Tread: Biker Romance (Ronin MC Series Book 1) (29 page)

I GAVE A FEW LOUD
revs as I peeled off from the convoy to enter my neighborhood, signaling the others that I was leaving and I’d meet them at the saloon to debrief. We all needed an update from Hendrix on our guys in the hospital.

As I slowed to a crawl on my street, I soaked in the serenity of the morning, noticing nothing out of the ordinary. The air was clean and crisp, trash cans at the ends of each driveway.

Kids too young for school were playing in their yards. Some people leaving for work waved as I passed.

All was well.

All were ignorant to the deeds of the MC during the previous days.

I liked it, and at the same time hated it that way.

I liked it because no one paid me any mind and that’s how I wanted it.

I hated it because of the ignorance. No one knew what was going on a few miles south.

We were at war.

Not with illegal immigration, per se, but with the rush of asshole criminals trying to enter the country and get to a sanctuary city.

It made me uneasy to think that we had just flipped sides. We were the assholes helping the other assholes.

I pulled into my driveway, the Corvette notably absent. Grace must have taken it to work. I parked my bike in the garage and pulled the trashcan to the corner of the drive, feeling domesticated, and not hating it as I always thought I would.

Turning to walk into the house, I noticed its beauty and felt the pride of having a place that was mine. I wasn’t cut out to live out of bags and in old hotel rooms like the other guys. I had to have a spot that was home, a retreat away from the life we lived so hard.

I turned the key and opened the door. Even the smell was familiar and welcoming, a blend of the flowers Grace always picked for the table and clean laundry from the basket on the couch. Life was definitely better since Grace moved in.

I took long strides to my bedroom and dropped my bags. I undressed in what probably looked like a fit of rage and excitement, not unlike a boy getting ready to have sex for his first time.

Boots flung and tapped the walls. I pulled my belt off and just let go of it in the direction of the dresser. It made a thud as the metal met wood and fell to the ground. I tossed my shirt off the bed and dropped trou.

Now naked, I pulled a towel from the hallway closet and buried my face in it. The scent of clean towels and the soft feel of it on my skin was bliss after forty-eight hours of hard riding, killing, and sleeping on the ground. Many times in my days away from this had I thought that all I needed in life was fresh socks and soft towels.

Before the shower would come, however, I needed my ritual. Securing the towel around my waist, I grabbed my go bag and brought it into my command center and set it on the desk.

I opened it to retrieve my guns and my gun oil.

I placed them on the paper towels laid out on the cleaning table. Disassembling my handgun first, I placed each part in order and specific placement according to my OCD.

I disassembled my Springfield rifle next. The SOCOM II came apart easily and with minimal parts. I set them each in their spots then grabbed my gun oil spray bottle. I gave everything a light once over and set the bottle to the side; they would soak for a good six hours before I came back to clean them.

Next, I grabbed the rest of my equipment out of the bag then opened the drawer containing my night vision equipment, eyeing my optics that I should have had out on the mission. Frowning, I almost slammed the drawer shut.

I opened my navigational equipment drawers and placed my map back in its tubing before sliding the drawer shut, then placed my wrist Garmin back in its position, but something caught my eye. Something was
not
right.

My brain cataloged everything in an instant. There was something missing. My spare wrist Garmin. Where was it? It was here before I left. Was I robbed?

Then I thought of the only explanation. Grace.

But it was extremely unlikely for her to touch anything in this room. It was all my shit, stuff that she didn’t know much about, aside from what little I had taught her. I’d have to ask about that when I got to the saloon.

Closing the door to my office, I made my way into the bathroom. I ran the water for a few minutes to get the sediment out of the old pipes and I hopped in.

Leaning under the showerhead, I let the hot water wash away my sins, starting from the nape of my neck all the way down the back of my calves.

I closed my eyes and enjoyed it, feeling life being massaged back into me. My tiredness was waning, which was good, because bed would come much, much later. We had to go to the hospital a few hours away, and set up guards for the border again.

I reached down for my soap and saw Grace’s shampoo on the lip of the tub. I reached down and popped the top, filling my lungs with her apple scent. Suddenly my excitement at the thought of cuddling with my old lady ravaged my brain, circumventing any additional thoughts.

I had to see her.

The excitement extinguished whatever fatigue was left in my body. I washed as quickly and thoroughly as I could. Slamming the water off, I half-assed dried my body and got to brushing my teeth.

The grit on my teeth felt disgusting. I scrubbed and scrubbed until my teeth felt as clean as the kitchen floor had been bleached. I trimmed my beard to get rid of the scraggily parts, attempting to make myself look less homeless.

The last bit of heaviness in my eyelids evaporated with the familiar burn of mouthwash against my gums and nostrils. I combed in a little beard oil and took off to get dressed.

Locking the front door, I turned to survey the neighborhood. Just as I left it, serene and soaked in blissful ignorance at the monster that lived in their presence. I brushed off the negativity quickly as I thought of my Grace again. With purpose, I walked to my bike. Fuck, we hadn’t been away from each other this long since she got here. What was she turning me into? And why didn’t I care?

I crawled back out of the neighborhood and onto the state road, where I let it rip, the pipes on my bike screaming bloody murder as I headed for the saloon.

Pulling up next to my Corvette, I parked behind the saloon. One look at the clubhouse and I could tell most of the boys were back in town. Bikes lined the front side of it and the faint noise of heavy metal could be heard through the walls.

A couple of my boys were outside smoking, looking my way. Their stares were lingering, and if they were anyone else, I’d ask them if we had a fucking problem. I just ignored it and turned to enter the saloon. Opening the door, I almost ran headfirst into Marley. Her eyes were swollen like she’d been crying. She just covered her mouth and shot past me.

“Hello to you, too,” I mumbled over my shoulder as I entered the bar.

I stopped when I saw mom. Her eyes were bloodshot and her cheeks were red, something that pulled at my heart. “Mom, what’s wrong?!”

I rushed to her side and pulled her into a tight hug. I hated seeing my Mom cry. Was there anything worse? Who had died? This was maybe the third time I’d seen her break down in my entire life.

She pulled away and seemed to age before my eyes. “Mijo, it’s about your lady and your sister.”

“Grace? Where is she? What about Tatum?” I looked around, noting the solemn faces and the sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. Veesa sputtered a few unintelligible words as she started to cry harder. Her chin quivered, bouncing her lip.

“What the fuck are you talking about, Mom?!”

Royal entered, immediately moving to my side. “Bro, come here.” Royal gave me a hug, slapping his hand hard against my back. This threw me off even more. Had my fucking dog just died? I didn’t even have one of my own. All I had that meant shit was Grace.  But Grace had Bella . . .

I pushed Royal aside and shot out of the kitchen into the saloon. There wasn’t much to see, other than some chairs out of place. No blood. Nothing noting a struggle. Harvey stood with his hands on his hips.

I walked over to stand toe to toe with him. “The fuck is going on, Boss?”

He looked pissed. Lola sat at the bar, clearly upset. The ashtray in front of her loaded with cigarettes freshly smoked.

“Yeah,
Boss
. Tell him just what the fuck is going on!” Lola flicked her cigarette butt at him, missing him by a mile. She then stumbled out of the bar, sobbing, clearly trashed. “This is your fault, you stupid fucker!” Harvey followed Lola out without a word of explanation.

My mind was starting to lose its grip, the lack of information allowing my imagination to run wild. A hand landed on my shoulder and made me jump slightly.

“I’m sorry, brother. They took her. Both of them.”

“What? Who? When?”

“They took Grace and Tatum. We don’t know who, but it looks like a cartel that was muling our territory. Apparently, Tatum killed one a few days ago. Happened yesterday morning after chow.”

Images filled my head like a kaleidoscope of horror.

My knees gave out.

Images of them cutting off Tatum and Grace’s fingers.

“No,” I whispered.

Images of them pulling their toenails out. I heard their screams.

“No,” I murmured.

Burning them with red-hot brands. I could smell their flesh cook.

“NO!” I yelled as I shot to my feet.

I grabbed a bar stool and launched it at the booze hanging on the wall. As shattered glass filled the air, I shouted, “NO!”

Harvey and Lola. I shot out after them. Planting a booted foot right through the door with my unchecked rage, my arms instinctively shoved it forward off my leg and swung it out on its hinges.

“HARV!” I shouted. “You son of a bitch! I’ll fucking kill you!” My eyes scanned the parking lot, not finding my target.

A set of arms wrapped around me from behind, pinning my arms to my side and, fueling my rage. Whoever was behind me picked me up off my feet and just held me.

“Calm down, brother!” Mac shouted too close to my ear.

Using his voice as a location, reared my head back and aimed for his face. The arms holding me fell away, and I hopped off the porch. Not feeling the five foot drop with my tired knees, I stood up straight to get my bearings. Yelling from behind me broke my concentration. I turned just in time to see a snarling Mac barreling off the porch, preparing to tackle me to the ground.

I attempted to square off and absorb as much of the man as I could, but the weight and inertia was too much. His shoulder buried into my stomach and I fell backwards. As my back hit the pavement, my bloodlust soared.

I wanted it.

I needed it.

I needed to kill.

Something. Anything.

Mac pinned my arms with his knees. His eyes burned with rage and tears as his bloody nose dripped down his goatee. I roared in his face. Mac brought one big mitt for a hand back and planted a curled fist in my face. The lights went out.

Images of men raping the girls while they were missing fingers, toenails, and with brands marking their lower backs flashed through my mind. Their screams became my screams as I roared, whimpered, sobbed, and roared again.

I was in shackles that hung from the ceiling as two men brought Tatum and Grace within inches of my face. The girls’ faces showed their terror. The men pulled knives across their throats.

I shouted as arterial spray pumped blood onto my face, into my mouth, and soaked my beard. I continued to scream, gagging on the blood in my mouth.

The blood was cold, was missing that iron taste. Only a lifetime of experience made me realize that it wasn’t blood. It was beer.

I startled awake, shirt off, and hands bound behind my back. The image of my closest friends came into focus. The beer stung my eyes and trickled off my chin.

“The fuck!” I shouted.

“Fuck you, man!” Mac shot towards me, ready to knock my ass out again.

“Enough!” Royal interrupted, startling Mac from his bloodlust. He planted his hands in my chest and Mac’s, as if I was going somewhere. “Everyone calm the fuck down. Tread, we think we know who took the girls. We got leads, brother.”