Page 97 of Scornful

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Geirolf

The neon sign of Murphy's Bar flickers weakly in the rain-soaked night.

Marcus drinks here every Friday like clockwork—a habit that's about to bite him in the ass.

I sit in the van with Tor, Emil, and Oskar, watching the entrance through the downpour.

Kraken's in the driver's seat, his knuckles white on the steering wheel.

"There," Tor murmurs, nodding toward the door.

Marcus stumbles out, fishing in his pocket for keys.

He’s tall, thin, with that distinctive scar on his neck Everly described.

The man who planted a bomb that stole a sixteen-year-old kid's leg.

Kraken’s voice is deadly calm. "Let’s move."

We flood from the van like shadows.

Marcus doesn't even see us coming until Tor's arm wraps around his throat from behind.

A quick struggle, a muffled shout, then he goes limp from the chokehold.

We load him into the van in under thirty seconds.

There aren’t any witnesses, nor do we have any complications, just another drunk disappearing into the night.

Kraken drives while we secure Marcus in the back, Emil sitting beside him.

His eyes flutter open as we pull away from the bar, and panic sets in when he realizes he's surrounded by the Raiders of Valhalla.

"Fuck," he breathes, trying to sit up even though we’ve bound his hands. "Look, whatever this is about?—"

"Shut your fuckin’ mouth," Kraken says from the front seat, not even turning around. "Save your breath. You'll need it for all the screamin’ you’ll do tonight."

The drive to the clubhouse is silent except for Marcus's ragged breathing.

He knows who we are, knows what's coming, and I’m certain he knows the consequences of his actions.

Marcus starts struggling again as we pull into the clubhouse garage.

His eyes go wide when he sees the basement door—everyone in our world knows what happens in the basements of clubs.

"Please," he starts, but Kraken backhands him hard enough to split his lip.

"Save it," Kraken growls. "You'll be beggin' plenty soon enough."

The basement is ready for us.

Heavy chains hang from the reinforced beam in the ceiling.

Fenrir and Runes wait in the shadows, their faces carved from stone.

We string Marcus up quickly, his hands secured above his head, toes barely touching the concrete floor.

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