The Fall of V (The Henchmen MC Book 13) Read online

  Innocent and ignorant of the depth of evil ran in our blood.

  Because that was what V was.

  Pure, undiluted evil.

  Not like The Henchmen, or Hailstorm, the Mallicks, Breaker, Shooter, Luce, even my dad before he died. These people lived in a gray area between actual good and bad. People with gritty, questionable jobs, but who were good men and women.

  There was no way a woman could abduct and sell other women out to men who would beat and rape them until they were no longer young and beautiful could be called anything other than a monster, an abomination, a beast straight from hell.

  There was little I could call redeemable about the woman. Maybe only that she instructed her men not to actually rape me. Though she clearly didn't have as much control over them as she thought she did, as they certainly tried a time or two.

  Other than that, well, she had her only daughter kidnapped, beaten, sliced open, starved, and degraded for months. Just to get control over her father's importing business.

  Ferryn was being used much like I had been so long ago.

  Except, in this case, we had no idea why.

  V didn't want the arms trade, so she wasn't looking for Reign to give it up.

  But he had been a big part of how she ended up losing her empire, why she had been thrown into a cell, held captive by the man she had spent her life trying to stay away from - my father.

  She had a lot of years in that space to think. And plot. And seek her escape.

  That idiot Marco Abruzzo had just opened her cage, without stopping to think that she was locked up for a reason, that she was dangerous, that she was uncontrollable.

  As if gunning down my father right in front of my eyes wasn't bad enough.

  No.

  Now was not the time for that.

  That was an old pain, a dull ache that hurt when it rained.

  This was new, raw, gaping, bleeding openly.

  My daughter.

  In a dark place surrounded by men with leering eyes and predatory hands, unsure what was going to happen to her, if this was how her short life was going to end.

  The cold washed over my skin, prickling the flesh with goosebumps, making my stomach turn itself upside down, as I did nothing. Paced.

  I hated feeling useless, having no way to help.

  Reign's men were scouring the areas. Janie and Alex and whatever other computer geniuses there were in town - or even abroad - were scouring cameras for a direction, for a spotting of the car that Vance had pointed out.

  I felt for them too, Vance and Iggy and Heather, who had witnessed another sword swipe of an underground war they should have been nowhere near, that kids, in general, should have been nowhere near.

  It's not like it was in the old days, Janie had agreed once when we were sitting in the makeshift toy room for the kids at Hailstorm for the tenth day in a row, all of us going a little crazy. When wives and kids were all off limits. We're part of the game now. Pawns to be moved around the board on the way to a win.

  I had thought about this more times than I could count over the years whenever there was something going on in Navesink Bank that made guns and knives and hiding out a possibility - that this was no life for a kid, that it was selfish to bring them into it, that it was too dangerous, no matter how strong the urge to be a mother was.

  Not that I regretted it. My kids, they meant the world to me. Ferryn with her fearlessness, her confidence, her sharp mind, Fallon with his quiet intensity that reminded me of Reign, and Finn with his calm, laid-back, kind and sweet nature, a little mini imitation of his Uncle Cash.

  They were the lights of my life, the physical embodiment of Reign and my love for each other.

  I wouldn't trade them for anything - not even all the years of sleepless nights back.

  But it had been wrong to expose them to this life, to this danger.

  They were all at risk, but none so much as Ferryn, whose femaleness could be used against her, who had the potential for her first introduction to the ways of men and women forced upon her in pain and blood and violence.

  And that was my fault.

  I put her at that risk.

  For bringing her into this battle, sure.

  But also for not preparing her for the enemies lying in wait.

  Sure, I had insisted on her self-defense, even when Reign fought me on it, when Lo suggested that maybe she needed a couple days off.

  I made sure she knew how to use her body to defend herself, how to use someone else's body against them.

  I never wanted her to feel as helpless as I once had.

  But that wasn't enough, I could see now.

  Because while Ferryn was a bit of a handful, was always pushing the limits to see if they were there, was maybe firmly planted in a rebellious stage, she was a reasonable young woman.

  Had I sat her down finally and told her, laid it all right there out on the table, all the raw and wet and ugly, all the pain and fear and humiliation, if I had openly shown her my scars instead of rushing to cover them when she might have gotten a look, if I had shown her the brand that I myself tried never to think about - burning flesh a scent I could never fully get out of my nose - she would have understood. The rules. The limitations. The armed guards.

  Why she wasn't allowed to go out with her friends on her birthday like any other normal sixteen-year-old girl.

  She wouldn't have felt the urge to sneak off. Or, even if she did, she would have fought it, known that she wasn't safe enough.

  And, yeah, maybe she would hate us for it, for exposing her to these things that denied her a normal adolescence, that made her a target of ugly deeds by wicked hands.

  She could hate us.

  She could scream and bemoan her fate.

  But at least she would have been safe.

  Home.

  In her bed at night.

  Smart-mouthing us, using that brain of hers like a whip, leaving scars in the wake.

  But here.

  With me.

  Nowhere near V.

  And her men.

  And her evil intentions.

  What was the point in taking Ferryn?

  To fuel another bloody war?

  To what end?

  There was that thing about a reunion, my mind reminded me. She had said something about wanting to see my children and me.

  But why?

  My body stopped its frantic pacing, my forehead pressing into the cool metal wall as I let out a defeated breath.

  Maybe why was the wrong question.

  Maybe there was no why.

  At least not one that made sense.

  Maybe there was just power and insanity.

  Just actions without reasons.

  Just meaningless evil.

  I turned, my back slamming against the wall, sliding down until my ass hit the floor, cold and solid, like I needed the grounding, because I was pretty sure I was sinking.

  It sure felt like I was falling.

  Further and further.

  The night faded into morning before someone looked for me.

  "You need to stop this," Lo demanded, voice steel, forcing me to bend to its will.

  My own was gossamer, weak and hole-filled when my mouth opened. "V has my daughter."

  "And sitting here is doing nothing to help that situation."

  She didn't deny it, I realized.

  That it was V.

  Maybe they knew now, what I had known for the better part of a day.

  "There's nothing I can do. I don't have what you and Janie and..."

  "You have children who are wondering why their sister didn't come home to torment them last night, who didn't get good night wishes. You have a man who is going on thirty hours without sleep, who needs not to have to worry about you on top of it all. So get your ass off the floor, and get to work. You don't get the luxury of falling apart now."

  Lo was a soft friend, an ever-present shoulder, an open ear, an overflowing heart.

  But
this wasn't Lo, my old friend.

  This was Lo, badass leader of Hailstorm telling me to stop believing in my weakness and find and use my strengths.

  Wife.

  Mother.

  The glue that held my family together.

  It wasn't as flashy as computer hacking or bomb-building or head-bashing, but it was every bit as important.

  So I got my ass off that floor.

  I met my boys for a late breakfast.

  I assured them that Ferryn was fine while reminding myself that some lies were kind, were for the greater good.

  I called my husband for an update, putting grit and determination in my voice, even if it was just for show, even if I was nothing but ash and ember inside.

  This was my part to play.

  For now.

  FIVE

  Ferryn

  I think a day passed.

  It was hard to keep track, to count when the pain and exhaustion made my eyelids heavy, blinking closed without permission, making me wake with a start seconds or minutes or hours later. I had no idea.

  The one window, situated over the woman currently racked with chills on the floor, withdrawing from whatever cocktail that had been in her system, was blackened from the outside, not even a hint of sunlight or moonlight to suggest what time of day it was, how much time I had lost already.

  My neck ached from hanging to the side when sleep stubbornly claimed my consciousness. It was a constant sharp twinge when I tried to turn my head. But it paled in comparison to the pain in my head, like my skull had been wrenched open, though I knew from inspecting the spot with weak fingers that it was unlikely. Just bruised and miserable with dried blood caking to the hair around it. My face felt swollen, gums tender, and a back molar wiggly. Wiggly, but not hurting aside from when it pulled against the thin nerve it was still attached by.

  But, all in all, I was okay.

  Okay enough that I needed to stop thinking about it. I needed to focus on other things. I needed to force my numb legs to hold my weight so I could make my way to the communal toilet, maybe see if there was something there I could bash off, hide down my bodice for the next time someone came down.

  No one had.

  And it was both a relief and a source of never-ending tension.

  Because they would come. Eventually. And a part of me just wanted that part to be over with, so I stopped spinning possible scenarios in my head about what might happen when they did.

  And if they did come, who would they come for?

  The girl detoxing, desperate for a cure, willing to do anything for the blissful escape?

  Chris with her haunting stare?

  Or me?

  My stomach twisted at the idea.

  And that was exactly why I needed to stop sitting, waiting for fate to come to me. I needed to take it in my own hands. Even if they were bruised and hard to bend. They were small and injured, but they would work, they could still do damage, they could help me claw, punch, crawl my way out of this if that was what needed to happen.

  "Ugh," I groaned as I forced my knees to the floor, pushing my weight on them, then attempting to rise to my feet, immediately assaulted with the evidence of their disuse - pins and needles, sharp and throbbing and uncomfortable.

  "You should have laid down," a voice called. Scratchy. Chris.

  My head shot over, finding her watching me with those voids she called eyes.

  "I didn't want to be that vulnerable," I admitted, seeing no reason to lie.

  "You think you can fight."

  "I will fight," I shot back immediately, the voices of the women who had raised me strengthening my tone as well as my resolve.

  "It's pointless," she told me, gaze moving from mine, staring off across the room.

  "Fighting for yourself is never pointless," I told her, shaking my head as I forced weight onto my other leg, leaning back against the wall to let it come back to life before I forced it to carry me across the room.

  "There are more of them. And they're big. And they have no hearts in their chests. You can kick, bite, hit, and they will just hold you down harder, laugh at your weakness."

  My heart crushed in my chest, deflated and bruised, and I knew at that moment that no matter what happened, if Aunt Janie detonated a bomb to kill them all, and Aunt Lo came storming down the stairs right now to save us, that it would never be the same. My heart. It would never be what it once had been - not ignorant, but innocent of the ugly in the world. Because here I was, looking at what it could do to a girl. A girl just like me. A girl who probably had a crush on a boy. A girl who had hobbies. A girl who realized when she was taken that she should have told her parents she loved them more, should have tolerated her siblings more.

  "All it would take is one good hit," I insisted, unwilling to let go. Of my fight, my determination, knowing that if I did, all I would have left was defeat, acceptance of my circumstances.

  And I couldn't let that happen.

  I couldn't make myself a victim before I even had something to feel victimized by.

  "They hold your arms down," Chris said, tone as empty as her eyes, her lips barely moving as she spoke. "There's never just one of them, you know? There's always two or three. I guess they get more money that way."

  I closed my eyes tight for a second, willing my eyes not to tear up, not to let those pictures take root in my brain.

  "There's no way to hit them. Even if you did, you still couldn't get away. And then they will make you regret hurting them. Whatever you think you can do to them, they can do worse to you. A lot worse."

  I couldn't help the thoughts then, couldn't stop them from tearing through my brain, making me hate the world for creating monsters, hate society for allowing men to think they could use their bodies as weapons and get away with it, for taking a girl who had likely been just like me, innocent of men, and force them to learn nothing of them but the brutal, the evil.

  "Look at me," I demanded, hearing venom in my voice. It was flooding my mouth, laced with some primal urge to infect, to sink in, to lace the bloodstreams with burning pain. I was alive with desire to do that to these men. For what they did to this girl. Her head turned, chin lifting, eyes settling on my face, seeing but empty. "I am going to get us out of here. No," I went on when she started to scoff. "Look at me. Listen to me. I am not going to die here. Or have that happen to me," I said, waving a hand across the room, "which is just as bad if you ask me."

  "You've never even seen this place. The men with guns in it..."

  "Not yet. But I will see it. I will see it. And I will remember every inch of it. And I will find a way to get a key, to get a weapon. And I will get us out of here."

  "You won't be able to," she said when I was silent again. "Remember every inch. When they're done," she added, swallowing hard. "Especially the first few times," she went on, all but confirming what I had thought about her prior innocence, but instead of pity, all I felt was rage. Burning, flooding my bloodstream with gasoline, and striking a match, it blistered through me. "You'll be too hurt, too sick. You won't remember anything else."

  "I will," I assured her. Prideful, probably, but I refused to accept any other reality. One where I was too traumatized to even think of escape anymore. "I will remember. And maybe I will be in pain, but I will use that. Do you hear me? I will use that to fuel me. And I will get us the hell out of here."

  The tips of her lips twitched slightly at that. Like she maybe found my determination amusing for a moment before grim acceptance replaced it.

  "You'll see," she told me as a creaking sounded overhead.

  Her body stiffened, so much so that I knew that someone wasn't just happening over us for the first time in hours, that someone was coming. She would know far better than me.

  "Ferryn," she said suddenly, shocking me.

  "Yeah?" I asked, hearing hesitance in my own voice, the first time I realized it even could be there, that this situation did have the potential to weaken me somewhat. And nothing ha
d even happened yet.

  "Go somewhere else," she told me, tone desperate, like it was imperative that she tell me. "Go to the ocean or a carnival. Or to your first kiss. Or Christmas. Go anywhere else."

  With that, her mouth closed, and her eyes shuttered, blanked out, letting me know that was what it was. When she went all hollow. She was going to the ocean or the carnival or to her first kiss or her last Christmas.

  Click.

  Slide.

  Click.

  Locks opening.

  My stomach twisted even as my hands went somewhat frantically to the hem of my skirt, yanking it down as far as it would go, as though the measly material would be of any kind of guard against men such as these.

  Stomp, stomp.

  Heavy legs on narrow stairs.

  My throat felt tight, my tonsils seeming to want to get better acquainted.

  My heartbeat didn't speed, but slowed, my breathing following suit, slow and shallow, seeming trapped by some invisible weight of anticipation pressing into my ribs.

  A shuffling to the side dragged my attention away from the lower body descending the stairs, solid legs in dark wash jeans, to the side to find the detoxing woman on her knees, eyes huge, sweat making her hair hang limply around her face. If I wasn't mistaken, there was hope in her eyes.

  Hope of being assaulted.

  Just for a high.

  Trading one pain for another.

  My spit tasted sour at that as the clomping sounded closer, making my head turn back, but slower, like something inside me didn't want me to look, to see the face of a man who wanted to do unspeakable things to me.

  But I wouldn't do it.

  Avoid.

  Pretend.

  Escape.

  My chin lifted as his boots stilled, stopping at the bottom of the steps, gaze immediately going to me.

  It wasn't the man from the night before.

  That was my first realization. His arms were too small, his midsection too pudgy.

  And the lack of a limp said he wasn't the other either.

  This was someone new.

  New meant unknown.

  Not that I knew what to expect from the others either. Cracks to my knuckles. Bashes to the head. Punches to my center. Fists to jaw. Comments about putting their hands on me.