Page 80 of Jett

I jam the knife in his thigh. His eyes widen, and he roars. I grab the hilt and apply a little pressure. His cry cuts off abruptly with a gurgled sob.

“Well, shit. Now I ain’t got no knife,” I say, looking at my boys, who I know each have one. “And Tank’s gone—taken your little boy with him—so I just lost my best torturer. Guess that means I’m gonna have to get creative.” I walk over to the duffle bag that Tank dropped and rifle through. There are several different knife rolls, rope, wire, pliers, a hand saw, a power drill and a few interesting drill bits, and several other implements of torture I don’t even have names for, but there’s just one that catches my eye. I pull it out. It looks like a vegetable peeler but much larger and with a battery pack like you’d find on a power drill.

I tear open his shirt and turn on the grafter. The buzz is deafening. “Do you know what this is?” I shout over the noise.

Daryl shakes his head, but it wasn’t really a question I expected this braindead, fucking Hitler-lover to answer.

“It’s a skin grafter. It peels back your skin, one layer at a time. I hear it hurts ... a lot. You’ll have to tell me if it’s as good for you as it is for me.”

Daryl shifts in his seat as if he could get away from this, as if he’s capable of going anywhere—with two broken kneecaps and a knife in his leg. I can’t imagine he’s too comfortable right now, but that pain is nothing compared to what’s coming.

I press the grafter to his flesh and the screams are unholy. A thin piece of skin just slides right off the grafter and falls to the floor like deli meat. I pick it up and toy with it, waving the sliver of skin in front of his face. “Fuck, boys. I think I need a cigarette already, and I’m just getting started.”

Trigger chuckles, pulling up a dining chair and straddling it backwards. “I’m gonna need to see that again, Prez.”

I grin at the little shit. “I’d offer you a turn, but I figure there’d be nothing left of him for me when you’re done. So you can just sit and watch.”

“I don’t mind. I like to watch as much as I like to participate.”

“Why does that not fuckin’ surprise me?” I grip the handle of the grafter tighter in my sweaty fist and flick the switch to turn it on again. “Trigger, get the fuck over here and hold his head.”

“Alright, now we’re fucking talkin’.” Trigger was up out of his seat before I could even finish my sentence. I press the grafter to Daryl’s skull and slide it backwards, the way a barber might shave a head with a straight blade. The grafter doesn’t cope as well with hair and it gets jammed before I can peel the top layer of his scalp clean off.

Daryl passes out, and I set the grafter down and slap his face. “Hey, stay with me. I can’t have you blacking out on me. I want you know that she stayed awake through all of it—the murder of our neighbour, the way you tried to rape her, and the murder of our unborn baby. She didn’t get an out, and neither do you.”

***

WHEN I’M EXHAUSTEDand can barely stand on my own anymore, much less torture a man, I pull my knife from his thigh. Daryl clearly doesn’t even have the energy to scream, and while I’m not done yet, my body is physically spent. I bring the knife down in his stomach and lower abdomen—in and out, fast violent jabs, as his body jerks. Then I thrust it into his groin. Blood pours hot and thick over my hands. I’m surprised he has any left. Daryl lurches forward, his head slumping against his chest. I press my gloved fingers to his neck and feel for a pulse. It’s faint, but still there. I lean into his ear and whisper, “Her name was Sophie. My daughter’s name was Sophie, you fuck, and you killed her before she even took her first breath.”

I straighten and turn away, throwing my gloves onto the floor. I glance at Grim. “Get the kerosene.”

He nods and walks outside to the van, returning a few minutes later with two jerry cans of kero. He unscrews the cap of one, and Kick takes the other. Together they douse the entire house, including the bodies of Daryl’s wife and friend. I take the can from Kick and pour it over Daryl’s head. He jolts awake and opens his mouth, but he doesn’t scream. My guess is he can’t, because he has no fight left. “You’re going to burn, motherfucker, and I’m going to stand right outside and watch.”

I turn and head out of the house, followed by my boys. Grim hands me the Molotov cocktail and I light the end of the kerosene-soaked rag and hurl it at the front porch.

Orange flames lick a midnight sky. The house burns, but there’s still a thirst for revenge in my blood, an itch that no amount of torture will scratch because they killed my unborn baby. They broke my old lady.

Ibroke her.

I broke the one good and pure thing in my life. She’s right to blame me. I didn’t take enough precautions. I didn’t ensure the two most important people were taken care of. It was a stupid oversight. I know better. I’m the fucking president of Sydney’s most notorious motorcycle club and my stupidity cost me everything. It cost us everything. And killing these sons of bitches doesn’t fix it—it can’t ever bring her back—but it sure does feel good to watch them burn.

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