I do fucking want time with them. I want vengeance for everything their gang has done to my men.
“This changes everything for tomorrow,” I say. “Call everyone in; we’re doing it tonight. And Ransom? I don’t give a fuck if we have to spill a fuckload of blood. These motherfuckers aren’t taking our territory or killing any more of our men. That shit ends now.”
He nods his agreement before leaving me to make the calls he needs to make.
I head into the main area of the warehouse where we store guns and other shit we need to keep away from the clubhouse. Ransom has tied the two Zenith members to cement columns in the middle of the room. They’ve both suffered a beating and are already bruised and bloody from not only that but also the bullets they’ve sustained. They can barely stand thanks to being shot, but Ransom has tied them in such a way that the rope is keeping them vertical. They eye me with hostility as I stalk towards them.
Not slowing as I approach, I punch the guy on the left. I hit him so hard his face almost twists around to face the cement column he’s attached to. When he looks at me again, I land another punch on his face. We keep this up and I land punch after punch on him. It’s therapeutic as fuck, and when this guy’s face is a bloody, swollen mess, I direct my fists to the other guy. By the time I’m ready to take a break, I’m sweaty and smeared in their blood.
“Who ordered the kill?” I demand.
When neither of them answers me, I grab the guy on the left’s hair and yank his head back. “Tell me who the fuck is in charge.”
“Go to hell,” he manages to get out.
I punch him again. A few times. “Tell me!”
The other one grunts in pain and says, “That’s what you cunts don’t get; Zenith is strong because none of us will ever talk. You’ll never know who we work for.”
I work my jaw as I grip his face. Squeezing hard, I say, “You’ll talk to me or I’ll bring someone in who’s trained for this kind of work. I recommend you choose me.”
When neither of them speaks, I leave them to go find Hunt. He’s outside with Ransom. Lifting his chin at me, he says, “You get them to talk?”
“No, I need you in there.”
His shoulders square and determination fills his features. Without another word, he moves into action. This is the kind of shit Hunt lives for.
After he leaves us, Ransom says, “Everyone should be here ready to go within the next forty minutes.” He pauses for a beat. “You sure you wanna spill blood tonight, brother? I’m with you if you are, but it’s unlike you to react in the moment like this.”
He’s right; it is unlike me. However, this decision has been coming for a while. “If we don’t make a stand now, they’ll keep tearing our club apart, so yeah, I’m sure.” I’ve looked ahead at all the possible consequences and the paths we could take to deal with them. I’m confident we have the back up available from other Storm chapters to do this.
We spend twenty minutes going over the plan for tonight before heading back inside to see how Hunt’s going. If the screams coming from the warehouse are anything to go by, he’s on his way to dragging the information from them that we’re after.
Hunt has untied one of the guys from the cement column, placed a hood over his head, tied his hands tightly behind him with a wood board between his arms and his back, and has him squatting. It’s a stress position known to fatigue muscles and cause pain.
The other guy is copping another beating, and by the looks of the tools Hunt has laid out, and the blood coming from the guy’s mouth, he’s lost a few teeth already.
When the guy he’s beating passes out, Hunt turns to the other one, catching sight of Ransom and me as he turns.
“Anything?” I ask, moving closer.
He comes to me. “They’re both sticking to their story that no one knows who they work for in that gang, but this one”—he jerks his thumb at the one he was beating—“just mumbled the name Bourne to me.”
My mind races, trying to recall if that name is familiar. “That name hasn’t come up in any of our research.”