Page 21 of Lost Soul

“They know a lot of shit. Knew those guns were the last of our supply, and obviously knew where to find them. They're stashing them in a storage container at the scrap yard not far from their compound.”

“He say where they’re getting their info?” Prez stands up and leans on the bar beside me, tapping his glass on the bar for bitch boy to fill.

“He didn’t know, and I believe him. How’s Thorne?”

“Upstairs. Doc fixed him up, nothing major,” Skid informs me as he slaps me on the back. “Good work kid.”

“I’ma go check in with him.” I down my shot of Jack in one swallow, slamming the glass back on the bar because I know how much it pisses Tommy off when we do that.

“Church in one hour, spread the word,” Prez grunts, sending me off with a smack on my shoulder.

I climb the stairs to one of the rutting rooms on the second floor. The rooms are sparsely decorated, kitted out more for fucking in than to be used as an infirmary, but they do the job.

Thorne calls me in when he hears me knock.

“How ya doin?” I ask, taking a seat on the chair beside the bed.

“Been better. Doc stitched me up, said it ain’t nothin’ too serious. How about you, you get the Bastard talking?” I throw him an arrogant look back.

“Course ya did.” Thorne winces when he starts to laugh.

“You still got the slug?” I ask.

“Yeah, Doc took it out. I think it’s over in that bowl.” His head gestures to the silver bowl on the bedside table, and sure enough laying amongst the gauze and bloodstained bandages is a small silver bullet. I pick it out and roll it between my fingers, before flipping it in the air and catching it again.

“What you want with that?” Thorne asks looking confused.

“Just making sure I return it to its rightful owner for ya brother.” I wink, leaving him to get some rest.

When I open the cell door. The Bastard looks up hopefully.

“I’ve spoken to Prez, and he’s satisfied with what you’ve told us, we’re gonna let you go home,” I inform him, watching hope glint in the eye he’s capable of opening. The fucker’s covered in his own vomit, his face cracked and bruised, and he still manages a smile. I love an optimist

“Almost forgot. Thorne asked me to return this.” I pull the bullet from my back pocket and hold it up between my finger and my thumb so he can see it, and I watch all that hope drain right off his face. I take a step closer, and he shakes his head in a silent, pitiful plea.

“Wwwwatcha gonna do with that?” he asks, a tremble in his voice. I don’t reply, just smile back at him as I take a tuft of his hair and wrench back his head. I force my fingers into the back of his throat, and naturally the fucker tries to bite me. This isn’t my first rodeo, so I pull his head back further, and push the hand I already have inside his mouth lower to stretch his jaw wider. After shoving the bullet as far down his throat as I can get it, I force his mouth closed, cupping my hand over his lips and pinching his nose shut at the same time, leaving him no choice but to swallow.

He wretches and struggles against his roped restraints, but eventually he gives in and swallows down the bullet he used to shoot Thorne.

“Prez wants you to get a message back to your brothers. You fuck with Dirty Souls, we hit back twice as hard.”

“I will, I’ll tell them I promise, just let me go,” he pleads, and I smile taking the knife out of my boot and pressing the tip of the blade against his skin. I make a neat little dimple in the side of his cheek, and watch beads of sweat roll from his forehead and drop onto my blade. Edging the tip a little deeper into his flesh I let it pierce the skin, sticky blood trickling onto the knife and merging with his sweat.

I take my time, slowly moving the smooth edge of the knife down and resting it between the corners of his lips, giving the fucker a taste of his own blood.

“You like to smile, right?” I check, and when fear prevents him from giving me an answer. I answer for him, slicing the blade from the crease of his mouth and tearing it up through the flesh of his cheek all the way up to his ear.

He cries out in agony, and I give him the same treatment on the opposite side of his face, gifting him with a smile he can take all the way to hell with him.

His eyes bulge, and tears stream out, dripping into his open wounds and stinging him with more torture. He chokes, blood spraying all over my shirt. But I’m not done. Not yet.

I continue to use my master craftsmanship to engrave his forehead with his new name, RAT.

He tries to speak. Maybe to beg? Who the fuck knows? The wide gashes on his face prevent him from forming any words, leaving him with just pitiful sounds.

Lucky for this one, I don’t have a lot of time, church is in less than an hour. So he’ll be blessed with a quick death. I contemplate how to do it, I could slit the fucker’s throat, end his life in the same way I took my first, the night I’d saved Hayley’s life. But that shit makes a lot of mess.

So taking his chin in one hand and the back of his neck with the other, I twist my shoulders, forcing it all the way around until I hear a snap and feel his head fall limp in my hands. Then I let him go, his lifeless head slumping forward. Using the Bastard’s shoulder to wipe my blade clean I step over to the far side of the basement and scratch another tally line into the wall. With the knife tucked back into my boot I sit on to the floor, forgetting about the blood soaking my fingers as I run them through my hair. My breathing begins to regulate again, my heart starting to calm and beat to a normal rhythm. I stare right through the body of the man whose life I’ve just taken, and for a few seconds I see him again…

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