“Oh, shit, Hav.”
He laughed. “Yeah. Bigger fish now, though. Check for a pulse.”
Len’s hands were broken and not much more use, but he used his thumb and found a pulse. “He’s alive. It’s not strong, but it’s there.”
“It’s good he’s out—don’t like to think how that would feel, what they did.”
Badger had been right. They were trapped in a horror movie. Len wouldn’t be surprised to see Jigsaw himself come through that fucking door.
~oOo~
Badger was awake and fighting hard against his pain when they dragged Show in from his latest round. He was naked. They had been left in their jeans, to this point. Seeing huge Show stripped to his skin and dropped roughly to the floor was the first thing that actually made Len feel real fear, the kind that coiled up in his balls and turned to blades of ice. The kind that made his muscles twitch.
Show had been whipped—he was crisscrossed with deep, bloody gashes from his shoulders to his ankles. There was no discernible method or logic to the torture—every time one of them was pulled away, some new atrocity was perpetrated. But not for information. It was as though they were experimenting.
Or simply entertaining themselves.
And then the men brought food and water—a tray full of cheese-and-peanut-butter cracker packs and a gallon of water—and Len’s last little bit of hope erased. Maybe it was ironic, the evidence that they weren’t ready to kill them being the thing that destroyed his hope, but what he saw was not a chance at freedom. He saw an indeterminate continuation of this horror. He ignored the food but brought the water to his conscious brothers, gritting his teeth against the pain in his hands. They each drank. Badger could get less than a sip down before he gave up and dropped his head to the floor with a grunt.
“I can’t…guys, I can’t…deal.”
“You can, Badge. C’mon, buddy. Think about somethin’ good. Talk to me about somethin’ good.”
Len leaned against the wall next to Badge and listened to Havoc exhort the kid to hang on. He said nothing; he thought it would probably be better if the kid gave up. Easier. Already the bare muscle on his chest was taking on a dead look, and every breath brought a bubble of blood to his lips. That was a painful fucking way to die.
“Nothing…good.”
“Don’t believe it, bro. I’m thinking about riding that stretch over 68—you know the one, like a ribbon of black, curves back and forth through that tree farm on both sides, then those three big hills, one after another? Damn, I love that stretch. Take it about eighty-five or ninety and really feel the bike working with you. Like there’s nothing else in the world.” His voice broke. “You got a good thought like that, brother?”
“No.” Badger’s voice trailed off strangely and ended with a gurgle. His eyes were open and fixed, and Len thought the kid was coming up on his end.
But Havoc wasn’t having it. He turned and loomed over him. With his elbow, he nudged Badger hard in the arm. “Don’t you fucking give up, little brother. We’re here with you. You stick with us. So come on. Tell us a good thought. One good thought. Something to fight for. Come on.”
Badger blinked, and his chest rose with a little more force. “Show…be pissed.”
Havoc laughed. “Good! Stir him up, too. Come on, share.”
“Ade—Adrienne…Shannon’s girl…like her. Sweet…pretty. Woulda…woulda…liked her.”
“You dog! Pushing up on Show’s kid!” Len smiled a little at Havoc’s teasing tone.
“No…he said no…just friends.” He took a deeper, harsher breath. His chest expanded, and he made a sound that might have been a scream, if his breath hadn’t been so full of blood. Instead, it was no more than an agonized gargle. “Too much…sorry…be a pussy…” Again, he faded away.
“No! No fucking way! Len, help—we should turn him on his side or something, right? That would help him breathe?”
“Let him go, brother. Let him go.”
“Fuck you, you piece of shit!” Havoc rolled onto his knees and picked Badger up with his stubbed hands. Badger did scream then, gargling blood, and Havoc grunted with pain and effort, but he got Badger to his side, and he did breathe a little easier. The position put odd pressure on his raw chest, though, and he began to shake.
Havoc looked over him at Len. “Don’t fucking give up, brother. We’re alive. Until we’re not, this ain’t over.”
“That your only good thought, Hav? Not thinkin’ about your lady? Your kids?”
“Fuck no, man. Can’t think about them. That’s too big. Those are givin’ up thoughts. What I’m doin’ to her right now? And leaving my boys without a father? Nolan—he’s gonna be so damn pissed. Luke’ll never know me. Loki. Huh.” Havoc coughed and shook his head. “Fuck, no. Can’t think about hurting them. I’ll think about the stretch on 68. That’s just a simple, good thought. No matter what happens now, I’ll never ride it again, but it still gives me some strength to remember it.”
~oOo~
For a long spell—the longest yet, by Len’s flawed accounting—their tormentors didn’t come back. They were all four together and left alone. Badger held on. Show regained consciousness, but his back was nearly as raw as Badger’s front, so he lay where he was, and Len forced his own mangled hands to work enough to help Show drink. No one ever touched one of those fucking cracker packages.
They’d stopped talking; Len figured his brothers, like him, were too tired, and there was no point, anyway. The human body could take a lot. Len had done some study, and he had some empirical experience, too. But he and his brothers were extended about as far as they could be. Besides the torn flesh and broken bones, the missing pieces, they’d been left in this filthy room for hours (days?), with little care for their wounds. That they hadn’t bled out was not far short of miraculous—especially Havoc, with bloody stumps for hands and the soles of his feet burned to black. But they were all going slowly into shock, and Len knew they were all being overrun with infection, too. He could feel it coming on him, the germs digging into his gaping wounds and his open socket and turning his head hot and muddy.
They were at the end of their road. No amount of strategy would give them and their destroyed bodies a way past their guards and out of this slaughterhouse.
Len closed his eyes—eye—and went in search of unconsciousness, letting his mind wander to calmer ports, thinking about Tasha and her tearful call. She loved him. He knew she did. He’d hoped to have a chance to feel it when she knew it, too. He thought they might have made something special. Instead, though, he’d leave her in pain.
The door scraped open, and he forced his eye to open and focus. Oh, fuck. Many more men were filling the room. They came and grabbed up all the Horde.
Last exit. Len knew they wouldn’t be back in this room again.
~oOo~
They were dragged into a new room, this one clean and bright—still a fucking dungeon, with manacles on short chains bolted to the walls and the floor sloping slightly to a large, grated drain, but this one was pristine, the floor and walls painted bright white, the fluorescent lights casting short, stark shadows on the gleaming floor. There was a metal table and two chairs—almost like an interrogation room. In Hell.
They were dragged to the walls and shackled—wrists and ankles. Badger screamed weakly as his arms were spread wide, and then he passed out. That was a mercy, Len thought, and he couldn’t stop the next thought—that a greater mercy would be for Badger to go and find his peace. What that kid had been through in his short life.
Len thought of Badger’s happy thought—Show’s stepdaughter, a pretty little redhead. She wasn’t around much—once or twice a year, maybe. He smiled sadly at the thought of shy, goodhearted Badge pining after the girl, keeping a friendship, wanting more, but afraid to incur Show’s wrath. What a waste. What a fucking waste.
Show struggled silently against his bonds, trying to keep the shredded skin of his back and legs away from the wall. Len could see a bloody i
mprint of his body on the glossy, white cinderblock.
And Havoc, forced to stand on his burned feet. He, too, was silent, but the room was filled with the sound of his rattling chains, as his body shook with the effort of enduring that pain.
Len took strength from the fight of his brothers. His dislocated shoulders, his mangled eye socket, the carved skin of his legs and arms, his broken hands and feet—none of that mattered as much as dying with his brothers. With the dignity that was left to them. As Horde.
They’d been manacled to the wall and then left alone. After a short spell, the door opened.
And Isaac walked in.
~oOo~
His hands were bound, and he came in at the end of an AR15. But he did not appear to have been hurt. Len had no idea where they were or how Isaac had come to be with them, but he knew that Show had been right. They’d wanted Isaac. Why?
The sight of their President, even bound—and they were now binding him to one of the metal chairs at the table—made hope catch fire in Len’s gut. “Boss? You okay?”
Isaac met his eyes—eye—and held. “Brother. I’m gonna get you out of this. Stay strong.”
Len believed him. The power of that belief almost brought him to tears.
The armed men who brought Isaac in and bound him to the chair stepped back against a bare wall. Len watched Isaac take in the state of his brothers, meeting Havoc’s eyes and Show’s eyes. None spoke, but Len could see well enough to know that volumes were being said in that silence. Isaac lingered on Badger’s slack form. Len didn’t know whether to hope the kid was alive or dead.
Isaac’s face twisted with rage and hate. “I’m gonna get you out of this.”
Len was trying unsuccessfully to find words when the door opened again. This time, a tall, thin man with a thick, shoulder-length shock of black hair, slicked back, came in, followed by two more men bearing guns. The tall, thin man wore pressed black dress pants and a loose, crisp white shirt, some kind of diamond pattern up one side. Whoever he was, he was obviously in charge.
He pulled out the other metal chair and sat down across the table. With an impatient gesture, he waved at Isaac, and one of the goons came forward and unbound him.
“I apologize for the way we are meeting, ese. I would have preferred friendlier circumstances. But I thank you for coming.”
Isaac rubbed his wrists. “Me for my men. That was the deal. I don’t need the theatrics. Let them go.”
Thin Man smiled. “Do you know who I am?”
“Yeah—did some looking up. Julio Santaveria. Head of the Perros.”
“Perro Blanco. Yes. Well done. Do you understand how rarely I bring myself into the States? I am not able to move so freely in your country. There are many who would see me dead or worse.”
“Not surprised.”
“I come for you, Isaac Lunden. You…intrigue me. You are nothing—a nit. A mosquito buzzing in my ear. You do not have the power to cause the trouble you do, and yet you always seem to manage. You brought down a great enemy of mine. That made you my ally. I have made you and your…brethren…wealthy, have I not?”
Isaac did not reply. But no, Len, thought, he had not made them wealthy. They used that money for other things than wealth. The weed had made them and the town stable, not wealthy.
“You repay my generosity with schemes and plots. You think you can bring down an organization like mine? You and your friends playing with your motorbikes? You are an arrogant man, Isaac Lunden. Too big for your britches, I think is the way you say it. It seems to me you need to learn humility.”
“We had a deal. Let my men go. Then teach me whatever fucking lesson you want.”
“Ah. I have had to change our deal. I want you out in the world, my friend. I think you can be useful to me. But you do need to learn. Hence these…theatrics, I believe you called them.”
He looked over Isaac’s shoulder. “Pick one.”
Len watched in dawning horror and fury as one of the armed men walked to the wall on which Havoc and Badger were shackled. Havoc was nearest, and he went perfectly still as the man stood before him. For a moment, all Len could see was Havoc, staring straight into that bastard’s face. And then Santaveria’s man made a swift, sharp jerk of his arm. Havoc’s body jolted, and his head went back, slamming into the wall, as he gasped, his scream pulling into his chest.
So focused was he on Havoc’s face and the sound of his strained, screaming breath, it took Len a second to hear, see, smell the rest. The next he heard was Isaac’s roar, and Show’s pained shout, and the crash of a chair.
Then the rest caught up in his head—the heavy squick he’d heard. And the smell. God, the smell. He looked down from Havoc’s slackening face to see Santaveria’s man pulling his brother’s intestines and letting them ooze to the floor. Finally, Havoc’s head fell, leaden, to his chest.
Len tried to scream, but his throat locked down completely. He could barely even breathe.
“Sit down, Isaac.”
Len turned to see Isaac being driven back to his righted chair, two guns pressed to his head.
“I will find a way to fucking end you, you Mexican cunt.” The grief that broke Isaac’s voice made the threat stronger, not weaker.
But Santaveria laughed. “I would be careful, ese. There are three more of your men behind me, and I would like you to think about the things I am willing to see done. Your men can tell you—if they live to do so—how enthusiastic my men are about their work.”
“Why? Why do this?”
“I believe you are much smarter than to need an answer to that question. Let me say simply that the limit of power is found only at the limit of will. I show you that my will has no limit, and you understand that my power is therefore limitless. Yes? You have displeased me. But you are useful. So I show you how I assuage my displeasure.”
“You let us kill Halyard.”
“Ah, yes. And I cleaned up for you, as well. A gift. As that man’s”—he waved a dismissive hand at Havoc’s body—“sister was my gift to Martin. But Martin was not as useful to me as he liked to think. He began to think of himself as necessary. But there are many men who can do for me what he did. You, though, you are a unique kind of man, Isaac. You are smart, and you think like the right kind of man. I think I will like you in my pocket. As my bitch, as you say.”
“No fucking way.”
“I think yes fucking way.” Santaveria again looked over Isaac’s shoulder. The same man, stained up to his elbows in Havoc’s blood, moved toward Badger, next in line. He lifted his bloody blade.
“Fuck! Stop! What do you want?”
Santaveria smiled and leaned back in his chair, linking his fingers over his chest. “Simple. I will send you and your men home, to fight another day. Our arrangement stays as it is. You settle all your little schemes with the other clubs. And you keep peace. Unless I tell you otherwise, you keep peace. And when I call, you answer. If I tell you to kill, you kill. If I tell you to beg, you beg. What I say, you do.” He leaned forward. “What I want, Isaac Lunden, is you.”
Len watched the strife and emotion play over his President’s face. He wanted him to throw that fucking table over and kill Santaveria with his bare hands. But he also wanted out of this room, off this wall. He wanted home. He wanted Tasha. He wanted the chance to bury his brother.
His brother. Havoc. Oh, Christ, Havoc.
Isaac lifted his eyes and looked at Show. He looked at Len. He turned to Badger—who had begun to stir slightly, maybe roused by the stench. Then Isaac turned to Havoc. Unable to take in the sight of his brother with his guts trailing into a cooling pile on the floor, Len studied his President’s face.
When Isaac dropped his head, Len knew his answer.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Tasha had three dorm rooms set up as a makeshift hospital. From what Isaac had told her, all the men needed an actual hospital, but they were being brought to the clubhouse. There was too much risk from both law and the cartel for a hospital, so she w
as going to have to take care of them here.
Over her last years at County, she’d taken to pulling supplies—especially antibiotics and painkillers—from the hospital stocks. Not enough to be noticed, but enough to cover what the Horde might need. Based on Isaac’s report, she expected to need everything she’d taken.
But Len was alive. He was alive, and he was coming home. They had a chance to get it right.
She’d enlisted Lilli and four club girls to help her get the beds ready and set up a triage kit at every bedside. Shannon was with Cory. Tasha had given Cory a heavy dose of Valium, and she was sleeping in the room that had been Havoc’s before their marriage. Shannon was staying with her, tending to little Luke. Nolan was with the few Horde who were left: Dom and Tommy, and Zeke—who was the older patch she’d never before met—and the Prospects. Tasha had checked on him once, and he’d emphatically brushed her off.
As an ER doctor, Tasha had seen every conceivable expression of grief and loss. She had time and again delivered the news that a loved one had died. Her heart broke every time. She had never achieved the emotional distance for which doctors were supposed to strive. When it was her family, though, there was no way to compare. She could recall in every vivid detail the way Show’s face had shifted, something dying in his eyes, when she’d told him about Daisy. The way Holly had gone brittle in an instant.
What happened when Cory found out about Havoc, though—Tasha still buzzed with the pain and confusion of it. The guilt. As Shannon and Tasha got news that Show and Len were alive, and as Lilli learned that the man to whom she’d said a wrenching forever goodbye only hours before was coming home to her after all, Cory learned that she had lost her husband. The father of her sons. They had been married only months.
She had collapsed, and Nolan had run to her, taking Luke from her arms and pulling them both close, sitting on the floor and rocking his mother as she wailed. When Luke had started to cry, Shannon had taken him.
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