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When I reach the shed, I throw the doors open, finding our three prisoners inside. They look like absolute hell, their wounds swollen and oozing through the half-hearted patch-up job we gave them. Wyatt’s leg sits at an odd angle after Dallas broke his knee. They all crouch in the corner, their pants stained with shit and piss because the only humane treatment they’ve been given over the last several days is water to keep them alive. While I probably would have spared them a bucket to relieve themselves in, I won’t chastise my men for treating them basely. I will have to make someone clean up the mess, though. And I’m thinking that will be the men who didn’t consider getting them a shitter in the first place.
I would never treat an animal this way, but these men are nothing but garbage in my eyes, men willing to inflict fear and violence on Winter to satisfy their need for revenge, and I have no pity for them. Perhaps if they had fought me like men, I might give them an honorable death. But if they would let Tiffany stab my wife and cause harm to my unborn child, they don’t deserve my mercy. I will give them a quick death, however, since Winter lived.
While I’m still furious with them, I think their days of suffering in this shed, unsure of what fate they would meet, was torture enough. And by the look of them, I think they might agree.
“You reek,” I spit, sneering at them as they cower against the back wall where they are tied.
With their hands behind their backs and gags in their mouths, they can do little more than express themselves with wide, fearful eyes and muffled protests.
“Untie them,” I command, “and line them up.”
Rico, Knuckles, and Philip step forward to comply, hauling the broken and battered men to the front of the shed so everyone can see their sorry state. Despite the painful screams of protest, they each manage to get the men onto their knees. I’m not usually one for theatrics, but I still have enough hatred over what they did to Winter that I can’t just let them go quietly. And no one else is going to take my satisfaction by killing them for me.
Stepping up behind Luke, I take his hair from Philip’s hand, and Philip steps back, a combination of fear and reverence in his eyes. Withdrawing my pocket knife, I flick the blade open. “Any last words?” I ask, cutting away his gag none too carefully as I open a tiny cut on his cheek.
“Please, Gabe, I’m so sorry,” he begs, tears streaming down his cheeks. “I’ll do anything!” he howls.
“Is that all you have to say?” I ask, yanking his hair back further, forcing him to look at me.
He swallows convulsively, and the potent scent of urine fills the air as he wets himself. My nose wrinkles in disgust, and without a moment’s hesitation, I draw the blade across his throat, cutting a deep, smiling gash that spurts blood as he chokes and coughs.
His eyes grow wide, and his body convulses, but I keep a firm grip on his hair, holding him up so everyone can see. Once the final gurgle of breath escapes his lungs, I let him fall to the ground.
Mateo is next, and I take him from Knuckles, who nods stoically before stepping away. I repeat the ritual, asking Mateo if he has anything to say as I ungag him. He looks up at me with simmering rage, and rather than saying anything, he spits on me. I drive my fist into his mouth, shattering several of his teeth, and when I yank his head back to cut his throat, he’s already choking on his own blood.
I yank my blade across his neck forcefully and wait for all the blood to drain from him, letting his life trickle away. From the faces of my men as I let him fall to the ground, it’s a mixed bag of horror and righteousness. My crew may not have to be involved in too many illicit activities, but after this, I don’t want any of them to doubt that they might have to take a life. The life of a biker is brutal, and while I promised Winter I would run an honest business, I won’t hesitate to destroy any enemy who turns their gaze her way.
When I take Wyatt from Rico, he pats my shoulder and steps away. I slice the gag from his face and tip his head back forcefully.
“Was it you who planned all this?” I demand. I don’t see how it could be anyone but him. He and Tiffany are the only two with enough brains and hatred to try and coordinate the level of attacks they made.
“Fuck you,” he spits, his eyes seething with hatred, and I can tell I’m right.
Cold fury turns my heart to stone, and rather than cutting his throat, I reach down to bury my blade in his torso, right where Winter was stabbed. He screams in pain, his shoulders twitching as he struggles to escape my grasp. I only twist the blade, opening the wound until blood pours from it.
“That’s for my wife,” I say icily.
Yanking my blade from his gut, I slash it across his neck, cutting so deep that I actually hit his vertebrae. Wyatt collapses to the ground, convulsing as he hemorrhages and dies.
My hands are bloody from the mess I’ve made, my shirt splattered with gore, but now that the villains are dead, I finally feel like I can breathe. It’s truly over.
“That is what happens to traitors, to cowards who attack my wife,” I say, raising my voice for everyone to hear. In the following silence, I could have heard a pin drop.
I turn to Dallas, whose expression tells me even he didn’t know I had that kind of brutality inside. “Burn the bodies. And have whoever didn’t think about a shit bucket clean up that mess,” I order, pointing toward the back wall of the shed.
“Right, boss,” Dally says, and as I head toward the clubhouse to get cleaned up, Dallas jumps into action, commanding the men to get stuff done.
In the clubhouse bathroom, I strip my shirt and scrub my hands until no crimson remains. Though my face looks clean, I wash it, too, ridding myself of the gore from the day. My hands are shaking as I work, though with anger or adrenaline—or even relief—I do not know. Hopefully, that will be the last of the violence I have to deliver. I thought bringing Winter to Whitfield might mean a fresh start for us all. Maybe now, that can be true. I only hope no more of our past comes to haunt us. I don’t know how much farther we can run.
I think about my wife and our beautiful baby girl we’ll be bringing into this world. I want nothing but peace and happiness for them, where a stressful day entails booming business at the shop. No more violence, no more anger. And as I watch the last of the stained water circle down the drain, I hope it’s taking the remains of my violent life with it.
Taking a towel from the cupboard, I dry my hands and face, then look in the mirror. I comb my hair back into place, and though my hands are shaking, my business is concluded, and I can return to Winter’s side.
She told me I should go home tonight to get some sleep. I could see it in her eyes, the concern for all my wakeful nights as I sat up, willing her to come back to me. I do have generous purple circles under my eyes. But I can’t wait to be with my wife. I’ll swing by the house for a change of clothes and then head back to the hospital.
27
Winter
