Page 61 of Riot's Thorn
“This is Methohexital. It’s a barbiturate that has a rapid onset but is also short-acting.” I flick the syringe Killer had pre-loaded. “Since I have to get you into position and I don’t feel like fighting, you’re going to take a little nap.”
“Don’t do this, man. Please!” His cry is so loud, even my headphones can’t keep me from hearing it, so I increase the noise cancellation level, turning his pleas into muffled garbage.
I stab his thigh with the syringe, not so gently. By the time I’m done slowly injecting the drug into his system, his head is wobbling. Ten seconds later, he doesn’t even have the strength to hold it up at all.
I work fast because I only have five to ten minutes. There’s a whole cabinet full of wound rope since that’s Rigger’s preferred kill method, so I cut two lengths off and set them aside. The only way this’ll work is if he’s on the floor, so after cutting the zip ties, I give him a little nudge with my boot, and he topples to the side, hitting his head on the concrete with athud.
I’m sweating by the time I have the asshole stripped and secured on his knees, face on the ground, ass in the air, his arms pulled through his legs. I secure his wrist to his right calf and repeat the process on his left side. This is a position I know well, but never in this context.
He starts to rouse, going from confused to panicked real fucking fast. He tries to pull his arms out, but my knots hold. I won’t enjoy what I’m about to do, but I won’t hate it either. Most things are like that for me. It takes a lot to get me to feel much ofanything. Lately, there’s only been one thing, or should I say one person, who has the power to stir emotion out of me.
Parker.
I wonder what she’s doing right now. Is she thinking about me? Fuck, I miss her. It’s crazy to me how much your life can change with the introduction of just one person, especially when you’re responsible for them. It’s a heady feeling, but I’m up for the task. It feels like I’ve been preparing for her my whole life without ever knowing.
The asshole on the ground tips over to his side, stealing my attention. I heft him back up onto his knees and reach for the brush. How he could do this to an innocent woman, I’ll never know. I’m a cruel man without much of a conscience, but apparently, there’s just enough there to stop me from harming those who don’t deserve it.
Except one. Mom. But she deserved it, didn’t she?
Pushing that away, I think about the best way to do this. He’ll fight the intrusion, so I’ll need some force. Rummaging through the cabinets, I find something that’ll probably work.
“Don’t suppose you want to give me any tips on how you did this?” I ask, fully knowing I won’t hear his answer. Standing over him, I straddle his back, holding him in place with my legs. As if I’m hammering in a nail, I line the brush up with his asshole and use a mallet to pound it in. It takes way more effort than I thought it would, especially with him writhing in pain. I grunt. “Almost there.”
Sensing movement, I notice Killer in the doorway and lower my headphones around my neck.
“Jesus fuck, you’re twisted.” Killer walks in with a sadistic smile on her face. “I don’t care what anyone says about you; you’re alright in my book.”
It’s meant to be a compliment, but it’s just another reminder of the separation between my brothers and me. “Thanks. Help me stand him up.”
There’s a steady stream of blood dripping from around the handle of the brush protruding from his hole, and the guy still won’t shut the fuck up about it. He must not have thought it was this awful when he did it to Chap. Guess his perspective has changed.
I untie his hands, handing one and then the other to Killer, who has cuffs looped through a strap on a winch we built specifically for this reason. Once he’s cuffed, she goes over to the controls, and the rope winds itself back up, lifting the guy to his feet.
His face is contorted in pain, and he trips over his own feet, trying, without success, to find a more comfortable position. I could tell him that holding still is his best bet because, with each movement, the bristles of the brush are digging further into him, but I find I like the idea of him being in pain.
“You have some aggression to get out?” I ask Killer.
“Sure do.” She cracks her knuckles before landing some pretty decent punches to his torso. Someone must be giving her lessons because she seems to know exactly where to hit to do the most damage. If this guy was walking out of here, he’d be pissing blood for a week after those kidney shots. “Your turn,” she breathes out.
I step up and wail on him, my fists running through a practiced combination of punches: left jab, straight right, followed by a left hook. My brain hums in happiness at completing each series in order, the way I learned while I was a prospect. Back then, I didn’t know how to fight. I was some scrawny, white trash dipshit with more emotional trauma than I knew how to handle. Cy sent me to a gym, where I learned boxing.
The sport came naturally, but because my mind won’t allow me to veer from the list of combos I learned, I’m shit at putting what I learned into practice. That is, unless my opponent can’t fight back so I don’t have to worry about reacting.
Sweat beads on my forehead as I work him over, using him to clear out all thoughts of Parker and focus on something I can control. Lead uppercut, cross, left hook. Jab, jab, cross. On and on until my fists swell and the pain registers. Only then do I step back and take in what I’ve done.
The guy’s swollen face is unrecognizable. Both eyes are black and blue, his nose is broken in multiple places, and his lip is split in a few spots. There’s so much blood pouring from his wounds, it’s pooling below him, along with a couple of knocked-out teeth. His torso is bright red, mottled with quickly forming bruises, and the ones on his lower sides might be an indication of internal bleeding.
“Felt good, huh?” Killer asks, picking up her favorite knife.
I wipe the sweat from my brow with my forearm. “Yeah.”
“Unfortunately, it’s time to end this. Judge is hosting a movie night for a group of his kids, and I have to hand out popcorn.” She rolls her eyes.
The club bought a church a while back and basically handed it over to the club’s priest. He’s been using it for all kinds of things, but mostly to help boys like him who come from a fucked up family life. I could’ve used somewhere like that when I was a teen, though I probably wouldn’t have gone. Religion lacks facts and evidence, something I need in order to believe in it.
Killer steps toward the man, who is now barely conscious. It takes strength and a sharp fucking knife to stab someone in the heart, but she’s perfected it. I warned her against creating a calling card in case she gets herself into trouble, but she’s gone and done it anyway. Not that anyone will ever find Chap’s ex. He’s going to the desert.
But before she takes her swing, the door to the basement opens. We freeze, listening as someone takes the stairs. It could be a prospect, since they’re our clean-up crew, but I haven’t called anyone in yet. Placing my hand on the Glock I have tucked into the back of my pants, I wait.
