Page 16 of Total Carnage
I laughed bitterly. "Join the fucking club."
As they dragged me back, my spirit fell upon my recent knowledge. The Hell's Justice survivor... Jameson... the Bloody Scorpions. The pieces were there, I just had to put them together.
"This isn't over," I said, more to myself than anyone. "Not by a long shot."
The guards hauled me back through the compound, their grip bruising. My leg throbbed with each step, but I bit back any sound of pain. Like hell I'd give them the satisfaction. As we approached my room—my cage—I caught sight of my reflection in a window. Hair wild, dirt smeared across my face, eyes blazing. I barely recognized myself. I chuckled. If Vin could only see me now.
"Home sweet home," one of the guards sneered, shoving me through the doorway.
I stumbled, catching myself on the edge of the bed. "Careful," I spat, "Wouldn't want to damage Daddy's precious property."
The guard's face twisted with anger. He stepped forward, hand raised, but his partner grabbed his arm. "Don't," he warned. "Stansfield won't like it."
I laughed, the sound brittle and sharp. "Go ahead," I taunted. "Give me a reason to make your lives hell."
The first guard glared at me and stormed out. His partner lingered, eyeing me warily. "You should be more careful, Miss Stansfield," he said quietly. There are worse things than being locked in a room."
I met his gaze, unflinching. "I've seen worse. I've survived worse. This?" I gestured around the opulent room. "This is nothing."
He shook his head and left, the lock clicking into place behind him.
Alone at last, I sank onto the bed, my mind whirling. The Hell's Justice survivor... who were they? And how did they tie into everything else? My father had something big going on, spreading across states. "Focus, Raven," I said, closing my eyes. "There's a way out of this. There has to be."
I'd find the truth, no matter what it took. And when I did, heads would roll.
Vin
The rumble of my bike echoed through the sleepy town of Murray, Kentucky, as I rolled into the gas station. Like Paradise Cemetery, the sun was lying low behind me. Taking a deep breath, I tried to process the unbelievable shit that had just gone down. Fucking resurrected, sent back to right some wrongs, and save a president’s daughter from himself, no doubt. I laughed about the whole mess and tipped my helmet to the attendant who eyed me warily as if he were some kind of ghostbuster. Yeah, because life wasn't fucked up enough already.
Parking my Harley next to a gas pump, I dismounted and stretched the kinks from my stiff muscles. The smell of gasoline and grease mingled with the scent of frying burgers from a bar across the street, reminded me it had been too damn long since my last meal. Could I even fucking eat?
I pushed open the station's bell-clanging door, grabbed a Snickers bar and a cold one from the fridge, and tossed a twentyat the cashier. "Keep the change, man," I said and headed back out. The attendant finished topping off my tank and I paid him. He gave me the side-eye. “Got something to say?”
“No, sir,” he said, but his eyes said otherwise. I’m not sure how he knew, but he did. Vin Reed was a walking dead-man.
Climbing back onto my bike, I couldn't shake the thought of her. Raven Stansfield. Damn, just the sound of her name made the blood rush to my dick. I'd daydreamed and fantasized about her, reliving every stolen moment we'd shared. Those emerald eyes haunted my dreams, even in death. Now, she was here, somehow alive, and in need of protection.
I crossed the street at the Barrel Tavern and climbed off my bike. Two other bikes sat in the parking lot but mostly the vehicles were trucks. One of the trucks had a set of metal bull’s balls hanging from the back hitch. Men were always overcompensating. I pushed open the heavy wooden door of the bar, and the atmosphere shifted like a live wire had been dropped in water. Every head turned, conversations died mid-sentence, and the air thickened with tension you could cut with a knife. The familiar scent of stale beer and cigarette smoke hit me like an old friend. Fuck yeah!
I scanned the room, my eyes adjusting to the dim light. A sea of wary faces stared back at me, some curious, others hostile. I could feel their eyes on my colors and my scars, sizing me up. Let 'em look. I've seen worse than this Podunk shithole. Moving towards the bar with measured steps, I felt the weight of a dozen gazes on my back. The bartender, a burly guy with more ink than skin, eyed me cautiously.
"Whiskey," I said, my voice rough from the road. Fuck, it felt good to be in a shitty bar with shitty people.
As he poured, my attention was drawn to the TV mounted above the bar. The screen flickered, showing a face that made my blood boil. It was Charles fucking Stansfield. That smug bastardwas sitting next to some Louisiana senator, both of them looking like cats who'd just swallowed a whole damn aviary.
"...and we believe it's time to take decisive action against these motorcycle gangs," Stansfield was saying, his voice dripping with faux concern. "They're a menace to society, Senator. A cancer that needs to be cut out."
My fists clenched involuntarily, knuckles turning white. I could feel the rage building in my chest, threatening to explode. But I kept my face impassive, years of practice kicking in. Inside, though? I was ready to put my fist through that TV screen.
"Fuckin' politicians," the bartender muttered, sliding my drink over. "Think they know everything."
I knocked back the whiskey in one gulp, savoring the burn. "They don't know shit," I spat, my eyes still fixed on Stansfield's smug face. "But they're about to learn."
The bartender raised an eyebrow. "You got history with them types?"
I turned to face him, my eyes hard. "Let's just say I've got some lessons to teach." As I contemplated ordering another whiskey, a tall, broad-shouldered man approached. His leather cut bore the familiar patch of the Royal Bastards MC, but from a chapter I didn't recognize. He gave me a nod, his eyes flickering with recognition.
"You're Vin Reed, ain't ya?" he said, his voice hoarse from too much cigarette smoke. "Brock Reid, VP, St. Louis Chapter. Heard you might be rollin' through."
