Sicko(38)
I push play when I realize it’s a video.
The man recording walks out from behind the phone, wearing a dark suit, gloves, and a ski mask. My breathing halts when I see the K Diamond emblem glistening on his chain.
Everyone knows who the fuck K Diamond is. He’s notoriously known in the human trafficking sector of underground scum. The name itself came from his symbol. It’s a K and then another K mirrored, creating a diamond where each tip of the letter begins and ends.
“That’s your phone, man,” Gypsy whispers, pointing down at it.
I clench my jaw. What the fuck does he want. We all know how he works. He chooses his tormentors who he knows can afford it, and taunts them with something, or someone, that he knows we will want or need, offering them at a price. If we ignore it, he kills that person—which to be honest, I don’t know who this bitch is in the video, so I couldn’t give a fuck—but then he puts a hit out on your mom, grandmother, fucking sister, aunt. Any other female that you are close to. It’s how he chooses his victims. No one knows why he does what he does, or even how. He hides his identity behind a ski mask and cameras. If you purchase your bait that he sends you, they come with the K Diamond brand burned into their flesh as a reminder. He’s a serial killer, rapist, and fucking all-around gross motherfucker.
His body moves in front of the girl, as she twists and turns her wrists together in the rope binds. A red tie is tied to the back of her head, but other than that, her skin is clean.
She doesn’t seem as dirty as the other girls I have seen through his videos. Her skin is tanned gold, and for once, I’m annoyed that I can’t see the victim’s face. There’s a reason why this man has chosen me, but there’s never been a case where he specifically chose a girl for his victim.
Kneeling in front of her, I watch as his ski mask comes into full view over her frail shoulder. “This one is different.” The voice that comes through is over a recorder. “Are you ready to gamble on a diamond?” Before I can answer, or take in anything that’s in the video for a clue, the video cuts out and I’m looking back at a blank screen.
“How have you managed to fall on his radar?” Gypsy asks, puffing on his joint like his life depends on it.
My fingers are flying over my phone in a rush and when I put it to my ear, Storm’s voice cuts through. “It’s Tuesday, you know I’m busy on Tuesdays. What is it?”
“I need your smart-ass brain.”
I hang up and we move outside of my house, swinging my leg over my bike while shoving on my helmet.
“You going to buy that chick? Play into The Riddler’s game?”
I scoff. “Fuck no. When he sends me her body parts, I’ll preserve them in my freezer.”
Pulling into the clubhouse, I kick out the stand to my bike just as Lion strolls out with a cigar hanging out of his smirking mouth.
“What’s so funny, fucker?”
He removes the cigar, shaking his head. “How’d it go with your visitor?”
My mouth slams closed, just as Bonnie, Lion’s wife, strolls out of the clubhouse. The clubhouse is an old house that was built in the 1950s by one of the original Wolf Pack MC members. The house has been in Lion’s family for generations and generations. The industrial buildings that surround it were built around this house. Four small pillars stand at the front, and a porch that has been stomped on by bloody biker boots way too many times. Aside from that, the chipped paint from the bullet holes and tinted windows hide all the nasty shit that happens inside. Six bedrooms, two lounges, dining room, and an extension of a sunroom off the back porch. It’s everything that older folks loved. Back in the day, it would have been worth a fucking shit ton. Sitting on a couple of acres, the whole property is fenced by metal padding. There’s a garage filled with a bar, pool tables, and cum-filled sofas to one side, and a fighting ring on the other. Typical type shit. At the back of the property, hidden behind the house is a small playground, and behind that, is where we bury past brothers. Headstone after headstone stretches out to the back of the fence line. Kids fucking love it when they’re here, say the place is haunted. Which it is. The MC live and breathes each other, that shit doesn’t stop the day we die. It continues through the soil we party on.
“Not fucking good.” I roll up the sleeves to my shirt, curling them around my elbows.
“Wanna call church?”
I nod my head. “Yeah.”
“What’s this I hear about a pretty girl here a few nights ago on your account?” Bonnie teases, hands on her wide hips. Bonnie is around the same age as Lion, sitting in their mid-fifties. She has long blonde hair, brown, beady eyes, and a whole lot of don’t-fuck-with-me going on.
“She’s my sister, first of all.”
Bonnie’s smile only stretches even farther. “Well, I’d be careful if you’re bringing her around, you know that if you don’t own it, one of these fuckers will.”
I flip her off as we make our way into the house.
Once I’m inside, I follow Lion into the main boardroom of the house, also known as the lounge room, where we hold what we call church. Cliché as fuck, but since there isn’t a hell room equivalent to church, we continue to use it.
I take a seat at Lion’s right side as the rest of the brothers pile in one at a time. My eyes find Wicked straight away, a slight grin playing on my mouth as my finger rubs my upper lip. His jaw is set, his eyes dead. Wicked is exactly as his name perceives him, fucking wicked. He’s who I choose to bring with me if I need anything done, and likewise with him.