Page 92 of Sinner’s Torment

A murmur of agreement rippled through the brothers, a low, dangerous sound that made the hair on the back of my neck stand up. This wasn’t just about Brandy anymore. This was about the code. The brotherhood. The unspoken rule that you didn’t touch one of ours without paying the price. The Death Dogs had crossed that line when they’d attacked Diamond Creek. They’d crossed it again when they’d taken Brandy. And now they were going to learn what it meant to go to war with the Soulless Sinners.

Montana stepped forward, his expression hard, his eyes blazing with barely controlled rage. “We move fast, we move hard, and we don’t stop until every Death Dog in that house is either dead or running. Torment, Hex, Mercy—you take point. Grudge, Misery, Terror—flank from the east. Agony, Vengeance—west side. Everyone else—spread out and cover the perimeter. No one gets out. No one escapes. Understood?”

“Understood,” came the unified response, a chorus of voices that sounded like a death sentence.

I felt my entire body coil with readiness, every muscle tensing, every nerve firing. This was it. The moment I’d been waiting for since Hannah had burst into the barn and told us Brandy was gone. The moment I’d been preparing for since I’d heard Stone’s name and understood the kind of monster we were dealing with. I was going to get her back. I was going to tear through every Death Dog between me and her, and I was going to bring her home. Alive. Safe. Mine.

And then I heard it.

A scream.

High, piercing, raw—a woman’s scream that cut through the night like a blade, slicing through the darkness and the silence and the cold air with devastating clarity. It wasn’t just pain. It was terror. Desperation. The sound of someone at their breaking point, someone who’d endured too much and couldn’t take any more. It was Brandy’s voice. I knew it with absolute certainty, the same way I knew my own heartbeat, my own breath. That was her. That was my woman. And she was screaming.

Something inside me snapped.

Every thread of control I’d been holding onto—every ounce of discipline, every shred of patience, every carefully constructed wall I’d built to keep myself in check—it all evaporated in an instant. I didn’t think. Didn’t plan. Didn’t wait for orders or coordination or strategy. I just moved. My hand went to my gun, drawing it from the holster in one smooth, practiced motion. I chambered a round, the metallic click loud in my ears, and then I was running. Down the ridge, toward the farmhouse, toward Brandy, toward the Death Dogs who’d dared to touch her.

“Brandy!” The word tore from my throat, raw and desperate, a roar that echoed across the open space. I didn’t care if they heard me. Didn’t care if I was giving away our position. All I cared about was getting to her. Now. Before they hurt her again. Before they took her from me permanently.

Behind me, I heard Mercy curse—a sharp, vicious string of profanity that would’ve been funny under different circumstances. “Torment, wait—fuck—everyone, move! GO GO GO!”

But I wasn’t waiting. Couldn’t wait. My legs pumped beneath me, carrying me down the slope at a dead run, my boots sliding on loose gravel, my breath coming in harsh gasps. The farmhouse loomed ahead, its windows dark, its structure sagging and decrepit, but I didn’t care about the building. I cared about what was inside. Who was inside. The woman I loved. The mother of my child. The only good thing I’d ever had in my miserable, fucked-up life.

I hit the perimeter at full speed, my gun raised, my finger on the trigger. A Death Dog emerged from the shadows near the porch, his hand reaching for the weapon at his side, his eyes widening as he saw me charging toward him. He was too slow. I fired twice—center mass, the way I’d been trained, the way I’d practiced a thousand times at the range. The shots echoed like thunder, and the Death Dog went down hard, his body crumpling to the ground, blood spreading across his chest in a dark, wet stain.

The gunshots acted like a starting pistol. Behind me, I heard the roar of my brothers—Rage’s deep bellow, Payne’s sharp command, Fury’s wild laugh, Vicious’ cold curse. They were moving, all of them, charging down the ridge with me, their weapons drawn, their faces set in hard, deadly lines. The Alabama Chapter split off—Grudge leading his crew around the east side of the farmhouse, Misery and Terror flanking wide, Agony and Vengeance breaking west. The sound of boots hitting the ground, weapons being cocked, orders being shouted—it all blended together into a symphony of violence, a cacophony of war.

More Death Dogs emerged from the farmhouse, their faces twisting with shock and rage as they realized what was happening. They’d been expecting a quiet night. A hostage situation they could control. A negotiation they could manipulate. They hadn’t been expecting an army. They raised their weapons, shouting to each other, trying to coordinate a defense, but it was too late. We were already on them.

Gunfire erupted from all sides. Muzzle flashes lit up the darkness like strobe lights, illuminating the chaos in brief, violent snapshots. A Death Dog to my left went down, his head snapping back as Rage’s bullet found its mark. Another stumbled backward, clutching his chest, as Payne fired from behind. Fury and Vicious moved like shadows, their shots precise and deadly, dropping targets with ruthless efficiency. The Alabama Chapter hit the farmhouse from the sides, their assault coordinated and brutal. Windows exploded inward, glass shattering and raining down like deadly confetti. The sound of shotguns boomed, deep and resonant, shaking the very foundation of the building.

I kept moving, kept firing, my focus narrowing to a single point: the front door. A Death Dog stepped into my path, his gun raised, his mouth open in a shout I couldn’t hear over the roar of gunfire. I didn’t hesitate. I put two rounds in his chest and kept running, stepping over his body as it fell, my boots splashing through the blood pooling on the ground. Another Death Dog appeared in the doorway, his weapon swinging toward me, and I fired again, the bullet catching him in the shoulder and spinning him around. He went down hard, and I was past him, through the door, into the farmhouse.

The interior was dark, chaotic, filled with smoke and shadows and the acrid smell of gunpowder. My eyes adjusted quickly, cataloging threats, identifying movement. A Death Dog to my right, raising a shotgun—I fired, and he dropped. Another to my left, reaching for a knife—Mercy appeared beside me, his gun barking twice, and the threat was eliminated. Hex moved through the doorway behind us, his shotgun in his hands, his face a mask of cold, controlled fury. He didn’t speak. Didn’t need to. We all knew what we were here for.

The Alabama Chapter breached from the back and sides, their entry explosive and overwhelming. I heard Grudge’s voice shouting orders, heard Terror’s shotgun booming, heard the sound of bodies hitting the floor. The farmhouse was a war zone, every room a battlefield, every corner a potential ambush. But we had the numbers. We had the firepower. And we had the rage.

I moved deeper into the house, following instinct, following the sound of Brandy’s voice echoing in my memory. She was here. Somewhere in this hellhole, she was here. And I was going to find her. A Death Dog lunged at me from a doorway, a knife in his hand, his face twisted with desperation. I sidestepped, brought my gun up, and fired point-blank. He collapsed at my feet, and I kept moving. Another room. Another hallway. The smoke was thicker here, the air heavy with the smell of blood and fear and violence.

Rage appeared at my side, his massive frame filling the narrow hallway, his gun sweeping left and right. “Upstairs,” he growled, jerking his head toward a staircase at the end of the hall. “Heard something up there.”

I nodded, my heart pounding, my breath coming in short, sharp gasps. Upstairs. She was upstairs. I could feel it, could sense it with the same certainty I’d felt when I’d heard her scream. I moved toward the staircase, Rage covering my back, Mercy and Hex following close behind. The stairs creaked under our weight, the wood old and rotting, but I didn’t care. I took them two at a time, my gun raised, my finger on the trigger.

The second floor was darker than the first, the windows boarded up, the air stale and oppressive. I could hear movement ahead—footsteps, voices, the sound of someone struggling. My pulse spiked, adrenaline flooding my system, sharpening my senses to a razor’s edge. A door at the end of the hallway. Closed. Locked. That was where she was. I knew it.

I moved toward the door, my brothers flanking me, their weapons ready. The assault was still raging below—gunfire, shouts, the sound of bodies hitting the floor—but up here, it was quieter. Deadlier. The calm before the final storm.

I reached the door, my hand closing around the handle. Locked. Of course it was locked. I stepped back, raised my boot, and kicked. The door shuddered but held. I kicked again, harder, putting all my weight behind it. The wood splintered, the lock gave way, and the door flew open, slamming against the wall with a crash that echoed through the hallway.

And there she was.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Hex

The first thing I saw was my daughter.

Brandy. My baby girl. Bruised, battered, her face swollen on one side, dried blood at the corner of her mouth. Her arms were wrapped protectively around her stomach—around my grandchild—and her eyes were wide with terror and pain and something else. Something that looked like hope when she saw me standing in that doorway.