Page 4 of Beautifully Wounded

“I’ll get the girl?” JD asks and I nod.

“Yes. I’ll be busy having a little fucking chat with the parents.” The growl in my voice gives away the fury bubbling in my veins.

I may be a fucking prick that only abides by the laws of my club, but when it comes to harming innocent women and children, I draw a big fucking line. The motherfuckers who dare to hurt the innocent come to regret their decisions when the Southern Sadists get a hold of them. A quick death isn’t something we do well.

No. Long, drawn out, gut wrenchingly painful deaths are what we like to deliver. It’s something I’ve come to enjoy a little too fucking much.

After a quick weapon check, we pull on our balaclavas and move stealthily across the front yard, approaching the house as Stocky keeps watch.

With gloved hands, I locate the pot plant by the door and lift it to find the spare key just where we were told it would be.

Fucking idiots. Can they be any dumber? Why not just leave the fucking front door wide open so anyone can walk in off the street?

A round of quiet grunts sound behind me when I pull out the key and unlock the door, the others likely coming to the same conclusion as me.

Yes, we might be the ones entering without being fucking invited, but really, do people have to make it so easy for us?

Pushing the door open, I take a step in and wait for an alarm.

We were told there wasn’t one, but you never fucking know, so I wait, and move further inside when nothing happens.

The image of the hand drawn layout of the house is fresh in my brain, and as my team fan out to do what they were tasked, I flick the hall light on and study the family portraits that adorn the walls.

What fucking lies they tell.

“What are you doing?!” a woman screeches from the end of the hall. “Get out!”

“And so it begins,” I mutter to myself, leaning closer to study the three sisters in a framed picture.

The oldest and youngest look very similar. Blonde hair. Big brown doe eyes. Sweet innocent, heart-shaped faces.

“Sarg. Roadblock,” JD calls, and I drag myself away from the fake happiness of the portraits to peer up the hall.

Jols is closest to me, standing guard outside a door. She holds up two fingers and points to the door, telling me that two of the sisters are behind it.

Giving her a nod, I make my way up the hall, ignoring the yelling coming from the parents’ room as I approach JD. He’s standing outside a door, studying something.

“What’s up?” I keepmy voice quiet, my eyes finally landing on the roadblock.

Fucking hell.

Latches.

Three of them.

All with locks.

“These folks aren’t fucking around,” JD mutters.

“Yeah, no shit. What the fuck goes on in this house?” I hiss, fucking disturbed by this sight alone.

My best mates’ hazel eyes peer at me past the knitted mask hiding his identity, and I don’t miss the concern swimming in them.

“She’s eighteen,” I remind him.

“It doesn’t make it right.” He hisses, and I nod. This is hitting a little too close to home for him. I know that.

“I know, man. It’s never okay, no matter how old someone is, but we have to be thankful it’s not a minor behind that door.”

---