Page 17 of Tear Me Down (Descent to Darkness Trilogy #2)

Chapter nine

Damien

‘Gasoline’ – I Prevail

‘Drag Me Under’ – Sleep Token

The air is cool tonight, snapping like a whip against my neck as I race down the street.

But I don’t feel it. One thing, and one thing only, is driving me right now.

The desire to torture this piece of shit.

This vile, cruel, worthless being that dare call himself a man.

He broke into our home, violated our security, and left us exposed.

Stole that sweet, healed, evolutionary look off my love’s face.

He caused her days of pain that she still hasn’t healed from.

Looking down at the speedometer, I take notice of the one-hundred-sixteen miles per hour I’m traveling, but even as the bike shakes and trembles beneath me, I don’t falter.

Slowing down only about a half mile out, I make my way to the bar in record time, gathering any rational sense that I have to scope out the building for only a moment.

There’s not really a plan here. Just killing.

A lot of killing. I'm not sure how many Dust bunnies are here, but from the number of cars, there's at least six people, and that’s not accounting for anyone who would’ve possibly ridden together.

So, I try to follow my gut on this. This guy’s been laying low, and if there was a possibility of innocent people being here, Bradley wouldn’t have called.

This run down building they’ve somehow turned into a bar doesn’t shed any light on what’s going on inside.

All of the windows are boarded up, and the only sounds that can be heard are the crickets chirping nearby.

The outside is disgusting, covered in dirt, moss, mold, and what I can only assume is vomit that was never washed away.

It makes the white siding look gray, green, and even black in some places, adding to the filth that already occupies the bar.

The entrance looks crooked and barely hanging on by the hinges, and the only way people know this is a business at all is the lop-sided ‘open’ sign on the door.

How this establishment is still operational is beyond my comprehension, but it only needs to be in service for the next few minutes, and then it will have served its purpose.

I rip off my helmet and light a cigarette, contemplating on how to hurt this piece of shit.

Gargoyle tattoo. He’s the one. Anyone else is just in my way.

I want to drag this motherfucker’s pain out as long as possible.

However, I can’t. It has to be quick because of the location, but it sure as hell doesn’t have to be quiet.

I flick the cigarette away and put on my arm sleeve and mask, taking the pistol out of my back holster and making my way across the street.

Each step feels like another boulder falling on my shoulders.

Another reminder of my failures. Every grunt in pain.

Every beep of that heart monitor. Each piece of my soul that was stolen with every second that her life was missing from her body, causing the rage to build and heat my chest and neck.

I revel in it and show my ferocity as I barrel through the door with a loud crack.

Immediately, a large man to my right lunges at me, so I raise my gun and pull the trigger, shooting him in the stomach.

Reaching out, I grab him by the shirt and pull him to me, shielding the oncoming gun fire.

This is what I normally crave. Yearn for.

Itch and claw at my skin for, but not tonight.

Not the useless man in my grasp, not the other men sprinting into action, and as much as I want Gargoyle dead, that’s not what I'm pining for.

It's her. My little wolf. I want to go back to that moment.

Capture her ecstasy-covered face and freeze time.

Stop her from drinking the poison and keep her freedom in arms reach.

Freedom from her past, her fears, and her trauma.

Restore not only her faith in our love, but her faith in me.

Return the safety of our home and lay it at her feet.

Though none of that is possible, and seeing her on the bathroom floor only reminded me of that.

Aiming true and pulling the trigger, I shoot three in the head, admiring the way their blood and brain matter scatter around them and inhaling deep.

The subtle taste of iron coats my throat, but it’s not enough.

I want to drown in it—need to suffocate in it.

So, I pull the pistol up and shoot the human shield in the temple, breathing in the relief of his blood drenching my mask covered face.

As his dead weight drops to the floor, I notice one guy running to the back door, practically stumbling over his own feet in terror. That’s got to be him.

Pussy bitch.

I aim my pistol and shoot, hitting him in the back of the thigh and sending him to the ground.

He screams and instinctively reaches for the wound, causing more blood to pour out and over his hand, cascading and flowing in a perfect, silky rhythm.

One last guy runs up from the back seating area, and I don’t waste any time yanking my knife out from its sheath.

Like the gentleman I am, I meet him halfway there, breaking into a sprint and using the momentum to force my fist into his mandible.

As he falls to the ground, my movements don’t cease.

I land a few more punches to his jaw and nasal bone before I reach high and plunge my blade into his neck.

The feeling of his blood pouring down my hand and arm is soothing, almost like being in a hot tub.

Slight bubbles and gurgles surface as he tries to breathe, light spatters from his useless breaths spew from his mouth as he coughs, and as satisfying as it would be to watch the life leave his eyes, I have a more important guest to attend to.

As I shove him to the side, I stand and stalk my way over to Gargoyle, absorbing every shake and choked sob that flees his body.

“Look man, I don’t want any trouble! Just tell me what you want, and I can give it to you!” He holds his bloodied hands up. Like his pathetic pleas and weak ass offer could stand any ground. “You want money? I have plenty of it now!”

Money? That’s all it fucking took for him try and take what’s mine? A piece of fucking paper to inflate his worthless ego? My body starts to shake so rapidly that I can feel that chatter in my teeth, and my breathing becomes so hot and shallow that I’m sure I’m inhaling Hell’s fumes.

I pick him up by the neck of his shirt and toss him into the bar, grinning wickedly at the thud that rings out through the grime infused room.

Once I see his hands smack the top—as he tries to keep himself upright—I help him find his footing by driving my knife through the back of his palm and pinning him down, sure to keep him in place.

“AH! FUCK!” His scream rings through the bar, bouncing off of the bottles that line the back wall and echoing through the space.

Just to be sure, I yank the sleeve of his designer shirt up to his elbow to stare at the Gargoyle tattoo Bradley mentioned.

The ink is scarred, jagged, and extremely faded.

Clearly something done in a prison cell instead of a licensed facility.

Patting the tattoo like I’m about to buy it off of him, I make my way around the bar to the service station, looking over the selection choice along the wall.

Sobs pull my gaze, and I look over to the wall to witness a young woman scrunched up in the fetal position trying to hide from the chaos.

Her presence surprises me and has me replaying the past few minutes in my head.

She’s not injured, but clearly frightened.

Terrified even, and while any man showing this level of terror would excite me, seeing it from a woman certainly does not.

My throat tightens, and while I desperately want to continue, I need to leash the monster until she’s out of harm’s way.

“Please don’t hurt me!” she screams with her head tucked between her knees.

I step forward slowly, attempting not to startle her, and kneel down.

She reminds me of my little wolf, in a way—dark hair, brown eyes, innocence radiating from her.

I can only imagine what she’s had to deal with, working with assholes like them every night.

Everything she’s had to see or feel with these scumbags lurking around, and I hate myself a little more for adding to her trauma.

“Do you work for Dust?” I try to ask her calmly.

“No! No, please! I'm just a bartender! I have a little boy at home! Please don’t hurt me!” Call me naive, but looking into her eyes, I can tell she isn’t lying. Her high-pitched tone and desperation scream truth, and I’m inclined to believe that she has no part in their operation.

“Where is your phone?” I inquire, and she flings her head upward, staring into my gaze with wide, shaky eyes.

“In the back! We’re not allowed to have them out while customers are here. I don’t have it, I swear!” Her voice cracks through a sob, and I faintly shush her, trying to convey that I have no intention of hurting her.

“Listen to me,” I say calmly and collectively. “I want you to leave. Go straight out the front door. Tell no one what you saw tonight.” I shake my head timidly, trying to keep my movements lulled.

“I won’t, I promise! Thank you! Thank you!

” She scrambles to her feet and runs out the front door, sure to keep her gaze straight and not look around at my carnage as she flees.

As I stand, I grab an empty glass and pour myself a shot of whiskey, allowing my hatred to stir back up to the surface as the glass fills up.