Page 51 of Ravaged and Ruined
The wind whips against my face, but it doesn’t clear the fire simmering in my chest. I glance toward the van. That kid in there is only the start. Just the first in a long line of scorpions who are going to bleed for coming at what’s mine.
We pull off the main road, gravel spitting under tires and wheels, and snake around the back of the clubhouse out of sight.
We drag the Bloody Scorpion prospect through the overgrown path behind the clubhouse like the trash he is. His boots scuff against the gravel, his arms bound behind his back, blood already staining the sack over his head from where Surge introduced his fist getting him out of the van. He squirms, tries to spit curses, but Crank lands a blow to his gut with a twisted grin and a casual, “Shut the fuck up, shitbird.”
Beneath the rusted-out frame of a ’92 Softail and a pile of junked exhaust pipes lies the entrance to the Guest Room. It’s where we bring our most sought after guests if a stay of pain and screaming is in order. I kick the grate open, and the sharp scent of damp earth hits like a fist.
“Down,” I growl.
Rancor shoves him toward the rickety stairs. The bastard stumbles, knees scraping wood, groaning under the gag as he’s dragged into the dark.
This room isn’t in any floor plan. No permits. No paper trail. Just raw concrete walls soaked in blood and secrets. The single bulb overhead flickers throwing jagged shadows across the space. Chains dangle from the beams, clinking softly with its threat. The chair sits in the middle of the room like a throne of agony. Its steel legs bolted to the floor, leather straps hanging limp, waiting to be used.
I yank the bag from his head. He freezes when he sees what’s in store for him down here.
His eyes dart around, wild and stupid. Just like their whole damn crew. Violent pricks with too much bark and not enough brains. Idiots the whole lot of them.
We shove him deeper into the room, the steel door clanging shut behind us. Surge and Backdraft force the trembling kid into the chair and strap him down nice and tight. He winces as the leather straps cut into his flesh.
I crack my knuckles beside him. “Start talking, prospect. I want the names of the men who threatened one of mine.”
The bastard tries to play tough. “You think I’m scared of…”
I punch him. Hard. Right across the mouth. Blood spits from his lips, hits the floor with a wet splatter.
“I’m not asking again,” I snarl.
He wheezes, and I lean in, my voice low. “Your club threatened my woman. You see the problem?”
Backdraft steps forward, his expression cold as stone. “Want me to warm up the toys?”
“Not yet.” I stare the prospect down. “I want names. I want to know who’s in charge. And I want to know why the fuck yourcrew was stashing heat and trafficking women or he’ll get the blow torch.”
Surge paces behind him, cracking his neck like he’s ready to start breaking bones. Crank bounces on the balls of his feet, grinning like it’s Christmas morning. Even calm, calculating Padre has that hard glint in his eye like he’s counting ribs for his turn.
“I’ll talk,” the guy croaks and Backdraft lets out a fake pout, setting the blow torch back on the table in protest. “Jesus… it was Cholla. He’s got us runnin’ with a new crew.”
“You’re gonna tell me everything,” I say, pulling the blade from my belt. “And if I even think you’re lying…”
I don’t finish the threat. I don’t need to. The glint of steel and the menacing presence of my brothers in the dark room says enough.
The bulb flickers again and I lean in close, the blade in my hand catching the light. “Start talking.”
He swallows, fear thick in his eyes. “Fine. F-fine. The guns are coming in through the port. Russian military-grade. We got a shipment last week of AK variants, suppressors, 7.62 rounds…shit you don’t get off Craigslist.”
“Why Russian?” I echo.
His mouth twitches. “Somebody high up wanted quality and was willing to pay top dollar. Bloody Scorpions are just the middlemen.”
The hard edge of my blade meets his cheek. “They pay for the women too?”
He swallows hard, some of the blood in his mouth trickling over his bottom lip. “We only move what we’re told. I swear. We just load and unload, that’s it.”
My heart pounds. Rancor grabs his jaw and yanks it up. “Where are they?”
The Bloody Scorpions prospect stops rambling so my blade connects with his throat. He goes limp with fear. “You don’t fucking want me to start slicing body parts.”
“Okay! Okay!” He wheezes, his head lolling backward trying and failing to get away from the blade. “Shipping containers come in and we move whatever’s inside, guns, girls, sometimes drugs.”
