Spec (Hell's Handlers MC Florida Chapter 2)

As he stared up at the cracked mud ceiling, Scott repeated. “This is not my fault.”

Except, it sure as fuck is.

“I honored my oath and my country.”

Maybe, but I got my best friend tortured and killed.

He repeated the words though he knew they were lies.

“This is not my fault.”

Fuck Deke for always making him say that one twice.

“I did not kill Deke.”

He froze, then raised his head to meet Deke’s pain-filled gaze. His neck screamed at him, but he ignored the searing pain. “That’s not the line, Deke.” It was supposed to be I did not hurt Deke. His empty stomach cramped.

“Say it.” Deke coughed. The sound rattled Scott’s bones. For fuck’s sake, he sounded like he was dying from emphysema. Along with the lacerations, bruises, burns, and blood loss, he probably had a fever. Maybe pneumonia. His life was down to days, maybe hours.

Where the fuck was their rescue?

Scott stared at his friend and saw the acceptance, maybe even peace with his impending death. His soul ached. Only once before had he experienced this brand of emotional pain. A few years ago, Scott’s sister had been kidnapped and brutally raped by a psychopath who now rotted in hell. He’d felt the same helpless rage he experienced then and the same guilt for not being able to save someone he loved. But there was one major difference between the situations. His sister survived. She’d been given a chance to heal—as much as one could from a trauma like that. She had a life with a man who fucking worshiped her. She was happy and thriving.

Deke wouldn’t get that chance.

Scott’s shoulders slumped. How could he deny his friend anything in his dying moments? “I did not kill Deke.” The words tasted bitter on his tongue. They were a goddamn lie.

The door opened, and the same three assholes who’d conducted his ‘interrogation’ strode into the room. The leader, a man with a dark beard and wicked scar on his cheek, smiled.

He always fucking smiled.

Given a chance, he’d be the last one Scott killed after he watched Scott burn his entire compound to the ground. But Scott was too weak to do anything but hang limp as the other two men lifted him under his arms and propped him up.

“What does your government know about our operation?”

He always started with the same question.

“Fuck off.” Scott would’ve spit on him if he’d had even one drop of saliva in his mouth. They hadn’t bothered giving him a drink today.

The sadist drew his knife from a sheath on his belt. Wearing the sinister grin that would haunt Scott’s nightmares, he rotated the blade’s tip against his finger. “Your friend can’t take much more.”

Scott shifted his gaze to Deke. He hadn’t moved an inch.

“What does your government know about our operation?”

The answer danced on the tip of his tongue despite his promises to his country. Despite his training. Despite his internal revulsion at giving these men even one word that could help their cause. Every ounce of honor he possessed fought between trying to save his friend and remaining loyal to his country.

“Don’t,” Deke rasped.

They’d both been at this game long enough to know the harsh reality. Even if he spilled every single detail he’d learned about this particular terrorist cell during hours of intelligence briefings, it wouldn’t spare their lives. These men had no code. No principles. No integrity. Nothing short of a miracle would save Deke now.

So he straightened his shoulders, despite the burning pull of his muscles, and locked out his knees. The joints screamed in pain. After twelve hours of being curled up, his body didn’t want to straighten. But it hadn’t failed him yet. He looked his tormentor straight in the eye. “Fuck. Off.”

The man tsked, then turned to Deke, who lay with his eyes closed. Only the flaring of his nostrils and rapid rise and fall of his chest showed his anxiety.

Scott’s breathing sped up too, and his heart raced, which felt like unfair bullshit. It wasn’t his skin being flayed off his body. What right did he have to feel such dread?

The asshole crouched over Deke’s mangled body. He waved his knife near the skin, choosing where to carve. Acid burned in Scott’s stomach and up his esophagus.

When the tip of the knife pressed into the thin skin of Deke’s forehead, Scott froze. But not Deke. Deke’s body began to tremble, and Scott felt in his soul how much his friend hated showing weakness.

The bastard turned and smiled at Scott before drawing the knife across Deke’s forehead. His friend hissed out his pain as Scott watched, helpless and with an indescribable amount of guilt, while blood oozed from the fresh wound.

“You know how to make this stop. What does your government know about our operation?”

Sweat poured down Deke’s face. He lay panting and twitching occasionally but with no other outward reaction. For fuck’s sake, was he even aware of what was happening?