Chapter Sixteen
Rolling my neck side to side, I’m fuckin’ ready to get blood on my hands. My leg bounces and my hand twitches more the closer we get. I’m in the back of the van with Doc, Chayser, and some of the prospects, with a shit ton of weapons and ammo. I don’t need any of that. I have one blade tucked into each of my ridin’ boots, and my machete lays next to me. There’s a reason I’m called Demon, and it ain’t just because of the demon tattoo that covers my entire back. It’s in the way I kill, in the soulless black of my eyes, and the gratification I get when I slam those blades into someone’s heart. It’s in the evilness that takes over when I drain someone of their blood—and I feel no remorse, ever.
The van comes to a stop, and I pull my long brown hair back into a ponytail as the door opens. “Let’s do this,” Hanger says. We pile out; Doc and a couple of the prospects start handing out the guns while I move my eyes about, scouring our surroundings.
The overgrown grass is waist high, easy for people to hide in, the once gravel parking lot is nothing but dirt under my feet, and the bar itself is one step away from collapsing. You can clearly tell this place hasn’t been a running establishment in fuckin’ years—probably why the cocksuckers picked it. The whole place is made of wood, and even that looks to be deteriorating. The few windows that were once there have now been busted out and boarded up, and the old sign that hangs at the top is lopsided and missing a few letters.
I walk to the back door, taking my position with my machete in one hand, and I pull a blade from my boot to hold in the other. The blood running through my veins is cool, my hearing fades in and out, and my vision narrows to one focus: to bring death and let these cunts meet the reaper today. I wait for the sign. Looking over to Writer, he signals with two fingers to move forward.
I kick the back door open easily and we push through, while laughter filters in from somewhere close. They won’t be laughing soon, when they’re on the ground, bleeding out and choking on it. Shots start being fired in the front, but we keep moving in the back part of the bar. I head towards the laughter, leaving the other guys to go in the direction they want. Before I get there, I’m met by two big fuckers—but they don’t faze me. Bringing my machete back like a baseball bat, I swing and hit my target. Blood sprays the wall and me, and his fuck buddy stands there with his mouth hanging open, not knowing what to do.
He watches as my victim’s head falls to the floor, eyes still wide open, before the body follows behind. While he’s in shock and about to shit himself, I take my blade and slice right into his stomach. Pulling across his abdomen, the fucker’s guts pour out before he is lying next to his friend. Smiling and laughing an evil laugh, I move along. Finding my next kill soon after, he gets my blade straight through the heart.
The gunfire is deafening as I walk through to the storage area. Standing in front of a closed metal door is another fucker that’s about to die. He sees me coming. “Who the fuck are you?” He starts to charge towards me, but he’s no match for me. I smile widely and don’t respond. My machete comes up in my hand; it goes in his neck and I drag it upwards, cutting his head clean in two. Blood and more blood—this is what I fuckin’ live for. My dick twitches at the sight before me; that’s what kinda crazy psycho bastard I am. It makes me hard lookin’ at my kills.
Pulling on the steel handle, I open the cooler door—instantly I’m hit with the stench of piss and shit. Red mists across my vision when I walk in, and a loud growl sounds out from deep in my chest. A naked Tink is chained and hanging; his chin touches his chest and he’s not awake. Every part of his body is covered in blood from deep slashes that run along his chest, stomach, arms, and legs. I lift his head with my hand, noting that he’s almost unrecognizable with how badly he’s been beaten. Even if he was conscious, he couldn’t see, because his eyes are too swollen.
I work at trying to get his wrists free from the chains, but it takes a little while for me to get them loose. Finally making enough progress, I pull one hand free, not entirely sure I didn’t break a bone—he’s too out of it to feel anything right now anyway. Releasing the other, I lower Tink to the floor, then pick him up bridal style, feeling the same deep slash marks on his back. My hand quickly becomes wet from the seeping wounds as I carry him towards the back door.
Hearing footsteps behind me, I quickly spin, shoving my machete in the front and out the back of the next fucker’s stomach; he falls to his death at my feet. When I hit the back door, I bust through and run with Tink in my arms, reaching the van in seconds.
Lying him down on the van floor, I ask, “Is he alive?”
Doc checks Tink’s pulse. “Barely.” At least the young kid’s alive. When he’s well and you look at the two of us, we could be brothers. We’ve heard it more than once around the club, and I can see it; we have a lot of similarities: same long dark hair, same crazy in our eyes, same height. I give Doc a nod and watch while he starts cleaning up the wounds.
We don’t wait long before the rest of the Satan’s Sinners come out. We gather around the vehicles and Hanger starts giving an update. “We searched every inch of this place and all of The Four Kings are dead.” Hoots and hollers sound out. Hanger puts his hands up. “Quiet!” he yells, and everyone settles to let our President speak. “Deuce wasn’t here. I think he’s went into hiding again.”
“I found Tink. He’s in bad shape, Prez. Doc’s workin’ on him now,” I announce, letting everyone know the young prospect was found alive.
Nodding, Hanger says, “Let’s wrap this up and get home. We will have church tomorrow to discuss what to do from here. Ghost, light it up.”
Ghost runs over to one of the trucks and grabs a gas can. He carries it into the ramshackle bar, and a few minutes later he returns. Standing right outside the front entrance, he pulls a lighter out of his pocket and a folded-up piece of paper. He lights the paper on fire and throws it into the old bar. As he’s walking back towards us, the shack goes up in flames.
I watch as it licks high into the sky and a calm settles over me that all of those motherfuckers are dead. Now we just have to find Deuce and save that kill for Gunner. The doors to the van are closed, and we make the two-hour journey back home.