by K. L. Savage
Or.
The person stealing the babies was selling them. I have no idea who, though.
It made me sick, and a hundred questions ran through my mind, but the one that stuck?
What happened to the kids as they aged?
That’s what sets my blood on fire because I don’t know. I’d rather my Ellie be dead than live in a constant state of abuse and fear. What if she’s in another country? What if there is no hope at all?
No. I can’t think like that. I have to remain vigilant. If I lose focus, another thirteen years can go by, and if that happens, the point of living would be moot. I will kill every criminal associated with Oklahoma if I have to.
Maybe it’s time to visit the old stomping grounds and see if anything new turns up. I usually only go back to Oklahoma once a year to see if I can find new leads. I’ve already been once this year, but I think another trip is needed, and soon. I’m feeling more anxious than usual, and I have a suspicion that it has to do with Melissa.
She’s a distraction, something I can’t afford to give one moment of attention because that means someone might slip through the cracks when it comes to Ellie. I won’t let pussy cloud my judgment. I haven’t for thirteen years. I’m not about to start now.
Melissa isn’t just pussy. She’s a new beginning, which scares the hell out of me because I’m not ready for the past to end.
I stop at a lone red light before the edge of the strip. The traffic light hangs on the black wire and sways from the light breeze. Specks of sand tickle against my cheek as the wind carries it from the desert. The edges of the road are covered in a slight dusting of sand that makes the road look smaller than what it really is.
As I wait for the light to turn green, I reach into my pocket and pull out my notepad that has all the names, addresses, and favorite spots my victims like to go. I flip page after page of names that are crossed off in red ink. The line that divides their identities causes a fresh wave of anger to roll through me like a tsunami. Years of names, years of killings, and not one man had what I needed.
I’m smart when it comes to doing the dirty work. Criminals aren’t missed. Cops hardly blink an eye when another horrible person is dead, and the files on Badges computer proves that while they have their eyes on the murders, they aren’t focusing in on them, which gives me all the leeway I need to continue my path until I achieve my goal.
Darius Salle. He got out of prison a few years back and is still on probation for the attempted murder of his wife. He’s accused of assault, attempted rape, and sexual harassment toward a minor. He sounds like the kind of guy I need to have a little chat with. The light turns green, and I stuff the notepad in my pocket and take a right, driving by the strip instead of entering it. Darius likes to go to this dive bar on the outskirts of town where a lot of the low-lifes go.
I’m going to pay a little visit and see what he’s up to.
Just a friendly little drive by.
I lay a hand on my thigh as I enjoy the ten minute ride to ‘The Shack’ and stare off over the rolling hills of Vegas. For the first time in my life, I’m wondering when my list is done, and I’ve exhausted my options, if I should officially close the door to what happened to Holly. I’ve tried for so long, and it’s a burden that’s with me every day. When is enough, enough?
The road dips low, and then I hit the throttle to gain speed to make it over the hill. The blacktop looks like it’s about to blend into an edge for me to drive off, but when I get to the top, the street flattens again and to the left is ‘The Shack.’
It’s a white trailer with a black spray-painted sign that has the name of the bar on it. A few junk cars are parked out front with a few bikes, and as I roll into the red clay lot, music pours from the inside. Damn, Tool would be tickled to death to see this piece of shit because compared to the Kings’ Club? This place is a step away from getting blown to bits by a gust of wind. Kings’ Club has become one of the best bars on the strip.
But our club isn’t for outsiders like this one.
I swing my leg over my bike and kick the stand down in the dirt. My boots crunch against the rocks embedded in the ground from shifting my weight on to either foot as I take off my cut. The last thing I want is to give away the fact I’m a Ruthless King. It will bring unnecessary shit to the club that Reaper doesn’t need right now. We have dealt with too much over the last few years, and people are just getting settled without needing to handle some fucked up situation. And if a Ruthless King is to get pinned for killing all those people over the last few years, it might ruin the integrity of the club Reaper has worked so hard to build.
My hand slides into the inner pocket, and the rough grooves of the dagger bite my fingertips as I pull it out, then slide it in the waistband of my jeans. I hide it by making sure my shirt covers the weapon. I keep my chin up as I walk toward the front entrance where the bouncer is two-hundred pounds overweight and sleeping in a slumped position, a burning cigarette hanging from his mouth as he snores. My boots pound against the stairs and with every step I have to bite the inside of my cheek to fight the urge of going inside and killing every person in there.
My taste for revenge and my need for answers are becoming blurry with the addiction to kill. I don’t know if I’m doing it for the right reasons anymore, or if I just like hearing the last breath leave their lungs.
Either way, regardless of what I’ve become, someone’s blood has to be shed.
The doorknob is warm from the humidity hanging thick in the air, or wet for another reason that I’d rather not think about. With a push, not a twist, the door opens. A nicotine-infused cloud swarms the air. The different colored Christmas lights hanging around the bar blink, but are muted by the condensed smoke. Balls break somewhere off in the distance as people play pool, and the music switches to a classic rock and roll song that has drunk men and women singing off-key.
I glance down when I step on something that crunches and see tossed peanut shells. I curl my lip in disgust and keep walking, the smoke stinging my eyes. I hold back a cough. There isn’t a more disgusting habit to me than someone who wants this shit in their lungs. I wade through tables and a few people dancing to get to the bar.
The woman bartending looks older than what she is. She’s skin and bone, hollow cheeks and wrinkled skin, but it isn’t from old age. The track marks on her arm tell a different story.
“What can I get you?” Her voice is raspy, like her throat has been dragged through gravel all her life.
“Beer is fine. Tell me, do you know Darius? I’m an old friend of his. I’m just riding through and wanted to say hi,” I tell her with my best charming smile.
She isn’t impressed or, if she is, I can’t tell because her eyes are so damn glossed over that it seems like she’s lost interest in everything life has to offer. Poor bitch. She needs to be put out of her misery. The pint glass lands on the sticky countertop that has probably never seen a washcloth in its life, and the amber beer sloshes over the rim to add to the mess on the bar. She points through the smoke. “Darius is in the back playing pool. And tell that fucker he owes me last month’s tab. Fucking tired of giving him booze, and he never pays.”
“How much does he owe?”
“Three hundred. It ain’t much, but in a place like this, it buys shit I need.”
I grunt, not telling her that he won’t be making that payment because he won’t be alive tomorrow. I take out my wallet and put three-hundred-and-fifty bucks down. “Here, that should cover it and fifty for your trouble.”
She narrows her eyes at me as she snatches the bills off the counter, folds them in half, and stuff them down her bra. “Tell him his tab is paid in full.” With that, she meanders to the other side of the bar to talk to another customer, but with how she’s twisting her fried black hair and shoving out her fake tits, the man is more than a casual beer drinker. I bring the rim of the glass to my lips and spin on the stool, staring in the direction I need to go.
There he is.
>
Darius Salle.
Tick fucking tock.
His life is on my clock
6
POODLE
I stand, tapping my fingers against the sweating pilsner and make sure I have a good grip so it doesn’t fall to the ground and shatter. Last thing I want to do is draw attention as I stalk through the smoke to get to the pool tables. Raucous drunk laughter flows freely, just like the alcohol here. I take another swallow of beer before setting my pint on the edged counter along the wall for drinks only.
My eyes follow Darius, and I study him, gauging what I’m up against. He’s tall, skinny, from drugs like the bartender, and has tattoos from head-to-toe. He puffs on a cigarette and adds to the cloud of smoke that has nowhere to escape, suffocating the patrons more. His teeth are yellow, and he nudges his friend after he tells a joke.
I bet the joke wasn’t funny.
“Ha, I win. Pay up, fucker,” Darius tells his friend after he sinks the eight ball.
I finish my beer and lick my lips, take a pool stick from the wrack and stand next to the table. “Can I play against the last winner?” I chalk the tip of the pool stick and blow the extra blue dust off it.
“We’re betting. You have money?” Darius asks, tugging his lip ring as he sizes me up.
He has no idea who he’s fucking with.
“Plenty,” I say. I may just work in a garage, but I know how to save money and think of finances. It’s been me for a long time, and saving hasn’t been hard, so I have a nice cushion of cash. “What do you say?”
“Hundred bucks. Winner takes all,” he says.
That’s it?
“Count me in,” I say. “I call break?”
He nods and leans against the wall. “Never seen you around before. You new to these parts?”
“In a way. I’m just passing through. I like it here, though. Nice area.” I ram the stick forward, hitting the white ball with so much force that when it cracks against the others, I sink four solids. “Solids it is.” I intentionally miss my next shot to give him a chance.
He sinks one stripe, but misses his next ball.
My eyes land on one of the tattoos on his hand and hope flares; no, not just hope, a lead. He has a tattoo of Sniper Serpents MC. They were a club based in Oklahoma, but last I remembered, they were disbanded since all of them went to jail. Why wasn’t this information in his file? I wouldn’t have missed something like that.
“MC life?” I try and prod. I always do when I’m interviewing.
He blows out smoke and flexes his fingers around the pool stick. “Yeah, but they aren’t around no more. A few of us linger, but ever since some shit went down, everyone went underground.”
I take my shot, the dagger digging in my back, reminding me to end this guy’s life. It can’t be this easy. Not after so many years of searching for a lead would one just fall into my lap like this. It’s too easy.
What the fuck am I thinking?
The journey hasn’t been easy. I’ve had my hands bloody more often than not. I’ve worked for this moment.
“What happened, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“I do fucking mind,” he says. “I don’t talk about it. You aren’t a member. Can’t share details.”
“I get it. Meant no harm,” I say and then sink the eight ball. “But I will take your money.” I reach for the bills on the side of the table, and his pool stick slaps against my hand to stop me.
My blood boils, and a red haze falls over my eyes. He has no idea that he’s going to tell me in less than five minutes, and when I get what I need, I’ll hunt down ever Sniper Serpent there is until they get a taste of their own venom.
“Why are you asking questions? I don’t like questions from people I don’t know.”
“Just wondering about the tattoo; that’s it.”
His eyes flicker behind me, and I know what’s coming. He gives a small chin tilt and an arm is around my neck in the next second. The man smells of body odor and whiskey, nearly making me gag. I can fight, but I’m not going to until they get me outside. I keep my head down, choking myself on the man’s forearm so people can’t get a good look at my face. Darius kicks the back door open, a cloud of smoke coming with us as the man shoves me outside. The air is fresher out here, and I inhale madly, shaking with adrenaline and lividity.
“I’m only going to ask you once,” Darius threatens as he kicks the door shut, and his muscle stands right beside him. I rub my throat, not too happy about the irritation, and I reach behind me for the dagger. “What the fuck—”
I silence him as I throw the dagger through the air, cutting his pointless threat off as his friend tumbles to the ground in a dead, useless heap.
I bend my neck to the left and right, letting my muscles get loose, and the bones crack into place.
“What the fuck, man?” He changes his tune and steps back, reaching for the doorknob to run back inside, but while he and his friend were busy getting me out, I made sure they couldn’t get back in.
I locked the door from the inside.
He bangs on the door, pulling and yanking the handle with pathetic whimpers. On an annoyed exhale, I strut forward and place my boot on his friend’s head and yank the dagger out with a sick twist. An audible crunch of the man’s skull rattles into the violent, treacherous breath we breathe.
Blood and brain drips off the tip, pooling onto the ground as I stare at Darius, my first lead since I started this wild hunt. It never occurred to me that members of a former MC could be behind this, but I should have. That’s where I wasn’t smart. The dirtiest of men are in MCs, but I was so young and naïve at that time that I thought it was more of a cartel doing business.
I fist Darius by the shirt and slam him against the side of the trailer. The reverberations of the bass from the music playing inside shakes the cheap foundation the metal tin sits on. “No one can hear you inside. And we’re in the middle of fucking nowhere.” I slide the sharp tip up his chest, cutting into his skin. “I want you to tell me everything about your little club.” I rub his friend’s blood on his neck and face, then shove the dagger into his mouth, making him drink the toxic waste. He spits and sputters, gagging from the vile taste.
“You’re fucking insane, man.”
I yank his head by the back of his hair and lean down. “You have no idea. Who was your president? What happened to get you disbanded?”
He doesn’t say anything.
“You really want to test me? You see your friend there, right?”
His eyes fall to the ground, and his face loses all its color when he sees the growing pool of blood in the sand. “It was like a decade ago, man. I can’t remember. I barely remember what I ate this morning. I swear to God—”
“Name of the president?”
“He will kill me.”
“I’ll kill you,” I say, picturing Ellie bundled in her pink blanket staring up at me.
“We got into the business of trading. That’s all I know, man. I swear. I don’t know his real name, but we called him Pops. That’s it. That’s all I know. He went underground, and I haven’t talked to him in years.”
Darius has snot dripping down his lips, tears falling over his cheeks, and on his next inhale, I shove the dagger through his throat until the tip lodges in the trailer. His eyes are wide, unblinking, but as he tries to speak, no words come out, only pathetic croaks. I yank it free, watching him crumble to the ground like the worthless human being he is.
He won’t be missed. I take my shirt off and wrap the dagger in it, tuck it in my pants, and grab an arm of each man I’ve killed and drag them to my bike. I’m becoming careless if I get caught, but as I look around, I don’t need to worry. No one comes here besides high low-lifes and drunken assholes.
Sweat stings my eyes as I drag them around the trailer, not caring about the rocks the bodies hit along the way. My muscles strain as I drag the bigger guy. The fucker is made out of lead. I drop their arms and peek around the edge of the trailer
to make sure the coast is clear and the bouncer is still asleep. The cigarette in his mouth is no longer there, and my hackles raise.
Why isn’t it there? I move closer and breathe a sigh a relief when I see the smoke still burning as it lays on the porch as if it fell from his lips.
No cars.
No people.
I’m in the clear.
I make my way toward the bodies and pick them up by their hands. Is it wrong I feel smug and undefeated? I finally have an answer after so many years. This is a win. I have so much research to do, so many cases to pull and study, so many more people to kill before I get answers.
And I’m ready.
It’s such a beautiful night for a ride.
I get a few string of rope and tie them to the back of my bike, their wrists crossed over one another as I strap them to the exhaust. I hum in delight and hop on my bike, crank her up, and instead of driving onto the road, I head straight into the desert. It’s bumpy, and I hit a few cactuses, but the tires on my bike are made for this.
As I ride, I hear the sick thumps of the bodies slamming against brush. I look in the right rearview mirror and notice the trailer is getting further and further away, and the cloud of dust makes a mirage as if ‘The Shack’ was never there.
Lightning veins across the sky, and purple hues of the black clouds roll together before thunder quakes. Rain falls, and I toss my head back and laugh, letting the water wash the villain away. I know the universe is on my side when it comes to this because now I don’t have to worry about covering my tracks.
My crime will never be known.
When I’m three miles into the desert, I untie the ropes and stuff the evidence in the saddle bags.