Page 15

thirteen

Mason

Outside of the clubhouse is our president, Lane, and Kyle from the Devil Souls MC, both standing by the main door as I pull up.

Techy, who is the Devil Souls’ technical genius, is holding a tablet in his hand. “I’ve been digging some dirt on these fuckers and it seems that Peterson’s uncles, brothers, and his father have been covering up his shit mostly for him.”

I close my eyes, hating all of those fuckers.

“But these fuckers are some of the ones the women are outing with the abuse I’ve seen, and one of the women met Peterson’s dad at this bar he is a regular at.”

I grin at where he is going with this. “It seems that he is there right now, according to the cameras I hacked into.”

“Fuck yeah,” Caiden yells out and fist-bumps me.

We all start our bikes, and I take one last look at the clubhouse before we head out.

The roar of engines drowns out everything else. My blood sings with anticipation. Tonight, we hunt.

Lane and Kyle lead the pack, their bikes cutting through the night like dark angels of vengeance. The rest of us fall in line, a well-oiled machine fueled by rage and brotherhood.

Techy’s voice crackles in my ear. “Target’s still there. Getting nice and sloppy.”

“Perfect.”

We weave through traffic, civilians scattering like frightened rabbits. Good. Let them fear us.

The bar appears, a shithole on the edge of town. We kill our engines, rolling silently into the shadows of a nearby alley. The sudden quiet rings in my ears.

Lane turns, eyes glinting in the dim light. “Remember, we need him breathing. For now.”

Dark chuckles ripple through the group. My fingers flex, itching for violence.

“Caiden, Christopher, watch the door,” Lane barks. “Rest of you, with me.”

We move as one, leather creaking, boots thudding on pavement. The bar door slams open under my boot. Patrons scatter, leaving only our prey and a wide-eyed bartender.

Peterson’s father looks up, confusion morphing to terror as he recognizes us. “What the fu?—”

My fist silences him. Bone crunches beneath my knuckles. Blood sprays. He topples from his stool onto the dirty floor.

I haul him up by his collar, fabric tearing. “Hello, asshole,” I snarl, his rancid breath hot on my face. “Time to talk about your boy.”

His eyes dart wildly, searching for an escape. Finding none, he tries for bravado. “You have no idea who you’re messing with,” he spits, blood staining his teeth.

Lane steps forward, all predatory grace. “Oh, I think we do. Question is, do you know who we are?”

The color drains from the man’s face as he takes in our patches. Understanding dawns in his watery eyes.

Kyle’s voice is deceptively calm. “Now, you’re gonna tell us everything. Every dirty secret, every skeleton. And if you’re very, very lucky, you might walk out of here.”

I tighten my grip, fabric creaking under my fingers. The man whimpers. “Let’s go for a little trip, shall we?”

He tries to run but I have a tight grip on him

The man struggles weakly as we drag him from the bar, his expensive loafers scuffing against the grimy floor. Outside, the cool night air hits us, carrying the stench of fear and stale beer.

A nondescript van idles nearby, engine rumbling low. We shove Peterson’s father inside, his head cracking against the metal interior. He groans, dazed.

The drive is tense, silent save for our prisoner’s ragged breathing. Streetlights flash by, casting eerie shadows across grim faces. No one speaks. We all know what comes next.

After what feels like hours, we pull up to an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of town. Weeds choke the cracked pavement. Graffiti mars the rusted metal siding. This place has seen better days.

Inside, the stale air reeks of mildew and something darker, old blood, perhaps. Our footsteps echo in the cavernous space as we drag our captive to a back room.

A single bulb casts sickly yellow light over bare concrete and rusted metal. In the center sits a chair, bolted to the floor. Stains of questionable origin mar its surface.

We strap Peterson’s father down, zip ties biting into soft flesh. He struggles weakly, eyes wild with terror.

“Please,” he whimpers. “I’ll give you anything. Money, drugs, women, whatever you want!”

Lane steps forward, face impassive. “What we want,” he says softly, “is information. And you’re going to give it to us. One way or another.”

Liam and I step forward. In the van is a case that I keep in there for times like this.

I was trained for this, I can hurt someone and drag out their torture for a long-ass time until I get everything that I need.

The very same training that Liam had.

He stares at my tools, smirking at the sight. “I think you should share with me, son.”

Liam and I exchange a dark look as he opens the case, revealing an array of sinister tools. The cold metal gleams under the harsh light, promising pain and suffering.

“My pleasure,” I tell him, selecting a wicked-looking blade. Its serrated edge catches the light as I turn it, examining it with an almost loving caress.

Liam chooses a set of pliers, testing their grip with a menacing click. “Let’s see how talkative our friend is feeling, shall we?”

Peterson’s father thrashes against his bonds, eyes wild with terror. “You can’t do this!” he wails. “I have rights!”

I lean in close, my voice a low, dangerous rumble. “Rights? Like the rights of all those women your family abused? The lives you ruined?”

The man’s face pales further, if possible. Sweat beads on his forehead. “I… I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he stammers.

Liam’s hand shoots out, gripping the man’s jaw in a bruising hold.

“Wrong answer.”

My father, Wilder, steps forward to join us. His eyes gleam with a familiar darkness, the same darkness I feel coursing through my veins.

“Room for one more?” my dad says, his gravelly voice sending a chill down my spine.

I nod, a feral grin spreading across my face. “Always room for you, old man.”

His weathered hands select a set of brass knuckles from the case. The metal glints as he slips them on, flexing his fingers. “Let’s see if we can jog this fucker’s memory.”

Peterson’s father whimpers, piss staining the front of his expensive slacks. The acrid scent fills the air, mingling with the metallic tang of fear.

“How pathetic, we haven’t even started and he’s pissed his pants.” I sigh in disappointment. I love when they don’t break easily.

“Please,” he begs, voice cracking. “I’ll tell you anything. Just don’t hurt me.”

I lean in close, my blade tracing a delicate line along his jaw. A thin trail of blood wells up, bright against his pale skin. “Oh, we’re way past that now,” I purr. “You’re going to tell us everything. And then you’re going to suffer for every life your family has destroyed.”

Liam steps forward, pliers glinting menacingly. “Let’s start with something simple. Where’s your son hiding?”

Peterson’s father shakes his head frantically. “I don’t know! I swear to God, I don’t know!”

Dad’s fist connects with the man’s stomach, brass knuckles sinking deep. The crack of ribs echoes in the small room. Our prisoner retches, bile splattering the concrete floor.

“Wrong answer,” Dad snarls. “Try again.”

I watch, a cold satisfaction settling in my chest as we work. Liam methodically removes fingernails, each wet pop accompanied by agonized screams. Dad’s fists paint a canvas of bruises across once-pristine skin.

And me? I carve our questions into his flesh, each lie earning another stroke of my blade. Blood runs freely, staining the chair and pooling on the floor. The copper scent fills my nostrils—intoxicating.

Time loses meaning. Minutes or hours could have passed. But slowly, surely, Peterson’s father breaks. Names spill from his lips between sobs and pleas for mercy. Locations. Dates.

We have a list of women that have suffered by his hands, and those he knows about by the others’, the ones he helped cover.

It’s fucking sickening the way they’ve ruined lives.

He is not going to leave here alive.

“You still haven’t given us any information about your son,” I point out, and his eyes barely drift open.

“I don’t know,” he whispers.

I let out a dark laugh. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

I run the blade lightly across his slacks, watching him flinch as the fabric is effortlessly sliced in two. “Let me show you what I’m capable of.” I chuckle darkly. “Shall we start with your pretty little pinkies?”

I grab a pair of wire cutters, sharp and easily able to cut through bone. I lift his pinkie finger and slide it between the snips.

He screams, thrashing himself and trying to back away from the device, but he’s tied down and there’s no escaping.

“W-wait! All right! All right, I’ll talk!”

“Talk fast. Where is your son hiding, and what does he have planned for Meadow?”

Peterson’s father swallows hard. “I-I don’t know where he is,” he stutters, fear clear in his voice. “He… he doesn’t tell me anything.”

I press the clamp down on his finger, bones splitting as the pressure increases. A high-pitched scream echoes off the walls and I do it slowly, cutting off his finger. It makes a clicking sound as it cuts through.

He screams at the top of his lungs, his eyes rolling back in his head, but I smack him in the face to stop him from going into shock.

“You have nine more fingers,” I point out to him with his right pinkie finger, which I have in my hand.

Liam’s face is a mask of cold rage as I move to the next finger. “Talk.”

“I don’t know!” he wails. “I swear to God, I don’t?—”

The crack of my father’s fist connecting with his jaw silences him. Teeth clatter to the concrete floor. Dad flexes his fingers, brass knuckles gleaming dully.

“Try again,” he rumbles, voice low and dangerous.

Peterson’s father sags in his restraints, blood and saliva dripping from his ruined mouth. His eyes dart between us, wild with terror. I can almost see the moment he breaks.

You know the moment when someone realizes their life is over? He just had it.

All hope is lost and it’s the best feeling knowing you’ve broken them.

“The old cannery,” he whimpers. “On the edge of town. There’s… there’s a hidden room in the basement.”

Lane nods, satisfaction etched on his face. “Good boy. Now, tell us about this ‘grand plan’ of his.”

Our prisoner swallows hard, wincing at the pain. “He… he’s obsessed with her. Meadow. Talks about making her pay, making an example of her. He is not used to not getting what he wants.”

Red bleeds into the edges of my vision. My grip on the knife tightens, knuckles white with restrained fury. “How?” I demand, voice barely human.

Peterson’s father flinches at my tone. “I don’t know the details,” he stammers. “But he mentioned other women. Nurses, patients. Said he was going to show the world what happens when people cross him.”

Bile rises in my throat. The image of Meadow, of innocent women, at the mercy of that psychopath, it’s almost more than I can bear. I want to carve the truth from this bastard’s flesh.

Lane’s hand on my shoulder steadies me. His eyes, when I meet them, are hard as flint. “We’ve got what we need,” he says quietly. “Time to clean up and move out.”

I nod, forcing myself to breathe. To focus. Meadow needs me clearheaded, not lost in a haze of bloodlust.

As we gather our tools, Peterson’s father whimpers pathetically. “What… what are you going to do with me?”

Dad’s laugh is cold and humorless. “Oh, we’re not done with you yet, asshole. You’re going to help us send a message to your boy.”

The look of abject terror on the man’s face as we drag him from the room is almost enough to sate the fire burning in my veins.

Almost.