Page 1 of Choices

PART ONE

THE PAST.

FOUR YEARS AGO…

CHAPTER 1

SINNER

Four years ago…

LIAM “CUTTER” ELLIS

Black blankets the sky. The air trembles with the rumbling of our bike engines as we file into the compound, heading straight for the outhouse at the far end of the grounds. Easing my bike up beside Callan’s, I kill the engine and dismount as Monster backs one of the club trucks up to the entrance door. Jumping out, he pops the trunk, and a squeal whines from within.

Jack Bolden’s thin, crumpled body jolts to life, his hands spanning out in a defensive pose. “Please, I’m sorry. What did I do?”

“Get him inside,” Callan demands, smacking his fist against the roof of the truck. Monster and I drag the piece of shit out by his arms as he flails and begs.

“I’ll snap your twig of an arm off if you keep wiggling like a fucking worm,” Monster seethes, gripping him harder. A whimpering mewl passes the guy’s lips.

I hate the weak. The slimy, seedy bastards who like to inflict pain and suffering but can’t take it.The reaper always comes to collect on your sins, motherfucker. Today, we’re his soldiers.

Callan punches a code into the keylock, and the door releases with a click. A waft of damp, stale air trickles out from inside. This place hasn’t seen action in a while.

Jack begins to tremble as we drag him through the narrow passageway into an imposing concrete prison that’s broken many a brave man. Jack isn’t brave. The little weasel already pissed his pants, and we haven’t done anything yet. Shoving him inside the room, the overhead lights detect the motion and turn on automatically, bathing the area with a yellow tinge. Jack hustles to put space between us, scurrying like a trapped rat seeking escape, his wide eyes taking in the imposing walls echoing of past horrors, leaving his face drained of color.

The room has a metal table, a single chair, a slightly sloped floor with a drain in the center, and shelves and cabinets against the far end house tools to aid in retrieving information from the flesh—there’s no mistaking what happens within these walls.

My brothers circle him like vultures as he cowers against the wall like a beaten dog. Fear is reasonable and wise. He should be scared.

“Please don’t hurt me.”Pussy.

Power crackles the air as my rage amplifies, tightening the muscles beneath my skin. I bet the girl he attacked wished for the same mercy. He showed her none. I take a step closer, looming over him with intense wrath. His withering gaze cracks, and a single tear cuts a path down his cheek.

“Please.”

There’s no forgiveness. Only retribution and pain.

“You know why we’re here?” Callan’s rough voice breaks through the tension as he motions for Monster to bring the interrogation chair over.

The little pervert’s feeble whimpering draws a growl from Callan. “Answer me.” He demands.

Shaking his head, Jack watches Monster drag the metal chair across the room, filling our ears with a jarring screech that scrapes against the headache building behind my eyes. Placing the chair in the center of the room, right over the drain, Monster grins, the sinister curve of his lips menacing even to me.

I stalk our prey as he attempts to evade me, grip him by the neck in a bone-crushing hold, and throw him into the steel frame of the chair, making it almost topple over. Dropping to my haunches, I strap the leather restraints around his ankles and wrists, pinning him in place, my headache intensifying with every click of the buckles. I don’t like drawn-out torture. My blade is thirsty for the taste of blood: quick, painful when needed, satisfying. There’s something serene about hearing the rattle of that last breath in a sudden kill.

Monster is the opposite, and it looks like we’re doing this his way.

Clenching Jack’s jaw in a powerful grip, Callan leans in close, fuming through gritted teeth. “You’re a rapist.”

The words bounce around the room, raising our hackles. We aren’t good men. We all have blood on our hands. But only sick fucking cowardly bastards rape.

“No. No, no, no,” Jack splutters, sweat breaking across his brow.

“A sick predator who took advantage of an innocent girl while she lay unconscious,” Callan adds, releasing him with a sneer.

A video started circulating of a college student reduced to nothing more than a limp body, appearing more dead than alive, in a motel room with this piece of shit forcing himself on her. Turns out, she’s the niece of a friend of the club, Ray, who owns the bar claimed by the Kings. The girl was nineteen andattempted to take her own life when the video was shared and uploaded across social media. She’s the same age as Callan’s little sister. Even looks a bit like her.

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