Page 18 of Lucky
The man beside me smirks, tapping ash out the window as he says something I ignore. A bit too chatty for my liking, and I make a mental note to ride back with Rafi on the return home.
The convoy speeds on, the scent of vengeance thick in the air. It isn’t bitter—it’s sweet, intoxicating. It clings to our skin, seeps into our lungs, and sharpens our focus. Today isn’t about survival. It’s about justice.
And justice? It’s coming fast.
The rumbleof engines fades as the SUVs roll to a stop, forming a tight circle in the middle of an endless expanse of grazing land. The vast, open field stretches as far as the eye can see, oppressive in its emptiness. The land—a quiet investment my brothers and I secured years ago—was always meant as a long-term investment. Tonight, though, it serves a much darker purpose.
Two of the men handle the prisoners. The SUV doors fly open, and the captives spill out, each one dragged into the dirt and hauled to their feet with rough efficiency. Their muffled protests tear through the still air, but the sound falls flat, swallowed by the vast land.
Bound at the wrists and ankles, the prisoners are yanked forward, their shackles jangling like the clinking of old chains. They stumble and falter, only to be shoved upright again by heavy boots and rough hands.
“Move,” growls one of the enforcers, his voice sharp and unforgiving.
The captives are herded toward the back of one the SUVs, their feet dragging through the dirt as they’re forced into a single, trembling line. One by one, a thick, frayed rope is threaded through their shackles, tethering them together like cattle marked for slaughter. The rope stretches taut between them, and their terrified glances dart toward each other as if silently debating whether to fight or surrender.
The captives stand trembling, their breaths ragged and shallow, as they glance around the circle, searching for an escape that doesn’t exist.
I step forward, my polished shoes crunching on the gravel. I adjust the cuffs of my tailored jacket, the gesture calm, almost bored. But my eyes burn with a cold intensity that makes the men flinch.
My voice is quiet, cutting through the murmurs like a blade. “You came into my club, looking for trouble. Well, you’ve found it.”
The first man shakes his head violently, his mouth opening to protest, but the gag between his teeth turns his words into muffled pleas. His eyes beg for mercy, but there’s none to be found here.
I nod to Jayson, who moves with a quiet efficiency, dragging the man to his feet and shoving him toward the car. A length of heavy chain hangs from the SUV’s rear bumper, its links rattling ominously as Jayson attaches it to the man’s bound wrists.
“Don’t forget to smile for the camera,” I say, addressing the gathered men as Jayson takes out his phone. “It sends a clearer message to those who come after you.”
I walk to the driver’s side door, my movements unhurried. I slide into the car, the leather seat creaking under my weight. The engine growls as I rev it, the sound echoing off the walls of the empty lot.
The men’s muffled cries grow louder, more desperate, as the car lurches forward. The chain goes taut, yanking the first man off his feet. He hits the ground hard, the gravel biting into his skin, but the car doesn’t stop. It rolls slowly, until each of the four men falls, like dominoes losing their balance, tethered to death by a length of thick rope.
I start slow, dragging them a few feet before picking up speed. Their bodies bounce and skid along the rough terrain, their muffled screams drowned out by the roar of the engine.
My men watch in silence, their expressions cold and unreadable as I drive the SUV in wide, deliberate circles. The bodies twist and turn until they’re nothing more than a mangled mess, leaving streaks of blood in the dirt. Their clothes are shredded, skin raw and torn, but the car keeps moving.
Around and around I go, the circles growing tighter, the pace more erratic. Each jolt of the car sends the bodies slamming into the ground, the sounds of bones crunching like dry twigs underfoot.
Finally, I slow the car, the engine purring as I bring it to a stop. The chain slackens, and the broken bodies lay motionless in the dirt, lifeless heaps of flesh and blood.
I step out of the car, brushing a speck of dust from my sleeve as I approach the body of the first man. I crouch down, my face inches from his mangled form.
“Let this be a lesson,” I say softly, my words meant more for the camera than for the lifeless corpse at my feet as Jayson zooms in for the best shot. The message is clear, etched into the bloodstained ground where the four men met their end.
If I weren’tin such a rush to get out of here and get on with my day, I’d take the time to box up the bodies and wrap them with a neat little bow. Maybe a few identifying body parts; saw them off and package them before I send them to their rightful owner. Instead, I step to the side and watch with disinterest as I get the men to bury the dead in a shallow grave. I really don’t want to be here any longer than I have to be.
I get Ryder to go over the video, making sure the footage is untraceable. Even my voice is dubbed over so no-one can ever dispute that it was in fact me sending the message. They can try, but they won’t get far. Jacklyn Vicci will know, without a doubt, that it was me. But could she prove it if she had to? Hell, no.
I’ve given Ryder instructions to send the video in a couple of hours. I want to be closer to the city when she receives it; no point being so far away if she decides to unleash her madness on my family. I’ll be waiting for her when-if-she does, but I can’t do that when I’m a two hour drive away.
In a sordid, scandalous kind of way, I look forward to sparring with her. I can’t wait to see how she retaliates to what I’ve done.Ifshe does. It’s not like she’s not to blame. Her men, and all. She’s down four men, so I guess her army is dwindling; would she even be able to fight a war if she had to?
“All set, boss,” Jayson says, as he taps the SUV. We climb in together and he takes the wheel; I didn’t even have to tell him anything for him to know, on instinct, that I would’ve had to kill the driver from earlier if I had to get back into the car with him. It’s ironic how in tune with my needs he is.
“I think I’m going to get rid of this plot,” I tell him, as we drive away from the scene.
Jayson doesn’t say anything. He lets his lazy glance slide my way, before he turns back to the road. He’s a man of not so many words; he measures each and every sentence before he utters it, and I guess that’s a big part of what I like about him. He’s been with us so little time, but already I can see he’s up for promotion.
“Don’t you want to know why?” I ask him.