If she has to ask…
I hang my head, my tears falling like rain. “I think you just did.”
18
HAVOC
Traitor: /'trad?r/ (noun) a person who betrays another, a cause, or any trust.
Now that we’ve established the dictionary definition, here’s how the Unholy defines a traitor.
A dead man.
Sundown is a living corpse whose life can be measured in hours.
Ticktock, motherfucker.
And speaking of time… It’s never sat so heavily on me as it has since I’ve been home. Seven days might as well be seven fucking years. Each minute of every hour has picked at my brain. Pecking at my sanity. Bringing me back to the animal I was before the day I saw Kerri Ward sitting in the Black Bean Cafe with her mocca-choca-latte-whatthefuckever looking as pretty as a summer fucking day.
The difference is, Mayhem seems colder now. Emptier since I’ve come off the mountain. October, normally my favorite month (Halloween and horror movies, a perfect combination), suddenly hits wrong. Beer tastes flat. Food is bland. I can’t sleep for shit. Every sight and sound skids across my nerves. Has me starting fights with everyone in my path.
Two things have become my obsession: killing Sundown and being with Kerri.
The former is why I’m currently punishing my Suzuki CRF450RWE on Sanctum’s motocross track.
The latter is an impossibility.
And that impossibility has me…crankier…than usual. Better I ride off my frustration than become a danger to myself and others.
Guilt is also playing a big part in my self-flagellation.
Instead of driving Kerri to Brighton, I dropped her at my house, then left to meet with Crow at Sanctum. Yeah, I wasn’t putting one goddamn toe in that fucking town. Not even for her. It was a dick move. I shouldn’t have cut out of there like I did, and while Crow and I discussed the Patti situation and we agreed Malice would handle her, regret kicked in. Time started to crawl over me, one cumbersome minute after the other.
Until I felt each mile Kerri traveled away from Mayhem.
Each mile she drove farther away from me.
Then Crow listened to me tell him about the fun times with my dungeon toy, George, and Sundown’s betrayal. The hardest part of the day, though, was breaking the news that Sundown did it for the pathetic price of ten grand.
Enforcers earn more than that for an average job, and Sundownknewhe was next to be made.
What a dumb motherfucker.
And for what? For nothing as far as Crow could find. No gambling problem. No debts owed.
Some people are disloyal pieces of shit no matter how good you are to them.
It took one phone call and less than an hour to discover Sundance didn’t cover his tracks. Like a fucking idiot, he deposited five thousand dollars in his checking account two days before George came sniffing around the Death Star. Guess he thought it would look suspicious if he dumped the full ten grand in there.
What an asshole.
His only income is from the Unholy.
Sundown proves you can’t fix stupid.
He’d be dead already, but…protocol, remember? Meetings had to happen. Upper management and enforcers were brought in. Now, we’re at the final step. A formality to confirm everyone agrees on Sundown’s execution.
Crow isn’t an emotional man, but this… It hit him hard. The Unholy isn’tjusta gang. Nor is it justanygang.
