Deep Redemption (Hades Hangmen Book 4) (2 page)

Cain

Five years ago . . .

Hades’ soulless black eyes stared down at me. My hands were tucked into the pockets of my jeans as I studied the mural before me—a huge painting of Satan on the Hangmen MC’s clubhouse wall. His grinning face smirked at me as I waited for one of the brothers to come and get me. The brother’s name was Smiler. He was older than me, but not by much. I had met him at an ex-forces biker bar just outside of Austin.

My uncle’s plan had worked like a charm. Smiler and I had talked. I’d mentioned serving as a marine and I’d gained his favor. Now he was introducing me to the precious motorcycle club that he loved more than anything.

But it was all lies. I had never been a marine. I didn’t even know what one was until last year. It was just the perfect cover, a perfect way in.

As I waited for Smiler, I cast a look around the yard. My eyes flared at what I saw. Women, dressed with the sole intent of seduction, hung around the compound in small, fragmented groups. Some were brushing their sinful bodies against the men. All were intoxicated with alcohol and I didn’t know what else. The men were loud, raucous, savage. Most tossed back their drink of choice while groping the women in intimate, forbidden places.

My stomach lurched when I saw one of the men throw a woman wearing a tiny red garment against his chest and push her down to the ground to face his crotch. My face burned, flaming with rage, as he undid his zipper and pulled out his hardness for everyone to see. Gripping the back of her hair, he forced her lips open and made her take him in her mouth.

The woman didn’t resist . . . in fact, she moaned, as her friend dropped to the floor to join her. I was frozen on the spot as I watched the depraved, sickening act. My hands shook at the immoral lives these men and women lived.

This was a cesspool of sin. A place worthy of the devil they wore proudly on their patches.

“You like what you see?” My head snapped back toward the clubhouse door. Smiler was standing in the doorway, staring at me with amusement in his eyes.

I forced myself to play the role I had spent the past year preparing for. “It’s different, that’s for sure.”

“You ain’t seen nothin’ yet,” Smiler said dryly and waved me through the door.

I entered what looked like a bar. I could barely take everything in. Loud rock music filled every inch of the smoky air. Men of all ages—clearly members of the Hangmen—were littered around the room. Some were with women, conducting salacious acts like the one I’d seen outside. Some were sitting around tables drinking, some were shooting pool.

I hadn’t realized I’d stopped, glaring at the vile, impure scene before me, until Smiler waved his hand in front of my face. I blinked, focusing back on him, and ran my hand down my face. “What?” I asked, unsure if I’d missed anything he’d said.

Smiler shook his head. “Don’t worry, man. You get used to it in time.”

I flicked my chin and smiled at him. As he led me toward a door at the back of the room, I schooled my features and focused on keeping my cool. A loud whistle came from behind me. I looked around and saw a naked woman dancing on the bar—a temptress. My top lip turned up in disgust as she shook her hips. A giant, redheaded man walked up behind her, gripping onto her thighs. “Crouch down, sugar-tits! I want a taste of that drippin’ sweet cunt!”

I stood rooted in place as she did as he said. The man leaned forward and buried his head between her thighs. The men around him hollered and cheered.

All I felt was disgust.

I wanted to turn round, leave this veritable hell on earth and go back to The Pasture. I wanted to go back to my studies, our scriptures and our sacred books. I wanted to go back to my brother. He would never believe the level of depravity I was seeing.

The sound of Smiler knocking on a door broke through my thoughts.

Someone called for him to enter, and he pointed forward. I followed him, knowing that this moment was it. In that room was the man who would decide if I would be taken on as the newest Hangmen prospect. The man that ran this sinful club . . . the man I had to impress, whose trust I had to earn.

The infamous president of the Hangmen MC.

Shade Nash.

My heart beat like a drum. “Rider!” Smiler called. “Get in here!”

I tightened my hands into fists to stop them shaking. I took a deep breath and sent up a prayer to the Lord.
Please give me the strength I will need for this mission. Please give me the courage to see this deed through.

I entered the room. Smiler stood near a large wooden table. Four other men sat around that table. Well, two men—the other two looked not much older than me.

The two younger Hangmen stared at me as I moved to stand beside Smiler. One was dark-haired with assessing hazel eyes. The other had long blond hair and a bright blue gaze.

“So this is him?” The gruff voice came from the mountain of a man who sat at the head seat. With his dark hair and hazel eyes, he looked just like the younger man to his right.

“Shade, this is Rider, the guy I was tellin’ you ‘bout.” Shade ran his hard eyes over me.

“You ride?” he asked, his voice sounding almost bored. It was deep and graveled, and suited how he looked—dark and menacing.

“Yes, sir,” I replied, “a chopper.”

“Sir? What the fuck? Where the hell are you from?” the younger blond man said, smirking.

“He’s an ex-marine,” Smiler said in my defense.

“A little young to be a marine, ain’t ya?” Shade asked.

I shrugged. “My folks let me sign up at seventeen.”

“And why’d you get out?”

“Kinda personal. A lot of shit happened over there.” I made sure my voice sounded cracked, sad.

Shade nodded his head. “Say no more, kid. A lotta guys that have walked through these doors have felt the same
fuckin’
thing. From ‘Nam to Whateverthefuckistan. One good thing ‘bout this MC—no one will give you shit for the things you’ve done or seen.”

The older blond man beside Shade slammed his foot into the younger blond man’s leg. “So shut the fuck up with your wisecracks, Ky, before I cut out your smart tongue. This kid’s already served his country. All you’ve done is beer pong and pussy.” The younger blond—Ky—sat back on his seat, scowling.

The younger dark guy turned to Ky, lifted his hands and made a series of rapid movements with them. Ky nodded his head as though he was answering a question . . .

He had spoken to Ky in sign language.

“Don’t mind these two dumbfucks,” said Shade. “One’s so obsessed with pussy and jerkin’ off that he’s got no
fuckin
’ brain cells left in his head. And this one’s a fuckin’ mute who don’t say shit to no one but his little pissant friend here.”

Shade pointed to the man beside him. “This one’s Arch, my VP and Ky’s old man. This”—he pointed to the silent young man—“is my boy, Styx. The future of this fuckin’ club—Hades help us all.”

I nodded my head at them all then faced the prez once again. His eyes narrowed. “You got family?”

I shook my head. “Not no more.”

“How old are ya?”

“Nineteen.”

“You know your way ‘round a bike? Can fix them up and shit?”

“Can fix people better.”

“You a doc or some shit?” Arch asked.

“Was a medic. My old man was a doctor. He taught me some things before he passed. Marines taught me everything else,” I replied, the deception rolling off my tongue like butter.

Shade lifted an eyebrow. “You vouchin’ for him?” he said to Smiler.

Smiler shrugged. “Don’t know him much outside of Smitty’s bar, but I’ve seen him ride. He’s good. Real fuckin’ good. And I ain’t all that good at patchin’ the brothers up like I’ve been havin’ to lately. With the Mexican situation heatin’ up, I thought he might come in handy.”

Shade took in a long breath, then slammed his hand down on the table. Meeting my eyes, he said, “You got a shot, kid. If you make it past a few weeks and you ain’t fucked up too much, we’ll vote on you bein’ a prospect.”

Relief and delight like nothing I’d ever felt before raced through me. I’d passed the first test. “Thank you, sir,” I replied.

Shade laughed in my face. “And cut with the ‘sir’ shit. I ain’t ever earned a title like that and sure as fuck won’t anytime soon. Smiler, throw the kid behind the bar. If the fucker can survive Vike and Bull’s shit all night, give him a room. You’re in charge of seein’ that he doesn’t piss anyone off. Ain’t in the mood for shifting a stiff tonight.”

“Right, Prez,” Smiler said and led me from the room and to the bar. He handed me a bottle of liquor and some shot glasses. He pointed to the group of men that had been watching the naked woman dance. They were now drinking tequila straight from her mouth and licking salt off her thighs and breasts. “You keep them supplied with Patrón and do whatever the fuck they say. Right?”

I nodded. Smiler slapped his hand on my back, then walked away and joined some men at the far end of the bar.

As I poured the liquor for the already intoxicated men, I was filled with a sense of purpose. I was here. I’d made it into the den of evil and unworthy men. God had brought me to this place to do His will. So I would gain the favor of those in charge and become as valuable to them as I could . . .

 . . . then I would tear them apart. Destroy everything they held dear. And when the time was right, I would bring Prophet David’s wrath down upon them all . . . until there was nothing left of this club.

The sinners dead.

Forgotten.

And burning in the great red fires of hell.

Cain

Present day . . .

I stared straight ahead through swollen eyes as another drop of water fell to the floor. The air was sticky; the Texan humidity was climbing to its peak. My cell darkened to almost pitch black as yet another storm rolled in. Thunder growled in the distance, moving ever closer to New Zion.

Many minutes passed, until the edge of the lightning storm began to sporadically light up the dark room. The rain turned from a light drizzle to a torrential downpour as it hammered on my cell roof. The gentle drops that had been falling through the small cracks in the stone ceiling became an angry stream that crashed onto the floor.

I moved my leg, wincing as my muscles protested. I tried to do the same with my arm. I huffed out in frustration when my entire body burned with pain.

I squinted up at the wall behind me, my temples throbbing. My vision swam in blurred lines, balancing on the ever-present edge of unconsciousness.

I made myself focus. I counted the tallies I’d managed to scrape onto the wall with the sharpened edge of a stone. Thirty-five.
Thirty-five . . . thirty-five . . .
I had been in this cell for thirty-five days. Had suffered daily exorcisms and beatings by the new disciple guards . . .

“Repent! Repent and bow down to the prophet!” Brother James screamed as I hung from the chains in the ceiling.

“No,” I rasped. Searing agony sliced over my back as the leather belt slashed yet another stripe across my already broken skin.

“Repent! Repent and declare your loyalty to your prophet!”

My eyes closed as streams of fresh blood ran down my back, over my dangling legs, splashing to the floor at my feet.

My jaw clenched. I closed my eyes, praying for absolution. Praying to be taken from this pain . . . this damned constant pain . . .

“Do you repent?” Brother Michael asked. My heart beat once, twice, three times as his question ran through my brain.

“Just repent and this will all end. Repent and all the pain will stop. Repent and join your brother in leading the people to heaven. Repent and never look at the inside of your cell again.”

My breathing hitched as the temptation to submit to Judah’s demands tried to push its way to my lips. The words ‘I repent’ hung on the tip of my tongue. My broken body wanted to speak them, just for a reprieve . . . But then my soul steeled as I thought of the Lord’s Sharing I had witnessed . . . the pain . . . the fear . . . the acts of pedophilic sin being done in
my
name . . .

I blew out the rest of the breath I was holding and felt my chest lighten. “No . . . I will not repent . . . I will never repent . . . ”

I kept my eyes closed. I kept them tightly shut as a hard fist slammed into my ribs, ripping a strangled bellow from my raw throat. But I didn’t care. I would not bow down to my brother.

I couldn’t . . . I just . . . couldn’t . . .

My eyes swam again and I shook my throbbing head, trying to hold on to consciousness. I was sick of waking disoriented and alone in darkness. I was done with the aching bones, broken skin and vomiting. I was done with listening to my brother preach his hysterical doomsday sermons through the speakers around the commune.

My fingernails scraped against the stone floor as I tried to make myself stand. I willed my legs to function, but they wouldn’t. I tried again, managing to crawl onto my knees. But my weak muscles collapsed, unable to hold my weight, and I landed on my back with a thud. The air was knocked from my lungs as my spine slammed to the hard floor. I breathed hard through my nostrils as the frustration built up inside me. A traitorous tear fell from the corner of my right eye as the desolation took hold. The dark creature that forever burrowed in my stomach began digging in its claws.

The screech of a speaker coming to life sounded outside. “People of New Zion!” I closed my weary eyes as Judah’s voice came drifting into my silent cell. “The heavy storm and the darkness above signal the end. Make no mistake, Armageddon is coming! The floods creeping toward our home, the daily strife we all suffer in following God’s path . . . they all lead the way to our salvation. Work harder at the tasks given to you. Pray with even more devotion. We shall prevail!”

My fogged mind blanked out the rest of Judah’s words. But it didn’t matter. They were the same each day. My brother was whipping our people into a terrified frenzy. He was instilling fear into every minute of every day.

It was what Judah did best.

Spots flickered in front of my eyes and my lips cracked with dryness. I could no longer feel my arms at my side, and knew that I would soon be pulled under. I could feel it, coming to take me down. But I fought it. Every day I fought the effects of the punishments.

The fight in me was the only thing I had left.

“The devil’s men are coming! Our days are numbered! We must save ourselves!” Judah’s final sentence managed to filter through the high-pitched ringing in my ears. My fingers curled into fists and shook with rage.

Years ago Prophet David had preached that Satan’s agents would one day storm our commune, trying to rid the earth of God’s chosen people. Only through the prophet would heaven be achieved. Only through obeying his every word could a soul be saved. When the Hangmen invaded and killed my uncle, many of the people thought that was the end. It wasn’t. Now Judah preached that they would come again.

A loud crack of thunder exploded right above me. I flinched as it ripped me from my dark thoughts. All I entertained these days were dark thoughts. Doubt, the devil’s greatest tool, smothering my heart and soul like a cancer. The taste of salt burst on my tongue. My long brown hair stuck to my cheeks; the stifling heat bathed my skin in sweat.

I licked my cracked lips, wishing I had water. I guessed that I would be fed and watered soon. I was fed twice a day, like clockwork. Women I didn’t know would come to my cell, placing a tray of food at my feet. They would give me a specific amount of time to consume the food, before returning, silently, to take it away. On good days they would cleanse me, with a vacant, detached look in their gaze. Then I would be alone until the disciples returned to punish me. The cycle would begin again.

I had yet to set eyes on Judah.

His focus seemed to be on thrusting the commune into hysterical chaos. Spinning a spiteful web to encourage what I had refused to pursue. He wanted a holy war. He wanted the Hangmen dead.

My mind was conflicted. On the one hand, I didn’t care if all the Hangmen burned in Satan’s eternal fire. On the other hand, when I thought of the three Cursed Sisters, the three sisters that Judah would force back into submission or simply see killed, I found it hard to breathe.

Bile rose in my throat when I pictured the life they would have under my twin’s hand. Nausea followed when I pictured the Cursed Delilah’s scarred face, her shorn hair. When I thought about what Judah had done to her on the Hill of Perdition. I, the prophet, had no prior knowledge of what Judah had planned. In the aftermath, I realized that I had no idea what he was truly capable of. If someone had merely told me what happened to Delilah, I would never have believed it. But I’d seen her face. I’d seen the fear in her eyes when she had been locked in the old mill. It had happened. There was no doubt.

And I had done nothing to stop it.

My thoughts drifted to Mae and the last thing she had said to me. When I had let her and her sisters go.
“I always believed in you, Rider . . . I always believed you were a good man, deep down.”

Mae’s words were imprinted on my brain. And whenever I thought about her, I was hit by a wave of pain. The way the Cursed Sisters looked at me would forever be burned into my mind. They both feared and detested me. Worst of all, Mae was
disappointed
in me. She had thought me better than the behavior I displayed.

She was wrong.

I had been two men in my life. I was beginning to understand that neither of them were real. They were both the ultimate pretenders. Rider pretended to be a Hangman, but always stood on the outside, looking in. Cain pretended he was a prophet, outwardly faking strength, yet drowning in fear underneath. But if both of those men were a ruse, then who the hell was I? Who was the
real
me?

I had absolutely no idea.

Footsteps sounded outside my cell. Light spilled through the crack under the heavy door, and the smell of food hit my nostrils. My stomach growled with the need for nourishment; my mouth salivated with its need for water.

The lock turned, and a woman walked into the darkness. Her head was bowed and her face was turned away. She wore a long gray dress that covered her body from her neck to her feet, and a white headdress covered her head. As she placed the tray on the ground, her face came into view. My eyes widened in surprise when I saw a wayward strand of hair falling from her headdress. Red. Bright red. Her cheeks and nose were spattered with freckles, and her eyes were bright blue.

I know her . . .

Phebe.

Phebe settled the tray of food on the floor. She avoided all contact with my eyes. For days and days, I had had the same two women delivering my food and cleaning my wounds. Never before had Phebe come to me.

Phebe’s face was blank. Without addressing me or even glancing at my upturned face, she stood up and left the room.

My heart beat faster. Someone I had had previous contact with was now coming to my cell . . . my heart slowed, then sank. She would never believe that I was the real Cain.

She was programmed to believe everything her prophet told her.

It was useless.

I was on my own.

I forced myself to move into a sitting position, gritting my teeth as my limbs shook with the strain. My swollen eyes scanned the contents of the tray: vegetable broth, a hunk of bread, and a glass of water. I reached for the water first, draining the lukewarm liquid in record time. I gasped, breathless with relief. Ignoring the shaking of my hand, I sank the spoon into the broth and brought it to my lips. My raw flesh stung as the warm salty liquid seeped into broken skin. But I closed my eyes as the food hit my starving stomach.

Phebe returned with a basin and rag. Kneeling at my side, she began to wash away the blood from my skin. She was methodical and silent as she scrubbed. I watched her the whole time she worked. She kept her head bowed and low, avoiding my attention. She looked different to the last time I saw her. Her dress was even more modest. Her skin was too pale. I squinted at her cheek, at what looked like a fading bruise. Through my blurred vision, it was difficult to see in detail.

Phebe’s hand moved to my hair. Some of it was still stuck to my cheeks, the rest of the long, tangled strands clung to my chest, hiding my face from view. My brown beard had grown long, and it too was matted. I had avoided my reflection for five weeks, but I knew I would be hardly recognizable.

She turned her attention to my arms; I saw her stiffen as the dirt and blood washed from my skin. Her reaction was subtle, but I caught it all the same. My tattoos—the remnants from my Hangmen days—were slowly coming into view. My heart sped up as I waited for her to say something. As prophet, I wore a tunic; I was expected to cover my body. My people didn’t know that I had tattoos. But Phebe knew every inch of Judah’s body, his ink-free skin . . .

Her eyebrows pulled down, but she continued her work. When I was clean, Phebe got to her feet and, scooping up the basin and rag, swiftly left the room.

My body sagged in defeat.

Thunder peeled above, another wave of the powerful storm moving in. Slouching to the floor, I closed my eyes and tried to will myself to sleep. I knew I had only hours until the disciples would return to punish me.

I pressed my cheek to the hard stone floor and let the darkness take me.

If I was lucky, maybe I wouldn’t wake again.