When I left the barn this morning just before the sun came up, Ring was firing up the incinerator to dispose of the first idiot. The other five had already been hung by their wrists from the beam above and we started questioning them about their intentions for being on our turf. Other than the grunts and screams from a few strategically placed punches, the idiots had decided they wanted to stay silent. Steel, Hammer, Haze and I had a short chat amongst ourselves and decided to let them hang out for a few hours. If these dumbasses wanted to stay quiet, we would give them peace and quiet . . . for now.
But here’s the thing—quiet is not always a good thing, especially in the dark. I have spent the night alone in this barn a few times, wanting to acclimate myself to every nook and crannyof the space, and the silence can sometimes be the loudest sound you’ve ever heard. Now, I’ve never been hung like an animal prepared for slaughter, but I can’t imagine that it would be fun. So leaving these yahoos to stew in their own misery for the time being, hopefully they will change their way of thinking and give us some answers—before we dispose of them just like we are doing right now to their friend. Maybe, just maybe, knowing that their friend’s body is burning just feet away from them, turning into ash that we will be dumping down the drain afterward, will make them see that the path they have chosen was not the smartest one to journey down.
After showering and changing into an old pair of black jeans, a black long sleeve t-shirt, black hooded sweatshirt, and my old black boots, I get ready to head back to The Pit. I slide my knife into it’s sheath at my lower back, holster my gun, drop my wallet in my back pocket, put on my cut, stick my phone in it’s inner chest pocket, tie my hair up, and head for the door. Dropping a kiss on my son’s head, then giving my Old Lady a kiss long enough to steal her breath, I am ready to kick some Gearhead’s ass.
“Who’s ready to paaaaar-taaay?” Hammer tries to sing but it comes out sounding more like a drowned rat.
As I jump off the porch steps, I land on the snow hardened gravel next to my best friend.
Hammer and I have been attached at the hip since the days we were born. Our dads, who are best friends still to this day, started this club together over thirty years ago. And now thirtysome odd years later, we are running it ourselves. Being officers was in our destinies and I hope that we will pass that same zest for life onto our sons as they grow up.
Krew, Taren, Ace, and Hayes are just a few boys of the third generation in this club, and I can’t wait to see what kind of men they become. I have no doubt they will be kind and thoughtful and respectful people, because they have amazing mothers who will teach them all the good qualities of being a human, but with dads like us, they will also learn the harsh realities of life. It would make me so proud if they all became Rebel Vipers Brothers one day, but even if they don’t, I will still love them and whatever they do.
But I still want them to be prepared of the hard stuff too. Not all people are kind, and if they hurt my boys, I want them to be able to defend themselves and put evil in its place. Strength is not always a weapon, but sometimes it’s your only option. I won’t teach them to kill somebody for the fun of it, but I will show them how to properly maintain a weapon, carry it, and defend those who can’t do it for themselves. I have killed for Krew’s mother and I hope he would do the same for her or his future partner if the situation arose in the future. That is just part of the Rebel Vipers way.
“I don’t know if what we’re about to do is a party, Brother,” I hold up my arm to fist bump Hammer, “but I have no doubt it will be fun.”
“Ha!” he laughs. “You got that right.”
“Ring called just as I was gettin’ out of the shower.” We climb up in my truck to drive the mile around the property to get to the barn. “The body in the incinerator is done and cooled. So by the time we get out there, he’ll have the ashes swept up and in a bucket.”
“Maybe watching us dump their buddy down the drain will get the others start talkin’.”
“From your lips to their ears.”
I turn left out the compound’s gate, then take another left onto the road that runs along the west side of our property line. A mile down I make another left, go through another gate to get back on the compound, then drive down a path canopied by pines and maple trees taller than most two-story houses. The path is bumpy as hell, and will definitely need to be regraded this spring when the snow is all melted, but I hold the steering wheel tight in both hands and get us back to the barn in one piece. My truck is going to need to be washed after this—thank the heavens for Prospects.
It has been about twelve hours since we hung the five Gearheads in the barn and left them with nothing but time to think. There has been a rotation of Brothers to check on them every few hours, more to see if any of the idiots decided they wanted to talk, but they all reported in that no one has said a word.
I would love nothing more than to leave them all their hanging until they die, but we don’t have that much spare time. All of us have lives and families and jobs, and none of us want to be out here in the middle of winter for longer than is necessary, so I decided that enough was enough . . . it is time for torture.
When we park and I shut off the truck, there are four more trucks and eight of our Brothers waiting for us. Haze and Smoke both requested to be here because they want retribution for Raven being scared. The rest are a mix of other members who just so happened to have a little free time to join in on the fun.
With a strong wind whipping through the trees, we slide the barn doors shut behind us and bask in the warmth that the incinerator has filled the space with. It’s downright fucking toasty in here.
In preparation for any messes we might make, myself and all my Brothers remove our cuts and hang them on hooks just to theright of the doors. A box of black nitrile gloves is passed around and we all snap a pair on. We also remove any wedding rings, watches, leather wristbands, bracelets, or any other important items we don’t want getting messy or that have the potential to carry away any evidence.
“Alright dumbasses, who’s ready to start talkin’ first?” Feet spread shoulder width apart, and arms crossed over my chest, I take a good look at the five men hanging in my barn.
Drake, their leader, if you want to call him that, is all the way to my left. With his arms straight up above his head, and the toes of his boots just scrapping the plastic sheet that’s covering the concrete floor below them, he is not looking very good. His face is pale white, his shirt is plastered to his chest and soaking wet with sweat, and there is a very dark spot in the crotch area of his jeans. It seems he would rather hang there and piss himself than talk to us. He really isn’t a smart one, is he? He could’ve talked hours ago, already been put out of his misery, and not had to stay in his own filth this long.
Jason and Josh are next. Both look pale as well, but not as ghost-like as their friend. They also have pissed themselves.
Quinn, the one who had his knee obliterated, is next. He is the most awake and alert. His face is beat red, his breathing is labored, and he is staring straight ahead, eyes locked on Tiny.
Tiny on the other hand is smiling right back, taunting him in a way. He is leaning back against the wall, arms crossed, looking like he’s happier than a pig in a pile of shit.
And last is Harry, the one who got shot in the shoulder by Steel. The amount of blood covering his entire left side and pooling under his feet would be a bit concerning if he cared that he lived or not, but we obviously don’t. His head is down, chin tucked to his chest, and he doesn’t seem to be moving.
“Doc, check his pulse, will ya?”
Doc lifts his nitrile glove covered hand to Harry’s neck. He shakes his head as he steps back. “He’s gone.”
“God damn mother fuckin’ pieces of shit!” I guess the vow of silence is done. Once Drake starts cussing up a storm, he doesn’t seem to know when to stop talking. “You not only shot my brother, you let my homie hang and bleed out. Fuck you, guys. Imma get down from here and kill all you motherfuckers. Every damn last one of you.”
I walk over and stop about five feet in front of him. “I’d like to see you try.”
“Loosen these chains and I will.”
