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The most vile, sadistic mother fucker I’d ever met in my life. Which was saying something.
That night, at gunpoint, I’d been forced to dig a grave and bury a body while they told me how I could never go to the cops because it was only my DNA all over the body now.
And, quite frankly, I’d been young and scared enough that I’d believed them, gone with it.
It wasn’t long until Curtis was demanding other shit from me. Until I was doing jobs for shit pay simply because he had so much dirt on me that I didn’t even have a choice.
It wasn’t until he came to me with the ultimate demand that I finally grew the balls it took to leave.
Because I didn’t give a fuck how much shit he had on me. I wasn’t taking someone’s life who hadn’t fucked me over first.
So while I outwardly agreed, I went ahead and secured some drugs to slip into their drinks the night it was supposed to happen. Then while they were tripping balls or passing out, I was flying the fuck out of town as fast and as far as I could go.
They hadn’t known my full name back then.
I’d been smart enough to make sure they couldn’t ever see my license or shit like that.
But, I guess, at the end of the day, the name Valen wasn’t all that common. And once I settled down some roots back in Navesink Bank, it likely didn’t take that much work for them to put the pieces together, then decided to come and confront me for, in their eyes, fucking them over. For thinking I could pull one over on them.
Curtis was a threat.
I’d be naive to say anything else.
Even if the Henchmen were a relatively big, strong organization, there was a chance that Curtis’s crazy could genuinely fuck with the club.
Because unlike the Henchmen, Curtis didn’t have a code. Or a conscience.
He would happily rape, torture, and murder every single woman and child attached to our organization to get whatever he wanted.
In my mind, by agreeing to do the job with him, I was keeping him away from the club. At least temporarily. Even if I knew that, eventually, he was going to be demanding more and more from me.
At some point, he’d be telling me to take from the club. The guns. The money. Whatever he wanted that he thought he could use to keep building his ragtag empire of degenerates like himself.
I was going to need to deal with him eventually. It was the only way he was going to go away. If I snuffed him out like he snuffed out that kid in the woods all those years ago.
But at least I was buying myself a little time by agreeing to the job.
I’d already been working on figuring out where he and his crew were staying, what their habits were, how I could try to take them out myself. Or, if I had to, bring Voss in on it. Without needing to put the club or their families any more at risk.
That was where I’d been on all those long trips away from the clubhouse, shirking my responsibilities and making Voss and likely Louana pick up my slack.
Gathering intel.
Trying to come up with a plan.
It was just that the job was happening before I could set anything in motion.
Curtis was looking a little rough. The years had matured me, but aged him. Which wasn’t surprising, given that he’d been a good ten or twelve years older than me at the time. He was still big, still strong, things he could control with the gym. But his face was getting lined and redder than before. His blond hair was taking on a lot of white.
And, from the looks of things, someone had tried to stab the fucker in the eye, but missed and gave him a nasty-ass scar right beside it instead.
He probably lived just long enough to regret trying to make a move, to feel more pain than any human being should be forced to endure.
I bet he’d welcomed death.
That was why I had to do this, to play this close to my vest. Because I couldn’t let that kind of shit happen to any of the guys or their families.
This was my mess.
