Chaos Bound (Sinner's Tribe Motorcycle Club #4)(14)
“Let’s get you tied up nice and secure,” he said to his prisoner. “We don’t want you hurting yourself while Dax is working. Nothing pisses him off more than self-inflicted injuries.” He tightened the ropes as an image of Connie flitted through his mind. She was the only woman he’d lusted after who didn’t fit his usual type. Short, cute, with an elfin face, a blonde pixie cut, and a sassy mouth, the motorcycle shop clerk had caught his interest the first time they met. But just when he’d started thinking things were going well, Sparky, the Sinner road chief, moved in on his territory, and Tank walked away. He wasn’t into playing games. Not that it mattered now. She’d just up and left town one day to join her musician parents on tour without letting either of them know when she’d be back.
“It’s too tight.” Snake still hadn’t figured out that he would be grateful for the ropes when Dax arrived. Dax didn’t like irritating things like hands interfering with his work.
“You haven’t felt pain until you’ve spent five minutes alone in a room with Dax.” He heard the door open behind him, glanced over his shoulder and saw Dax walk in the door, but before he could greet the torturer, Snake snorted laugh.
“You’re wasting your f*cking time.” Snake spat out as blood trickled down his temple. “If you think I’m going to rat on Viper and the Jacks, think again. Nothing that dude behind you can do to me will even come close to what Viper will do if he finds out I talked.”
“You don’t know Dax.”
“I don’t need to know him,” Snake said. “Viper is a master torturer. Hell, he kept your damn Sinner brother alive in our dungeon for three f*cking months so he could make him suffer over and over and over again. You should have heard that Sinner scream, man. You should have heard him beg. Even after he spilled everything about your club, Viper didn’t let up. You know why? ’Cause he’s a f*cking sadist. He enjoys that shit. Gets him off. That’s the difference between a real torturer and the * behind you. And that’s why I’d rather be sitting here than spend a minute alone with Viper after he finds out I failed him.”
Tank’s breath left him in a rush. Three months? The dude had to be lying. T-Rex had been gone three months almost to the day. Gunner and Sparky found his body in the Black Jack dungeon only a week after Viper had taken him. Had they been wrong and Tank was right? Had T-Rex been suffering for three months waiting for his brothers to come for him while the Sinners mourned his death?
Nonononononono. Pain sliced through his gut at the thought of T-Rex waiting for a rescue that never came, holding out hope that Tank would find him. His heart squeezed in his chest, and for a moment he wished it would stop beating, torturing him with each thud that meant he was alive and T-Rex had died alone. The bastard had to be playing him. The alternative was a hell beyond what Tank could bear.
“You didn’t know?” Snake smirked. “You thought he was dead? He wished he was dead. He begged me to kill him more than once.”
A sound escaped Tank’s lips—a roar—pain, rage, frustration, anguish, and grief—accompanied by an almost desperate need for revenge. He lunged toward Snake, reaching for his neck.
“Stop.”
He froze at the sound of Jagger’s commanding voice—the only voice that could have stopped his raging need to avenge his brother. Powerful, formidable, and ruthless, the Sinner president put a hand on Tank’s shoulder, dominating the small room with the force of his presence alone.
“We heard him.” He gestured to Gunner, the Sinner sergeant-at-arms, and Dax beside him.
“By the time I’m done with him, he’ll be begging us to take him to Viper, although we won’t be able to understand because he’ll have no tongue.” Tall, slim, and pale but with a shock of dark hair, Dax placed his black “toy” bag on the table beside the wall, deliberately paying no attention to Snake. He loved the drama of the moment, the slow reveal when he turned his black, soulless eyes on his victim for the very first time.
“Took you long enough to get here.” Tank didn’t understand why Jagger and Gunner had come to the interrogation room. Usually Dax worked alone with the assistance of a few junior patch members of the club.
Gunner reached for the door just as the new prospect, Benson, stumbled in. A former Conundrum deputy sheriff, Benson had asked to pledge to the club after his extra-curricular activities on behalf of the Sinners had brought him to the attention of the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives (ATF). Instead of facing a grueling internal investigation, he had handed in his badge and begged the Sinners for a chance to prove himself worthy of the club and the protection they could offer.
“Christ. What the f*ck is he doing here?” Gunner slammed the door and glared at Dax.
“I need an apprentice, and he’s already shown some promise,” Dax said. “Bruisers like Tank and Gunner are all about brute force and power. I need them for the heavy lifting. Benson understands finesse and the psychology behind what I do. He knows his torture implements. Plus, I’ve planned a nice, long session and we’ll need someone to bring us snacks.” A trained psychiatrist, Dax had become interested in torture and human behavior while writing his PhD thesis in university. His work had brought him to the attention of several covert government organizations, but Dax came from a biker family, and nothing could pull him out of the life. He liked the freedom to experiment, to come and go as he pleased, to have no one to answer to but his brothers and his old lady.