The Law of Retaliation Page 9

  Yet, the woman was unusually tranquil. Pain echoed across her body, but she didn't scream or cry. She felt numb to the world.

  She glanced over at the door to her right. The door led to the master bedroom's private bathroom. A wave of light poured into the bedroom from the bathroom. She could hear Ryan muttering as he searched for items to help her. His actions brought a smile to her face. He still loves me, she thought, and I love him, too.

  Their relationship deteriorated after the incident. They blamed each other for their daughter's death. Over the past two years, they were never able to admit that their love never died. It was obvious, though.

  Ryan returned to the bedroom, first-aid supplies balanced in his arms. He placed a bottle of painkillers, a gauze roll, antiseptic wipes, a box of adhesive bandages, and a cup filled with water on the nightstand.

  He said, “Listen, I don't know what I'm doing, but I'm going to try to fix you up. Alright? Okay? I just need you to stay awake and... and stay strong.”

  Alexa smiled and sniffled as she panted. She could see the fear in her husband's eyes. His tenderness made her feel comfortable. He wasn't a superhero. He was an everyday person—just like her.

  As he grabbed two pillows from the headboard, Ryan said, “Alright, I'm going to have to elevate your leg. I don't have any ice, but... we just have to do this. Ready?”

  Alexa clenched her jaw and nodded. She gritted her teeth and groaned in pain as Ryan lifted her right leg. Ryan stacked two pillows under her shin, then he gently set her leg down on the pillows. His hands hovered over her leg, as if he were too afraid to touch her again.

  Ryan said, “I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, sweetie. It–It... It should start to feel better soon.”

  He held his hand over his mouth and swallowed the lump in his throat, fighting the urge to cry. The neo-Nazis couldn't beat him, but he still felt his wife's pain. He lived vicariously through her. He glanced over at the nightstand.

  As he grabbed the antiseptic wipes, he said, “This... This is going to sting, too. I have to clean your cuts. You'll thank me for this later.”

  Alexa simpered, then she croaked, “Y–Yeah, whatever...”

  Ryan turned on the lamp on the nightstand, then he sat down beside his wife. Appalled, he couldn't help but grimace as he examined her grisly wounds. Her face was covered in blood. Most of that blood streamed from a large gash on the back of her head. She had a few gashes on her face, too—one on the bridge of her nose, one over her right eyebrow, and a few on her lips.

  He leaned over her head and started cleaning the gash on the back of her dome. Fortunately, her hair was short, so it didn't take him long to find the wound. He gently dabbed the antiseptic wipe on her head, then he dried the wound with a gauze pad. He wrapped part of the gauze roll around her head in order to prevent future bleeding—temporarily, at least.

  Ryan moved on to the wounds on her face. He repeated the process: he wiped the cuts with the antiseptic wipes, then he dried the wounds. He used the adhesive bandages on her face, though. The cuts were deep and wide, but he was more concerned with the bumps on her face. He wondered if the steel-toe boots damaged her brain. It was a scary idea. He couldn't do anything about her teeth, either.

  As he tended to her wounds, Ryan whispered, “You're a trooper. You know that, right? You're the strongest person I've ever met. You could have left, you could have brought the police and ended the night, but... but you moved forward with the plan. Shit, you're crazy.” The couple shared a chuckle. Ryan continued, “I was wrong. I was so fucking wrong... I was the weak one. I've always been the weak one. I'm sorry.”

  Teary-eyed, Alexa stroked her husband's cheek and slowly shook her head. His words—his admission of frailty—broke her heart. Although their relationship had been broken for years, she never really wanted him to feel guilty about Lucia's death.

  She hissed in pain, then she said, “Don't say that. You're not weak. You're strong. You... You're stronger than you think. I'm happy to be here with you.”

  Ryan sniffled and said, “I'm happy to be here with you, too. I'm... I'm proud of you, you know? I'm very proud of you.”

  “Proud of me for taking a beating?” Alexa joked.

  “I'm proud of you for staying strong. Here, take these.”

  Ryan placed two tablets on her tongue. He carefully lifted her head, then he poured some water into her mouth. Alexa tightly closed her eyes and grimaced as she swallowed. She hated swallowing pills.

  Alexa asked, “What was it?”

  “Tylenol. It should help with the pain. You should stay in bed, at least for a little longer.”

  The couple glanced over at the door. The sounds of creaky floorboards and dull footsteps echoed through the house, surrounding the bedroom from every corner. People were walking around the home on both floors. Muffled voices seeped into the room, too. The parents only recognized one voice, though—Owen Clark.

  The man barked downstairs, stomping around and breaking furniture as he threw a temper tantrum. No one could blame him, either. Over the course of two hours, he was tortured, his son's hand was mangled, and his pregnant wife was murdered. His world was radically changed by the people his family wronged.

  Ryan said, “They're mad. We're really getting under their skin. I didn't get to kill any of them, but I was able to cut Caden's finger off.” Alexa smiled, satisfied by the news. Ryan chuckled, then he said, “Yeah, I cut his 'trigger finger' off. That's what he called it—his 'trigger finger.' I flushed it down the toilet, too. He'll never use that finger to kill an innocent person again.”

  Alexa said, “Good. I hope he loses all of his fingers before he dies. He needs to feel pain. People like him deserve it...”

  She paused and stared at the ceiling as a lump of anxiety formed in her throat. People like him—the phrase didn't sit well with her. She thought about the murder and the feticide she committed in the living room. I'm one of them, she thought, I'm a monster, too.

  As she stared at the ceiling, Alexa confessed, “I killed her, Ryan. I.. I attacked her first. She probably would have let me walk away. She was so... so cocky and evil. I lost control of myself. I stabbed her, I gouged her eyes, and I... I... I hit her with the sledgehammer. I killed an innocent baby. My actions killed that baby. The fucked up thing is: I knew it was wrong, but it still felt like the right thing to do. I had to kill her. She gave birth to that killer... She protected him... A parent should pay for her child's sins, right? Right?”

  Ryan was rendered speechless by his wife's confession. Tears dripping from his eyes with each blink, he leaned closer to Alexa and caressed her face.

  “Daddy, where do babies come from?” Lucia's voice asked in his mind.

  In his mind, Ryan responded: Don't you remember what we told you? Storks, sweetie. Storks bring babies to mommies and daddies.

  Lucia's voice asked, “How do they make them so cute? I want to be cute like a baby, too.”

  In his mind, Alexa responded, “You're already the cutest baby in the world.”

  Ryan covered his eyes and sniffled. The memory was bittersweet. He thought about his daughter's innocence and their actions throughout the violent night. Is this what Lucia would want us to do? Does she want vengeance as much as us?–he thought.

  Ryan said, “You did what you had to do, even if it felt 'wrong.' We had to do it to avenge our girl—to right their wrongs. That's how vengeance works. We have to become monsters to kill monsters.”

  “Fighting fire with fire... death with death... How many wrongs will make all of this right, Ryan?”

  “We can still find a way to stop this if you want.”

  Ryan gazed into his wife's bloodshot eyes. Alexa stared back at him, trying to analyze the sincerity behind his words. For a moment—a second—she thought about quitting. She could still remember Caden's smug smile during the court case, though. If he could murder their daughter without remorse, she figured she could murder his entire family without a shred of shame.

  She said
, “No. No, we can't stop until Caden is dead. That's what we agreed on. Besides, I... I can't take it back anyway. I already killed her. The baby is dead. I have to see this through until the end.”

  Until the end—the tone of the message was ominous. Ryan believed his wife actually planned on dying by the end of the night. He had hoped she would have backed away from that mindset after experiencing so much death. He couldn't confront her about it, though. Truth be told, he planned on dying before their journey began.

  Ryan nodded and said, “Fine. We will finish this, no matter what.” He glanced over at the barricaded door and said, “I have a plan, too.”

  ***

  Teary-eyed, Caden tossed a wool blanket over his mother's body. The blanket reached from her mutilated head down to her shins. The fetus lay between her feet in a puddle of blood. The young racist gently pushed the fetus with the tip of his boot, trying to sweep it under the blanket.

  “Stop,” Owen sternly said. “Don't put your filthy boots on that baby, Caden. Get away from them. Now.”

  As he stepped in reverse, Caden nodded and stuttered, “O–Okay, dad. I'm... I'm sorry. I just wanted... I wanted to cover them up. That's all.”

  “I'm sorry for snapping at you, but I just don't want you to touch them. We can't touch 'em. Not like this... The police will have to hear about this, you know? They'll take care of 'em, though. I'll make sure of that.”

  Owen and Caden stared down at Natalie's body, devastated. Nathaniel, Jessie, Reece, and Vincent watched from the sides of the room, surprised by the mayhem. They were especially infuriated by the perpetrator—a colored woman murdered a white woman and her unborn baby. In their eyes, it was sacrilege.

  The entire group was visibly frustrated and disgusted. A grim, melancholic atmosphere smothered the room. Only the sound of fire crackling in the fireplace disturbed the silence.

  As he stared at his wife's body, Owen said, “These bastards... They break into my home and they hurt my family like it's nothing. It's wrong. It's dead wrong. We can't let this slide. The traitor, the spic... They have to die. I want them dead! I want to rip them limb-by-limb, piece-by-piece! I want to eat them while they're still fucking breathing! I want vengeance, damn it!”

  Owen breathed deeply as he ran his fingers through his hair and glanced around the room. His fellow neo-Nazis remained stern and quiet. Vincent trembled in fear, but he understood Owen's anger. Caden nodded in agreement, inspired by the fierce speech.

  Owen turned his attention to Natalie's body again. Teary-eyed, he said, “An eye for an eye, a life for a life... I suppose the Law of Retaliation is working in our favor now, isn't it? These animals attacked our family—and they deserve to die for it. Our laws dictate that we must retaliate with a method of equal degree. They took two of ours, so we'll take both of them. I'll tell you exactly what we're going to do, too.”

  He grabbed the single-shot centerfire rifle from over the fireplace mantel. He opened a drawer on a console table next to the fireplace and grabbed a cartridge, then he loaded the weapon. He shoved a handful of cartridges into his pocket.

  As he watched his father, Caden furrowed his brow and said, “Wait a second. I thought you said no guns?”

  As he examined the rifle, marveling at the gun as if it were an ancient artifact, Owen explained, “They killed your mother, Caden. They murdered her in cold blood. They may not have used guns against us, but they've shown us they're not playing by the rules. Nothing is off limits and I'll do anything to get 'em. So, here's what we're going to do: y'all are going to rush into that room with any knives you can find and I'm going to hang back and shoot 'em from the hall. Like I said before: if they die, they die. If they don't... they're going to wish they died.”

  The neo-Nazis started nodding and mumbling, thrilled about the idea. Aside from Alexa's boot party, the group lost every confrontation in the house so they wanted a victory—any victory. A full-scaled assault seemed like the best bet.

  Grinning from ear-to-ear, Caden wiped the tears from his eyes and lunged over his mother's body. He pulled a six-round revolver out of a drawer on a console table. The cartridges clinked and clanked as he struggled to load the weapon with his mutilated hand. He held the revolver over his head and pulled the hammer back—click.

  Caden said, “I'm going to shoot with you. I won't be able to aim too good 'cause of my... my missing trigger-finger, but I can get 'em with my left hand. I know it.”

  Owen glared at his son and said, “Listen, boy. If you're going to pull a gun, you better shoot. And, if you're going to shoot a gun, you better shoot to kill. This isn't the time for your little jokes. I don't give a fuck about your 'trigger-finger.' Now, tell me, son: are you ready to kill?”

  Caden nodded and said, “I've been ready, dad. We can kill them... together.”

  Owen gazed into his son's eyes. The boy was difficult to read. He was a sensitive teenager who was prone to acts of senseless violence. He was willing to kill, but he was afraid of death. In reality, he only ever killed Lucia and a lost African-American teenager in the woods. Still, the group needed as many men as possible to guarantee a victory.

  Interrupting the father-son moment, Vincent stuttered, “I–I... I don't know if I can do this. I'm sorry.”

  Owen glanced over at Vincent and asked, “What did you just say?”

  “I... I just don't know if I can help, sir. I'm... I'm real fucked up right now. I can't handle all of this.”

  Owen approached Vincent, the floorboards groaning under his boots with each slow step. He stopped directly in front of the young man, his chest six inches away from Vincent's face. They didn't make eye contact.

  Owen said, “I've done a lot for you and your family, Vincent. I put money in your daddy's pocket when your mother was hooked on heroin and blowing through your family's cash. I got rid of that cunt when she threatened to expose all of us. I kept you out of trouble. I gave you a job, son. Don't you remember any of that?”

  Vincent lowered his head in shame—it was all true. The pair weren't blood-related, but Owen treated him like family.

  Owen continued, “I'm asking for your help now, Vincent. My wife, the love of my life, your second mother... She's dead. She was killed and you know that's not fair. Will you put your conscience aside and give us a hand? Will you stand with your family?”

  Vincent wiped the tears from his eyes and said, “Yes.”

  “Good. Now, I'll do you a little favor, too. You don't have to get your hands dirty, but you have to keep your eyes open. I want you to walk out to the side of the house and watch the windows upstairs. I don't want them to climb out those windows again. If they do, stop them. Okay?”

  Vincent stared up at Owen, amazed by his kindness. He could have manipulated him, forced him to fight and kill, but he gave him the easiest job instead. He nodded in agreement as he gazed into the man's eyes. Relieved, he ran his fingers across his buzz cut head and smiled as he walked out of the house.

  As soon as the front door closed, Owen said, “The boy has no heart, no loyalty... We'll deal with him later.” He beckoned to the other men and said, “Go into the kitchen and grab the sharpest knives you can find. Go on, you know the way.”

  Nathaniel, Jessie, and Reece murmured among themselves as they marched into the kitchen. They found a frying pan, a baking sheet, a toaster, and several knives on the floor. Droplets of blood were spattered on the linoleum tiles, too.

  As the neo-Nazis searched for the best knives, Owen stared at the ceiling and said, “You boys will be on the frontlines of this assault. You already know the plan, so stick to it.” He aimed down the sights of his rifle and said, “I need some space, so I have to hang back. If they're trying anything sneaky, try to lure them to the doorway. Caden and I will be ready to shoot them. I'd love to catch one of 'em alive, but, if that's not possible, then so be it.”

  The neo-Nazis returned to the living room, brandishing the sharpest knives they could find. Reece and Nathaniel held chef's knives while Jessie
held a boning knife.

  Reece said, “We're ready.”

  Owen nodded and responded, “Alright. Let's kill these motherfuckers.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  The Second Attack

  The home was eerily silent. A few floorboards creaked, some pipes groaned, and the fireplace crepitated. The windows rattled with each gust of wind, too. Yet, no one said a word. The house was caught in the eye of the storm—and things were about to get worse. The second story hallway was crowded, filled to the brim with angry neo-Nazis wielding firearms and knives.

  The crew stood in silence, listening to the master bedroom and waiting for the perfect opportunity to strike. The couple were unusually silent, though. Nathaniel, Reece, and Jessie stood near the master bedroom door. Reece stood closest to the door, ready to barge into the room on a moment's notice.

  Caden stood behind them, hugging the wall to his left as he aimed the revolver at the door. Visibly anxious, he couldn't stop his hand from trembling. Owen stood at the top of the stairs and aimed his rifle at the master bedroom. The vengeful man was ready to kill.

  Reece stretched his neck and glanced over his shoulder. He stared at Owen, waiting for the order to proceed. Without uttering a sound, he mouthed: Now?

  Owen took a deep breath through his nose. He raised his firearm and stared down the sights of his rifle, focusing on the door. His hands were steady, his aim was precise. He carefully placed his finger on the trigger. He was ready to shoot. He gave a slight nod.

  With that, the plan was set in motion.

  Reece took a step back, then he kicked the door. The door burst open with the first kick. He screamed and held the knife over his head as he ran forward. Four steps—it only took him four steps before he stopped and realized there was nothing blocking the door. It was locked and barricaded only a few minutes ago.