Page 31 of Jett

The bottle of bourbon clutched in my fist is half empty. It was full when Hannah brought it in. I sent everyone out several hours ago to find Mia. To find leads. To find me a fucking Russian I can use as collateral.

They’ve had my wife for two fucking days. Mia has no loyalty, and I have no doubt she’ll give them whatever they want. She isn’t cut out for torture, and she’s sure as fuck angry enough to want to hurt me.

My phone rings and I answer, “What?”

“We got ourselves a prize, Prez,” Trigger says into the receiver. “Send the van.”

“You just make sure he doesn’t go anywhere.”

“Naw, we got him held nice and tight. Haven’t we, Crazy?”

A dark chuckle echoes through the earpiece. “Yeah, he’s real secure, Prez. You better send Tank to pick him up though. I’m not sure either of us can get the knife out of the wall.”

Jesus Christ. It’s like parenting a pack of psychopaths.

***

CRAZY AND TRIGGER’Sbikes careen through what used to be my security gate and come to a stop in front of me. Tank follows closely behind them in the clubhouse van. Trigger is grinning like an idiot as he climbs off his Harley and races to the back of the vehicle to open the doors. You’d never know the arsehole had been shot just four days ago. Tank and Trigger emerge with a beaten and bloody Russian. Not just any Russian, but Ryzhanov’s right-hand man.Poor bastard. He’s in our world now, and the Savage Saints didn’t get our name by asking questions first and torturing later.

I tilt my chin toward the building to our right. “Take him to the cellar.”

Tank nods and Crazy moves ahead of them to open the door to a part of the compound we rarely use. I’ve been in some pretty dire fucking situations in my life. I’ve seen some shit, done shit no man should ever have to, but even I get chills as I cross the threshold of this building and follow my brothers down into the dark.

The stench of mould and copper assaults my nostrils, and when Crazy grabs the chain and the ancient light bulb hums and sparks to life, visions of entrails dance through my head over the old blood stains on the floor. I’ve witnessed countless men brought to their knees by my VP, and, not for the first time since I recruited him for my club, I thank fuck he’s loyal to me and not trying to eviscerate me like the rest of his enemies.

All three of my brothers work to shackle this pitiful fuck to the chains hanging from the ceiling. When they’re done, his head is bowed and his body slumps forward against his restraints. I step forward and slap his face, hard. He moans and rouses, but not enough, so I glance at Tank, who’s rifling through the drawers of his stainless-steel trolley nearby. He produces a small vial of liquid and a huge needle, which he jabs into the seal. Tank draws back on the plunger, filling the shaft with clear fluid before setting down the rest of the adrenaline. “You wanna do the honours, Prez?”

“No, I just wanna beat the shit outta him.”

Tank shrugs. “Suit yourself.” He pulls back his arm and stabs the needle into the Russian’s chest.

The man gasps, his body contorting, his head shooting upright as he screams and bucks against his restraints.

“He’s all yours, Prez.” Tank smiles as he steps back and places the needle on the tray.

“Trakhni tebya! Trakhni tebya! YA sobirayus’ ubit’ tvoyu zhenu i iznasilovat’ tvoikh detey.”

I swing my fist into his face, busting his nose in the process. “I don’t speak Russian, but I don’t like your fuckin’ tone.”

“Fuck you,” the Russian hisses, blood and spittle flying from his mouth.

Tank wheels his trolley closer, and I glance at the shiny metal tools decorating the steel tray on top. “Where is my wife?”

“Yeblya moyego bossa.”

I pick up a scalpel and test the blade with the tip of my finger. Blood pools beneath the steel, and I put my finger in my mouth and suck it clean. The sharp, metallic zing of blood rolls over my taste buds. I lunge at his chest with the blade. Three quick slashes tear through the fabric of his shirt and rent his skin wide open. Blood pours from the wounds, soaking his shirt and body. His face contorts in what looks like agony, but he steels his jaw, rapidly breathing in and out. Stubborn bastard refuses to scream.We’ll see about that.

“I can do this all night, but I’m guessing you won’t last that long. So I’m going to ask you again; where is my wife?”

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