Page 2 of Storm

Siren’s built like the proverbial brick shithouse and has nothing but curves and sex appeal. Not only is she one of the baddest bitches I’ve ever known, but she is crazy as fuck, which helps in the business we do. She’s a minx, a vixen, that lures in our targets with a hair flip and a smile. That’s how she got her road name. She coaxes men to their deaths just like the ethereal sea creatures do to seamen. Siren will never take anyone's shit and will never be a doormat. Well, never again, that is.

Siren carries a beige folder with his name scrawled on the front and begins pulling out seventeen pictures of children from the ages of two to twelve that this child rapist and killer is known for molesting. The fact that he’s still allowed to walk around, still granted hisfuckingfreedom is beyond me.

Siren shoves the images in the bastard's face letting him know that even though the justice system let these poor children down, the Daughters of Doom have every intention of making him pay for his crimes; for the lives he has ruined.

"You sick fuck!" Siren yells, spit flying from her mouth in a fit of rage. "Look at them,” she screams, cramming the last three pictures of three small bodies into his face, the ones we found on this sick pervert’s home property. “Ava Turner, Michael Homes, and Asia Westly. These poor babies were found buried in your fucking yard!"

The portly man's sweat rolls down his face mixing with the blood from where we’ve been cutting and punching him, making his torture slow and sweet.

I laugh at seeing the fear glint in his widened pupils and the way he backs up as much as he physically can away from Siren. "Do you know what we do to child fuckers?" I say coolly, holding my knife to his throat. The sharp edge nicks his skin causing a warm puddle to form around my feet. There’s a darkened spot on his crotch where he pissed himself.

"Oh, fuck no, Davenport. You're not getting off with a sliced throat. Nope, you’re not getting off that easy." I put on a pair of white latex gloves and unbutton his pants, shoving them down to his ankles. The man's tiny, flaccid penis nearly shrinks, turtling inside his balls.

"Oh! Look ladies!" I blurt out, pointing at the man's small dick. “No wonder he can't find a woman his age, he has a micro-peen."

Pushing down on his shriveled junk, I pull his appendage out of hiding and use my blade to cut it off. He howls like a wounded animal in pain that’s nothing more than a mumble thanks to the gag covering his mouth. A crimson fountain quickly gushes from his crotch, coating the floor in a puddle of the pedophile's blood and urine.

"Siren, finish Mr. Davenport off. Quinn, do what you do best and make sure this slime ball is never found," I order, taking off the gloves and throwing them at the blubbering bastard’s face that is quickly losing its color by the minute. "Everyone else meet back at the clubhouse."

Quinn is the cleaner, also known as the Grim Reaper. She’s the person who cleans up bodies, removes DNA and makes sure there is no evidence to point to us. She has a special formula that melts bodies down to nothing but sludge, kind of like a candle melting. She’s small but strong like nitroglycerin. They say dynamite comes in small packages. That's exactly what she is and besides that; the bitch loves to clean. Our clubhouse stays spotless thanks to her.

Another one down, many more to go,I think as I climb onto my bike and head back to the clubhouse, back to the place I call home.

Being President of an MC is hard, and being a President for theonlyfemale motorcycle club is hell. No one takes females seriously. They expect us to be sweet and spread our legs. That's about all anyone expects from us, but we are much, much more than that.

As President of the Daughters of Doom Motorcycle Club, I have strong council members that precede me. All the ladies included in the Daughters of Doom Motorcycle Club, fifteen in total with the three prospects, we are all survivors of one situation or another. Some were prostitutes, sex slaves, club girls, runaways, abused and homeless. All from different walks of life, but we come together in the best way to help one another.

We created a safe environment and sisterhood where we are family. Sisters. Not by blood, but by our choosing and we all provide and take care of each other. Most of us are single, a few with children and men are a rare entity inside the confines of our clubhouse unless accompanied by a member, except Micah. Micah is what some consider our house boy. He cooks and cleans and looks after the needs of the ladies. I'm sure sexually for some, but mostly if we need something done like laundry and we are busy, he will do it for us. I adore Micah, but have never been sexually involved with him. I guess if this were a men's motorcycle club, and if Micah was female you would consider him a club whore. He gets free rent, food and most everything else he needs; and the fucker is loyal and trustworthy. That's what matters. We are like any other family, we fuss, argue, and end up making up after a few punches and everything is okay again.

We own legit businesses too. The Kitty Kat Klub is a strip joint owned and operated by the MC It hosts both male and female dancers. All are legal, all are age appropriate and all receive frequent drug tests. We even test the workers regularly for sexually transmitted diseases even though prostitution isn’t allowed in the club and the worker will be fired if caught selling sexual favors.

We own two marijuana dispensaries which are also lawfully legit with special weed grown in house by Indica. Indica knows weed like a philosopher knows Aristotle. Her special grown herbs go from a lil bit fucked up to seeing dragons and shit. She's the best of the best when it comes to Mary Jane. Even though at times you would think she's whacked out of her brain when you catch her singing and talking to the plants, or even sleeping alongside them like her own little herb babies, she’s not. If you ever got a chance to taste her cannabis, you’d feel as if she were cuddling you and cooing a lullaby in your ear while your eyes got heavy. Her shit is that good.

We own a few diners, a garage and a metaphysical shop. You will not believe how many people are into the paranormal these days. All of these businesses are strictly legal as well. Members of the club run the businesses and of course are paid for their work, like normal jobs.

We even own a funeral home as well that has a convenient crematorium. Which is another way to get rid of loose ends and DNA. These businesses are in an organization's name that cannot be tracked back to the club or any member involved. Sneaky bitches, aren't we?

Now illegally, we don't have anything to do with sex slavery or prostitution, no skin trade whatsoever, like I said some of my sisters are survivors of it, but guns are a different story. Do we sell those to thugs, other bike clubs, or people on the street? Fuck, no. We are the guns for hire. That's right, hit women. We take case by case depending on the situation, what the person has done and whether or not the council agrees that death is needed. If death isn't the answer, we ruin them in other ways like public humiliation, breaking their bank accounts, or beat downs. We decide the punishment and what fits the crimes which are voted on during church.

Death is gifted upon those who have killed the innocent, child molesters, murderers, rapists and pedophiles. We are clean, efficient and get the job done with no ties back to us. People rarely think that women are monsters; or that we enjoy killing. I can say that isn't the case when it comes to us. The lives we take are menaces to society. They are less than human and as far as I care, it doesn't bother me a bit to kill them. I think of it as taking the garbage out and getting paid extremely well to do it.

Chapter4

Ace

Now Twenty-nine years old

"God, Mur you're giving me a fucking headache," I say, rubbing my temples. "The drop isn’t that fucking hard. You and Price meet with Glade and his right hand, get the money, give them the weed and jet." I throw my boots up on the table making a clunk.

"Okay, Prez. Don't get your panties in a bunch. We’re leaving now," Murphy, my Vice President says, as he starts to get up from his seat.

Murphy, my best friend and the club VP grew up with me, around the club. His father was the Vice President of the club when my father was President. We prospected together and were patched in on the same day. Murphy is a big son of a bitch, a monstrous force and always down to get his hands dirty; if necessary. He understands more than most what it means to wear the patch. Once a crow, always a crow; unless you are dead. He has always stood with me when I've changed rules to better the club and has never let the club or me down. The only problem with Murphy, besides his anger issues, is his need to fuck anything with a pussy.

"Oh, Mur?" I call, giving him a scowl as I plant my feet on the ground and lean forward in my seat. “You ever talk to me again like that and I'll break your fucking jaw."

He turns around, looking me in the eye. His shoulders sag with defeat. “I'm sorry, Ace. Just been a rough day."

"Be safe brother." I nod, giving him permission to leave the war room.

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