Saint tosses the wounded man onto the ground, watching as he falls on his back, crying out in discomfort. Once he starts apologizing and trying to bargain with us, Saint lowers to his knees above Scratches head.
Giving him the nod, I unstrap my hatchet and sheath my blade. Saint’s hands fly to Scratch’s skull, securing it so he can’t squirm away and cause me to miss. Planting my heavy, size fourteen boot on Scratch’s chest, I brace him to the ground with my weight.
“Ready?” I ask Saint, and he cackles maniacally, excited at what’s about to happen. We’ve gotten into some shit together a few times and each one he’s been the same way. Torture and killing bring me satisfaction if anything, but it fills my brother with energy and happiness. I can only imagine what kind of life he had to shape him as he is. Mine was fucked up, but I have a feeling his was like nothing I’d ever imagine.
“Do it, Vike!”
Bending my left knee as much as I can behind me, I position myself as low as possible in the perfect spot over the Prospect and grip my ax with both hands. It’s much harder than one would expect, driving the blade through flesh and tendons, and fuck, there’s so much blood. Not to mention my height making it harder to decapitate someone when they’re flat on the ground as well.
Glancing at the man’s terrified eyes one last time as they fill with tears, I say my piece, “I’ve already killed for her once motherfucker; you’re just another one under my belt. I’ll be goddamned if anyone disrespects my woman like that and lives. I may not have been her first, but best fucking believe, I’ll be her last.”
At that, I swing the ax aiming directly for his throat. The first hit makes a decent implant, but not completely sufficient. It’s with the second swing that his blood splatters enough to hit my boot resting on his chest.
Saint laughs with each chop, getting covered in blood and loving every minute of it. Eventually, I have to get on my knees to get close enough so I can finish sawing through the last remaining fleshy pieces. The small stuff is always the hardest to get severed.
“Saint, you need to get cleaned up, you’re a mess. Call Spidey to help you dump the body.”
His gaze meets mine, his brow furrowed. “Why aren’t you dumping it?”
“I need to pay someone a visit.”
“Okay then,” he answers, pulling his phone from his pocket as I grab the short hair on the Prospect’s skull. He has just enough for me to grip it; hopefully, I don’t drop it.
Saint climbs to his feet, swiping his tongue against a few drops of blood on his wrist and follows me around the side of the bar. He watches as I mount my bike, still holding the bloody head in one hand. I’ve ridden having to hold onto shit before, so it’s not that difficult being that I’m a seasoned rider.
The engine comes to life, loudly announcing our presence and within seconds, I head toward the Oath Keepers MC Compound. I have something that belongs to them, and it’s time they know that I’m not fucking around.
Neither the kill nor the quick ride to the clubhouse does anything to cool down my temper. Normally a long ride will do me wonders, giving me enough time to clear my head out and come down from when I rage. If I were smart, I’d hit the road straightaway after my pit stop, but I know I won’t. I’ve had one thing on my mind nonstop, and I plan to have her as soon as possible.
The Prospect that’s posted at the gate sits up suddenly when I come into sights. He takes one look at my extended arm, still tightly gripping onto the head and stays clear, so I can ride through without any issues. Smart move on his part. I wouldn’t kill him if he tried to stop me, but he’d damn sure learn.
Having worked with this club in the past, I know the kid’s calling up the Prez or VP right now to announce my arrival. It’s exactly what I want him to do, get either of them to come outside. I plan to throw this motherfucker’s head at the pussy-ass VP’s feet then let the Prez know his daughter belongs to me. I did this club a favor, taking out their biggest threat not even weeks ago, and it’s time they show me that they’re grateful.
Easing off the gas, I slow down some more, eventually rolling to a stop not far from the main entrance. The Compound consists of a fairly large building that houses members, their chapel, kitchen, and a bar. Off to the side is their shop where they fix bikes and the occasional vehicle. The land it all sits on is surrounded by a tall electric fence and who knows what else.
It takes merely moments before the lot of them shuffle out. Ares, their VP, comes to a stop directly in my path as several of his brothers flank his sides. Cain, his Enforcer, takes the right, then Spin, the treasurer, and finally, their newly patched member, Shooter. To his left stands 2 Piece, the Road Captain and gun trader, then Twist, the unholy one covered in tattoos. He’s the fucking crazy brother I’ve heard of. I thought he was going to join the Nomads for a while, but he backed out eventually. Lastly, the President’s son himself, Snake.
I could probably kill half these motherfuckers before they got me down. Scot says we’re friendly with them, and Cain’s not bad in my book, so I offer a warning instead of bullets. I may be an Oath Keeper, but when it boils down to it, this Charter is not mine. I would support them when needed, but I ride with the Nomads. We make our own fucking laws.
Staring coldly at the VP in front of me, I release his Prospect’s head—the heavy skull more resembling a bowling ball than the lump of mush it is at this point. As it rolls across the asphalt, heated by the scorching Texas sun, it eventually stops, sticking to a particular hot spot on the pavement.
He doesn’t flinch, so my gaze expands, taking in the other members beside him. “Tell your club to stay the fuck away from my bitch. I won’t say it twice.”
Ares’ eyebrows shoot up, his nostrils flailing as he breathes heavy, attempting to reign in his temper. I’ve heard about him too. He used to be the Enforcer for the club, known as the Butcher for sawing bodies up.
That’s cute. I like to hack my kill up too. Only I drive my hatchet into their body repeatedly or sometimes scalp them, using my favorite blade to pull their skin away, exposing the angry red flesh underneath. I’ll happily teach him how to be a real fucking butcher if he’d like.
“The fuck you do to my Prospect?” he eventually grumbles, angrily peering at the decapitated head.
“He thought he could touch my Ol’ Lady then talk about it. I didn’t agree.”
Cain’s hand flies to his forehead, massaging his temples as he mumbles a disgruntled, “Fuck.”
Ares glances over at him, “Brother?”
Cain drops his arm flashing a look at Ares, then meets my stare. “The blonde from the motel when we were there? Princess?”
Snake’s head snaps over to me at Princess’ name, and I nod.