Chapter 32

0700 hours, local time,
Wednesday, 18 February, 2015
Hell’s Angels Grand Command Headquarters
Peoria, Illinois

Sergeant Sergei Antonym and Corporal Peter S. Burg were both very thrilled with themselves, burning more cigarettes out in the flesh of their victim, basically a slave of the Grand Hetman, Aaron Troyes. Troyes, in his infinite wisdom, allowed them to torment Sissy’s mother when he wasn’t busy raping her and making her watch him rape Sissy. This morning, though, they were excited about a special treat. The Grand Hetman had decided to hand her entirely over to their power. He had washed his hands of her ... and of Sissy. Both would now be entirely in their cruel hands.

This morning, they had carte blanche, and they were going to use it. The Grand Hetman moved on to other victims. They no longer had even the limited protection or shelter that he gave them in the past. Antonym and Burg could do what they liked with the slaves. Antonym beamed as he pulled rank and took his pleasure with the mother, Tracy. She got no lube or foreplay, of course. He just shoved it inside her from above, her legs on his shoulders, as he wanted to look her in the eye while raping her. He wanted to see her despair and her suffering, her pain in her eyes as she realized that there would be no reprieve. Ergo, no doggy-style for him. Besides, he was more of a breast man than a butt man, even if a good ass was nice.

Meanwhile, Burg, a man who had no preferences other than violence and fear, took his time with Sissy. He had been waiting for this moment. He liked his victims to be aware of what was happening to them, to feel every inch of his hatred. He had picked out a particularly nasty knife, one with a serrated blade that would cause maximum pain when dragged across skin. He liked to use it to carve his name into the flesh of his victims. It was his brand, his signature. He approached her with a sadistic smile, his eyes gleaming with excitement as he traced the blade along her arm. “You’re mine now,” he whispered into her ear, his hot breath sending shivers down his/her spine.

As the two monsters reveled in their newfound freedom to inflict pain, Private Jane Wilson waited patiently in the shadows, her wire poised and ready. Her eyes burned with a silent fury as she watched the scene unfold. This was the moment she had been waiting for. The moment she could strike and make a difference. Her heart raced as she took a deep breath, her hand tightening around the wire. She knew she had to be swift and precise. One misstep and she’d be dead.

Private Stuart Kaczek, his mind racing with memories of his own torture at the hands of the Hell’s Angels, took his position behind a nearby crate. The hatred that filled him was palpable, a living thing that pushed him to the edge of his sanity. The rage from his own abuse fueled him, making him more than eager to take down Burg, the man who had been taunting Sissy with that knife. He could feel his pulse throb in his ears, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps. This was it. The time for vengeance had come.

Corporal Bobbie Castillo, the team’s explosives expert, checked the nitroglycerine packs one last time, her eyes cold and focused. She had placed them strategically around the compound, ready to blow at the signal from Copper. The walls of the headquarters were thick, but she had no doubt that the series of explosions would bring them down. It was a risky move, but one they had to make if they were to have any hope of disrupting the Grand Command and instilling panic in the Hell’s Angels ranks, freeing those slaves present as well in the process. She was a long way from her hometown of San Antonio, Texas, but life was funny like that. This was where she was meant to be.

Private First Class Marcus “Razor” Reed crouched next to Castillo, his eyes scanning the perimeter. His specialty was close-quarter combat and he was known for his surgical precision with a knife. He had seen the horrors that these monsters were capable of, and his mind was set on one thing: ending them. His hand gripped his combat knife tightly, his knuckles white with tension. The anticipation of the fight was almost too much to bear. His time in Afghanistan proved very helpful here and now.

The room was a mix of industrial and medieval. The walls were a cold, unforgiving concrete, but the floor was covered in a thick, blood-stained fur that muffled the sound of their footsteps. The stench of fear and sweat hung heavy in the air, a testament to the countless lives that had suffered here. The lighting was dim, with only a few flickering bulbs hanging from the ceiling, casting eerie shadows that danced across the walls. The occasional scream pierced the silence, reminding them of the urgency of their mission.

Private Indra Narain had been tasked with taking out the sentry posts. He moved with a silent grace, a stark contrast to the brutish nature of the Hell’s Angels. His eyes were sharp, his movements precise. He had studied the layout of the headquarters meticulously, knowing that timing was everything. The absence of the sentries was a useful consequence of the diversion provided by his new victims ... whatever happened to said victims.

In seconds, Narain had not only the sentry posts normally held by the guards, but vital intel, gear, and even their secret stash of personal items. Narain also had the extra task of signaling to the rest of the team that the coast was clear while he checked for booby traps and other nasty surprises. Thank God for good, old-fashioned Morse Code.

Meanwhile, Sissy’s eyes grew wet with fear as she saw Burg’s blade inch closer to her skin. But she remained still, biding her time. She knew she had to be strong, not just for herself, but for her mother. She could feel the cock shoving into her anus, slamming her while Burg cut into her flesh. She bit her lower lip, desperate not to scream as the new source of agony took hold of her.

The moment was ripe with tension, the kind that could only be found in the bowels of hell itself. And then it came: a soft, almost imperceptible whisper of movement from the shadows. Jane Wilson’s wire whipped through the air with the precision of a cobra’s strike, looping around Antonym’s neck. He gurgled in surprise and pain, his hands flying to his throat as he was jerked backward, his eyes bulging. She yanked hard, and the wire sliced through his flesh like a hot knife through butter. The sickening crunch of his windpipe collapsing was music to Tracy’s ears.

Stuart Kaczek, his own personal demons unleashed, launched himself at Burg with a feral roar. The knife sliced through the air, aiming for Kaczek’s chest, but he was too quick. He ducked, rolling away and coming up with his own knife at the ready. The two men circled each other, the air thick with the scent of blood and sweat, their eyes never leaving each other’s. The knives glinted in the flickering light, a dance of death that was as mesmerizing as it was terrifying.

Tracy, now free from Antonym’s brutal embrace, gasped for breath, her eyes wide with shock. But she didn’t waste a second. With newfound strength, she reached for the discarded handgun, her hands trembling as she aimed it at the back of Burg’s head. She knew she had one chance, and she was going to take it. The gun roared, and the room echoed with the sound. The bullet pierced the air, and time seemed to slow down as it embedded itself in Burg’s skull. He crumpled to the floor, the knife dropping from his hand with a clatter.

The sudden noise brought the room to a standstill, the echo of the gunshot ringing in their ears. Sissy felt a surge of hope, despite the pain that still ravaged her body. She watched as her mother’s expression changed from one of despair to one of fierce determination. Tracy turned to her, the gun still shaking in her hand, and spoke through gritted teeth. “Hold on, baby,” she said, “We’re getting out of here.”

Jane, having dispatched Antonym, immediately took his gun and aimed it at the door, ready for any other Angels that might come bursting in. But the chaos of the diversion outside had done its work. The compound was in a state of disarray, and the guards were too busy to respond to the noise. She gave a nod to Castillo, who acknowledged her with a brief look before focusing back on the nitroglycerine packs. The explosion was their ticket out, and the timing had to be just right.

Through the grainy feed of his night-vision goggles, Copper caught a glimpse of Grand Vanguard Colonel Darth Forbes, a man whose reputation preceded him like a foul stench. Forbes was in the act of brutalizing his Cambodian slave girl, Sen Socheata. The sight of her, bound and helpless, brought back memories of his own sister’s torture and his rage boiled over. He knew that the Colonel was a key player in the Hell’s Angels’ operations, and taking him out would be a significant blow to their command structure.

He took a deep, steadying breath, his finger caressing the trigger of his silenced handgun. The room was a tableau of depravity, with the Colonel’s back to the door and the slave girl’s eyes pleading for salvation. Copper’s heart hammered in his chest, but his hand remained as steady as a statue’s. In one swift motion, he stepped into the room, took aim at the base of Forbes’ skull, and fired. The muffled pop of the gunshot was lost in the cacophony of the chaos outside, but the Colonel’s body spasmed and crumpled to the floor, releasing Sen from his grip.