The distant sound of sirens snaps me from my thoughts. I wipe my nose on the knee of my jeans, realizing that throughout all this madness I’ve been half-naked, too mad with the fight to survive to care. Covering my breasts with my arms, gun still in my hold, I back up into the house and run down the hallway to the bedroom. The sight of Gunter spread out across the room, Easy slumped in the corner, and Taylor’s eyes pleading silently with me as blood runs from his lips shocks me the same as though I was seeing it all for the first time. I did this. I fought back.

Who the hell am I? A fucking warrior fighting for her right to live, is what. I never knew this was inside of me, that I was capable of something so horrific, yet brave. I took on the monsters under my bed, and I won.

I step over Taylor and pull my drawers open to get a clean bra, jeans, and a T-shirt. The sirens are close as I rip the dirty denim from my leg and replace it with a clean pair, clasp the hooks on my bra, and quickly wrench the cotton Slayer shirt over my head. Ironic. Picking up the gun, I dash over to the window and shove the latch open, pausing when it hits me. Tommy.

I dash through the bedroom and up the hall to Tommy’s room. “Tommy,” I whisper hiss. “Wake up. We need to go.” I reach out when I stop at his bedside to shake his shoulder. He doesn’t answer me. I can’t carry his weight—he needs to wake up. “Tommy,” I growl. “Wake up, please.” My voice cracks on the last word.

No. No, no, no.

My hand is shaking out of control as I strip Tommy’s sheet back and place my head to his chest. The sirens are loud outside making it hard to hear, but the lack of movement gives it away. “Oh, Tommy,” I moan. “Why?”

I have no option but to leave him where he is. I press a kiss to his cheek, stroking his jaw before bolting from the room and sprinting toward the window as I hear the first cop car pull up out front. My heart hammers in my chest while I push the window frame out as far as it will go. My feet make a dull thud when I hit the grass below, and I piston my legs to get moving. The sirens wail at me from every angle, the sound ricocheting off the fences that block in our backyard. Shouting carries across the lawn to where I’m climbing the fence frame. There’s one voice clear as day as I drop to the far side—“a fucking massacre.”

Yeah, it was, and it was also a long time coming. As I break into a run, one thought cycles through my head. They all deserved what they got, but I’m not finished yet. One more to go before it’ll be enough.

RIDING DIRTY

Bronx

Callum flicks his feet off the pegs of his Harley at my left, stretching his legs out for a few miles before tucking them back in. The ride between Lincoln and Sioux City is two and a half hours; it’s not quite long enough to warrant a rest stop, but enough that we’re all stiffer than a schoolboy at a strip club.

Early evening commuter traffic slows us down, and we break formation more than once to flank the stationary vehicles at the lights and file through the gaps. Children look on with keen interest as the low thud of engines ricochets off the cars they travel in. Their parents do their utmost best to pretend we don’t exist. It’s a beautiful contrast, highlighting the acceptance of innocence over the jaded preconceptions of the experienced. Kids don’t pass judgment on others due to their appearance, name, or beliefs. It’s how society as a whole should be, but somewhere along the way we get corrupted and swayed to believe in a convenient truth. Some more so than others.

I can’t help but wonder if without Gunter, Tommy would thrive? The kid has a good heart; an understanding of what is morally bankrupt, even among dogs. He clearly likes to feel a part of something, but maybe he could be a part of something better? Like the Fallen Saints? I make a mental note to check in with the kid, ask him what his thoughts on the idea are, and if he’d like to become a prospect for a club that would foster him and push him to excel more than Eddie and Gunter ever would.

Wide main streets give way to narrower suburban lanes as we round the last few corners before Ryan’s place. King slows us down to an idle, cruising along their street cautiously. I catch a glimpse of Ryan’s Camaro in the spill of the streetlights and excitement takes hold. She’s still here. But as we glide to a stop outside the address, it becomes abundantly clear that she’s long gone.

Police tape covers the door, and there are signs a lot of people have walked over the front lawn, judging by the numerous indentations creating shadow on the turf. Mighty dismounts and wanders over to check out the footprints, circling a set before he looks up to the house.

“They removed something heavy. There’s tracks where they’ve crossed what I guess was a gurney over the grass here.”

“Bodies,” King mutters, wandering along the front of the house.

Fire rages across my flesh as I place my helmet on the seat of my bike. Was she one of them? What the fuck went on here? My shoulder catches Vince, shunting him out of the way as I march up to the yellow tape. He calls after me, but I only hear the tail end of King asking him to drop it as I reach out and rip the cordoning down.

“They left not long ago,” Mighty calls out. “This stuff’s real fresh; there’s grass still springing back up over here.”

I try the handle and shake my head at the fact it’s fucking unlocked. A crime scene, and some idiot leaves the motherfucking door unlocked. King’s at my back as I push inside and look over the empty living room before turning right and heading up the hallway. Vince and Callum trail behind us, Vince stopping in one of the doorways as I make a line straight for Gunter’s room. I can see the markers from here: paint spots and circles drawn around holes in the wall.

There’s blood and flecks of skin and what appears to be bone everywhere. I’m seen some fucked up shit in my time, but whatever went down here was carnage. I walk over to the first body markers and case out the size of it.

King hisses from where he’s wandering around the other side of the bed. “If anybody survived this, it would have to have been a fuckin’ miracle.”

I turn and look at him as I point to the markers at my feet. “This one’s too big for her.”

“So is the length of this one,” Callum says pointing to the markers near the bed.

“Somebody was in the corner, though,” I point out, walking over to the last set of marks on weak legs. Please, don’t be her.

“I’d say they took a stiff from the bedroom down the hall,” Vince says, joining our little exploration party.

“Tommy’s room,” I murmur absently as I try to work out what the marks in the corner mean. Poor bastard. “I can’t figure this out.” I tip my head to the side, but it makes no difference.

Mighty comes through the door, gesturing with his thumb back over his shoulder. “House is clear.” He eyes us all crouched around the corner of the bedroom. “What y’all doin’?”

“Tryin’ to work out if it was half a body or a fuckin’ midget,” Callum says.

“Move over.” Mighty squats down, tracing an invisible line with his finger. “They were bent over.”

“How the fuck you know that?” Vince asks.

“Eleven years in homicide.”

Vince’s eyebrows shoot up, echoing my exact thoughts. “You were a cop?” he asks.

Mighty nods.

“Fuck you keep your secrets well,” Vince remarks, jamming his hands in his armpits as he crosses his arms.

“None of you fuckers ever care to ask,” Mighty responds.

The two stare at each other with a mixture of surprise and ‘yeah, that’s right, fucker’. Vince slaps Mighty on the arm and chuckles. “Sneaky bastard.”