It Ain't Me, Babe

“Shit, Prez, your reputation preceeds ya!” Viking clapped his hands together, booming out a laugh along with AK.

I jerked my chin, instructing Ky to join me.

Spinning the blade in my hand, I clutched the handle. To get things moving, I pressed the tip to the f**ker’s already bare chest, then I began carving out part one of my signature mark—a torso-long H. I ripped deep enough into the skin to cause nail-biting pain, but not enough to puncture any main organs. Now this shit takes skill.

Getting a damn hard-on from the Nazi’s agonized scream, I stood back admiring my handiwork. AK stepped up behind me and whistled low.

“Prez, now that’s one fine piece of f**kin’ art!”

The Nazi, now delirious with pain, squirmed in the chair. The thick, rough ropes constantly rubbed his wrists, exposing more and more raw skin.

“I ain’t talkin’,” he spat out in a thick Texan accent. “If I do, it’ll only bring me death, either by you or by my crew. Way I see it, I’m dead either way.”

The summer heat was a f**kin’ bitch in this shed and, three hours later, the KKK f**ker’s resilience was starting to crack. Intel gained so far was that the guy who put up the bid for the Hangmen hit was new. He didn’t affiliate with any existing gang, mob, or MC. Some suit. Some rich suit who promised to get their Grand Wizard outta jail—the shitbag was serving twenty after slaying some Jew who’d refused to work his taxes.

Question was, how did some suit know where the f**k we were today? The skinhead needed to tell me who was leaking intel about or within my club.

Ky brought me a towel and I wiped the dripping sweat from my chest, dropping it to the floor. My jeans were covered in the Neo’s spattered blood. They were past saving. Wiping the hair out of my face, I stepped forward, smiling; the guy swallowed hard.

Part two of my signature.

“You heard of a Chelsea smile?” Ky asked the skinhead.

His eyes widened and he nodded slowly, darting his gaze between me and Flame, who was beside me clapping his hands and slapping them on his head in excitement.

The Nazi’s nostrils flared as I approached his chair, spinning the Bowie knife in my fingers. Crouching before him, I signed, One last chance to give up the name of who tried to take us out today, or you’ll be wearing a permanent red smile for the rest of your bastard life. Ky translated.

“I said, I don’t know! But…”

“But what?” Ky hissed.

“But we were told not to stop until you were dead. Take your bitches too.” His Klan eyes met mine. Some f**ker wanted me dead? Nothing new there. But they’d wanted Lois dead, the women dead; no one f**ks with the brothers’ bitches and lives to see another day.

Flame roared and flew forward, digging his nails into the sides of his neck. “Where’s your f**kin’ crew’s base?”

The Nazi shook his head, sweat pouring down his face.

“Tell me or I’ll rip off your c**k and shove it up your ass!”

“An… abandoned… garage… just outside of Airport Boulevard.”

Flame stood, throwing me a smirk. Turning my back, I clicked my neck and swung back around, the knife at the perfect angle to slice my target.

The skinhead screamed. He screamed a whole f**kin’ lot. The chair screeched on concrete and the bastard’s head cracked loudly against the hard surface when the chair tipped over. Flame began banging on the wall, laughing hysterically. He really was one sick motherfucker.

The screaming continued, but Ky stepped forward and shouted, “No use, man. Ain’t nobody gonna hear you out here, you racist f**k!”

He paled. With his head flopping from side to side, he whispered something and I stepped closer.

What? I signed.

Ky voiced my question out loud.

Raising his dazed-to-fuck eyes, his cheeks flapping open, he rasped, “Suit… had something… to do with… Senator Collins.”

My head snapped to meet Ky’s gaze. He left the room, cell pressed to his ear. He’d be calling Tank to gather more intel.

Dropping the knife to the floor, I signaled for Flame to take the reins and left him to do what he did best. Viking and AK stayed to watch the f**ked-up show. I burst outta the door into the warm summer air and breathed deep, only to find Pit next to the shed, ear pressed to the wood. He jumped when he caught my movement. My eyes narrowed.

What you doing out here? I signed.

Pit swallowed and couldn’t meet my eyes. “I… I was t-taking out the trash.” I stared down the prospect and he ran like lightning through the door to the club bar. What the f**k was that all that about?