Whoever said riding in the rain is for fools, is a damn fool himself. Riding in the pouring rain requires extra concentration. It’s easy to dump a bike when the tires are like slicks and the road is like melted butter, but it also makes me feel alive, battling with the elements.
Part of the storm.
I’ve yet to put my bike on its side, though I’ve come close a few times, and the rain isn’t gonna deter me from getting what I want.
Vengeance.
The rain pelts against me, soaking my leather vest and jeans. I don’t feel any of it. The stinging daggers of driving raindrops. The chill of the wind rushing around me. All I feel is burning, unadulterated, undiluted, vicious, inhuman rage.
The roar of my club brother’s bike sounds beside me, but my eyes don’t stray to look at him. He rides to my right, even though technically, he’s leading the way.
Tracker earned his name for a reason. There isn’t a motherfucker on the planet that the guy can’t find. When I rode up to his house and asked to cash in a favor—the favor being that he owes me big fucking time for the shit he pulled with Ami and her sisters—he flat out agreed.
I don’t know how he did it, but it involved unearthing ancient phone records, and he had a few names. From there, he narrowed it down to one name and one name only.
Fucking impressive given that it took Tracker less than two hours to nail the bastard given that all I knew was that shit went down nearly a decade ago and the guy was some sort of tattoo artist. Turns out, he actually was legit. Worked at a shop and everything.
What do you know, the rapist cunt now owns his own place.
In Orlando.
The city had a wholesome feel to it. The touristy kind of deal. I would have expected Miami. Maybe Vegas, but Orlando fit the bill too. Lots of young women. Easy prey. Unsuspecting single girls going down for vacation. Flirty girls who wanted to have a good time. Maybe do something spontaneous. Get a tattoo from a well-dressed, smooth talking, blue eyed, blond haired snake.
After hours of eating up the pavement at twice the rate we should have been going in the pouring rain, we roll into Orlando.
Another hour and Tracker parks his bike down a side street. I park next to him, and he nods at me to follow him. He doesn’t need to ask me twice.
I trail behind him, realizing that we look like thugs. Two big men clad in leather jackets and worn denim, the look of hell about us, ready to rain down doomsday the way mother nature is unleashing her wrath from above.
Tracker leads me right up to a squat brick building. The neighborhood isn’t great. Big surprise. It’s also not terrible. Alittle off the beaten path, with a sign that advertises five, five star artists in some cutesy slogan on the window. Gleaming pictures of two men, two women, and a piece of shit stare back at us from the two large six foot panes. The door is painted red, red like my vision. Red like the blood I’m about to fucking spill.
Tracker kicks the bitch open and storms inside like someone opened the door and invited a tornado in. The reception area is made up of a small wooden coffee table, two antique couches, and countless framed pictures on the cheery yellow walls.
Turns out that coffee table was always meant to be a bird, because when Tracker picks it up and hurls it at the wall, it grows wings.
“Everyone, get the fuck out,” he thunders as bodies start pouring out of the closed off rooms lining the back of the shop.
Two young girls, probably in their early twenties, scream as they rush past us. A middle aged man with a paunch sagging over his belt and a bloody, half done rose on his upper arm, gives us a raised brow, then decides we’re clearly not worth the trouble or the tough guy act. He edges out the door past a scrawny college aged kid wearing jeans and actual suspenders. The guy was getting a rose inked on his temple. They’d managed to get the outline done.
I guess we saved him from making a shit mistake. What the fuck was with kids and getting their faces tattooed anyway? This way, at least it will be easier to laser it off when he waits three hours and comes to regret his peer pressure induced decision.
The two women from the posters on the windows rush past me, since Tracker is already moving to block the back door—if there is a back door. Which is doubtful, because those two probably would have used it.
I growl and bark my way around the rooms, clearing them out of the remaining two artists. One of them grabs their keys before he hauls ass out the door.
Tracker appears behind me, hauling the rapist shit around by the scruff of his neck. And by scruff, I mean his stupid man bun. The guy screams like his hair is being torn out six different ways. Oh wait. I suppose it is.
I stride to the front door and slide the deadbolt home. One flick and the glowing neon ON sign dies. What do you know, the shop has privacy curtains. Those blackout shades that come in handy for a little Saturday night torture.
I’ve never participated before, but I’m pretty sure it’s about to be my new favorite activity.
Once I have the place locked down, I join Tracker in the biggest private room. It’s a nice looking set up. Too bad that shit is about to be fucked up. Big fucking time. I doubt they’ll want to work in the space again, at least not without six bottles of bleach and an exorcism, after we’re done.
Tracker has the bastard strapped down to the antique barber chair in the room. It’s a real nice touch. All chrome and red vinyl upholstery. The sack of shit—I never even asked for his name—whimpers and whines and flexes his hands against the zip ties at his wrists.
Yeah. That’s a no-go on getting out of those. Tracker has at least five on each wrist, all biting into the guy’s skinny arms.
The guy sniffles and blubbers, tears welling up in his round blue eyes that women probably trip all over themselvesfor, and streaking down cheeks that have gone from being Florida style bronzed to completely ashen. His stupid man bun wobbles on top of his fuckface head as he sobs and moans like the pathetic cunt he is.