01 Runway
Runway
Wednesday, October 1st.
One thousand five hundred and twenty-one days since captivity.
Four years since I’ve been free.
No. Free is the wrong word.
Freedom implies I was no longer a prisoner. Physically, that may be true. But the sad reality was, I feel just as caged as I did back then. Just as much of a hostage, with the walls closing in each night when I close my eyes.
No peace in waking.
No peace in sleep.
Still hostage to the past, to them, no matter if they were four years dead. No matter how many hours I spent with my shrink. No matter how much I begged myself to move on.
A constant chaos whirled in my head. In my chest. The conglomerate of pain fed through my veins like an agitated viper. Ready to burst, to strike out at anything, hoping to alleviate the building pressure.
But no matter how many times I freed it, no matter how many times I thought I could feel relief, the snake would continue to coil in my gut. A stark reminder I’d never be free.
This hell was mine to live, and I would burn in its fire.
The disquieted demon in my head brought me to this crappy Los Angeles motel room littered with roaches and a haze of filth. Definitely not a place I’d ever walk into willingly. The exterior with its cracked parking lot clogged with weeds and the one story, decades-old facade screamed Bates Motel. A derelict, forgotten shithole stretching along the highway on the outskirts.
Perfect place to do what I came to do.
Had to do.
The wraith writhing under my skin needed to be sated.
Or I’d go insane.
Maybe I already was.
Even though we’ve been in autumn for a few weeks, the day has been warm. Enough that I needed to take off my suit coat and roll my sleeves. Pity the only place to drape it was on the back of a cheap office chair I had rolled beside me.
I would have done it anyway, though. It sucked when I got blood on my clothes. I had the suit tailored, customized to fit, and it cost me a fortune. Would be a waste to spoil it.
Not that I didn’t know how to wash the blood out by now. I’d learned that a long time ago.
Wayward Sons had cleaners I could use, too. But then they’d start asking questions I didn’t want to answer.
Because this was my business, not theirs.
Unfinished business.
Which is why I wasn’t wearing my Club cut right now either.
These side jobs weren’t Wayward jobs.
If I got in trouble, no way I’d bring the boys down with me.
This guy had been an easy find. But standing before him hadn’t been at all easy. With each photo I flipped through, witnessing each of his victims over the past three years bearing the same expression I knew all too well. Their features skewed in fear. Or stoic, frozen in that numbness we all became accustomed to, wearing it like a mask, a shield, to protect our spirit from the harsh reality of what was happening.
I could only look at a few before anger squeezed my chest, flowed down my arms, and crushed the photographs before I tossed them at his swollen, bloodied face. Through the tiny slits of his puffed, reddened eyelids, he followed the pictures to the floor before his focus snapped to follow me as I crouched.
This piece of shit didn’t remember me.
Didn’t recognize my face.
Didn’t know my name.
Not like he’d cared to remember it. To him, I was just a plaything. A blip in his twisted life.
I knew him, though. Luckily, Pascal and Raoul Barbieri kept tight books. Recorded anyone who came in and out of their compounds. Anyone who owed them money. Anyone who owed them their soul.
On the down-low, Glock, one of Wayward Sons’ best technocrat hackers, helped me scour the planet to track them down. Because the world needed to be rid of them. These predators, salivating for a cheap thrill, caring for nothing but to get off on someone else’s pain.
Sergei Orlov wouldn’t ever have the opportunity to do this again. He fucked with the wrong man and he would feel that consequence.
“I know you recognize this, Sergei.” I indicated the Saint Andrews cross I’d tied him upside down to with a flippant gloved finger. “Pretty sure you used it before and after you and I met a few years ago.”
Sergei’s battered eyes grew as wide as he could work them. Still held no spark of recognition. Fucker was clueless. Me, a faceless casualty in his catalog of victims.
With renewed effort, he barked indecipherably through the cloth gag stretched tightly between his lips. His rant ended the second I flicked open a blade and waved the knife in front of his face.
I grazed the blade at his cheek, though I didn’t cut it. Sergei Orlov didn’t ever physically cut me.
Pascal didn’t allow blood play with his favorites.
“Do you know, the longer you hang upside down, the more likely you will die of asphyxiation?”
He whimpered.
I grinned.
“The other organs in your body will press on your lungs, making it hard to breathe. Blood will pool, filling in that empty head of yours. You’ll hemorrhage, causing that callous heart to break.”
“After you had your way with me, you left me on that cross. Felt like hours. Could have been just minutes. But there I was, in the dark, wishing I were dead.” I scoffed. “I think by that time, I already was dead. But it’s funny, isn’t it, how the fear of dying wakes up even the most broken of us all?” I smirked at him. “Wouldn’t you agree?”
My wrist flicked, the sharp blade severing the cloth at the side of his face.
Once free of the gag, Sergei had the nerve to open his mouth.
“Do you know who I am, mudak!” He drooled in blood. I’d broken a few of his teeth with that last punch. “My family will—”
“I don’t care,” I dismissed as I stood, trailing the knife up his naked body. “Just like you didn’t care who I was or who my family was. Just had your way with me because someone told you that you could.”
Sergei writhed, trying to avoid the blade, but there was nowhere for him to go. His fight eventually gave way to mumbled Russian whimpers and exasperated breaths.
“If I remember right, all you cared about is how deep you could shove your dick down my throat?” I seethed as I fisted his flaccid cock and hacked it from his body. The sharp knife made for a clean cut.
I dodged the spurt of blood, making sure my pristine white shirt wouldn’t wear any of his filth.
After an exasperated breath, realization caught up with him.
He screamed.
A tight smile spread across my lips.
I hadn’t removed his gag to hear him bitch-talk or scream. Only to feed him his own abuse. Suck his own dick and choke on his sins.
Making quick work, I shoved the dismembered lump of flesh into his mouth, choking off his railing shriek. To keep it there, I grabbed the spool of thick duct tape I had laid in wait at the base of the cross.
Unfortunately, my eye wandered from the task for a quick second, catching a photograph which had landed face up. The boy, maybe fifteen—a little younger than I’d been when my hell started.
I grit my teeth as I ripped some tape free, my jaw clenching tight while I secured it across his lips. It muffled his terror bursting beneath it, but not enough to stifle the throttled gagging noises.
Still too noisy for these paper-thin walls.
Even though I made sure the motel remained empty by buying out the rooms, no way was I going to have the attendant or some good Samaritan, who just so happened to be passing by, save this dickless piece of shit.
This process needed more time.
So I kicked Sergei’s head. Hard enough to shake the cross. Precise enough to knock him senseless and stop the pitiful noises.
I wished I could relish this moment.
Two weeks of tracking, planning, setting up this room had come to a blunt end.
Time to bounce out of here.
I used the shirt I had cut off Sergei to clean my blade before I stowed it again in my pocket. Afterward, I threw the shirt into a metal trash can. After shimming out of the black surgical gloves, I tossed them in there too and lit it up.
Black gloves because I never wanted to see any of these assholes’ blood on my hands.
Guilt had no place in this room. No place on my skin.
None of this was my fault.
Now the villain they made out of me would hunt every last one of them down and finish this nightmare.
I didn’t worry about the smoke detectors going off. This shithole didn’t have any that worked, but I dismantled them anyway. Just in case.
With care, I rolled my sleeves down and buttoned them into place at my wrists as I watched him teeter in and out of consciousness. Sergei had already been upside down for a few hours. He’d likely choke to death before the other effects would ruin him. I didn’t care which way he died.
As long as he died.
I didn’t wait around for that to happen.
After slipping into my jacket, I smoothed out the material. Popped my neck. Sneered at the poor excuse of a man. Then turned away and never looked back. Locked the door behind me.
Didn’t need to watch him take his last breath.
Sergei Orlov was already dead the second he put his hands on me.
As I drove away, heading for the airport to drop off the rental and fly back home to Washington, all I could think about was the next target. The next one on the list. One I hadn’t yet put Glock to task on. For now, the monster was only a shadow in the back of my head. The next name in the little black book I stowed in my safe.
A name I hadn’t looked at yet because I couldn’t.
I needed to compartmentalize each one. Otherwise, I’d drown.
So many names.
Each one resurrected their own individual nightmare.
I couldn’t battle those demons all at once.
Needed to stay organized, hold them all at bay until I cherry-picked the next one.
My eyes jerked to the dashboard console as it lit up, registering a call coming through with the name Isabel filling the screen. My live-in nanny, dubbed with the street name Little Mexico since she was a tiny little thing who immigrated from Puebla, Mexico, three years ago.
At first, she hung around the Mexican bikers, the Pecadoras, a gang Wayward used to have issues with until a few years ago, when the two brotherhoods joined forces and took out the asshole Barbieri Italian mafia sect. Afterward, Little Mexico hooked up with Flick, one of our Enforcers. Didn’t last. But after they broke up, she stayed with Wayward and hung around the clubhouse until Billie recommended her.
Well, was my nanny.
She had the nerve of falling in love with some guy who rolled through Seamark. An architect named Trent Rasmussen, who had been hanging around for the past few years, overseeing some of the new resort developments going up along the coast. Long story short, Little Mexico quit last month so she could run off to the east coast with Trent.
I didn’t blame her.
Although there was a bit of an age-gap going on there, he was a good businessman, a decent guy. He’d give her a good life. Had a lot of money.
I trusted Little Mexico would be safe out there without the Club. Money was power. Protection.
Armor.
Which is why I did everything I could to make it. So nothing would make me feel helpless, weak, ever again.
I checked the time. Fuck, already after two.
I pressed the accelerator. Missing my plane would suck.
“Good afternoon, Little Mexico.”
“Hey, hey, my gorgeous jefe.”
“I’m only your boss for a few more hours.” I chuckled before the worry swirled in my head, making waves in my gut. “Is everything ok? Is Gracie ok?”
Gracie. My little girl. My only care in this world. Me, absolutely wrapped around her little three-year-old pinky. She was my whole heart.
Sure, I had other family. My sister, Billie. Their son, Krischan. Her husband, West and the entire gang of bikers in the Wayward brotherhood he managed as Vice President. Loved and respected every one of them as if they were my blood. They took in my sister when she needed protection. They rescued me. I owed them so much, which is why I joined their Club and worked their books. Made them a hella lot of money, which they needed since Wayward was breaking away from using nefarious methods to make cash and become more upstanding members of society.
Much to their Old Ladies’ delight.
But Gracie rose above them all. My reason for everything. She was my entire life.
I needed to make sure hers was better than mine. Needed to rid the world of more people like Sergei Orlov, so they never found her. Never hurt her.
I’d fucking burn the world down.
“She’s good. I just laid her down for a nap.” Little Mexico rambled, “I just wanted to remind you, my flight is tonight. I have everything in order in the house. A tray of enchiladas in the fridge. All you have to do is put it in the oven. Instructions are taped on top.”
“Thank you for everything.” I said sincerely. “Sorry I won’t be there when you leave. This meeting popped out of nowhere.” Like they always did. “Like we discussed before, Billie will be coming over to relieve you around four to look after Gracie, but if you need more time to prepare for your flight, I can call and have her stop by earlier?”
“No, no. It’s ok. I don’t mind hanging out with Gracie a little longer. I’m going to miss her so much.”
Her sentiment tipped the edges of my mouth into a smile. I already missed the hell outta my daughter, even if I’d only been gone for a few days.
“I’ll miss you too, Runway. It’s been a wonderful experience watching after your Gracie and your home. But I am a bit worried that you don’t have a replacement for me yet. You’ve known about me leaving for a while now.”
“Because no one can replace you,” I retorted. That was partly true.
More like, no one was good enough for Gracie. It was hard enough vetting Little Mexico like I did. Let’s just say, her trial period involved a lot of me sneaking around my own damn house while I should have been working at the clubhouse, spying on them. Or pouring over the hours of nanny cam vids, making sure she did everything I had mapped out in the thirty-page instructional guide I had written up, printed out, and bound in a legit manual, laying out my expectations for Gracie’s caretaker.
There’s nothing wrong with having high standards.
Only the best for my little girl.
“Billie said she’d take Gracie until I find a replacement. Don’t worry about that, Little Mexico. You’ve got other obligations now.” Leaning on my sister grated my spine. I trusted her, but I didn’t want her to feel obligated to take care of me.
Billie had her own demons to deal with. And I’m not at all talking about my nephew, although he could qualify. Krischan Vonn was the embodiment of chaos. Body always moving. Hands always touching. Mouth always yapping. Disorder at its finest.
When he and my other nephew, Dante, got together, that was another level of pandemonium.
“I know you said it’s iffy, but I’ll be leaving a wedding invitation for you on the counter. I’d love to see you and Gracie in Massachusetts in a few weeks.”
“I’ll see if I can swing it. I’ll let you know.” I sighed, feeling the weight of her absence already. The agitation that came with change.
It sucked. I hated change. I needed everything to run smoothly. I needed to control everything, so everything did run smoothly.
But I couldn’t control this. I didn’t control her life or when and how she decided to adult and get married.
“You know you call me if you need anything.”
“Like the debit card you left me worth ten grand for a wedding present?”
I grunted. “Inflation sucks right now. Life on the east coast is spendy.”
“Yeah, yeah.” She snorted. “I think Trent has us covered. But, thank you. I appreciate your gift. And…. you take care, Runway. Maybe… even find someone special, too.”
My hands gripped the steering wheel, jaw clenching. I know she meant well. Was looking out for me. Always did.
But the mere thought of what she suggested curdled my stomach. Because there was just no way. No way in hell that would ever happen. No desire to take that chance.
Breathe, Sam.
Breathe.
Breathe.
I managed to keep my voice pleasant, even as my throat squeezed in on itself. “Take care, Little Mexico.”
With a ragged breath, I punched the button and ended the call.
