The Saints' Devil

VIII

Before Frank had rolled out, ready to drive for three hours straight to Mikhailov's headquarters, he found a note on his bike with a simple message. 

"You think we wouldn't find the devil's weakness?"

"They didn't take her because of you, Frank," Eagle assured him, placing a hand on his shoulder. "They took her because she had unfinished business with them. She's one of us now, you better go save her."

"Not without me," Fury said, exiting the garage with Drake slung over his shoulder. "She's my sister. I'm going with you."

"To hell you are," Frank snapped. "You've got too many men down, the President doesn't need to be next."

"Frank, I'm not gonna throw you to the wolves!"

"You've done it before," Frank suddenly said, his eyes burning, the two looking at each other, both remembering the same event. The same jaw-clenching event that had made him what he was and had given the clubs reputation. "I will be back in a couple days, with your sister."

Fury moved to stop him but Eagle intervened. "Enough boy, you haven't seen him in action enough times to know he's got this. He's also right. The Russians catch a whiff of you and they'll cut the head off the snake and leave us defenseless."

"I won't let him go, Eagle."

"Go, Frank," Eagle said but Frank had already loaded himself on his bike and was revving the engine.

Fury grumbled to himself, finding it hard to let him go alone but he knew he couldn't convince him otherwise. "You bring my sister back in one piece, you hear me?"

Frank only nodded and sped off, leaving the two to stand there and watch him as he went. Frank was riding faster than he'd ever before, zooming past every single car that got in his way, not allowing anything to stop him from getting his sweet, sweet revenge. He was still confused over how the rage he'd been keeping at bay for years managed to burst free and destroy the many walls he built, all because of one woman. 

What drove him? What drew himself to her? Was it simply because she was so adamant about being his friend? Was it because she was his employee? Because she lived only one room down from him? Was it her looks? Her body? 

No, he knew that wasn't right. He knew that with her around it seemed to lighten the dark cloud over his head and he got a different taste of life, a different light on life. She'd only been apart of the club a couple weeks and had been his friend for that long as well and had managed to get closer to him than Drake or Fury. She annoyed the shit out of him, he had to admit, but he never wanted her to not be around. She was a kind of light that shown on the hurricane of his mind, the eye of the storm where it was nothing but calm and peace. He had a sort of attachment to her and just thinking about her getting hurt in any way made him blind with pure rage.

He was only two hours into the drive and the anger within him burned brighter the closer he got. He was ready to end this right here, right now. He revved further, pushing his bike to go it's fastest speed, zipping in and out of traffic and around cars and around absolutely anything that posed to slow him down. He had to get there quick, he had to make sure he made it in time, for her sake.

*

The Devil had arrived, like Jason on Friday the 13th, he was ready to spill some Russian campers blood. He parked his bike outside and wasted the few guards stationed outside the Russian's clubhouse. He grabbed their puny guns, reloading his own he brought, and shoving the new unused guns in the pockets of his jumpsuit. The commotion outside had caught the attention of the men inside, that and the fact that he smashed the door into a million pieces with his foot, entering the clubhouse with loud steps.

Men appeared from around corners, shouting at him and charging him. He was only seeing red, blinded by the blood on his hands, by the rage in his heart, by everything. He grabbed one of the men in front of him, snapping his neck so quickly it silenced the room, the rest of the men rushing him stopping in their tracks, horrified by the intensity of this man.

Frank was quick, pulling his gun out and blasting a few of them straight in the head, others came at him, swinging wood pieces at his back, slashing knives at him, some even tried to throw punches and kicks. He killed them all, one after the other. He slammed some in the walls and ground, broke necks, broke jaws and ribs, blasted many in the head and heart. 

The bodies piled up and he was only in the hallway. By the time they had stopped coming and the building settled, Frank stood over a massive puddle of blood, bodies all around his feet, and his overalls were torn to shreds revealing the ink all over his arms and torso. He grabbed some more guns and headed upstairs, his steps slow and loud, making his appearance known. The rest of the building was dead, but he already knew where he was meant to go. He headed up to the third floor, last door at the end of the hall.

He smashed that door in as well and on the other side was the rest of the family, guns ready, protecting their one leader.

"Well, well, well," Mikhalov himself spoke, clapping his hands slowly and emerging right at the center of the hoard of guns trained on him. "The devil has come right to my door. You wave a woman in his face and he's running over here, cock in his hands." Frank said nothing, his eyes darting around the room. He was bound to get shot in this blood bath but he was ready to take the chance. "It's too late, that bitch died screaming. She paid for killing--"

Before Mikhalov could finish his statement, Frank had drawn his gun so fast and placed a bullet right in the center of his forehead, his body almost immediately falling limp. The rest of the men stood dumbfounded, horrified and shocked to see their King had perished so easily.

"Leave now or you will end up like him," Frank told them, causing them all to look back up at him.

Some faltered but many held their ground. Frank sighed rushing into the group, firing his gun, and their guns firing as well. Many shot each other, Frank just had to dodge enough of them. The crowd grew thin, Frank got shot in the shoulder and arm but kept shooting and kept dodging, until every single one of them was killed, except one.

Arm dripping blood, he walked over to the one wounded man who desperately tried to crawl away from him. Frank smashing his boot down on the man's gun wound in his side, the man screaming out in agony. "Where is she?"

He said nothing, just weakly pointed down and passed out. Removing himself from the room, Frank made his way downstairs with much more haste, going down to the basement and to the only room in there where he found her.

She was chained to the wall, her long blond hair hanging down and covered in dried blood, her clothes ripped and covered in her own blood. He rushed to her, ripping the weak chains from the walls and gently removing them from her wrists. "Charlie," he called to her, holding her in his arms.

Her eyes fluttered, hardly able to open. Her face was bruised, her lip busted, she looked like she'd just been beaten by them. She opened her eyes only slightly, enough to see the mask she had missed. A small smile stretched on her face as her arm weakly reached up and touched his mask. "Hey Frank," was all she said before she passed out yet again. 

He gathered her in his arms and left that place, loaded them both on his bike, with her sitting in front of him, facing him, his bad arm holding her tightly against him and his other hand steering. 

If anyone should learn anything tonight it is that you shouldn't mess with the Devil.