“Does she?”
His silence is my answer, and it only makes me feel angrier towards her. Not a good fucking place to be. I never take anger out on a woman. Fucking never. But damn if this one isn’t pushing me hard. She’s been nothing but a pain in my ass since she got here. If she keeps going the way she is, I fucking will be sending her home.
Birdie reads the situation and comes close to me. “You should go back inside.”
I can’t drag my eyes from Eloise who’s glaring at me. Ignoring Birdie, I say to Eloise, “You feel powerful taking your shit out on a teenager?”
“Fuck you,” she spits back. “Our relationship has nothing to do with you.”
“That’s where you’re wrong. I’ve just made it have something to do with me. I’ll be watching you, Eloise.”
“And what?” she challenges. “You’ll dob me in to DoCS? Take a child away from the only parent he’s ever known? Nice. Real fucking nice.”
“Continue down the path you’re on and you’ll find out.” With that, I look at Birdie and say, “I’ll call you later.”
She nods and I turn and stalk back inside.
I’m all fucked up with everything going on. I’m feeling shit I’ve never felt, and it’s fucking with me. I need to sort this club stuff out and get back to normal.
“Winter,” Axe says, interrupting my thoughts. “We’ve found your rat.”
I should have fucking known our rat was Striker. He’s held a grudge against me since the day I hauled his ass out of his girlfriend’s house years ago. All his fuck ups make sense now; he was working against us.
Axe and Hunt discovered he’s the rat when they intercepted a call between him and Leif Jensen. Leif was pissed Striker had called. Apparently talking over the phone is no longer allowed within their organisation. Leif told him never to call again, but rather to use the messaging system as per usual. That fucking messaging system is one of our biggest problems. The security they use has it locked down tightly; hacking into it isn’t an option.
We tracked Striker’s location and I sent Hunt and Memphis to bring him to our warehouse. They arrived five minutes ago with him.
“What information do you want me to get out of him?” Hunt asks after they bring him in.
I look at Striker who is watching me like he wants to go a round with me. “I’m taking this one.”
Without waiting for Hunt’s response, I close the distance between Striker and me. He’s sitting in a chair with his wrists and feet restrained. I grip him by the neck and yank him to a standing position. He gasps for air and his body jerks. I kick the chair out of the way and shove him backwards so he hits the cement floor. The loud crack as his head hits it, along with his cries of pain, bring me some fucking joy, but it’s nowhere near enough. I need a couple of hours with him before it’ll be enough.
Standing over him, I bark, “Why? Tell me why you fucking did it?”
“I’m not fucking telling you a thing.”
“Oh, I think you will. It might take me some time, but you’ll be squealing by the time we’re done here.”
I reef him back up and get Hunt to secure him to the cement column. I then get to work on breaking him down by beating the shit out of him. This isn’t just to break him; this is for me, too.
The demon that lives deep in my soul demands it.
I need to see his pain.
I need to touch his pain.
I need to feel his pain.
Fuck, do I need to feel it.
Striker was a trusted member of my club.
Of my family.
I brought him in.
I gave him everything he needed.
I fucking opened up my world to him.
And he betrayed all of that.
He betrayed every member of our family.
I feel the pain of that all through me and now he needs to feel it, too.
I take my time with him, enjoying every second of my hands delivering a slow death. When he’s almost unconscious, I stop and grip his face. “You ready to talk yet?”
He looks at me through swollen eyes. “Fuck. You.” Blood drips from his mouth as he speaks, and joins the rest of the blood I’ve drawn from him on the ground.
Stepping away before I completely end him, I look at Ransom. “We’re going for a drive.”
Ransom frowns. “Where?”
“To his grave. We’ll finish this there.”
We bundle Striker into the van and make the drive to where we’ll bury him. By the time we get there, he’s wide awake again, which is exactly what I intended.
I lead him to the site and throw a shovel at him. “Dig.”
He drops the shovel. “Dig it your-fucking-self. I’m not your fucking slave anymore.”
“My slave? When the fuck were you ever that?”
His eyes glitter with hatred. “From the fucking minute I joined Storm, you treated me like I was there just to do whatever the fuck suited you.”
Ransom steps forward, as much anger blazing from him as there is hatred coming from Striker. “The fuck?”
Striker looks at Ransom. “You never saw it. No one did. But I was the one Winter always fucking singled out and treated like shit.”
Hunt joins in. “Can you fucking hear yourself, Striker? You sound like a fucking child. Winter didn’t treat you like shit, but you sure as fuck treated him like that. And you fucking pissed all over every one of us by getting into bed with Zenith. No one will ever forget that.”
When Striker opens his mouth to talk, I bark, “Enough. Dig the fucking hole.”
“I’m not fucking digging,” Striker says.
I punch him.
And again.
He lands on his back and I take the shovel and slice it down hard on his wrist. As it cleaves through his skin and bone, he howls in pain.
Crouching next to him, I say, “I figured you don’t need your hand if you’re not going to dig. You wanna start talking yet, or should I find other body parts you don’t need?”
His face is a mess of sweat, and tears, and grime as he stares up at me with pure bitterness. “Just fucking kill me,” he pants through the pain. “I’m not going to tell you a fucking thing.”
“That’s where you’re wrong. We’re not going to kill you until you talk.” I grasp his face and squeeze hard. “And I’m a patient man; I don’t care if this takes us weeks. You’ll fucking talk.”
Striker surprises me; he holds out longer than I thought he would. It turns out I’m not as patient as I told him I am. After three hours of torturing him, I’m way past ready to hear what he has to say, and willing to go to any length to make that happen.
Wiping the sweat off my forehead, I order, “Flip him over. I want Storm removed from his back.” There’s no fucking way I’m sending him to his grave representing the club he betrayed.
Striker jerks as Hunt attempts to turn him over. He musters up enough strength to stop Hunt from doing it, so Ransom and I get in there and make it happen. Hunt then removes Striker’s shirt and pulls his knife out.
I stand over him, my feet either side of his body. “Let me know when you’ve got something to say.” Taking Hunt’s knife, I slice into Striker’s back and begin removing his skin and all markings belonging to Storm. Blood oozes everywhere as I carve his back up.