“Judas was not forgiven because he never repented the sin,” Saint says, his chin raised in defiance. “When I joined the Outlaws, I was lost. I’d spent years literally wandering the desert with the army. The ATF capitalized on that. But it was only here that I found my family. I stopped reporting in. Stopped giving them information. Never shared the weapons drops. But then Briar was taken, and all I cared about was finding the people who took her. And I knew she’d never see real justice in the current legal system. Abduction charges, sexual assault charges. Shit that goes away with a good lawyer and a clean record. I could only deliver that justice here. So I fixed my reports and evidence as best I could. I’ve quit the ATF.”
It dawns on me that he expects my forgiveness. Well, the fucker’s got another thing coming. “But the ATF have information on us they didn’t have before you joined us, right?”
He nods. “They do.”
There is a rumble of indignant voices. I let the men voice their disdain, even as I think about what he said. The motorcycle club is exactly what he says. A found family for the disenfranchised. For the bold willing to live a life on their terms when they can’t find who they are within the confines of society and the law.
I step away, trying to put some space between us so when the end comes, it won’t feel quite so much like a knife through my own skin. “You must have something pretty big on Cillian for him to come out in your defense.”
Saint doesn’t say anything, but I can guess. He’s tipped him off about something or someone. He’s used his ATF knowledge to give Cillian something so valuable that the head of an Irish crime family is willing to go toe-to-toe with me to secure this man’s safety.
“Iron Outlaws, we have a choice. Kill Saint now. Or do the one thing Jesus couldn’t apparently do and forgive our Judas.”
Niro chuckles. The guy has the maturity of a kindergartener, but he’s the one brother I know will show Saint no mercy. Saint eyes Niro carefully. He’s right to be wary.
“So, now you have to make your choice.” I step back into Saint’s space. I’m in his face, but I’m talking to my men. “Put twenty grand at his feet. After all, Judas betrayed Jesus for gold coins. The money goes to the club for future legal bills as a result of his actions. Or exact a punishment on Saint. Show him what his betrayal means to you.”
Palms slap against the concrete wall. It’s a muted applause.
“At the end, we’ll count. More punishments mean he dies. More cash means he can live, and, if he matches the amount of cash himself, at some point in the future, he can rejoin the club.” I grip his chin, but his gaze holds mine. Yeah, I finally see it. There’s a flicker of fear. It speaks to the need to dominate in me. It feeds the gaping hole in my chest. “Fight back, and the vote counts double.” I turn to the rest of my men, knowing that, even though I’ve fed Saint a sense of hope, they’ll follow my lead by dishing out the pain and death Saint deserves. “Iron Outlaws. Today be ours.”
The men cheer, and I cross my arms, ready for the axe to fall.
Spark takes Saint’s shirt, but then the mood shifts. “Just fucking breathe,” I hear Spark say with something akin to sympathy in his voice. This vote idea was planted by Spark. He suggested cash or punishment, like the old ways, and I was surprised by his intensity. But a quiet inner voice tells me Spark knows something I don’t.
There’s pain in his voice. A pain I don’t like hearing in any of my men. Makes me feel like I’m doing a shit job of taking care of them. My dad, our president until his death a few months ago, always said you need to look out for your men.
Perhaps I’m doing a shit job of that too.
“None of this is your fault,” Saint says to him.
Fuck. I hate this. It feels like an intimate moment between friends and I’m the interloper—not the judge, jury, and executioner.
Niro runs his tongue over his lower lip as he steps up with two huge hooks in sterile packs, and I regain my feet a little when Saint puts two and two together to realize how his punishment is going to start. Spark puts his hands on Saint’s biceps and turns him slightly so Niro has access to Saint’s back, but his eyes never leave Saint’s, as if transferring his strength to the fucker to help him get through this.
When the first hook pierces the skin on Saint’s back, I suck in a breath.
It feels as though the hook is going through my own skin.
He’s a traitor, I remind myself.
Usually dishing out pain doesn’t bother me.
I try to blank out the face of Skylar, the woman who betrayed me, who is now buried in the Pines.
Saint’s head drops forward, just missing Spark’s chest, as Niro places a second hook through his skin.
Niro does his thing, connecting the hooks to the two cables hanging from a winch. The fucker grins when he starts to crank it, but I focus on Saint’s face as he realizes he’s about to be hauled from the ground.
Painfully slowly, Saint goes up onto his toes, hissing as the hooks in his back begin to take his weight. When the tips of his toes brush the floor, Niro stops and moves in front of Saint.
“Judas,” he says.
Bates steps up next. With his love of knives, it’s not surprising he holds one in his hand as he steps up behind Saint. Saint’s entire body tenses as Bates lifts a knife to his skin and scores a line down his back.
Saint hisses but doesn’t cry out.
Blood drips from the end of the blade.
