CAOS MC: The Series

by KB Winters

  I looked from one man to the other and then at Scott. He was really going to do it. He was really going to kill me. And the only thing these other two assholes were worried about was being legally responsible for it. They didn't give a damn that he was going to hurt—let alone—kill me. All they cared about was themselves.

  “Just give us the money you promised us,” Neil said. “And then Oscar and I are outta here. Do whatever the hell you want, just leave us out of it.”

  Scott sighed and shook his head. “Unbelievable. What a couple of first rate pussies.”

  “Think whatever you want, man,” Oscar said. “But I'm not into this.”

  “What did you think was going to happen?” Scott snapped. “That I was going to make her tea and cookies?”

  Neil shook his head. “I had no idea you were going this far,” he said. “This is not what you sold this job as.”

  Scott shook his head. “Fine. Whatever.”

  He pulled a couple of envelopes out of his back pocket and threw them at the two men. The envelopes hit Neil in the chest and fell to the ground. As he bent to pick them up, he looked me in the eyes. I tried to plead with him to stop this. To not let this happen. I begged him with my eyes to not leave me alone with Scott. And for a moment, I saw a look of sympathy flash through his eyes. I thought he might help me.

  But the moment passed.

  Neil scooped up the envelopes and handed one over to Oscar. Refusing to meet my eyes again, he lowered his head and the two men turned and started to head upstairs.

  “Remember,” Scott called after them, “at the very least, you're an accessory. If you go to the cops or anybody else, I'll take you down along with me. Your fingerprints and DNA are all over everything. Nobody will believe that you're not up to your dicks in this, and you'll do just as much time as me. Keep that in mind, assholes.”

  The two men looked at him, and any hope I might have had that they’d stand up to him to keep him from killing me evaporated entirely. I saw the look of acceptance in their eyes as they nodded grimly and turned, heading up the stairs. I wanted to scream at them, call them out as the cowards that they were. My blood was going to be on their hands, and they would rather live with that on their consciences than stand up and do the right thing.

  Scott was right about one thing—they were first rate pussies.

  When they'd gone upstairs, we listened to their footsteps crossing the hardwood floor above. A moment later, the front door closed and they were gone. I was alone with Scott. And he was going to kill me. The electric jolt of fear shot through me, and I couldn't keep my body from trembling.

  He sighed and shook his head again. “It's just so hard to find good help these days, isn't it?”

  Scott looked at me and gave me a smile that made my blood run cold. It was a smile I hadn't seen before. It was cold—predatory. It was the smile of a man who was going to not only commit murder—but one who was going to enjoy it.

  He grabbed a chair from the corner and set it down beside me. Pulling me to my feet, he pushed me down into it. I started to get to my feet, to mount some kind of protest, but he delivered a vicious backhand that had me seeing stars again.

  “Try to get up again, and I'll cut your fucking heart out,” he said, his voice low and menacing.

  The whole time I'd been with Scott, I lived in fear of him. He was abusive and cruel. But I'd never actually feared for my life. I'd never thought that he would actually do anything more than rough me up. I never in my most horrifying nightmares would have imagined that he'd actually kill me.

  He looked at me with disdain and took the gag out of my mouth. Tears welled up in my eyes, and I fought to keep them from falling. The last thing I wanted to show him was fear or weakness. But I couldn't help it. They rolled down my cheeks anyway.

  “You don't have to do this, Scottie,” I said.

  “Actually, I think I do,” he said. “You made me look bad in front of my boys. I can't have that, sweetie.”

  “I—I didn't mean to,” I pleaded. “I'm sorry. I'll make it up to you.”

  He laughed hard and loud. “Oh, we're well past that point, Isabelle,” he said. “Well, well past that point.”

  I gave him my best doe eyes. “We don't have to be,” I said. “We can start over. Start from scratch and maybe build something new and better? Together?”

  He chuckled and shook his head. “You watch way too many movies if you think you can flash me that innocent little smile and make me believe that you want to try it again,” he said. “Do you really think I'm that stupid?”

  “I don't think you're stupid at all, Scottie,” I said. “In fact, I think—”

  “Shut up,” he shouted. “Just shut the fuck up.”

  He was right, of course. I was hoping to play on his feelings and trick him into letting me loose. It was a stupid, desperate play, but it was the only one I had. And it had obviously failed spectacularly. I was at his mercy.

  He walked over to a corner of the basement and came back wheeling a rolling cart. A sheet covered the top of the table, and a sense of dread stole through me. I'd seen enough movies to know that whatever was under the sheet wasn't going to be good news for me.

  The cart stopped beside me like the dessert tray in a restaurant. He grinned as he gripped the corner of the sheet.

  “Ready for the big reveal, sweetheart?” he asked.

  Sweetheart. When Jameson had called me that, I hated it—I made him stop. Now I wished it was him saying it to me.

  I wanted to look away, wanted to look anywhere but at Scott or at that damned cart—but couldn't. My eyes remained fixed on the sheet and my mind swirled with ideas about what could be under it. With the flourish of a magician, Scott pulled the sheet off the cart and tossed it behind him. My heart dropped when I saw the top of the table covered with tools. Knives, saws, blades . . . and other things I couldn't identify that looked horrifying. There was even a small blowtorch.

  Clearly, he was going to torture me. With escape being pretty much out of the question, my only hope was to goad him into killing me quickly so I didn't have to endure the torment and pain.

  “Here's how it's going to go,” he said, gesturing to a knife with a long, curved blade. “I'm going to use—”

  “You know the worst part of being with you?” I interrupted him. “Pretending to enjoy fucking you. Truth of the matter is, your dick is so small—”

  He gave me another hard slap to the face, and the coppery taste of blood began filling my mouth.

  “Don’t interrupt,” he said, his voice steady.

  “Or what? You're going to hit me again?” I sneered. “Does beating up on me—somebody half your size—make you feel like a real man? Because let me tell you, Scotty, you're about as far from being a real man as a person can get.”

  He raised his hand again and then stopped before delivering the blow, and a smile spread across his face as he lowered his hand.

  “Oh, I see,” he said. “You're hoping that if you piss me off enough, I'll just kill you and be done with it.”

  I raised my chin, looking at him defiantly. “You always were more about style than substance,” I said. “Especially in the bedroom.”

  He laughed and shook his head. “Sorry, babe,” he said. “This isn't going to go that easy for you. I'm on to your little games.”

  We stared at one another in silence for a long few moments. Fear and adrenaline tore through my body, and I was doing everything I could to keep from breaking down then and there. I couldn’t believe I’d been in love with this monster. The silence was broken by the sound of footsteps on the hardwood floor above us. He looked up and then back at me, smiling that toothy, creepy smile.

  “Looks like someone has had a change of heart,” he said. “Looks like it's gonna be a threesome of pain here, babe. Hope you're ready for it.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Jameson

  “Did you grow a pair and change your mind?”

  The voice—I assumed be
longed to her ex—came from a doorway that was partially cracked open. I stood at the door and looked through the narrow opening. I saw a staircase that led down into a basement, but I couldn't see anything else clearly.

  He was down there and I had a strong feeling that Isabelle was down there with him.

  “Neil?” he called again. “Oscar? Get your asses down here. Time to have some fun with this little bitch before we fuck her. Let's go.”

  That told me all I needed to know. Isabelle was down there and she was still alive. And apparently, the sorry piece of shit was planning to torture her before he killed her. Just knowing I'd gotten there in time sent a wave of relief rolling through me.

  There was some small part of me that wanted to be smart—it told me that I should call the cops and wait. But then, I looked around at the house, saw the kind of money this asshole had and knew he'd be able to find a way to weasel out of it. Rich fuckers could always buy justice. And though Isabelle might still be alive, she'd have to spend the rest of her life looking over her shoulder, waiting for this prick to make another run at her. No, the cops weren't an option.

  I stood at the doorway and weighed my options. On the plus side, the two clowns who'd been with him at the motel were gone. I’d seen them leave the house and drive away a few minutes ago. I assumed by what he'd said he was down there alone with Isabelle. That worked in my favor.

  What didn't work in my favor was that if I went down the staircase, this asshole was going to know I wasn't one of his two stooges before I got to the bottom step. But it was something I’d have to risk. If I didn't, Isabelle was as good as dead. And that wasn't happening. Not on my watch.

  Taking a deep breath, I opened the door and started to descend the staircase. One foot in front of the other. I slipped the gun out of my waistband and held it at my side as I came down the stairs. I was nervous as fuck and felt my heart thundering in my chest—not for me, though. I was worried about Isabelle getting caught in the crossfire. The last thing I wanted was for her to get hurt.

  As I hit the last step, I'd expected a hail of bullets or something once he figured out it wasn't one of his stooges coming down the stairs. But there was nothing. I turned the corner and found him—with his back to me—looming over Isabelle. He didn't even see me.

  “Glad to see you decided to stop being such a little bitch and man up.” He didn’t even turn to look at me. “And since you did, I may just let you fuck this bitch before we put her down.”

  Isabelle peeked around his body and her eyes widened when she saw me standing there. Tears welled in her eyes and a hopeful smile touched her lips.

  “Jameson—” she gasped and then clamped her mouth shut.

  I'd hoped to preserve the element of surprise until I had my gun pressed to the back of the man’s head. But Isabelle had already alerted him by saying my name. His head snapped up, he turned around, and I saw the knife with the long, curved blade in his hand. Goddamn rookie. If he'd had any sense at all, the moment he heard my name, he would’ve put Isabelle between me and him, and put the blade to her throat to get me to back off. Instead, he stood there with the blade in his hand, his eyes wide with shock, and an expression on his face that said he was about to piss himself.

  I raised the gun in my hand, pointed it square at his face, and cocked it.

  “You were supposed to be dead,” he said. “They told me they killed you.”

  “Drop the knife, asshole,” I said.

  The knife fell to the concrete floor with a clatter. He stood there looking at me in disbelief—looking at me as if he saw a ghost. He cleared his throat and stood up a little straighter, looking at me with an expression that was calm and collected. But his eyes that told me an entirely different story.

  “How did you find me?” he asked.

  “Doesn't matter,” I said. “Get down on your knees.”

  He took a step toward me and raised his hands a little. I could tell by the way he positioned himself that he was going to take a run at me. I'd been around the block a few times, and amateurs like him didn't have any moves I hadn't seen before.

  “Down,” I said. “On your knees.”

  “Yeah, that's not going to happen,” he replied. “I can, however, offer you a large sum of money to walk up those stairs and forget all about me and this little slut.”

  “Large sum of money, huh?” I asked.

  I could see the hope in his eyes. He thought he had me.

  “How does a hundred-grand grab you,” he said.

  “A hundred grand?” I said. “That grabs me just fine.”

  He clapped his hands. “Fantastic,” he beamed. “Let's go upstairs, and I'll cut you a check right now. I knew you were a reasonab—”

  The shot sounded like a cannon going off in the basement. It took a moment for it to register on his face, but the man looked down and saw the hole in his leg just as a gush of crimson colored blood came pouring out of it. He screamed in agony and put his hand over the wound, trying to staunch the flow of blood. He fell to his knees, still clutching his wounded leg, howling so loud from pain, I was afraid he’d alert the neighbors.

  “As I said, down on your motherfuckin' knees,” I repeated. “If you really think Isabelle's life is worth a hundred grand and that I can be bought, you're even more pathetic than I originally thought.”

  “You shot me,” he wailed. “You fucking shot me. Call an ambulance right this fucking minute!”

  “And you were about to do far worse to Isabelle,” I said. “So shut the hell up. Now, lay down flat on your belly.”

  “Fuck you,” he seethed.

  I raised the gun again. “On your stomach or I'm going to put a fucking bullet in it to make you do as I say.”

  I could see him gritting his teeth, hear him sucking in air as he lay down on the concrete floor of the basement. Careful to keep my gun trained on him, I moved around to where Isabelle was strapped to the chair. I loosened her bonds. It wasn't long before her hands were free and she reached down and untied her legs.

  Once she was standing, she threw her arms around me and hugged me tight. She started to sob into my shoulder and only squeezed me tighter. I still had my gun on her ex, yet I felt a smile creeping across my face. The feel of her body against mine was something I could really get used to.

  “Go on upstairs now,” I said. “Wait for me. I'll be there in just a second.”

  She looked from me to Scott and then back again. “What are you going to do about him?”

  I looked at her and smiled. “You go on upstairs now,” I said gently. “I'll take care of everything.”

  She turned and walked up the stairs, never even bothering to look back. It seemed that as far as she was concerned, out of sight, out of mind. And after everything she'd been through, I couldn't say that I blamed her. I cocked the gun and held it at my side.

  I kicked Scott’s wounded leg and he curled up screaming for a moment, then rolled over, his hands up in surrender. “Come on, man, don't do this,” he pleaded. “We can work something out.” Tears rolled down his eyes, which I thought was a particularly nice touch.

  “Sucks to be you, don't it?” I asked him. “To be the one on the receiving end? To know that you're about two seconds from having your damn head blown off?”

  His eyes widened as I spoke. “Let's make a deal here, bro,” he said. “I'll still give you a ton of cash to let me walk away. A quarter of a million sound good to you? A quarter of a million just to walk away from this and let me go. Come on, man.”

  “And have Isabelle spend the rest of her life wondering when you’re going to pop up like some goddamn evil Jack-in-the-Box?”

  “I swear to god, I'll leave her alone,” he begged. “I swear it. I'll never look for her. I'll never bother her again. Just let me go, and Isabelle will never have to worry about me showing up again. I swear to fuckin' god, man.”

  As he looked up at me—and at the gun in my hand. He started to cry and actually pissed his pants. I chuckled and shook my
head. Bullies were all the same—holy terrors to those they could push around, but when somebody finally stood up to them, they pissed themselves. In Scott's case, quite literally.

  “Do we have a deal, man?” he asked. “Come on, Jameson. That’s your name, right? Jameson? Take the money. I'm giving it to you free and clear. A quarter of a mil and Isabelle will never see me again. That works, right?”

  I didn't kill people lightly. It wasn't something I enjoyed doing. I'd only done it when absolutely necessary—in every case, it was very clearly self-defense. But this was different—for a lot of reasons. And I had to admit that I was more than a little conflicted about it. I would have been lying if I said there wasn't some small part of me that was relishing the idea of putting a bullet into this scumbag.

  But as I stood there looking down at him, I saw Isabelle's face. Saw the purple bruise beneath her eye. And as I recalled that image, my old friend—that dark and abiding rage—welled up within me again. It had been my constant companion since I was a kid and saw my mom—it didn't matter. The rage filled me up entirely and begged for release.

  “Do we have a deal, Jameson?” he asked.

  I raised my gun and aimed dead center of his forehead. He opened his mouth and screamed at the same instant I squeezed the trigger. His voice cut off, and the echoes of his screams slowly died out along with the sound of the shot. I looked down at his corpse, stared at his eyes open wide, focused on nothing, just staring off into the great beyond. It wasn’t self-defense—but it certainly was justified.

  ***

  I walked upstairs and pulled out my cell phone. I needed to call the club's fixer to take care of the body. I walked out to the backyard where Isabelle was waiting for me. Her body stiffened slightly when I pulled her in tight, giving her a squeeze. After a moment, she relaxed and melted against my body. Tears still rolled down her cheeks, but rather than tears of sadness, I saw the relief—and even happiness—in her face.

  “You'll never have to worry about him again,” I said. “You'll never have to look over your shoulder and wonder. It's done.”