Page 1 of The Loves We Lost
1
BATES
Some men collect watches. Others, cars. Me? I collect knives.
Each one is custom made to my grip.
Each one is made for a purpose. You can stab a man with any old blade: a shiv, a steak knife, even a broken bottle if the situation requires it. But to quarter a man or precisely slice open a carotid artery so he bleeds out slowly while thinking of his sins requires something altogether different.
The custom-made one in my hand cost thirty grand. The viciously sharp stainless steel blade, although only two and a half inches long, is arched to perfection and features an engraved pack of wolves running wild together. The weight balances perfectly in my palm. It’s a thing of beauty, when it’s not covered in blood.
And it’s going to take some real cleaning when I get back to the clubhouse.
The burly bearded man in front of me? Yeah, the only cleanup he’s getting will be at the mortuary.
“One last chance,” I say. “Tell me who authorized the attack on my president’s home.”
“Fuck ... you.” Blood and spittle fall from his lips, courtesy of Halo’s earlier beating.
With his hands behind his back on the chair he’s tied to, he can’t fight me as I nudge the tip of the blade into his neck. The other stab wounds on his body, he might have been able to recover from, assuming one of his friends found him before he bled out.
But this one . . .
His thick vein pulses fast. He’ll bleed out quickly. My heartbeat matches his, elevated by the thrill of the kill.
“Every second, I’m gonna nudge this blade in a touch farther. I’ve heard your body knows the moment the steel touches an artery. Your heart will carry on beating, pumping blood out until you have none left to give. Pretty sure you’ll be unconscious before the end. You sure you don’t want to tell me?”
His singular working eye glances up at me. He’s shown no fear up until now, but a single tear leaks from the corner. “I’m dead anyway.”
I take a deep breath and savor the way my knife feels as it pierces fragile skin. Some say with the right blade, it feels like a hot knife slicing through butter, but there’s an edge of resistance.
A body never gives up its right to life easily.
It’s there in the spurts of blood, the subtle gasp of breath as his anguish rises above his control.
There’s something poetic to it. Liberating.
Especially when it means one less member of the Righteous Brotherhood walking this earth.
“We done with the whole knife melodrama now?” Halo asks from where he’s leaning against the wall.
I exhale, pull the knife from this man’s skin, then use a clean spot on his T-shirt to wipe up the blade as he gurgles through the last few seconds of his life.
“Done.”
I feel cleansed. Baptized. Born anew. Every time I take a soul that deserves it, I feel like the love child of God and the fucking grim reaper.
“Then let’s get out of here,” Halo says as he snaps an elastic from his wrist to pull his hair back for the long ride home.
We’ve been in Dallas for three days to set up a new chapter of the Iron Outlaws in Fort Worth, right at the heart of the Righteous Brotherhood territory. Outlaws from all over the country have been asked if they want to move to Dallas to help build it. Track from our club is going to head there when he gets out of prison—a new start.
This interrogation was the last thing to do before we could ride for home: follow up on a lead as to who organized the raid on our president’s home that saw him shot and his old lady kill to keep him safe.
We walk out of the lone trailer and find Switch standing next to his bike while watching the first flickers of the sun coming up over the horizon. “You get what we needed?” he asks. The former medic is a solid brother. Strong, handy in a fight, will kill when required, but prefers to not take life, as he’s still a man who wants to save lives at heart.
That’s fine, because I need the killing to breathe.
“Never gave us anything,” Halo says. “Kind of respect that.”
