Page 8 of Devil’s Torture

I toss the match into the gasoline trailing from the car where the body of the man I was brought in to find and dispose of is waiting to be brunt to an unrecognizable crisp. It’s better this way. I’ll be out of Las Vegas again soon.

These are the jobs I’ve been doing for years—going after the people who need to disappear when the club needs more than just plausible deniability. They need a ghost, someone who was never there and who can be everywhere.

I’ve found a rhythm in this kind of work. When I’ll be bathed in blood. When I’ll be riding hard to get to where I need to go. When I need to stay silent and watch because the entire board hasn’t been revealed yet.

The blood I’ve spilled was necessary. No one knows the filth and evil I’ve purged from this world. Not just the people threatening the club, but the people rotting communities from the inside out.

I have killed pedophiles, abusers, and traffickers who thought they could go home like living a normal life is a vacation from their sins. Even though I’m not sorry for a single life I’ve taken, I can feel the way each one has left a scar on my soul.

It’s harder to see the light now and even harder to remember the man I used to be.

We’re far enough out in the desert that I’m not worried about someone investigating the burning car anytime soon. Which is why I stand next to my bike and watch the flames longer than necessary.

I pull out my phone and dial without really seeing the scene in front of me and call Hazard, the Prez of the Las Vegas chapter of the Devil’s Saints. This was his job.

And now his city has one less monster hiding in the shadows.

“Hazard here,” the man grunts when he answers on the second ring.

He knew the plan. He knew I’d call only to confirm.

“I’m heading out, my business is done here.”

The words are even. I remember the first job I did when my voice shook a little around the edges.

They don’t anymore.

Not after this many years.

“Travel safely.” It’s the only words Hazard says before hanging up.

When I look down at the screen, it turns midnight and a reminder pops up on my phone, not that I need it the moment I see the date.

TEN YEARS IS UP. GO HOME.

My eyes slide closed and I take a deep, slow breath. It’s been ten years. I’ve been all over the country, but I’ve never stepped a foot back inside New Orleans.

It was forbidden, but that wasn’t what stopped me. I knew if I went back then I’d never leave again.

A knot twists in my gut as I think of Bexley. Leaving her ten years ago was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. If Lucifer hadn’t demanded it because of what I did, in the hope of protecting me from any legal backlash, I would have spent the last ten years with my Old Lady.

“She must hate me,” I mutter the words to myself before straddling my bike.

I take one more look at the burning corpse—both the one made of flesh and the one made of metal—and let out a sigh. I’ve been doing these jobs for too long. It’s become easy, as if taking a life is something I’m owed instead of something that should be weighed.

I head east and think about whether I should head home. Or should I stay on the road?

Is it too late for me to go back?

It’s the biggest fear I have. It has burrowed so deeply into my soul that I’m not sure if I’ll be able to overcome it.

Bexley may never forgive me. I already know it. It’s not even like I can blame her.

I left ten years ago. Even though I didn’t look back, because it would have been impossible to look away again, I never forgot. There’s no way I could ever forget my woman, my Bex.

Fuck, I’ve missed her so damn much.

On sleepless nights. When the road was too long and the sun was too bright. Then there were the days that mattered like our anniversary and her birthday.