Hard Road (The Untouchables MC 4)

Sam wasn’t the killer. He was just a loser.

I rode on, deciding to check in on Smith. It had been a while since he came by the clubhouse. He’d been one of Dante’s thugs back in the day, though I’d never seen him in action. He had a stillness about him that made me wonder. The man had ice water running through his veins.

That didn’t mean he was the killer, but it definitely didn’t mean he wasn’t.

He could have been there the day my brother was murdered, which put him on my list. A list that had started much fucking longer than it should have been but was rapidly dwindling down to a handful.

I wasn’t even sure that any of these sick fucks would even remember killing a kid years ago, let alone who had actually held the knife. There was a good chance I’d never really know what happened. I knew I might be better off not knowing, but over the years, my imagination ran through the gruesome possibilities thousands and thousands of times.

So until the killing stopped, they were all on my TBK list.

To. Be. Killed.

I had to stop them. I didn’t relish the thought of bloodshed in my prior life. Or I hadn’t before. As aggressive as I was playing sports growing up, I’d had to learn to tolerate the crunch of my fist on bone and the gasp of pain as I beat someone to a pulp on the football field or during a wrestling match.

It had taken losing the last person I loved on earth to make me this way. Losing Billy in such a fucked-up way had turned me into someone monstrous. Someone who could enjoy inflicting pain. A sadist, but only with just cause. I hated the bloodlust in me, but there was nothing I could do to burn it away.

It had to be satisfied. It had to be fed. And only the blood and pain of my brother’s killer would come close to satiating it.

But now, at least, the killer and I had something in common.

I took another turn, taking the roundabout way to Smith’s place. I didn’t want to alert him. I needed to catch the motherfucker off guard if and when the time came to take him out. He was on the edge of the industrial part of town, in a shitty old house that looked like it belonged to somebody’s granny. It actually had been his granny’s, from what I’d been told. Not that it was easy to find out anything about the guy.

He was slicker than fucking oil. The man cast no shadow. He was utterly forgettable and dauntingly sinister all at once. The perfect persona for a serial killer, now that I really thought about it.

I caught the shine of headlights on the wet asphalt and slowed down abruptly while checking my rearview. Fuck. Hunter and Vice were on my tail.

I didn’t want them rolling up on Smith. He was quickly becoming my number one. I had no choice but to abort. I took an abrupt turn and headed to the clubhouse. I rolled into the parking lot and ambled inside, all without a backward glance.

I did give them the finger while I did it, though, just for laughs.

I rolled the tequila in my mouth, glaring bleary eyed around the room. It must be a full moon or some shit, because the clubhouse was extra-packed. The crazies were out in full force tonight. Fishtail was drunkenly picking fights with everyone and anyone, getting his ass handed to him each time. Sam was here, and so was Wingnuts. The worst of Dante’s crew was all in the house tonight.

Except for one.

Smith was nowhere to be found.

I didn’t know the exact timing of all the recent murders, but Smith was the only one I couldn’t place for any of them. Once I started thinking about it, I couldn’t stop. All the pieces were falling into place. He didn’t hang out late at night at the clubhouse since Dante died. He came around once in a blue moon, but it was usually just for official club business.

I’d written him off a while ago, but now I was wondering why. The guy was so ice-cold, he barely flinched when someone threw a punch at him. He never started fights. He was always calm.

He always looked like he was fucking planning something.

Like how to carve a human up like a Christmas ham.

Someone stumbled near my table, knocking against it. A tiny bit of my drink spilled. I sighed and stood up, grabbing the guy from the back of the jacket. Then I grabbed his hair and slammed his head onto the table. The rest of my drink spilled, but I didn’t care.

I had my own bottle.

I sat down heavily and poured myself another glass. I didn’t do shots. I didn’t think they were manly. I only drank liquor that I wanted to taste. No cheap shit either.