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I pick up my speed, careful to make my footsteps as light as possible. The heavy stomps of several pairs of riding boots echo from inside the main room.
Quietly, I close the door behind me, my chest heaving from the exertion while I repeat the phone number over and over in my head.
PRIEST
The doorto my cell flings open with force, the metal banging against the wall as I’m stumbling toward the cot. Several members of the Screwballs storm inside, Big Dick leading the charge.
“Where the fuck are they, motherfucker?”
My eyes dart from face to face, burning each one into my memory. These are faces of the men who buy children as slaves, who have beaten and raped innocent women. These are also faces of the men I intend to destroy one by one.
Big Dick’s hand flies out and clutches the front of my shirt, yanking me to him. I can’t help but grin as he looks up at me, his face filled with rage and authority, regardless of the fact that I still tower over the stupid fuck.
“Where’s my fucking kid?” he roars.
His question sets off hope in my heart. If he still hasn’t found Harrison, that means TK was successful in getting Cora and her son to Texas. They’re with the club, and they’re safe.
“Raping a young girl and getting her pregnant doesn’t make you the father to her kid,” I say, standing taller, my shirt stretching in his fist as I get to my full height. “It makes you a fucking rapist and a piece of shit.”
His eyes are black. Evil. The type of eyes some could say look possessed. But the only thing Big Dick is possessed with is his own vile spirit. The spirit of a man who already has a one-way ticket to hell, and I intend to send him there. Soon.
“Get his arms,” he orders, his obsidian eyes never wavering from mine.
Two men step forward and grasp my arms, attempting to stretch them out and hold me in place, but I won’t go down easily. I shake the pair off, my head swimming from the quick movement, my body betraying me as pain takes over from my previous beating. I struggle against their grip, my fists coming out to fight back, but my strength is already so depleted, the effort is futile. In the end, I lose, and it takes four of them to hold me in place.
Once I’m immobile, Big Dick steps forward. “My patience with you is gone, Preacher. I want my kid. Where are they?”
I smirk, even though it hurts to do so with my split lips. “Safe.”
His fist slams into the center of my gut while he roars in frustration. My body folds in on itself as I struggle to breathe. The men holding me up are having a hell of a time keeping me upright with Big Dick landing blow after blow into my torso, screaming and throwing a tantrum more fitting to a three-year-old than the president of any MC.
“Tell me where he took them!” he screams, spittle flying from his lips.
His eyes are wide, filled with nothing more than rage. I should be terrified. I could die before Boo even gets to make that call. He could kill me right now, stopping me from helping her and the other women here. But I’m not afraid.
Yes, I’m struggling, my lungs are burning, and the pain coursing through my body would level a weaker man. But my mind is suddenly as clear as a bell as I force myself to stand tall once more, dragging the four men at my arms with me as I do.
“That boy and his mother don’t belong to you.” I have to force the words out around my heaving breaths, but he hears me loud and clear. “Nobody belongs to you.”
Big Dick’s nostrils flare, the veins in his temples throbbing as he calculates his next move. His restraint surprises me. I would’ve expected him to lash out, but he knows he has to play it smart. His club is watching his every move, meaning his reputation as a club president is on the line.
I hold his glare as he reaches for his belt. Is this it? Is he going to shoot me?
But it’s not a gun he removes from the holster there—it’s a blade. A curved, vicious looking buck knife.
Walking behind me, he orders his men, “Hold his arms out straight.”
I fight against them, and two more come, helping the others to pull my arms out at my sides.
“Your club took my kid.” His voice is behind me, right at my ear, as the tip of his blade bites into the back of my neck. “Your club is finished.”
The knife moves, but instead of driving it into my neck, he moves it down my leather cut, tugging with every inch. The tip of the blade nicks my skin as it moves, but it’s not until he flashes the blade across my shoulder and moves to the other that I realize what he’s done.
He’s sliced my leather cut down the middle, then along each shoulder seam. The leather falls away in two pieces, landing on the ground with a sick thunk on each side.
Rage washes over me, but a seventh man steps behind me, this one wrapping an arm around my throat as I struggle to get at Big Dick.
“Your club is going to die, every last one of you,” he says, bending to pick up both pieces of leather. The threads of my Black Hoods MC patch are tattered and torn where he’s sliced through the center.
