These two hung on to their information like a safe that could not be cracked, which only made me amp up my ingenuity because I can normally make the person on my shit list sing loudly, and pretty quickly, but tonight dragged on and on.
A girl from each of our clubs went missing.
Poof!
Gone.
Completely vanished without a trace, we’re talking a beam-me-up-Scotty type of vanishing.
These nomads were our first real lead.
The girls had been missing for nearly two weeks now. It wasn’t until Ruby had up and vanished seventy-two hours after Santana, that we started to think maybe the girls were in danger. Santana had been talking about leaving and going back to college, according to word from the Lion’s Den just before she vanished, so alarms weren’t raised. Ruby, though…she enjoyed stripping. She was good at it, and she made good money. Two girls disappearing without a word from two different clubs, so close in time, had us sitting up and taking notice.
Each girl was under the protection of her respective club, and we look after our own, so we started digging for information. We were all on alert with our remaining girls and taking precautions to keep them safe, but we just couldn’t get a lead on where Ruby and Santana had disappeared to. It was a fucking enigma.
We had received an anonymous tip earlier in the day, and it was all we had to go on, so we had to check it out.
Drill and I had been holed up inside the nomads' isolated, beat up, old house in Socorro, about an hour’s drive from our club, waiting for them to come back. We gave them quite the welcome home reception. We’d left the bikes hidden and legged it a short distance.
They certainly weren’t expecting us, with their oh-fuck-me-this-ain’t-gonna-end-well, surprised looks on their faces as we took each down, knocking them out cold so we could truss them up, and be ready to get some answers.
We got lucky. We’d already done a thorough sweep of the shit box and found both the girls’ handbags hidden in a false floor inside a cabinet—pretty damning evidence—which raised the stakes from shakedown to dead-men-walking, and it didn’t look good for the girls still being alive.
An eye for an eye.
Time for No Mercy, my aptly named little black bag of tricks, to come out, and I started working my artistry on them. I had plenty of ideas up my sleeve. I don’t need a big bag because it’s often the small things, placed in the right places, which can inflict the most damage.
I have no problem using a melon baller to gouge out your eyeball. Why lug around a hammer, when I could be so much more imaginative with a corkscrew or a pair of chopsticks shoved into the right cavity?
I’m a creative son of a bastard.
It became clear that no matter what I did to them, they weren’t gonna run their mouths. It was either because they were too scared to admit to us what went down, or they were more frightened of a higher entity. I should’ve just been done with them and let Drill shoot them, but I couldn’t stop.
They were two of the most insane bikers I’ve ever come across. They had to have been, to let me go through sliding razor blades under their fingernails and tying a wire garrotte around their balls, tightening it until they were sliced clean off their bodies. But still, those fuckers never sang, and that takes balls—pun intended.
Torture is a bitch made up of a whole lot of karma.
We gave them the opportunity to sing for their souls. Theirs would have been quick and painless deaths—a bullet between the eyes...done and dusted—but they chose to fuck around because they sure as hell were hiding something pretty big.
As far as both clubs knew, we hadn’t pissed anybody off that would warrant our girls being taken, and we can’t have any fucker coming along and stealing our girls without deadly repercussions.
You don’t cross the Soulless Bastards MC and get a slap on the wrist.
Fuck with us.
Pay in full.
The last words one of them croaked, with a fucked up grin on his face, while he spat blood at my feet were, ‘Warped fucker.’
Well, my methods might be a little warped, but usually they got the job done. My ego is dented just a little, but I’ll get over it. I could have just put them down like dogs in the end, but I had a perfect record for getting people to talk. I honestly thought they would spill in the end; they had nothing to lose and they were dead anyway. You play in our world, be prepared to pay the ferryman.
Now their bodies are buried deep in the forest...minus their balls and a few other things, and both clubs are still none the wiser. God knows what’s been done to Ruby and Santana. They were only twenty-one years old, just trying to get by in life.
Chances are the girls are both dead because it seems like they’ve just disappeared off the face of the earth. It’s been two weeks, and their handbags with their money and ID were with the nomads, which means they’d probably disposed of the girls’ bodies when they were done with them and were too dumb to get rid of their handbags. Hell, maybe they liked to keep tokens of their crimes.
We have nothing more to go on at the moment but assumptions, and they are not enough. We will keep searching for answers. Some fucker will pay for this. I did my best and, this time, I’d failed, and it’s a jagged pill to swallow.
Drill and I are gonna go get cleaned up, and then we are gonna pay Cyn a visit on the way home because torture and interrogation are both mentally and physically demanding. I have to replace what just went down with an after-job hard fuck. You can’t go through what we did and then just have a quiet beer or catch a few z’s. That shit has to be worked out of our systems.
The first thing I noticed when I came back to myself was the searing pain in my wrists and arms. My flesh felt raw, my shoulders were still locked straight above my head, and I was in complete darkness, still hanging far enough off the ground to cause me immense pain.
I was used to having my face slapped around to help speed up my come back from the spaced-out land I had to endure, and then cut down like a side of beef to fall naked onto the hard wooden floor. My hands would then be sliced free and my sight returned while the drug he used to take my mind to another place left my system and I could eventually have the strength to get up.
But this time, I was still bound, hanging, and unable to see.
Something was wrong.
I am far more alert. I can’t hear his breathing; the house is deathly quiet. He’s normally close by, observing me, waiting for me to resurface from the inky black depths of my mind.
“Master William?” I whisper, but the house doesn’t breathe a word. “Master William?” I whisper with more volume as a shiver vibrates through my body.
Nothing.
I lift my head slowly. My neck is stiff and it hurts to move it, another sign I’ve been hanging like a dead weight for too long. My shoulders protest the small movement as I hesitate a little longer.
“Master William!” I raise my voice as loud as I dare, risking being punished for my insolence.
Still, no response.
Why am I still bound?
I need to be able to see. “Master William, I would like to remove my face mask, please, Sir.”
I wait. The silence is deafening.
I receive no orders to keep it on, so I start rubbing my face against my shoulder, trying to remove the thick, black eye mask he puts on me. I rub harder, working to nudge it above my eyes, while the movement has me bouncing against the staircase, pain attacking my body.
I can finally move the mask enough to see, while my eyes start blinking, trying to adjust to the late afternoon light streaming through the windows.
Where has the bastard gone?