“Er ... Jett said no one’s supposed to go out there,” Killer says.
“Jett can fucking eat me. Oh, wait. He’s busy fucking his club whore,” Mia replies, and then the front door slams.
“Shit!” Jett buckles his belt and leaves the room almost as fast as Mia did. I stare at the ceiling and will the tears away. I hop down off the counter and bury my face in my hands.
“Well that was fast,” Grim says, his voice is full of hurt and hatred.
I glance up, hastily swiping at the tears that’ve spilled over my lashes and down my cheeks. Grim stands in the doorway, his hands balled into fists at his side, his mouth pulled into a harsh line that makes his scars appear all the more formidable. I pull the robe closed and cover myself from view. When I meet his gaze, it’s hard, and unyielding. Accusatory.
“How long have you been there?”
“Long enough. That’s how it’s always going to be with him. You know that, right? He can’t leave his wife because the bitch knows too fucking much.”
I shake my head and attempt to walk by. “I’m not talking about this with you.”
“Oh, you won’t talk to me about it, huh? Why is that, Raine? Because your guilt is eating you alive? Did you think about your husband at all while Jett was burying his dick inside—”
I slap him. The clap rings through the room. My hand stings. Grim reaches out and grasps my wrist, holding it tight, too tight. I whimper. His angry eyes bore into mine, and I yank free of his grip. I brush past and run out of the kitchen and through the clubhouse, back to my room where it’s safe. Where I can hide from the horrible things I’ve done, lie down on the bed, and wish I’d never met anyone from the Savage Saints MC.
JETT
I STALK OUT OF THE kitchen and spot Killer on the couch, buried inside Brooke, or Jenny, or one of the other needy fucking club whores who drink my booze, eat my food, and live in my club rent-free.
I grab Killer’s neat little fucking ponytail and pull him off the bitch. “You busy, arsehole?”
He comes up swinging, but I block the blow and deliver one of my own, right to the side of his fucking head.
“What the fuck?” His eyes widen when he sees it’s me. “Shit, Prez. I’m so—”
“My wife just left the clubhouse.”
Killer’s eyes dart from me to the door and back again. “Okay.”
“On lockdown, fuckface.”
“Oh ... shit.”
“Yeah, shit is right,” I seethe. “Wasn’t it your job to stand at that door and make sure no one leaves this fuckin’ club?”
“Er ... yeah.”
“And what are you doing instead?”
“Um ...” He swallows and glances at Brooke, who’s smiling like the fucking Cheshire cat as she stares up at us from the couch. “Getting my dick wet?”
I release his shirt and shove him away from me. In my peripheral, Raine exits the kitchen and hurries down the hall. I want to go after her. I want to take her in my arms and tell her that none of this was her fault, that my wife is a goddamn psycho, and that I’m a complete fucking idiot because Raine deserves more, but I have a few things to take care of first.
Outside, a car engine revs, tyres squeal, and Mia shouts at Raphe who’s manning the booth to, “Open the fucking gate”.
I take a slow, steady breath in through my nose, but I am this close to losing my shit. “Go after her.”
“What ... like, outside? But we’re on lockdown.”
“Yeah, and your stupid arse was supposed to be minding the fuckin’ door. So put your goddamn dick away, pull up your big-girl panties, and follow my fucking wife.”
“Yeah, okay. Sorry, Prez.” He tucks himself back inside his pants and spares a brief glance at Brooke before heading for the door.
“Killer?” I growl. The kid turns around. We’ve been through a lot of shit in the past few years, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen him look this fucking panicked. If my wife wasn’t determined to get herself killed, I might even laugh. “If she dies, you die.”
“I’ll take care of her, Prez.”
“You better, or I’m going to gut every woman you’ve ever loved, your mother included.”
I move toward the bar, where our new girl—Hannah, or Holly, or some fucking shit—is texting on her phone. She’s cute, with a wild streak a mile long if her tatts, piercings and blue hair are anything to go off, and Brooke vouched for her. I’m starting to see that Brooke vouching for anyone means shit, but we got a clubhouse full of people. We needed someone to man the bar while Raine is out of commission, and the blue-haired bitch needed a job, so here we are.
“Bourbon, darlin’. Don’t be stingy.” I sit heavily on the stool and wait for her to pour my drink. She pours it stiff, just the way I like it. I pick up the glass and down the warm liquid in one go.
“Rough night?”
I chuckle and slam the glass on the bar. “Yeah, something like that.”
“You want another?” She tilts her head toward the bottle in her hand.
“Nah, do me a favour though? Don’t serve my boys drinks that stiff. I don’t need those arseholes fallin’ off their goddamn bikes.”
She salutes me. “Yes, sir.”
I get up and walk through the room. Brooke is passed out on the couch, her legs splayed open, her pussy on show for all the fucking world to see. “Oh, and don’t go sleepin’ with any of the guys. I don’t need another coked-out club whore on my hands.”
Hannah glances at Brooke and frowns. “Got it, boss.”
I light a cigarette and walk through my clubhouse to One Eye’s old room. I turn the handle, but it’s locked. I make a fist and bang on the door. “Let me in, darlin’.”
“No. I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Raine,” I warn, ready to bust the fucking door down but she yanks it back. Her eyes are red and shining with tears. “Saw Grim leave the kitchen. What did he say to you?”
“Nothing I didn’t already know.”
“You gonna let me in, or do I have to stand out here in the hall of my own fucking clubhouse?” I cock my head, waiting for her answer. She pulls the door open and steps aside.
I walk in and cup her face with my hands, forcing her to look at me. “Look, what happened, that’s on me. I don’t want you feeling like shit because—”
“Because I fucked a married man and his wife caught us in the act? Too late, Jett.”
“Mia will calm down. Her pride’s hurt; she’ll get over it.”
“But I won’t.” She shakes her head. “This thing between us, it can’t ever happen again. I haven’t been one hundred per cent hon—”
“Prez.” Kick pushes the door open without knocking. Raine immediately puts some distance between us. “Sorry. I know you’re ... busy, but Killer just called. Him and Mia picked up a tail. They fired shots. The bastards ran Killer off the road, pinned him between his bike and the pylon. An ambulance is on its way, but he’s in bad shape.”
“Fuck.”
“Prez, they got Mia.”
“Goddamn it.” I lash out, upending the table. Raine’s belongings spill over onto the floor, and she shrieks and takes several steps back. “Fucking stupid cunt. I knew that bitch would get herself killed.”
Kick and Raine share a look, and I squeeze my eyes tightly closed and breathe. Just fucking breathe, arsehole.
“I’m sorry.” I reach for Raine, but she doesn’t come any closer. I can’t say I blame her. “I’m so fuckin’ sorry for all of it.”
I turn and leave because I don’t know what the hell else to do to make it better. My bitch wife is out there in the hands of my enemy, and the woman I love is terrified of me. It’s my fault. All of this is my fault.
JETT
I SIT AT THE HEAD OF our club table, stubbing out my third fucking cigarette in twenty minutes. Waiting. Seems that’s all I do these days—fucking wait for the guillotine to fall.
The bottle of bourbon clutched in my fist is half empty. It was
full when Hannah brought it in. I sent everyone out several hours ago to find Mia. To find leads. To find me a fucking Russian I can use as collateral.
They’ve had my wife for two fucking days. Mia has no loyalty, and I have no doubt she’ll give them whatever they want. She isn’t cut out for torture, and she’s sure as fuck angry enough to want to hurt me.
My phone rings and I answer, “What?”
“We got ourselves a prize, Prez,” Trigger says into the receiver. “Send the van.”
“You just make sure he doesn’t go anywhere.”
“Naw, we got him held nice and tight. Haven’t we, Crazy?”
A dark chuckle echoes through the earpiece. “Yeah, he’s real secure, Prez. You better send Tank to pick him up though. I’m not sure either of us can get the knife out of the wall.”
Jesus Christ. It’s like parenting a pack of psychopaths.
CRAZY AND TRIGGER’S bikes careen through what used to be my security gate and come to a stop in front of me. Tank follows closely behind them in the clubhouse van. Trigger is grinning like an idiot as he climbs off his Harley and races to the back of the vehicle to open the doors. You’d never know the arsehole had been shot just four days ago. Tank and Trigger emerge with a beaten and bloody Russian. Not just any Russian, but Ryzhanov’s right-hand man. Poor bastard. He’s in our world now, and the Savage Saints didn’t get our name by asking questions first and torturing later.
I tilt my chin toward the building to our right. “Take him to the cellar.”
Tank nods and Crazy moves ahead of them to open the door to a part of the compound we rarely use. I’ve been in some pretty dire fucking situations in my life. I’ve seen some shit, done shit no man should ever have to, but even I get chills as I cross the threshold of this building and follow my brothers down into the dark.
The stench of mould and copper assaults my nostrils, and when Crazy grabs the chain and the ancient light bulb hums and sparks to life, visions of entrails dance through my head over the old blood stains on the floor. I’ve witnessed countless men brought to their knees by my VP, and, not for the first time since I recruited him for my club, I thank fuck he’s loyal to me and not trying to eviscerate me like the rest of his enemies.
All three of my brothers work to shackle this pitiful fuck to the chains hanging from the ceiling. When they’re done, his head is bowed and his body slumps forward against his restraints. I step forward and slap his face, hard. He moans and rouses, but not enough, so I glance at Tank, who’s rifling through the drawers of his stainless-steel trolley nearby. He produces a small vial of liquid and a huge needle, which he jabs into the seal. Tank draws back on the plunger, filling the shaft with clear fluid before setting down the rest of the adrenaline. “You wanna do the honours, Prez?”
“No, I just wanna beat the shit outta him.”
Tank shrugs. “Suit yourself.” He pulls back his arm and stabs the needle into the Russian’s chest.
The man gasps, his body contorting, his head shooting upright as he screams and bucks against his restraints.
“He’s all yours, Prez.” Tank smiles as he steps back and places the needle on the tray.
“Trakhni tebya! Trakhni tebya! YA sobirayus’ ubit’ tvoyu zhenu i iznasilovat’ tvoikh detey.”
I swing my fist into his face, busting his nose in the process. “I don’t speak Russian, but I don’t like your fuckin’ tone.”
“Fuck you,” the Russian hisses, blood and spittle flying from his mouth.
Tank wheels his trolley closer, and I glance at the shiny metal tools decorating the steel tray on top. “Where is my wife?”
“Yeblya moyego bossa.”
I pick up a scalpel and test the blade with the tip of my finger. Blood pools beneath the steel, and I put my finger in my mouth and suck it clean. The sharp, metallic zing of blood rolls over my taste buds. I lunge at his chest with the blade. Three quick slashes tear through the fabric of his shirt and rent his skin wide open. Blood pours from the wounds, soaking his shirt and body. His face contorts in what looks like agony, but he steels his jaw, rapidly breathing in and out. Stubborn bastard refuses to scream. We’ll see about that.
“I can do this all night, but I’m guessing you won’t last that long. So I’m going to ask you again; where is my wife?”
JETT
MY HANDS ARE STILL drenched with Ryzhanov’s second’s blood as I dial the number on the burner phone. It rings twice before the Russian answers, “Let me guess. Jetthro King?”
“Bingo, arsehole. You have my wife.”
“And I hear you have my second.”
“We do,” I answer. “He’s lookin’ a little worse for wear. Needs his daddy to come get him.”
“Name the place.”
“There’s a quarry outside of Penrith. It’s closed while they fix it to prevent another death. Be there at four p.m.”
“Shall I bring what remains of my crew?”
I laugh but it lacks any real humour. “Don’t tell me we crippled your crew. We killed a bunch of immigrant workers who were likely illegal anyway. Your crew is fuckin’ fine, but they won’t be if you hurt my wife.”
“It seems only fair that I should, given that you’ve no doubt bled my second long enough for him to talk. How else would he give up this number?”
“Your second is fine.”
“So is your wife’s arse. An eye for an eye, right?”
“Touch a hair on her head, and I’ll fuckin’ gut you.”
“Goodbye, Mr King. We’ll see you and your crew at four.” He ends the call and I throw the burner against the wall. It shatters into a million pieces and Ryzhanov’s second laughs. Crazy pulls his gun on him and the guy freezes.
“Put it away, you fuckstick,” I snap.
“Sorry, Prez.” He sucks in a sharp breath, and then another as he angles his head back as if avoiding a sneeze. “A-a-choo!”
The gun goes off. The Russian slumps against his restraints and I close my eyes and pinch the bridge of my nose. “Are you fuckin’ kiddin’ me?”
Crazy wipes his hand on his cut, smearing snot across the dirty leather. He glances at the gun in his other hand, and then at the very dead Russian. “Oh, shit.”
“Yeah, oh shit, motherfucker. We’re meeting Ryzhanov in two hours to exchange hostages and now we gotta Weekend at Bernie’s that shit?” I grab his cut and shove him up against the wall. “You just fucked us royally.”
I glance at Tank, who shakes his head, wraps his arms around Crazy’s neck, and drags him backward.
“Get him the fuck outta here before I riddle him with bullets too,” I say.
“I’m sorry, Prez. I fucked up.”
“You’re always fuckin’ up. I oughta strip that goddamn patch from your cut.”
Crazy slaps at Tank’s arm around his neck and my VP squeezes tighter until the insane little fucker goes lax in his grip.
“Jesus Christ.” I take a pack of cigarettes from my cut, put one in my mouth, and pull out my Zippo. The flame dances in the gloomy chamber, highlighting the Russian’s blood caking my hands.
“You want me to kill him, Prez?”
I think seriously about it for a few seconds and shake my head. “No. Just get him out of here before I change my mind.”
WE ARRIVE AT THE QUARRY an hour earlier than we have to. Everyone but Raphe, Killer, Country, and Crazy are here. The older two got left behind to protect the women and children on lockdown. The other jackasses were left because they can’t be trusted not to fuck shit up.
Trigger and Kick wait in the van with the dead Russian.
I can’t believe this shit. What the fuck am I supposed to do with a dead hostage?
We sit in the sweltering heat. That body isn’t getting any fresher, so I call to Trigger to turn on the air-conditioning.
Moments later, the Russians show up early. A cavalcade of Rolls-Royces kick up dust in their wake.
Ryzhanov waits for his crew to climb out and aim their guns at us. We all do
the same, and then the smug bastard opens the back door of his expensive car.
“Where the fuck is my wife, Ryzhanov?”
“Where is my second?”
I turn and nod at Trigger through the windshield. One of the Russians pulls my wife from the boot of their vehicle, and she struggles in their grasp.
Hang on, Mia.
Even from here I can feel the weight of her hatred for me. I catalogue her body. Her face is a little banged up but there are no limbs or digits missing that I can see. I don’t know if they abused her, but aside from a swollen lip and tear in her shirt, she appears mostly untouched.
Trigger and Kick pull the dead Russian from the van, supporting his body weight with their shoulders underneath his arms. His head lolls, dead weight, and Ryzhanov raises a brow.
“He’s still breathin’,” I shout. “Just unconscious is all.”
“Prove it,” he says through his teeth.
“Come here and you can collect him for yourself.”
Ryzhanov motions with his gun to one of his men. A lanky Russian slowly walks toward us. I glance at Tank. He nods imperceptibly, and I stare at Mia, sliding my gaze from her hard eyes to the ground at her feet before settling again on Ryzhanov.
The Russian crouches to feel for a pulse. Tank kicks dirt in his face and fires three bullets straight into his cranium. I aim at Ryzhanov’s head and fire off several rounds. Mia goes down, and for a half second, I think I’ve hit my wife, but she’s yanked to her feet and shoved in the backseat of Ryzhanov’s Royce. The car takes off, kicking up a cloud of dust.
“Fuck!” I shoot at the tyres, the back windshield, but nothing slows the vehicle.
Ryzhanov’s men fire at our bikes, riddling the metal frames with holes. I take cover behind our van, and the next few minutes are a barrage of gunpowder and bloodshed as we fuck up those who haven’t already fled.
“Fuck!” I unleash the remaining bullets from my clip, squeezing the trigger so tight my fingers cramp. “They’ve got my fucking wife!”
JETT (Savage Saints MC Book 3) Page 7
