Page 53 of Klutch's Kryptonite

I nod, too furious to speak.

The hallway leading to the basement is lit by a single bulb in the ceiling, the walls are painted a soothing sage green. Calming colors for grieving families who have no fucking clue of the depravity that goes on below their feet.

As I make my way down the stairs, each step starts to feel lighter than the last. These fuckers wanted blood. A flash of Demi on the floor in her apartment with her shirt torn flashes in my mind. Instinctively I ball my fists. I’m about to make these motherfuckers pay.

The basement door is solid steel, reinforced and soundproofed. I punch in the code and the lock disengages. When I push it open, the smell of bleach and copper hits me first.

Beast looks up when I enter, his face like stone. Yukon’s leaning against the wall, arms crossed over his chest. And there, in the center of the room, are Frankie and fuckboy Johnny, tied to metal chairs that are bolted to the concrete floor. A drain sits in the middle of the room, right between them. Convenient? Sure as fuck is.

That’s the thing about funeral homes—blood and DNA are expected. Add the industrial-sized incinerator in the next room, and you’ve got the perfect place to make all your problems disappear.

“Well, look who finally decided to join the party,” Frankie sneers, his face still swollen and bloody from our earlier meeting. “The attack dog himself.”

I don’t respond. Don’t even look at him as I walk to the steel tool chest in the corner of the room.

“You have any idea who I work for?” he continues, his voice taking on an edge of panic now. “You kill me, and the Valenciaga Cartel will rain hell down on you and your little club of losers. They’ll burn your clubhouse to the ground with everyone inside!”

I open the top drawer of the chest, still ignoring him.

“That pretty little bitch of yours?” Frankie taunts. “They’ll pass her around until there’s nothing left but a shell.”

My hand closes around a roll of duct tape. I turn, my expression blank as I walk toward him. His eyes widen slightly, finally sensing that his words aren’t having the effect he hoped for.

“You should shut your mouth,” Yukon warns him, but it’s too late for warnings.

I tear off a strip of tape and slap it over Frankie’s mouth. Then I methodically secure his hands to the arms of the chair, wrapping the tape tight enough to cut off circulation.

“Get fucked,” Johnny spits at Yukon.

Beast’s fist connects with Johnny’s jaw before the last syllable is out. There’s a sickening crunch, and a tooth skitters across the concrete floor.

“Nice hook,” I comment, my voice eerily calm even to my own ears.

Beast flexes his hand. “Thanks, brother.”

Turning back to the tool chest, I open the third drawer—the one with my specialty tools. My fingers close around a pair of shrub shears and a small blow torch. Gardening tools, technically. But they work just as well for other things.

Frankie’s eyes bulge when he sees what I’m carrying. He starts thrashing in his chair, muffled screams trying to force their way past the tape.

Without saying a word, without giving him time to brace himself, I position the shears around his pinky finger and squeeze the handles shut. There’s resistance, then a wet snap as the finger drops to the floor.

Frankie’s muffled screams break through the tape as blood spurts from the stump where his finger used to be, painting the concrete in crimson splatter.

I flick on the blow torch, the small blue flame dancing in the dim room. His eyes widen in horror as I bring it to the wound, cauterizing it with a sickening sizzle and the smell of burning flesh.

When I rip the tape from his mouth, Frankie’s face is ashen, sweat pouring down his forehead as drool drips from his mouth.

“You have no fucking idea the war you’ve just started,” he snarls, spit flying everywhere.

I laugh, but there’s not an ounce of humor in it. Nothing about what happened to my woman today is funny. “The war I’ve started? Motherfucker, you shot up our clubhouse.” I move closer, getting right in his face. “Yeah, bitch. I saw the black Escalade in the parking lot at my woman’s apartment. Same one that was spotted driving away from our clubhouse after the drive-by three weeks ago.”

Frankie’s eyes dart away, and I know I’ve hit the mark.

“Wait,” Johnny pipes up, his voice pitched high. Fucker is scared and for good reason. “I’ve got information. I’ll trade you!” He looks to Frankie then back to me. “Information for my life.”

“Johnny, shut the fuck up!” Frankie roars.

Johnny’s head whips back toward his boss. “Fuck you! I’m not dying over this shit!”

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