Rose.
Martini
hopped off the bike and fluffed her hair. She was probably five feet tall, but a
good four feet of that was just bluff. She zipped her jacket higher and stared
at the quiet house.
Kingdom
hadn’t called to ask why I was late with their delivery.
I
knew why.
“Brew.”
Martini pointed to the rickety porch and the swing collapsed against the
rotting floorboards. “Why is the door open?”
Fresh,
single tire tracks imbedded out of the mud along the driveway. Only one. They
rode in, stopped in the mud, then spun out as they left in a hurry.
Martini
read the tracks and came to the same conclusion.
I
pulled my gun.
“Stay
here,” I said. “Don’t move. Don’t make a sound. I’ll be right back.”
She
nodded. I didn’t need to tell her twice to keep the bike warm.
I
eased onto the porch. The scent of death wafted outside, the fresh reek of
ambush and bloodshed. I edged open the door. Only the darkness of a cloudy
autumn morning greeted me. No sound. No TV or laughing, no shuffling or
swearing.
Whatever
happened, happened quick. The coffee table knocked over. One of the fancy kinds
with the glass plate in the middle. The glass shattered, but nothing else was
disturbed.
I
peeled the corner with my bad shoulder first. It screamed as I lifted my arm
and aimed the gun.
I
found what I came for.
The
dining room was once a quaint little set-up. China cabinet built into the wall.
A hand-crafted cherry dining set with matching chairs lined up under a sparkling
chandelier. Perfect for a small family.
Except
five severed heads positioned at the table, hacked from their bodies and rolled
before each place setting. Kingdom’s cuts served as placemats.
A
bullet pierced through each head. I recognized Rivet. His expression registered
only shock. The others didn’t have time to react before they were killed and
desecrated.
Anathema
never sent messages like this, even to the asshole brothers who split to form
The Coup.
This
wasn’t the violence a small crew inflicted. Tough MCs tossed bricks through
windows and dented cars with hammers.
Beheadings
were the markings of a cartel.
It
was a damn good thing Martini slept beside me in a filthy motel. One of the
heads might have been hers.
Her
scream echoed from outside. I sprinted from the house, but she was nowhere near
my bike.
I
swore and circled around back, to the pretty garden fenced in with white-washed
wood protecting orange and gold mums. Martini found the headless bodies,
stripped naked and tossed in the flowers.
She
clawed through her panic and stared at me, her eyes glassy in horror.
Then
she bolted into the woods.
They
were killed.
All
of them. Murdered. Left to rot in a tiny garden.
None
of them had heads.
I
ran, but I couldn’t sprint far enough. Brambles tangled in my legs, and
branches snagged in my hair. Nothing slowed me down, but I couldn’t outrun what
I saw.
And
neither could my stomach.
I fled
until my side cramped and warred with every part of me jarred from the accident.
My collapse wasn’t elegant. Neither was what I heaved from my stomach. But the
sickness was good. Something tangible. A way for me to expel everything
haunting and terrible from my body and mind.
I
stood only to get sick again.
Apparently,
there were a lot of terrible things festering inside me. I doubted I’d
get them all out without clawing at my insides.
The
men were all murdered .
Someone
desecrated their bodies, sliced their heads off, and tossed their remains
haphazardly behind the house for the scavenging animals to eat.
If
we hadn’t got into the accident last night, if Brew hadn’t bought me dinner, if
we hadn’t hidden in the hotel room from Temple...I would have been tossed into
the garden with them.
I
wouldn’t think about that. Not while the murderer might have lurked nearby.
Watching the house.
Waiting
for us to get there.
Waiting
for me.
Christ.
I didn’t know where I was running, but I ran until my lungs
Martini
hopped off the bike and fluffed her hair. She was probably five feet tall, but a
good four feet of that was just bluff. She zipped her jacket higher and stared
at the quiet house.
Kingdom
hadn’t called to ask why I was late with their delivery.
I
knew why.
“Brew.”
Martini pointed to the rickety porch and the swing collapsed against the
rotting floorboards. “Why is the door open?”
Fresh,
single tire tracks imbedded out of the mud along the driveway. Only one. They
rode in, stopped in the mud, then spun out as they left in a hurry.
Martini
read the tracks and came to the same conclusion.
I
pulled my gun.
“Stay
here,” I said. “Don’t move. Don’t make a sound. I’ll be right back.”
She
nodded. I didn’t need to tell her twice to keep the bike warm.
I
eased onto the porch. The scent of death wafted outside, the fresh reek of
ambush and bloodshed. I edged open the door. Only the darkness of a cloudy
autumn morning greeted me. No sound. No TV or laughing, no shuffling or
swearing.
Whatever
happened, happened quick. The coffee table knocked over. One of the fancy kinds
with the glass plate in the middle. The glass shattered, but nothing else was
disturbed.
I
peeled the corner with my bad shoulder first. It screamed as I lifted my arm
and aimed the gun.
I
found what I came for.
The
dining room was once a quaint little set-up. China cabinet built into the wall.
A hand-crafted cherry dining set with matching chairs lined up under a sparkling
chandelier. Perfect for a small family.
Except
five severed heads positioned at the table, hacked from their bodies and rolled
before each place setting. Kingdom’s cuts served as placemats.
A
bullet pierced through each head. I recognized Rivet. His expression registered
only shock. The others didn’t have time to react before they were killed and
desecrated.
Anathema
never sent messages like this, even to the asshole brothers who split to form
The Coup.
This
wasn’t the violence a small crew inflicted. Tough MCs tossed bricks through
windows and dented cars with hammers.
Beheadings
were the markings of a cartel.
It
was a damn good thing Martini slept beside me in a filthy motel. One of the
heads might have been hers.
Her
scream echoed from outside. I sprinted from the house, but she was nowhere near
my bike.
I
swore and circled around back, to the pretty garden fenced in with white-washed
wood protecting orange and gold mums. Martini found the headless bodies,
stripped naked and tossed in the flowers.
She
clawed through her panic and stared at me, her eyes glassy in horror.
Then
she bolted into the woods.
They
were killed.
All
of them. Murdered. Left to rot in a tiny garden.
None
of them had heads.
I
ran, but I couldn’t sprint far enough. Brambles tangled in my legs, and
branches snagged in my hair. Nothing slowed me down, but I couldn’t outrun what
I saw.
And
neither could my stomach.
I fled
until my side cramped and warred with every part of me jarred from the accident.
My collapse wasn’t elegant. Neither was what I heaved from my stomach. But the
sickness was good. Something tangible. A way for me to expel everything
haunting and terrible from my body and mind.
I
stood only to get sick again.
Apparently,
there were a lot of terrible things festering inside me. I doubted I’d
get them all out without clawing at my insides.
The
men were all murdered .
Someone
desecrated their bodies, sliced their heads off, and tossed their remains
haphazardly behind the house for the scavenging animals to eat.
If
we hadn’t got into the accident last night, if Brew hadn’t bought me dinner, if
we hadn’t hidden in the hotel room from Temple...I would have been tossed into
the garden with them.
I
wouldn’t think about that. Not while the murderer might have lurked nearby.
Watching the house.
Waiting
for us to get there.
Waiting
for me.
Christ.
I didn’t know where I was running, but I ran until my lungs
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