“Why wouldn’t he? It’s been twenty fucking years and you haven’t done shit!” Rhys spat.
“Watch your mouth, boy.”
“Can’t handle the truth, old man?” Mox sneered, coming to his brother’s defense.
The big red-head gave a disdainful sniff as he rose to his feet. Mox was a half second behind him.
Zeke exploded to his feet, rage rolling off him. He didn’t need to say a word.
Clouds skittered across the moon’s pale face, casting Trinity into inky shadows. Boots thudded heavy and sure as Ty crossed the patio to the garage. He had spent the past couple of hours watching the street for any sign the Lords knew of his presence on their turf. Nothing. It seemed Zeke’s control was slipping a bit. Weaving his way through the dark garage his cocksure smirk wavered as the shadows moved. His blood ran cold.
“Welcome back to Trinity, Tyson,” Reaper whispered, pale eyes glittering with a soulless calm.
The sound of dripping water echoed, thundering in his pounding skull. Streaming tears blurred his vision as the dim light pierced his consciousness with laser intensity. Rolling to hands and knees, pain lanced through every nerve ending. The ground was rough and uneven, cutting into his palms as he tried to push himself up. Hesitant fingers traced the knot on the back of his head, coming away stained and sticky with blood.
He searched his sketchy memory as nausea threatened to overwhelm him. For the second time, that bitch mother of his had stopped answering her phone. She knew he needed money again and mommy hadn’t wanted to cough it up. He had made the trip to Trinity to remind the old biddy that it was still a man’s world.
Welcome to Trinity
. The words danced at the edge of his recollection. They taunted him as he struggled to remember. He heaved the contents of his stomach as the image of a familiar pale, soulless gaze imposed itself on his mind’s eye.
Still shuddering from the intensity of his body’s purging, he raised a shaky hand to wipe at his mouth. A pair of heavy black boots appeared before his face. He couldn’t find the strength to raise his head. A fist wrapped in his hair made the point moot as he was yanked to a kneeling position. His head spun with the suddenness of the movement. The deep rage banked in Zeke’s eyes only made the nausea worse. He was going to die, and it wasn’t going to be easy.
Snippets of memory flashed through his mind and he swallowed hard. The bitch had warned him. In his youthful arrogance, he had believed himself indestructible and the Club eternal. He had laughed when Ginny had claimed an old lady’s mantle of protection, secure his best friend would never fall for a woman’s wiles. He had jeered, confident in the strength of the brotherhood, even as she swore vengeance. He wondered if she laughed now. He searched the faces around him for a glimmer of redemption and found nothing. Each face was familiar, etched into his memories. Once they were brothers, now only strangers.
Anger so palpable its owner shook with it drew his eyes. He recognized the kid from the charity ride. Lank dishwater locks hung in his face, doing little to shield the hatred blazing in his cerulean gaze. It was the way his lips twitched over clenched teeth, and his nostrils flared with the pant of his breath. Zeke had put his stamp on the boy, but Rhys’ righteous anger was eerily reminiscent of his mother. The boy’s eyes wrenched from his, beseeching someone, undoubtedly his father and president over Tyson’s shoulder.
A savage kick to the back of the head drove his face into the cavern floor. The follow up to his ribs lifted his fetal curled body from the ground and robbed him of breath.
“You knew better than to come back to Trinity, Tyson.”
A boot heel glanced off his temple.
“You never were too bright.”
A pointed toe found his kidney. Someone had gone country.
The cavern walls echoed with the grunt of exertion and the thud of boots raining down on him. The mutter of their comments blended to a litany until only random words soaked into his consciousness.
“…mother…”
The deliberate crunch of his fingers.
“…Ol’Lady…”
A strangled scream tore from his throat as a heavy heel crushed his nuts.
“…Miriam…”
A blade sank into his guts, a nasty surprise in the toe of a boot.
Tan work boots, Bowie’s size sixteen.
The blessed allure of blackness beckoned, but rough hands and the icy spring waters pulled him back from the brink.
“Drown the son-of-a-bitch.”
A heavy boot pressed Tyson’s forehead to the pool floor, grinding his face against the worn stone. He clawed at the boot, fingers bloody, broken and weak, the lack of oxygen taking its toll. Colors swirled. The peace offered by the darkness was snatched away time after time.
Tyson coughed, gagging as water cleared his lungs. Weakly, he tried rolling over only to find arms and legs secured. He yanked harder. Turning his head, he squinted through a rapidly swelling eye at the U-shaped metal bolts pounded into the rock. A movement between his thighs diverted his attention.
Zeke squatted, his forearms draped over his muscled thighs. A cigar clamped between pearly teeth twisted his rugged features into a sardonic smirk. The light glinted off the razor sharp switchblade, creating a dancing prism on the abandoned mine’s ceiling. Fear locked Tyson’s muscles. His heart pounded out of control.
“Zeke, PLEASE! No piece of ass is worth this, man. We’re brothers!”
Accepting Bowie’s boot knife, Zeke began to cut the inseam of Ty’s jeans.
“Were,” he corrected. The casual tone of his voice belied the fury in his eyes. “And the ‘piece of ass’ you are referring to is my wife and the mother of our three sons.”
The front of Ty’s pants fell away.
“No! Please, Zeke. I am not like them,” he whimpered, no trace of machismo remaining. He had heard whispers about Zeke, but thought them exaggerated. Now he knew better.
“We grew up together. You know how I feel about rapists, Tyson.”
“I didn’t rape Ginny!” Ty squealed, his voice cracking in panic.
Zeke flipped the big knife, catching it by the blade to hand it back to Bowie. Picking up his switchblade, he tested the edge with his thumb. He gave a soft hiss as the blade sliced deep into the pad and clucked his tongue in Ty’s direction, but the mock sympathy never reached his eyes as he whispered,
“Last week or twenty years ago?”
Tyson’s breath caught at the raw rage in the big man’s voice. He shook his head in panicked confusion.
“What? What’re you talking about, last week?”
“Where did you go when you left the charity ride barbeque, Tyson?”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
Zeke slit the thin cotton of Tyson’s boxers.
“Jesus Christ, Zeke! I don’t know what you’re talking about!”
“It’s a simple question, Tyson. DID YOU BREAK INTO MY FUCKING HOUSE AND RAPE MY WIFE?” Zeke roared.
Tyson’s scream broke, echoing through the caverns as Zeke slit his scrotum. His girlish cries broke the night air for a long time. They would ring in the ears of the men present for years to come.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Zeke stood in the doorway just watching Ginny sleep. It was one of those nights where he couldn’t bring himself to touch her. As tough as she was, as much shit as she had been through in her life, there was still this small part of his wife that was pure and he couldn’t bear the thought of staining her with his sins. Closing the door silently, he headed for the refuge of his den.
The chair’s leather protested as he settled back with a stogie and whiskey. The case files for his partner, restaurant, and wife lay open and discarded on the desk. He’d been over every word so many times he saw the information in his sleep. He scrubbed a hand over his face, weary and sick to his stomach. How could he expect the club to have confidence in him if he couldn’t even protect his family? His mind whirled with faces, motives, and questions. He snorted. It seemed lately it was all questions and no answers. One fact burned in his gut. If Tyson wasn’t responsible for the attack on Ginny that meant the man was still out there.
He straightened at the sound of a bike slowing. It idled in the street for a moment before turning into their drive. The engine shut down, and the back gate squeaked. Zeke grunted and stood when the back door rattled. With recent events, the house was locked up like Fort Knox. Bowie didn’t question the new security measures, brushing past Zeke and straight to the den, where he helped himself to a drink and cigar.
They sat in silence, lost in their thoughts until Bowie turned one of the files, scanning over the details.
“Anything?”
Zeke sighed.
“I’m missing something.”
“I would’ve laid money on Tyson being the rapist, but it’s difficult to doubt the sincerity of a man having his balls removed,” Bowie said wryly.
“No arguments there.”
“The Tarantulas don’t make sense. The restaurant, what happened to Gin, that goes beyond a pissing contest among clubs. We both know guys that will kill you for looking at their ol’ lady. Rape is in a class of its own.”
Zeke nodded in agreement and rolled his shoulders, cracking his neck with a grimace.
“If we had that much heat, the Tarantulas would’ve gone after the clubhouse instead of the restaurant.”
“Does the I.A. rat have the balls for rape?”
“Fuck if I know anymore. I’m beginning to think that Jimmy was the brains of the partnership. My partner, my restaurant, my wife, and I can’t connect the dots. Something just doesn’t fit.”
Bowie grimaced at the defeat in Zeke’s voice. Cracks were starting to show in their president and club. Tension kept ratcheting higher. Secrets were piling on top of secrets. Shaking his head, he sent up a silent prayer of forgiveness. He was getting too damn old for this shit.
“Jimmy Lombardi was going to rat.”
Zeke’s head snapped up, and for a moment neither breathed. When Zeke spoke, his voice was dangerously soft.
“How do you know that?”
“Lombardi set up a meeting with Kramer. The choir boy had an itch for kink his wife wasn’t scratching. He was paying a hooker to play rough. The I.A. rat found out and was using it to squeeze him. Lombardi was just waiting on a deal.”
Zeke leaned back in his chair and swiped a hand over his face. Pain and disbelief warred on his worn features.
“You’re sure?”
Bowie cocked his head to the side and gave him a pointed look.
Of course he was sure. Bowie wouldn’t have taken matters into his own hands if he hadn’t been a hundred percent sure. Rage bubbled up inside him. Betrayal squashed the loss and guilt he had been carrying around since Jimmy’s death. How had he been so fucking blind?
“Why didn’t he talk to me?”
“Why didn’t he tell his wife he wanted to tie her up and spank her? It would’ve saved him a hell of a lot of trouble and money both.”
Zeke snorted, unable to argue with that. His face sobered and his voice was low when he asked the next question.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“You were too close to the situation. The man was like a brother to you. You didn’t want to see it. If you’d acknowledged his weakness, then you would’ve had to do something about it.”
“I’ve been in that situation before.”
Bowie’s silent stare spoke volumes without accusation. His proper handling of the Tyson incident had been a long time in coming.
“When an animal is sick, you put it down. Whether Tyson was responsible for what happened to Ginny a week ago or not, the truth is he was dangerous. He was no different than Ginny’s father.”
Zeke flopped back in his chair and tossed the rest of his whiskey down with a grimace.
“Remind me again why you aren’t the president.”
“Because I have all the diplomacy of a PMSing rhino,” Bowie snorted, polishing off his drink and standing to refill both glasses.
The men drank in silence until Zeke voiced what they were both thinking.
“That rat bastard is looking pretty damn good for the fire and what happened to Gin.”
“I’ll give you that,” Bowie said with a slow nod. “Have you considered Flo?”
Zeke’s face twisted in skepticism, his mouth opening to question his club brother’s sanity. Bowie held up a staying hand.
“Hear me out. The bitch has had her panties in a bunch for you since high school. She’s not shy about hating your wife. Let her get into the sauce, and she will openly rail that Ginny took everything that should’ve been hers. You and I both know hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. With Kramer stirring shit up, it was a perfect opportunity to take a shot while your attention was focused elsewhere. Flo knows the layout of the house and the dog. She could’ve convinced someone to do the deed. It never fails to amaze me what some men will do for pussy.”
Zeke mulled over Bowie’s theory. The Lantern had been Ginny’s pet project. The fire had hurt her the most. Flo had been merciless in her taunts afterward. She had connived to pull Mox away from them after all these years. She had no love for the boy. She had done it to hurt Ginny. Would a woman really set another up to be raped? With the revelation about Mox and things already tense, had she hoped the rape would tear their marriage apart?
He nodded to Bowie and took another swallow of whiskey. Maybe he’d been looking at things wrong all along. He had been trying to force a connection of dots that wasn’t there. What if they weren’t looking for just one perpetrator? The death of his back stabbing ex-partner no longer had to factor into the equation. His lip curled. Kramer must have been fit to be tied when his golden goose turned up a sacrificial lamb. The I.A rat’s heavy handed tactics at Lombardi’s house afterward had been desperation, a Hail Mary hoping something would stick. He rubbed at the growing tension in the back of his neck. One question answered and more added.
“I know it’s a long shot, but you should try to get some sleep. You look like hell.”
“And you’re a raving, fucking beauty,” Zeke said dryly. Stretching weary muscles, he glanced at his empty glass and wondered how long he had been sitting lost in thought.