Blowing out smoke and tossing his cigarette into the puddle of blood, Easton unholstered his gun and shot the trussed motherfucker, once in each cheek, once in the chin, once between the eyes, and once in the temple. “I guess not,” he said calmly.
Tío glared at him. “Motherfucker.”
Easton indicated the room at large, where eight dead fuckheads hung. Blood, intestines, shit, piss, and just general fucking gore coated the floor, ceiling, and walls. “You’ve triedfourfucking times, asshole. They fucking die of blood loss and shock since you want to make such a goddamn production of removing their intestines.”
“William Wallace lived, so I must not do it right.”
“First? That was a goddamn movie.”
“And reality was so much gorier, all of which he survived. He had his intestines burned in front of him. He didn’t die until they carved out his heart.”
“Maybe, it’s because you shoot the motherfuckers first?” Easton suggested.
“Wallace was hung. He was almost fucking dead but hestilllived long enough to suffer.”
The glee in Tío’s voice didn’t comfort Easton, but he pretended ignorance. “Obviously, a fate you feel he deserves.”
“Don’t care one way or the other. Dude’s been dead for centuries. I watch for execution pointers.”
Just as Easton suspected. However, Tio didn’t study it hard enough if he had yet to realize there was a difference between beingshotand beinghung.
“Rewatch it then. Maybe you’ll figure out what you need to change. Speaking of…” Easton indicated himself. “I need to get the fuck out of these clothes.”
Before the little prick tried to exert his authority, he turned and hurried up the stairs that led to the basement—now known as the execution chamber. Long ago, when Big Joe Foy owned the house, he used the secret room to store cash and drugs.
Easton walked into the bedroom, considering shutting the panel and locking Tío in. Fortunately for Tío, Easton wasn’t interested in kicking off bullshit tonight. His mind dwelled in places it shouldn’t have. Mainly with the Death Dwellers.
Scratching the stubble on his jaw, Easton sighed and glanced around. If not for the secret panel that led to the secret chamber, he might’ve chosen this bedroom for himself instead of leaving it as a guestroom. He liked the hunter green, camel, and cornflower blue color scheme. So peaceful at a glance, though rumor had it the room held a dark past. SupposedlyJohnnie’s sister-in-law hung herself from a ceiling fan. Prior to Bash buying it from the previous owner, the house of horrors belonged to Meggie, handed to her at some point by that Big Joe. Exactly the reason Bash paid for a mansion and received a middle class home.
Pushing aside thoughts of Bash’s impatience and what that meant, Easton walked into the hallway. Rory’s plea for Easton to help Molly ran through his mind. He wished he’d never met the little motherfucker at the creek. The heartfelt request plagued Easton at the most inopportune times.
He hadn’t made a decision, but he’d have to, and soon. Molly was fast reaching the end of her usefulness.
Shoving that problem aside too, he thought of his brother, still downstairs. He should’ve hauled Tío’s bloodthirsty ass out of that fucking room. Easton could only imagine Tío’s desecration to the bodies of the dead men whose only crime was an acquaintance with Outlaw.
Sighing, he stopped at the staircase and glanced down. Classic L-shaped design with metal railings and painted risers. Like the rest of the house, the arresting color scheme was meant as a soothing reprieve from the outside world.
He glanced in the direction he’d come, studying the tiled hallway and Swiss Coffee color on the walls. Simple track lights hung end-to-end, from one window to the other. He, Tío and any guests shared the bathroom. The hallway closet contained bed linens and extra towels.
The door to the master suite suddenly opened, drawing Easton’s attention to his right. Aunt Celia walked out and smile when her gaze fell on him.
The Caldwells had exceedingly good genes. Though she was in her early fifties, she was still a gorgeous woman, tall like her brothers, with black hair just beginning to gray and bright greeneyes. Eyes that swept over his bloodied person—hands, face, clothes.
“More?”
Easton nodded. “Just like he’s set us up here, he wants to force the Scorched Devils to patch over. Two of the motherfuckers betrayed him by promising intel never delivered.”
“What is wrong with that fucking asshole?” She threw her hands up in frustration, a frown marring her otherwise smooth brow. “If he kills them all, he won’t have anyone to patch over.”
He wholeheartedly agreed. “I’m leaving for Salt Lake City in a few days, Auntie. I’ll give Bash your message.”
She rushed to him but held herself back. It dawned on him that she wore T-shirt, jeans, and boots, surprising Easton. Generally, she stuck close to the house. When she went anywhere, she always gave him a head’s up. Now, it was almost nine at night. He hoped wherever she had to go wouldn’t take long. He wanted to visit the club and fuck Nyx. He’d wanted to go to her initiation but Johnnie decided that was a step too far.
“My brother is a good man.” Aunt Celia’s voice drew Easton’s attention to her debatable words. Bash wasn’t only bad. That didn’t mean he was good. “Unfortunately, he has a cold streak, just like Cee Cee. Tell him…tell him he’s killing innocent men for no good reason. I didn’t pack up my shit and leave Virginia to come to a fucking house of horrors, Easton.”
Easton stopped himself from grabbing her hand to offer comfort. “I know, Aunt Celia. You came to be close to your niece and to help Bash achieve his goal.”
“And to help him beat his drug addiction. You think I don’t know that’s why he’s become such an unreasonable mad man?”
