Page 50 of Raiden

But in a very real way, it’s murder.

We slaughtered these men.

They might have been drugged up addicts run by a lunatic who left Seattle because he thought the market in smaller cities was ripe, moving in as Widow said, to fill the vacuum that wecreated when we got rid of all the dealers who were selling the hard stuff, wrecking lives in Hart, but they were still men and now they’re dead.

A scuffling sound and a croak behind me makes me spin around fast. The action was all in front that I’m aware, but maybe Bullet found someone in the back or side rooms.

No, he’s here. I just saw him.

I whip around so fast that a glancing pain shoots up my neck. It’s dingy in here, the lights creating more murk than they do clarity. We came in wearing all black, leaving our cuts behind at the clubhouse, so I’m careful not to shoot blindly. We’re all wearing body armor, but I’m not taking any chances and accidentally shooting one of my club brothers because I couldn’t see clearly.

It’s the huge glinting knife pressed to Gunner’s throat that stands out immediately when I turn.

“You wanna see him live, drop your guns.” The junkie rasps and presses the knife in harder, drawing blood that runs down Gunner’s thick neck. Despite the pain and that blade pressing right against his jugular, Gunner’s face is blank. Impassive. Calm. He looks like he’s sitting on a bench in the middle of a park on a beautiful summer day, just enjoying the sunshine, not ruminating on any cares.

I take one step closer, lifting my gun in the air with my hands and then make sure I lower it slowly. There are other men in here right behind me. They’ll see what’s going on. They’re better shots than I am. I wouldn’t trust myself to hit the bastard and not clip Gunner or worse. Kevlar might offer good protection in a gun fight, but close range I’m not risking my brother’s life—unless either of our lives depend on it.

Widow wanted to come. There was no fucking way anyone was going to let her do that. Gray was the one to tell her no, so that I didn’t have to. As prez, he got the final decision. Bullet made the case for her being a great shot, but I argued that her skills were better served protecting our women and children at the clubhouse.

I didn’t want her to have more blood on her hands, especially so soon after she was so traumatized.

I feel that over-pressurized adrenaline blasting through me. It makes me as jittery as the tall, skin and bones bag of rotted teeth and slurring words behind Gunner.

“You want to talk? We can do that. I’ll call the rest of my brothers off,” I go for firm and get it, despite the tremors starting to dig in like an electric current under my skin.

“You’ll call them off or I cut his head clean off his body,” the tweaker shoots back.

“It would take more than that,” Gunner points out, his throat jumping into the blade, spilling more of his blood. Does he even feel it? His face and the rest of his body, loose and languid instead of tense and afraid, says otherwise. “You’d have to cut through bone, you stupid fucker.”

“I can still slice your throat. Don’t have to go through no bones in order to kill you.”

“You want to do that, you go ahead. I can guarantee you’re dead either way. Might as well take me with you.”

“Gunner!” I don’t make any sudden movements. I glance over my shoulder, I can see the shadows behind me edging forward, silently getting closer.

Gunner’s the one who moves fast, grabbing the tweaker’s wrist and twisting. The snap of bone breaking booms through the warehouse sickeningly. I don’t know what Gunner’s story is. Not sure Gray knows what the guy was doing before he got to Hart. It was Zale’s decision to let him patch into the club. The way he disarms the man behind him, grasps the knife in a blink, and sinks it into the guy’s chest, hints at skills that aren’t obtained working a nine to motherfucking five.

I can’t see someone like Gunner enjoying being in the army, but he could have been special ops or something even more covert, like Bullet. It’s more likely that he was involved in shit a whole lot seedier and far less disciplined.

There are jobs for men like him. Men who don’t feel remorse, who might even take pleasure in killing.

He told us himself that he slashed that guy’s throat outside the range but seeing him grab that knife handle and twist it before yanking it down, practically cleaving the guy in half, is so brutal and so violent, it rocks something inside of me, obliterating me like a natural disaster.

“Gunner!”

Gray’s voice slams me back into my body, jerking me clean from the detachment. He’s standing at my side, a huge, welcome presence that gives me a sense of history, of grounding calm like always.

Gunner touches the spot on his neck where he was cut and holds his bloody hands out to Gray silently, like that justifies gutting a man.

My stomach roils as the body finally hits the floor, face first.

“Don’t train a man to kill, turn him into a machine, make him good at it, feed him on blood and gore, and blame him for what he becomes.”

That bit of wisdom comes from Bullet. He and Gunner have no friendship like Gray and I did before we were ever patched in, our roots going back to kindergarten, but Gunner is part of this club. He’s our brother. He’s not here to be put on trial.

“We don’t have time for anything other than cleanup,” Bullet reminds us.

If we have something to say to Gunner, we’re going to have to save it for back at the clubhouse.

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