit before. I’ve always been able to keep my cool. “They put their hands on my woman.”

“Looks like we’ve found your kryptonite.”

I narrow my eyes at him. “I don’t have any fucking kryptonite. You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.” Even as I say the words I know they’re a lie. Demi is under my skin now.

“What he said about the Renegades and the trafficking… That’s fucked up,” Yukon says, changing the subject.

Turning my attention to him I agree, “Yeah. It is. But it makes sense. It’s why we split in the first place. Rogue wanted to expand into that business, and we wouldn’t stand for it.”

“Denali needs to know,” Beast says. “Pee Wee too.”

“Yeah.” I sigh. What a fucking shit shot. “But first, we need to clean this shit up.”

We work quickly, wrapping the bodies in plastic before dragging them to the next room.

“Hold up,” Undertaker says. He walks over to a long cart and slides what looks like a piece of cardboard the size of a body from the rack.

“What’s that for?” I ask. I usually don’t stick around for this part. My job is to get information by whatever means are necessary. Cleaning up the bodies… not my job.

“To put the bodies on.” He carries the cardboard over to the metal furnace table and lays it down. “There.”

Yukon and Beast waste no time tossing Frankie and Johnny’s body onto the cardboard covered slab.

“Huh. You learn something new every day.”

Yukon nods in agreement. “Knowledge is power.”

Undertaker rolls the slab into the furnace and closes the door. With a flip of a switch the incinerator roars to life, flames licking at the inside walls. It takes hours for a body to burn completely, but when it’s done, there’s nothing left but ash.

As we watch the bodies go up in flames, I can’t help but think about Demi.

“You good, brother?” Yukon asks.

I nod, my mind is already racing ahead. The club will handle the Renegades, but I’ve got other priorities now. Demi needs me. She’s grieving, hurt, and probably scared out of her mind after what happened today.

And if the Renegades are as pissed as Johnny claimed, she might be a target. I need to keep her safe, no matter what.

“Let’s finish up here,” I say. “I need to get back to the clubhouse.”

Back to my woman.

She’s my priority now.

My kryptonite.