Page 13 of Bleed
Keeping my head down, I close my eyes, not wanting to see what I’m doing to him, not wanting to remember him like this. For a man who likes messy and bloody for his kills, this is too much, even for me.
I don’t lift my head or even open my eyes when I let go of the brake and shoot forward, the rear tire pushing off of him and grabbing the blacktop below. I peel out for a half second before I’m shooting across the lot and out onto the deathly silent street. It’s not until a car horn blares at me that I open my eyes and look where I’m going.
“Motherfucker!” I scream in to the night, leaning hard to the left to go around the oncoming car, just missing his front bumper.
I don’t know where I’m going, but my hands and body direct me without thought as I ride faster and faster through the late night. Luna seems to drive herself, like she’s possessed and I’m just a passenger along for the ride from hell.
I wanted a job to clear my head, to center myself and get back to normal. I needed to erase the thoughts of Dani and relax from my frustrations in finding the Recluse. But this, this isn’t what I wanted. I didn’t want more turmoil inside of me, and I’m pissed as fucking shit that Valentino did this to me.
It’s his house that my girl takes me to. She knows the way, moving us from the city and back out to the burbs, past the still dark house of my late friend, past the park where I learned how to ride so many years ago, and right to the fucker’s massive driveway. Unlike Gustapo’s house, his isn’t dark and quiet. It never is with the twenty-four-seven operations happening inside.
I don’t bother shutting off the bike before pulling up, who gives a fuck, right? When I shut her down and hop off, my mood has worsened to the point that I want blood, his blood, for making me do what I just did.
“Valentino!” I yell out as I stomp up the front steps of his freaking mansion, my boots clunking on the highly polished wood. “Valentino!”
He doesn’t come out, and nothing changes in the house as I peer through the front windows, watching the men in flak jackets loading guns and drugs into crates that will be shipped out from the back of the house in unmarked box trucks. That’s the family’s business. The restaurants are just a cover for them like they are for me. Weapons and narcotics are hidden in boxes filled with produce and perishable foods so they mask the scent of the items and get past the dogs at the borders before they’re loaded on planes and moved across the world to the highest bidders.
“Valentino!” I scream as I kick in the front door, making it slam against the wall behind it.
Instantly dozens of guns are trained on me, the sounds of their safeties clicking off and hammers being cocked filling the room almost as loud as my voice.
I’m furious, my blood is boiling, and having fucking assault rifles pointed at me is just making it worse. I can feel I’m about to crash out, to rage, and to do something I know I’ll regret. I might even earn a visit from whoever will follow in my footsteps.
“Easy, easy everyone.” Valentino’s voice comes from the right where the large den leads off to the restaurant style kitchen. “Stand down.”
The sight of him and the smug look on his fucking face pushes me over the edge, and I storm into the room, pushing past men I don’t even know, knocking them out of my way as I ball my gloved and bloody hand into a tight fist.
“You.” I grunt, knocking over a small table holding at least a dozen rifles that clatter to the floor loudly.
“Yes, me.” He laughs, but his amusement fades when I strike out with a right hook and punch him in the stupid fucking face, snapping his head to the side, and earning me another round of weapons aimed at my head.
“What the fuck man? Gustapo?” I holler at him as he grabs his now red cheek and stares at me like I have three heads.
“It needed to be done.” He says calmly, rubbing the already bruising mark that’s swelling by the second.
“By me?”
I can’t help myself, the rage is too much, my heart is beating too fast, and the sight of all the gunmen training their sights on me doesn’t matter anymore.
“Yes.”
“Fuck you!” I shout, lunging at him, hitting him square in the chest with my shoulder, knocking him down, and going with him, my body landing on top of his.
A bullet ricochets next to us on the floor, fired by a silenced gun, but still I smash him into the hardwood floor, trapping his neck under my forearm, choking him. His hands grab at my arm, holding onto me, but he doesn’t fight back. He stills under me and narrows his eyes in disdain.
“Get off me before I get mad, Damien.”
Pressing down harder, I cut off his air supply, watching his face turn beet red, but still he doesn’t fight back or do anything except stare at me with eyes narrowed to slits and lips that are turning cyanotic.
“My friend. I wanted to feel better, not worse. What the fuck?”
I know he can’t answer me. If air can’t move through his neck, his vocal cords won’t work enough for words to be produced, but the sly curve to his blue lips into a devious smile is enough of my answer.
Thankful that I left my helmet on, I laugh a maniacal sound as I crane my head back then swing it forward. My helmet smacks off his forehead with a sickening crack that I can feel as much as I hear. His eyes close for a second, and the skin splits open, but the fucker has a hard head, and after a moment he jostles under me, his body shaking in laughter that can’t escape his mouth.
“Motherfucker!” I shout in his face, pressing down harder on his throat before letting up and allowing him to breathe.
He coughs and hacks, his spittle hitting me in the eyes through the open visor, then swings and slaps the side of my helmet with an annoyed smack.
