Sin & Suffer

by Pepper Winters

  He grinned, a smear of blood over his forehead. “Sup.”

  I saluted. “Keeping score?”

  “Too many to count.” His lips twitched.

  Mo was a seasoned fighter—he had the scars to prove it.

  Tag teaming, we moved as one. Leaving the kitchen, we melted into bedrooms, dispatching men before they had a chance to shout and aim.

  Mo grinned, completely in his element.

  Turning my back on a massacre of Crusaders and Daggers, I slapped him on the shoulder. Sudden gratefulness and kinship swarmed me. He’d been a fucking dick when I first arrived, but ever since, he’d been a solid friend. “Morgan …”

  He paused, his finger twitching on his trigger. “Yep, Prez?”

  “Cheers—for everything.”

  He chuckled. “Didn’t think carnage brought out the soppiness in you, Kill.” His eyes glowed. “Means a lot, though, man. Thanks.”

  A bullet slammed into the wall, cutting our moment short. With no hesitation, he ducked, aimed, and slaughtered a Dagger.

  Leaving him to it, I charged from the room and back into the corridor.

  A shape barreled toward me. I raised my semi.

  “Wow, Prez!” Beetle skidded to a halt, blood plastered all over his hair.

  I pointed the muzzle at the carpet. “You seen them?”

  He shook his head. “Not yet. Heard that Asus might be hiding in the john, though.” He cocked his thumb up the corridor. “That way.”

  My gun grew heavier with retribution. “Perfect.”

  Without another word, he bolted away and disappeared in the hazy smoke.

  I followed his direction, stalking past bodies and clearing suddenly silent rooms. Everywhere I looked, I saw men I’d grown up with—trusted and learned from—but no Rubix. No Asus.

  My heart thundered. The longer I couldn’t find my targets, the more my rage increased.

  This was supposed to be their hideout. So where the fuck are they?

  Slamming my shoulder against a toilet door, I bulldozed inside.

  And fate finally smiled down on me.

  Found you.

  I stood in shock as I faced my brother.

  “Shit.” His eyes met mine, rage, fear, and surprise mingled in their depths. He sat on the dirtiest shitter I’d ever seen. A rifle pointed at my chest.

  “Hello, Dax.” My arm swung upward without thinking.

  He snarled, every muscle locked. “Goodbye, Arthur.”

  The family reunion happened in a split second. Recognition, acknowledgment, anger.

  He fired first.

  “Fuck!” By some miracle, I ducked.

  The bullet whizzed past my ear.

  My brother, Dax “Asus” Killian, stood up, pumping his shotgun to fire again.

  Too late.

  I didn’t bother aiming, just pulled the trigger. I didn’t have time to make peace, or find an ending. The gun bucked in my hands, almost as if it knew this kill was different. This was the one I wanted more than anything.

  “Motherfucker!” He collapsed sideways.

  The bullet struck his shoulder, slamming him against the wall. Blood smeared down the dirty surface as he groaned in pain. “You fucking asshole.”

  Fumbling to get off another round, he folded forward on the toilet. “Fuck you! What do you think you’ll do? Just kill us all and won’t suffer any consequences?” He spat a wad of blood at my feet. “You’ll go back to jail. Where you belong!”

  I’d planned on dragging out his pain. I’d wanted to tell him why this had to happen. Why he had to pay for his sins. But staring at his betraying face, the agony of my childhood took me hostage.

  The manipulation. The low-handed tactics.

  It was no longer relevant—just like him.

  I couldn’t prolong it. I needed it over with.

  “Just die, Dax.”

  This mayhem wasn’t me. I wasn’t a murderer by choice but by life’s design. The sooner the past was in the past, the sooner I could throw down my weapon and live for the first time in eight long years.

  His arm shook as he struggled to fire. “You first, brother.”

  Raising my gun, I pulled the trigger.

  No remorse. No flinch.

  My own flesh and blood existed, then … didn’t. The hole in his forehead gushed with crimson as he slithered to the floor.

  I waited to feel something. Anything.

  He was my brother.

  But there was only the glittering sensation of relief.

  I’d turned my brother into a corpse and all I felt was solace. Endless solace to finally have payback. After what he and my father had done that night. After they’d drugged me, beat me, and made me believe I’d shot Thorn and Petal Price on my own accord—there was no other way this could’ve ended.

  This was for her.

  Grasshopper suddenly appeared. He favored his right side, holding two guns, fingers poised to shoot. His eyes darted into the single toilet. “Shit, you found him.”

  I didn’t reply, only continued to stare at my dead relation.

  He patted me on the back. “You did right, dude.”

  His touch snapped me back to the present. Clearing my throat, I backed away, throwing away the semiautomatic. I’d run out of bullets but I had plenty of other alternatives. Fisting the pistol from my waistband, I nodded. “He had to die.”

  Hopper’s gaze was fierce. He knew what this meant but he also knew I wouldn’t find complete redemption until my father was as dead as his firstborn son.

  “Go,” I ordered. “It’s not over yet.”

  “On it.” With a grin, he took off, charging down the dark, dusty corridor.

  I looked left and right. Which way?

  The screams and shots happened less and less. It’d been bloody and fast but the battle was almost over.

  The adrenaline of war thrummed in my veins—not nearly satisfied. It’d been so long in coming but so short in ending.

  Would I be happy with this? This quick conclusion after a decade of dreaming?

  Turning left, I traipsed farther into hell. Rooms branched off like catacombs, all reeking of marijuana and sex. Cleanliness was nonexistent. The overall vibe derelict and sinful.

  “Fuck, Mo!” Grasshopper’s voice rang out.

  My lungs stuck together in terror. My boots thundered against the carpet as I charged in the direction Hopper had gone.

  Skidding into the laundry, where rank clothes hung in mildew humidity, Grasshopper clutched Mo on the floor. The minute he saw me, he cocked his chin at the back door. “There. That fucker just shanked him.”

  Leaving Mo in Hopper’s care, I stormed outside. My eyes narrowed on to a fleeing figure in the dark.

  Oh, no, you don’t, you asshole.

  My heart rate galloped but I forced my hand to steady. Closing one eye, I aimed at the traitor’s back.

  He didn’t get far.

  The shot rang out like a whip, ricocheting toward my victim. The bullet hit its target, halting him into death.

  The moment he turned from running to face-planting into the toxic dirt, I forgot about him.

  I didn’t check if he was dead.

  Mo.

  He was much more important.

  Hurrying back inside, I ripped aside a few shirts from the indoor washing line and ducked to my haunches beside Grasshopper. “How is he?”

  Hopper’s blue eyes glittered with rage. “Did you get him?”

  I nodded.

  Resting my hand on Mo’s head, I muttered, “You okay, man?”

  Mo winced, sucking air through his teeth. “Been … bet-ter.” Black blood sopped his cut, puddling around Hopper like a morbid lake. “Ah, fuck it hurts.”

  Shit.

  The bastard had got him good. Liver or gut … either way … Mo had a date with a motherfucking angel tonight.

  Silent rage battled with grief. “He’s dead, Mo. Got him for you.”

  He flinched, blood leaving his skin a ghostly white. “Go
—good.”

  Trying to keep the knowledge that he was a goner hidden, I smiled softly. “You’re all right. Don’t stress, okay?”

  Hopper met my eyes. I shook my head slightly.

  His arms tightened around his brother, his mohawk quaking as he sucked in a breath.

  Mo sighed heavily. “J-just my shitty l-luck.”

  I grabbed his hand. “Don’t talk. We’ve got ya.”

  He smiled, fading fast. “You were a g-good prez, Kill. B-been a plea-pleasure …”

  My heart fisted as his eyes suddenly lost their wicked loyalty and intelligence and turned to vacant film.

  “Ah, shit …,” Hopper choked.

  Unfolding from my crouch, I looked down on the two men who’d helped me become someone better than a lost convict. “Keep watch over him. I’ll go finish this.”

  Fisting my hands, I left before I gave in to the fucking fury building inside. Mo’s death was my fault. His life stained mine.

  I didn’t feel worthy. Why did he have to die for me? What made me so fucking special?

  Drawing my weapon, I sought enemies on which to take out my rage.

  I craved something worthwhile—to prove he hadn’t died for nothing.

  Entering a bedroom, I didn’t find what I wanted.

  Instead of eradication of filth, I witnessed another murder. Only this one wasn’t a Dagger or Crusader; it was a kid who was far too young to go.

  “No!”

  My vision stuttered as Beetle gasped, slamming to his knees before a man I recognized.

  “Little twerp. I’ll show you—” Sycamore laughed as a hole appeared where Beetle’s heart used to be.

  “Fuck!” I couldn’t move as the youngest prospect’s eyes shot blank, his body slithering into death.

  It happened so fast. One second he was alive … the next gone. Just like Mo.

  The cock-sucking-tobacco-chewing asshole who’d been there the day I was carted off in a police wagon giggled like a drugged-up slut.

  Bastard!

  “You fucking—”

  Sycamore spun to face me, his arm raised to shoot. “You!”

  He didn’t get a chance to fire. I’d hated this fucking bastard all my life. My father’s wingman. A devil within the ranks. He’d undermined Thorn and taunted Cleo constantly.

  My gun swung up—so much lighter than my semi—and exploded in a spark of sulfur.

  Sycamore stumbled backward, clutching his throat. The bullet tore out his windpipe, leaving him mute and gurgling as he smashed into a pile of worthless body parts.

  My ears rang with injustice. I’d wanted him dead—but killing him wasn’t nearly enough for the life he’d just taken.

  Shit!

  I turned to check Beetle’s pulse. Poor kid. He was far too young to die. I’m fucking responsible. Two deaths now on my conscience.

  A shadow appeared to my right.

  I spun around, gun raised.

  I was too late.

  A sharp blade sliced through my side.

  I bellowed, dropping my gun as a flash of agony scrambled my thoughts.

  I staggered sideways.

  Instantly, sticky wetness drenched my side. I flinched in excruciation. What the hell—

  Then my eyes landed on him.

  Thin lips, greasy skin, rampant greed, and diabolical ambition.

  The one man I wanted dead above all others.

  My father.

  He smirked, darkness swarming in his green eyes. “Fancy that … you actually killed someone. After years of disappointment, I finally rubbed off on you.” He came closer, weapon raised. “Any last words, son? Because I’m about to fucking slaughter you.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Cleo

  I’d found a dying bird today.

  Its nest-mates had kicked it from its home, leaving it to die at the bottom of the tree. I’d wanted to tear apart the nest and see how the other chicks liked it—being bullied and left to wither alone. Instead, I’d scooped up the baby bird and took it home.

  It was so easy to help. So gratifying to save another who needed saving. If I could change the life of a baby bird, perhaps I could change Arthur’s life, too. After all, he’d been fighting to leave the nest for years. —Cleo, diary entry, age twelve

  I was a prisoner.

  For six long hours, I’d been barricaded in Arthur’s home by Switchblade—the Pure Corruption security detail left to protect me.

  Only, he wasn’t protecting me. He was imprisoning me. And there was nothing I could do about it.

  But then … I felt it.

  A snipping … a slicing.

  The link forged between Arthur and me through a lifetime of love suddenly … severed.

  My stomach plummeted.

  My heart disintegrated.

  And I gave up being calm.

  I didn’t know how, but I knew …

  … something had gone terribly wrong.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Kill

  Pain had layers.

  I’d been wrapped in a layer for weeks—ever since Rubix had shown me how a creatively wielded baseball bat could be used.

  But tonight, I was buried in layers.

  Tonight, he’d beaten me so fucking bad, I swore to do anything just to get it to stop. That was when he’d laughed. That was when he’d told me what I had to do to make the pain stop.

  Kill the Price family. —Kill, age seventeen

  “Hello, Father.” I gritted my teeth, holding my bleeding side. “I hoped I’d find you.”

  Scott “Rubix” Killian grinned. “What¸ so you could show me you haven’t changed? That you’re still a pussy?” His long hair was flecked with silver, messy and unkempt. His goatee held blood and dirt. “Or to learn about what I have in store for Cleo once I kill you?”

  Every muscle stiffened. “Neither.”

  He cocked his head. “I suppose I should be proud that you found me—that you caught us unaware. Fuck, I’m even proud you got one over Sycamore. But then again, why should I be proud of a son that’s always been a disappointment?” He chuckled. “All of this could’ve been pure luck.”

  That voice.

  It crawled through my veins like a demon.

  “Not luck. Years of preparation.” The pain in my side disappeared under a torrent of adrenaline. I looked down briefly, clenching my jaw against the dark blood staining my T-shirt.

  “You always were a slow-ass, Arthur. Surprised you’re not wielding a math textbook or that tatty eraser you always carried.” He took a step closer. “They were the only things you were capable of using.”

  Glaring at my father, I shrugged out of my cut, dropping it to the floor. The pain increased, sprouting sweat over my brow. “Little do you know.”

  I didn’t have a weapon. I’d dropped it when my father’s blade entered my flesh and he’d kicked it across the room.

  Your knife!

  My hands shot to my belt, unhooking the wicked hunting blade and brandishing it.

  In a way, I was glad. A gun would’ve been too quick. Bullets weren’t enough for this asshole.

  I hadn’t drawn out my brother’s death. But my father? I would take great pleasure in extracting it.

  “Oh, I know more than you think.” Rubix glanced at the red river down my side. “I’ll draw more before we’re through, you’ll see.”

  Bunching my fists, I advanced. “I guess we will.”

  His eyes widened, as if the memory of his browbeaten obedient son didn’t compute with this pissed off president who’d served time for his sins. He back-stepped, moving toward the center of the room.

  Beetle’s corpse filled the space with seething retribution. Tonight, I wouldn’t just kill my father for my sake, but for Mo and Beetle, too.

  I have you now. I’m not letting you live another fucking minute.

  Rubix ran a hand through his hair, clearing his vision from oily strands. “You really gonna take me on?”

  A young girl in a torn nig
htdress and bruises all over her white skin sat upright in bed. The room was as filthy as the rest of the compound. Magazines scattered over the floor, tissues littered the bedside table, and the sheets looked like only a cockroach would find them sanitary.

  “I’ll take you on and win.”

  Rubix laughed. “As fucking if. You remember the past, don’t you, boy? You remember the way I handed you your ass every fucking time?”

  The girl whimpered, eyes bugging.

  I tilted my head at the exit. “Leave.”

  I didn’t want an audience and I didn’t want collateral. If my father lost, he wouldn’t hesitate to use her as protection. And I wouldn’t hesitate to kill her if he did.

  She scrambled off the bed, eyes dancing between Rubix and me.

  Rubix sneered. “Get back into bed, baby.”

  “Do as I said and go,” I growled.

  Whatever loyalty she had to Rubix quickly vanished. Grabbing a disgusting bathrobe, she darted to the door.

  Rubix glared. “Don’t want a piece of pussy, Arthur? You always were a—”

  “Were you the one to beat up that girl or just sloppy seconds?” I cut him off, taking another step.

  He didn’t back away this time, his bare feet stuck to the floor. He knew as well as I did that there was no more running—for either of us.

  He looked older, eviler. His body wiry but soft around the middle. Dressed in low-slung jeans and no shirt, he exposed his Dagger Rose tattoo, which crept around his rib cage, merging with other ink on his chest and arms.

  Time hadn’t been kind to him—already making him bent and arthritic. His ink was an ugly faded green, while wrinkles lined his face.

  He didn’t look like a worthy opponent, but I’d been on the receiving end enough to not buy the feeble image. He was fucking vicious. He deserved to die.

  We circled each other, staying out of punching distance. The knife he’d stabbed me with remained in his fist, dripping with tiny droplets of blood. My blood.

  He smirked, unable to hide behind the mask he’d worn all his life. The truth shone: an evil bastard who truly didn’t care about others.

  I was doing the world a favor by putting him down.

  “What’s to say she didn’t enjoy it? Bit like your piece on the side, eh?” Rubix laughed again. “Buttercup enjoyed her time with us. Didn’t she tell you?”