Page 42 of Ginger

Blood mixed with sweat on the concrete floor beneath his chair, pooling and slowly making its way toward the drain. Martin's sobbing became unintelligible, a broken stream of pleas and excuses that meant nothing.

"Please," he finally managed to articulate. "I'll do anything. Turn myself in. Go to prison. Whatever you want."

I stepped back, breathing heavily from exertion. "What I want," I said carefully, "is for you to feel every ounce of pain you inflicted on Ginger and those other girls. I want you to experience the terror, the helplessness, the violation. But that's not possible, is it? There aren't enough hours left in your miserable life to balance that scale."

I looked at Bronx, a silent communication passing between us. He nodded once, his expression grim but resolved.

"Ginger thinks you're already dead," I told Martin, watching his bloodied face contort in confusion. "Car accident, three states away. That's what the police told her this morning when they found your ID on an unrecognizable body." I smiled thinly. "The club has connections everywhere, even in small-town police departments. It cost us, but it was worth it to give her peace."

Understanding dawned in Martin's swollen eyes. "You set me up. You were always going to kill me."

"The moment she told me what you did," I confirmed, "you were already dead. This—" I gestured around the basement, at his broken, bleeding form, "—this was just so you'd know why."

I pulled my knife from its sheath on my thigh. The blade caught the light from the swinging bulb, sending reflections dancing across the concrete walls.

"You took everything from her," I said one final time, my voice dropping to a whisper.

Bronx moved behind Reed, his massive hands coming to rest on the man's shoulders, holding him steady. "And now we’ll take everything from you.”

Martin began to scream then, the sound too loud in the confined space. I sliced off one of his ears. Bronx removed a finger. Neither of us stopped. One piece at a time, we made the asshole pay. When I knew he was nearly gone, I sliced his throat in one clean, practiced motion. His scream became a wet gurgle, then silence.

We watched as his life drained onto the concrete floor, mingling with the sweat and blood from his earlier injuries. The single bulb continued its lazy arc overhead, the shadows shifting and dancing as if celebrating the grim justice we'd delivered.

When it was done, when Martin was nothing more than an empty shell slumped in the chair, I wiped my knife clean on his wifebeater.

"We need to clean up," Bronx said, his deep voice breaking the silence that had fallen.

I nodded, still watching the blood as it made its inexorable journey toward the drain. "This place is a fire hazard. No reason we can’t make it burn."

"You good?" Bronx asked, his hand landing heavily on my shoulder.

I thought about Ginger, about how she'd curled against me last night, finally sleeping through the darkness without nightmares. About how she'd believed the lie we'd told her, that her monster was already dead, that she was finally free.

"Yeah," I said, meeting his gaze. "I'm good. He got what was coming to him."

Bronx nodded, his expression solemn. "For Ginger."

"For Ginger," I echoed, looking one last time at the empty shell of the man who had caused so much pain. "And for all the others."

I felt a weight lift from my shoulders. This wouldn't erase what Ginger had suffered. It wouldn't heal all her wounds or stop all her nightmares. But it was a start. A bloody, brutal start to her healing.

And I would be there for the rest, for as long as she needed me.

Before Bronx and I left the house, we used Martin’s alcohol bottles to douse the place, then set fire to it. We walked to our bikes, where we’d left them a block away, then watched in silence. There was little more than ash left by the time we heard the first sirens. Good. No one would find the asshole, or if they did, I doubted they’d try too hard to find his murderers.

It was over.

Chapter Fifteen

Bronx

I pushed open the heavy door to our back room. The brothers were already waiting, their broad shoulders hunched over bottles of beer.

"You're on time," I said, pulling out a chair across from them. “And thanks, Pres, for letting me take the lead this time.”

Vegas nodded.

I studied my brothers in the dim light. "Rayburn's becoming a problem. I need eyes on him. Every move, every stop, every person he talks to."

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