Page 2 of Vandal Unbound

The men who were beating me force me to stand, but they can’t hold me because my feet won’t hold me either, and I end up slightly collapsed against them.

I force my one good eye open. I’ve never seen the man standing in front of me: black suit, polished shoes, and a slick haircut. He looks at me like I’m dirt.

“So, you’re Vandal, yes?”

I scoff at him, blood flowing in my mouth. “Go fuck yourself.”

The smile he gives me is almost pleasant, until he holds out his hand toward his left. Someone puts a long thing into it and?—

The scream rips out before I can stop it. It’s not just having something jammed into my ribs again—it’s the sharp electric crack that tears through me so violently, my entire body locks up like it’s been hit by lightning. Every muscle seizes.

The smell of burning skin hits a second before the current cuts off. I realize the men holding me have dropped me, and I’m now twitching on the asphalt again.

“A cattle prod?” I rasp. “You kinky…fuck.”

One of the men laughs, and it earns him a glare from whoever this sicko is. “Jonathan Paltrow,” he says smoothly. “Where is he?”

The man we used to call Sidekick.

The man we know is dead.

I spit blood onto the man’s shoes, which is obviously the wrong answer as it leads to the cattle prod being jabbed against my neck. I black out for a second, maybe longer. Because when awareness slams back into me, I’m on my side, choking on air while my muscles convulse uncontrollably.

Jesus fucking Christ.

The man crouches close. So close, I should be able to reach for his throat and claw it out with my fingers. Except I’d need to be able to move my arms to do that. My teeth chatter uncontrollably, and it sinks in, the kind of shit I’m in.

Because no one is coming to save me, and I don’t think this guy is here to mess around. I try to force myself to think. What weapons do I have? How can I win against so many?

“Do you know who I am?” the smooth guy asks, as if he’s some kind of long-lost school friend I should remember.

I drag air into my lungs to reply. “Don’t…give a fuck.”

The prod cracks against my shoulder, and tears spring to my eyes instantly. It’s not from fear but because my body can’t seem to handle this kind of agony gracefully.

“I’m Mateo Alvarez. And Jonathan Paltrow stole from me.”

Despite the snowball of dread forming in my gut, I force myself to laugh. “That sounds like a…you problem…not a me…problem.”

One of his men drives a boot into my groin so hard, I swear I see stars, and a broken sound escapes me before I can stop it.

“Where is he?” Alvarez asks. “Because I’m more than happy to take you somewhere so we can continue this all night.”

“I don’t know where he is,” I say, and even I catch the agony in my voice.

“Drag him to his feet,” Alvarez says.

When I left Mom’s, I had a fully functioning skeleton, happily encased inside a sealed sack of skin. Now I feel like all the bones have fallen out of place. There is nothing solid in my frame, and I immediately sag as I try to swallow the yell gurgling at the back of my throat.

Alvarez holds out his hand, and the cattle prod is replaced with a baseball bat.

Swing one, I try to avoid with a fumbled attempt to lie flat on the ground. The tears that threatened earlier silently fall.

I think of my mom, how she’ll never be told what happened to her son. Because these fuckers are gonna make sure there’s no trace of me after this.

I think of Havoc—my best friend and the sergeant at arms for the club—spending the rest of his life trying to find out for both their sakes.

And I think of Knox…wondering what words he’ll say at my funeral when they have to accept I’m gone forever.