King's Ransom: South Side Sinners MC

by BT Urruela

  “I promise you, Dimitri,” Pyro said sincerely, “I won’t let a damn thing happen to her. You know I’ve been on your side since day one with this shit. Regardless of how I voted. And I’m sorry about that, man. I thought I was doing what was best for the club.”

  “You’re all right, brother. I understand.” Dimitri nodded. “On your way out, can you have Tank bring me our guys from headquarters. I don’t want them burning with the rest of them.”

  “Absolutely,” Pyro responded. He kicked Honey Bear again. “What about this white trash piece of shit?”

  Dimitri looked at HB and smiled, a knowing smile. “He’s gonna bury his buddies in that pit they dug, and then he’s gonna dig his own grave.”

  “My ass, I will.” Honey Bear spit to the ground, growling again as he used every muscle in his body to break the restraints, but the rope wouldn’t budge. Jacoby knew his knots.

  “Oh, you will,” Dimitri said gleefully. “Remember what I do for the club, my friend.” He hesitated. “Or what I did. I will make you wish you were dead in the most painful way imaginable, if you don’t do what I ask. One fingernail at a fucking time. You can still dig without those.”

  Dimitri turned to the others. “Hey, guys, let’s get these pieces of shit loaded in the back of the Blazer. I’ll put them in the pit where they belong,” he said, as Pyro hopped in the driver’s seat of the van, Knuckles and Annalise climbed in the back seat, and they started down the gravel drive. Dimitri caught Annalise’s eyes through the back window and she smiled weakly. His heart ached when she disappeared along with the van behind the dense trees, but he shook it off, telling himself she would be all right, that Pyro would take care of her, and that he had a job to do.

  They rounded up the dead and then loaded each body into the back of the Blazer like bags of dog food, after relocating the duffel bags full of cash to the floorboards of the back seat alongside Charlie. The bodies were stacked one on top of the other, until the back was full of the bleeding dead.

  “I guess I’ll just come back for Robbie’s ass.” He pointed to Robbie, his other hand meeting his hip.

  “Shouldn’t even bury that motherfucker. He doesn’t deserve it,” Dalton said, spitting at Robbie’s lifeless body but missing.

  “What do you think we should do with him then?” Jacoby asked.

  Dalton thought on it for a moment, and then put his pointer in the air as if he had a bright idea. “Let’s drag him in the woods a bit. Let the wildlife get him. We’ll gut him up real good, so he attracts something quicker.”

  Dimitri shrugged. “Works for me. Help me grab him.”

  By the time they disposed of Robbie’s body in the woods, his entrails spilling out of his split torso, and the three of them worked Honey Bear into the passenger seat of the Blazer, Tank had pulled in, his van loaded up with their dead friends from headquarters. Dimitri climbed in the driver’s seat and stuck his head out the window. “What’s up, Tank? Good to see you alive, brother.”

  “You too,” Tank said and he nodded. His eyes still carried sadness, no doubt from the friends he had to load and the carnage he had to witness.

  “Follow me out,” Dimitri said. “You got room for Jacoby and Dalton?”

  “Fortunately,” Tank said flatly. “The back seat is open.”

  “All right, guys, ride with him. First, we can drop these fucks off. Then we’ll find a nice place for HB to spend eternity.” He pinched HB’s cheek as Dalton and Jacoby got into the van. “How’s that sound, buddy?”

  Honey Bear spit in Dimitri’s face. “Fuck you!” he yelled, hoarsely.

  Dimitri simply smiled knowingly as he started down the gravel drive with the Blazer.

  It was hard for Dimitri to look at Preach like he was, sprawled out on top of Riker with his head all a mess. Samson just beside them with his throat slashed. Dimitri’s stomach turned and he took a moment to collect his bearings as the others dragged Honey Bear out of the Blazer and threw him to the dirt. A common grackle cawed and it sounded as if the bird was almost laughing at him there, lying in the dirt. His two prospects, already being pecked and eaten by the birds, lay just inches away next to a pair of shovels.

  Dalton grunted out a laugh and said, “Stupid fuckers didn’t even see it coming. Thought Honey Bear was coming back to chew their asses. Instead, they got a few bullets to the skull.” He eyed them over and shook his head disappointedly. “Welcome to 3SMC, prospects. We’re gonna have to decline our invitation.”

  Dimitri’s eyes flitted to Honey Bear. “That means you too, fuckstick. Get Preach, Riker, and Doc out of there. Now!”

  Honey Bear motioned with his bound hands. “Now, how the hell am I supposed to do that with my hands and feet tied, you fuckin’ dipshit.”

  Dimitri pulled his eyes away from Honey Bear and shot them toward Jacoby. “Jacoby, re-tie it so his hands are free but his feet are still bound, let’s say shoulder-width apart. Just enough to shuffle.”

  “You got it, man.”

  Honey Bear did bury his friends that day, once he moved the bodies of Preach, Riker, and Samson to the Blazer, trading them out for his own men. The process was slow as Honey Bear’s feet were tied only a foot apart, and Jacoby walked him like a dog with the extra rope, but they reveled in watching him struggle to maneuver the bigger men from the grave to the Blazer and back, seven times in total.

  And once they took Honey Bear out in the middle of the woods and made him bury their friends in a beautiful clearing tucked away from civilization, each and every one of them, Honey Bear did dig his own grave far away from them, and he cried with each shovelful of dirt, pleaded with them to spare him. Told them it had been Robbie’s idea from the start.

  Dimitri had nothing left to say to him. All the words he had wanted to say were shared over the hours and hours of digging and burying. He had teeth to pull, a house to burn, and a woman to get back to, and no more time to waste.

  He answered Honey Bear’s final pleas, which came from his knees, his hands clasped together, and tears rolling down his cheeks with a bullet to the brain. They haphazardly buried him in the hole he dug, and they left as the sun was nearing the horizon, the resplendent splash of orange, red, and yellow dominating the sky as Dimitri made his way to headquarters first, and then to St. Louis with the few who remained.

  Twenty-Seven

  Ronald Hale paced back and forth in front of the mirror. “Do you think the navy tie or the black?” He paused to ask his wife. Not that she was paying attention. Victoria sat slumped in her vintage white leather armchair, a nearly empty bottle of wine clutched in her hand. Her mascara was smeared into a raccoon mask. She waved her hand back and forth, absentmindedly dismissing his question as if it were a fly at a Fourth of July picnic.

  “Are you listening to me, you inebriated cow? How the fuck are you going to go on TV like this? What are your friends going to say? Hell, what is Fox going to say? Melissa Francis and Bret Beir are going to have a field day with this.”

  “They will say I’m a mess because I just lost my only daughter,” she griped back at him, then slugged more of the wine before staring down into the bottle, trying to see why so little was coming out. “You selfissssshhhh fuck,” she slurred and dropped the empty bottle.

  Victoria looked at the glass case of dance memorabilia. Programs, awards, photos of her lost little girl growing up. The panic that had overtaken her so many times in the last few days surfaced once again. She struggled to catch her breath and put her frail hand up to her face.

  “That’s good. Perfect.” He nodded. “Just get your makeup fixed. You look like hell. Can’t have a future First Lady looking like a resident of the Betty Ford Clinic.” He had taken care of the marshal; everyone needed their fucking pound of flesh. Now they just had to sell the possible suicide to the adoring fans. Poor little, troubled, rich girl, in and out of Hawthorn Psychiatric Clinic. Thanks to the recent rash of celebrity suicides, hers would just be a tragic headline away from being forgotten.

  �
�First Lady?” she mumbled, eyeing him curiously.

  “At first, I have to tell you I was worried this whole fire business was going to be bad press but …” He stopped and turned to her, raising his eyebrows and his finger like a snake oil salesman. “Here’s the genius part. This country is facing a mental health crisis. What better candidate than one who lost his only daughter to depression and suicide? We publicize her time at Hawthorn to help build the case, then use part of the life insurance to rebuild the theater.” He paused to see if she is still paying attention. “The Annalise Hale Memorial Annex,” he announced grandly. “And another million or so to establish a foundation to help patients and families dealing with similar issues. The organization will be a sham of course, but the tax breaks will be phenomenal and the press will eat it up.”

  “You’ve really thought this all through,” she observed coldly; still, the thought of being the First Lady drew her. Victoria closed her eyes and imagined the footage of her stepping down from Air Force One, the entire country admiring her outfit. “I could champion mental health issues as my cause.” She put her hands over her heart.

  “You certainly have the experience,” Hale muttered under his breath as he watched her scamper to her dressing table to repair her makeup.

  “Are you sure her Hawthorn records won’t come back to bite you?” she asked, turning toward him sharply.

  “She was a minor and I had those records destroyed years ago. Do you really think I would take a chance like that? I’ll be in my study. I need to go over the police report again.” He started down the hall toward his study and paused just outside her room. The twinge of loss was quickly replaced by the knowledge that the weak always lose. Only those who are strong enough to take what they want would ever really succeed. Annalise was a pleasant distraction for a while, but it was only a matter of time before the spoiled little bitch cracked. He contemplated going in, but shook his head and walked down the hall. He had shit to do.

  Annalise stood frozen, hands trembling, still holding the pillow from her childhood bed over the Glock. The weight of her parents’ words descended on her like a crumbling mountain and she nearly dropped the weapon, her knees buckling under the weight. The monster under her bed was going on with his life. No fucking way you get to be president and first fucking lady.

  She looked around the room and a flood of memories assaulted her. The good, the bad, and the horrifically ugly. She remembered the last time she stood in this spot. She was trapped, dying on the inside, while every last person in her life just turned their head. Told her to shut her pretty mouth and smile for the cameras.

  “Ronald!” Victoria called from the hallway as she passed by the room. Annalise held her breath. What would they say if they saw her here?

  Why the hell did I come here? Annalise knew the answer before she could even repeat the thought. She had to know. Had to hear it for herself.

  Her mother’s unsteady footsteps padded down the hall to her father’s study, just as they had a million times before. It was all so familiar, yet foreign at the same time. She felt like a stranger in her own room.

  “Do you think we should plan a memorial service?” Her mother’s voice was hollow and yet she was going right along with it. All Annalise’s worst nightmares played out before her. Could her mother possibly know he had sold her to that cretin?

  “Not now, Victoria. Jesus. We just have a few hours until press time. Why don’t you have Miles take you to Prove for a treatment.” Not that he really cared how she felt one way or the other, but he needed her stable and able to play ball for the press conference. It was really too bad Robbie wasn’t willing to take them both. He could understand, of course, but, Jesus, it would have made life easier.

  Annalise listened intently as her mother initially protested, and then gave in and left. She moved quietly through her room. A glimpse of herself in the long white full-length mirror took her breath. Her once long chestnut hair was chopped just hours ago, to get the sticks and mud out easier. Her creamy skin was smeared and stained with the blood and filth of days in captivity and the violence of her escape. Clothes torn, body bruised and battered. Two tiny hands once so graceful now held a nine-millimeter handgun and the same pillow he used to cover her screams.

  Time was limited. They had dismantled the security system before entering, but Pyro was waiting outside. If she took too long, he would be in to help. This … this, she needed to do alone. She needed to hear for herself. See it for herself. Face this room, make amends with the broken girl in this mirror. Funny how her outward appearance now matched the way she always felt standing here. All the scars that no one could see, now fully on display. She smiled at the demons that once haunted her; having made her peace with them, they welcomed her.

  She heard him laughing on the phone, as if everything was fine and fucking dandy. The sound snapped her back to the present and made her want to vomit. Game on. Annalise threw open her bedroom door. The world fell into slow motion as she walked down the hall, head held high. She envisioned the nine-year-old girl making this same trek with shame and tears on her face, blood on her legs. Never again, baby girl.

  She spun around the doorway, into his office, gun drawn, and watched the color drain from his Botox-filled face as he placed the receiver in its cradle.

  “Annalise!” He stepped toward her, his face twisted in shock and horror as he took in the scene. “What the hell? Oh, baby, you’re safe! What are you doing with that gun?” Words spilled from his lips as he tried to make sense of what he was seeing.

  “Dad.” She nearly spit. “Surprised? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  “Of course, baby girl, I’m just so happy to see you. I … I thought they killed you.” He looked at the gun and backed slowly toward his desk “Are you okay? What happened? Put that down, baby, before someone gets hurt.”

  Annalise turned the gun back and forth. “This gun? This belonged to your boy, Robbie. He sends his regards, by the way; says he’ll be seeing you real soon.” She waved the gun around and smiled.

  “Jesus, Annalise, what have they done to you? They’ve brainwashed you. Can’t you see that.” Her father’s ashen face spoke as loudly as his words. He tried moving closer to his desk. “That man is a liar, sweetheart. When we were slow getting the money, he told me that you were dead. Your mother and I have been sick to death.”

  “Hold it right there. Not another step toward that desk. You think I don’t know you have a panic button and a gun back there.” She laughed. “Do you really think I’m that stupid? First of all, your system is completely disabled, and your boy Robbie taped everything. I have you. You’re fucked beyond belief. When Dimitri gets here, your time is up.”

  “Dimitri?” He threw his head back and laughed. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding, Annalise. That man kidnapped you. He’s a piece of shit, just like all the rest of them. Worthless fucking biker, just like his old man. Put down the gun. We’ll get out of here before he gets here,” he demanded, stepping toward her.

  “No. I’m not going anywhere with you, ever again!” Annalise stood, unwavering. “Dimitri isn’t like the rest. He’s not like anyone I’ve ever met. Tell you what’s gonna happen. You’re gonna give me the rest of the money. I know you still have five hundred K here somewhere. That’s what I was worth to you, right?”

  “Son of a bitch.” He stepped toward her, the vein in his forehead throbbing. “You spoiled little bitch. What do you think? You love him?” he mocked. “Fucking pathetic. I’m not giving you shit. You and your little trash boyfriend can go fuck yourselves.”

  He lunged forward, grabbing Annalise by the arm and jerking her up. She fired but the bullet grazed past his head and hit the wall behind him.

  “I’m not going anywhere with you. Not now. Not ever!” she screamed back. Annalise struggled, but he overpowered her and wrenched the gun from her hands.

  Ronald Hale struck so fast Annalise didn’t have time to react. His hand collided with her face, causing s
pit and blood to fly from her mouth and nose. She crumpled and instinctively pulled her hands and arms up to shield her from the next blow. There was always a next blow.

  “You will do exactly what I say. Do you hear me?” he growled and shook his head. “Such a fucking waste. He had one fucking job. You and your little boyfriend had to go and fuck it all up, didn’t you? Does he know the truth about you?” He stood over her, pointing the gun down at her face. “One fucking job,” he muttered, and hit Annalise across the face with the pistol.

  The only color in her face was the fresh blood that ran from the wound. She’d seen that look in his eyes before. Annalise slid backward across the carpet as quickly as she could, blood dripping a trail over the distance between them.

  He laughed and followed her with slow, deliberate steps. “Does your little grease monkey like my sloppy seconds? Do you think he would still care at all for you if he knew? Now, be a good girl and tell Daddy where the tapes are. Right. Fucking. Now.”

  Annalise tried to suck air into her lungs. Ten years of abuse and shame crashed in on her, and her entire body shook violently. She would never escape. No matter how far away she ran, it would always be with her. The prison would forever be in her mind. There was no real escape. “No …” she whispered.

  Hale laughed harder. “You know I’m right, don’t you, princess. No one is ever going to love you. Not really. If he knew the truth about you, he would throw you away like the used rag that you are.” He took a step toward her and she flinched. “That’s right, Daddy is in fucking control, always. Robbie was supposed to finish you the fuck off, and then I could collect the life insurance. But since you fucked that all up, I’ll have to get my due another way. Now, get your ass up and let’s get those tapes.”

  “No.” Her voice was cold. “I told you, I’m not going anywhere with you.” The sound from her lips was feral as her fingers clasp the handle of the Beretta in her waistband. “I’m not the same girl that was taken from that dressing room. That girl died. Hell, you killed her a long time ago. This girl has survived an overdose, captivity, escaped the chains that bound her, and fucking fought back. This girl has learned to live and love, and I’m never fucking going back.”