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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.
Striker’s screams fill my ears until he cries out an address and says, “That’s where they work from.”
