Page 75 of Jolt's Vengeance

I need to get out of here.

I need... I need the club.

I need Jolt.

Fumbling with my phone, I order an Uber, then stagger to the nearest street.

When the car pulls up, the driver's eyes widen in horror.

"Miss, you need a hospital!" he exclaims, reaching for his phone.

"No!" I snap, my voice ragged. "Do yer damn job and take me where yer supposed to!"

As we pull away, I close my eyes, willing the tears not to fall.

I'm going home—to where I belong, the club.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Jolt

The stench of fear and sweat hangs heavy in the air, mingling with the metallic tang of blood.

I stand in the “butcher shop,” my eyes fixed on the pathetic figure before us.

Widow looms beside me, his presence a dark, intimidating force in the cramped space.

Widow's gravelly voice breaks the tense silence. "You gonna talk now, asshole?"

Our captive—the fucker who torched our car wash—whimpers pitifully.

His body trembles, fresh rivulets of blood trickling down his bare chest from where the hooks pierce his flesh.

The sight should sicken me, but a twisted part of me relishes his suffering.

He deserves this pain for what he did to the club.

"I... I don't know anything else," the man stammers, his eyes wild with terror.

Widow steps closer, his massive frame casting a menacing shadow. "Wrong answer, buddy."

I watch, fascinated, as Widow reaches for a nearby table laden with an assortment of nasty-looking instruments

My stomach churns with a mix of adrenaline and unease.

Part of me wants to look away, to distance myself from the brutality about to unfold.

But I force myself to observe.

This is part of club life—the ugly, violent underbelly that keeps us safe and in control.

"Last chance," Widow growls, selecting a wicked-looking pair of pliers. "Who do you work for?"

The man's eyes bulge as he stares at the tool in Widow's hand.

"Please," he begs, voice cracking. "I told you everything I know!"

Widow glances at me, a silent question in his eyes.

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