Page 128 of Dagger

He’d begged us for forgiveness, but I didn’t have it in me to care. The instant I looked under the blanket that covered Maze and Ashley in the middle of the road, I knew what Shotgun’s fate would be.

I was gutted at what he’d done, gutted that he’d stood by my side, whispering words of violence, in the minutes before I beat Colt. I should have seen it in him then, but my own bruised ego consumed me.

But not now.

“Move,” I ordered, pushing away from the wall I was leaning on.

Like the Red Sea, the men parted.

My eyes went back to the table, and I touched one of my knives reverently. “Last time I used these was on a Sinner, Shot,” I announced, my voice ragged with pain. “Seems fitting thirty years later, that they come outta retirement for another Sinner.”

“I’m sorry,” he sobbed.

“What for,brother?” I spat. “Betrayin’ us, killing your brother-in-arms, or killing a defenseless wife and mother?” My stare flicked down his fucked-up body in disgust. “Or are you sorry for tryin’ to steal our women and kids and sell them to perverts? Tell me what you’re sorry for, Shot.”

He moaned in pain.

“You’ve broken my fuckin’ heart,” I muttered, picking up a knife and taking a step toward him. “You’ve destroyed my trust. If my dad was here, he’d have strapped you to the wheels of his bike and rode a hundred miles an hour, dragging you behind on the ground until you were flayed alive.”

Shot let out a sob.

“You’re lucky I’m not as sadistic as he was.” I pulled back my arm and threw my knife at him as fast as lightning. A flash of metal glinted as it flew through the air, and then Shot let out a cry as the blade sank into the upper thigh of his right leg. “I may not be as sadistic as my pop, but I’m still my father’s son. Talkin’ of which…” My stare went to Cash. “Go get Fender. Tell him it’s time to end this.”

Cash nodded and, without a word, turned and stalked from the Cell.

“You hear that, Traitor?” Atlas grunted. “You’ll be out of pain soon, though if I know Dagger, you’ll be praying to meet your maker by the time he’s finished.”

I picked up another knife, testing its weight in my hand while my eyes flicked over Shot, deciding where to land it. Pulling my arm back once more, I tossed it and waited.

Shotgun’s reaction didn’t disappoint. He cried out as the blade landed just below his ribs on his left side.

“I love the symmetry,” Atlas crowed. “Matchin’ wounds on each side.”

Hendrix let out a chuckle from the chair he was lounging in.

“Was it worth it, Shot?” I called out. “Was it worth betrayin’ your family, and your brothers, just to sit around a table where you’d arrange who, when, and how to traffic women, little boys and girls, and babies? Is that something your dad would be proud of? I know how he died, but I also know a lotta thieves, and they’ve still got a moral compass. Would your aunt be proudof what you’ve done? Or would she look at you, shake her head, and ask herself where she went wrong?”

I took another knife in my hand and threw it without even aiming. Something inside me just wanted to cause him pain, like he’d done to me. I may not have been hanging from a meat hook with knives stabbing into my skin, but the pain I felt was just as bad as his.

He was my brother, a man I trusted, and he’d shredded me.

The door opened, and my heart jumped into my throat.

My head swiveled to study Fender as he stumbled into the room, a broken man.

He walked toward Shotgun, seemingly in a daze, his eyes roaming over the man who’d killed the woman he loved.

He scraped out one word. “Why?”

Shot’s pain-filled eyes went to the man who called him brother, and he whispered, “I’m sorry.”

Without a word, Fender reached inside his cut, pulled out his Sig P365, pointed it at Shotgun’s head, and fired.

I jumped in surprise, my ears ringing from the booming explosion.

Fender’s arm dropped, and he stood there, staring at Shot. “I’m leaving tomorrow to get the kids, Prez,” he rasped.

“Okay, brother,” I said, my tone strangled.

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