Blood and Honor (20 page)

Chapter Forty-Four

I can do this.

I have to do this.

Mickey had been standing in a grungy gas station bathroom for the better part of an hour. Her plan seemed like a good one at the time, but as she got closer to the Phantoms’ hangout bar
, Lenny’s,
she began to shake with anxiety. This club ruled these streets. If anyone would know where to find Rhee, they would. The place looked dangerous. But, if Rhee was close by, someone there would know. She just had to be careful who she talked to.

Mickey took a deep breath and made her way back to the parking lot. It was going to be dark soon, and this wasn’t the place to be stuck alone. The bus wasn’t coming back for an hour so it was either hide out in the bathroom, or work up her nerve and get some information. There was no way in hell she was going to approach a biker compound uninvited unless she had reason to believe her sister was on the premises.

So, here she stood.

Her eyes fell on the row of bikes in front of
Lenny’s.
A neat, shiny line of
Dynas—
street bikes. These guys were practical rather than flashy. Not like Dizzy and his crew, who preferred a lot of chrome and ape-hangers.

Mickey shuddered, blinking her eyes in the fading light. She pulled the tattered newspaper clipping from her pocket and forced herself to look at it. The man in the background was
him
. Mickey was positive about that. She would never forget that particular face. Never—not for as long as she lived.

There was no going back. She had to keep going. Taking a deep breath, she started to walk towards the bar. She was so lost in her own anxiety that she didn’t hear the car pull up beside her until it was almost too late. A man’s voice, low and clipped, sounded from behind her head.

“Michaela Blake?”

A deafening roar filled her ears.
Oh, God, they found me.

She had no idea who was speaking her name—the cops, members of a rival gang, the cartel—but she knew she had to get away.

Mickey took a faltering step back, not daring to look at the speaker. Her eyes flitted nervously to the bar. It seemed so far away now.

“Nope,” she said weakly, as the rumble of a lone bike approached. She focused on the sound as if it were a beacon.

“We both know who you are, Miss Blake…”

A heavy hand came down on her shoulder and she lost her shit. Mickey screamed, the thin, reedy noise piercing the air as she jerked her head straight back. She saw stars as the back of her skull cracked against what she hoped was her attacker’s nose. She fell to her knees, hearing a man grunt with surprise and pain. She scrambled to get to her feet and then she was in the street.

Everything seemed to slow down. Her legs felt like they were stuck in cement as she fought to get to the bar. Her lungs seized up and a familiar feeling tickled the edges of her consciousness. The mother of all panic attacks was rapidly approaching.

She faltered in the road. It was like watching a horror film, part of Mickey’s brain mused, as she watched herself sinking down on black asphalt. She wanted to scream at herself to move, to get out of the way, but her body wouldn’t obey.

Well, at least I tried,
she thought, oddly relieved at the thought of her demise.
Now, it’s finally over and I can get some rest.

Then, she sank to her knees and fell over—directly in the path of the oncoming motorcycle. There was a screech and the acrid scent of burned rubber made her nostrils sting. She waited for the pain of an impact that didn’t come. Then, like a dark, avenging god, a man’s face appeared, his dark head illuminated by a bright light that grew brighter and brighter as he approached. The look in his eyes was concerned…and kind.

Did I die?
Is he an angel?
Will he take me to heaven…or to hell?

A burning sensation in her feet and ankles answered her question.
Ah—the fires of hell.
At last, I get what I deserve.
With a pained sigh, Mickey turned her cheek and just…gave in.

***

Wince slept hard for three hours but he still woke up feeling fried. Nonstop hacking followed by a thirty-minute break in Darling Park with Sirena did him in. Dax had his little girl for a few hours but shit came up. Wince had taken her to feed the ducks and then Tank took her back to the house, where Rhee waited. Well, at least he had something to go on now. What he discovered was so twisted it made his stomach turn. The thing was big—bigger than he had assumed when he hacked into the
Darling Dolls
website. He blew up Dax’s phone but the man hadn’t yet responded, so Wince was still sitting on the nasty information.

Wince checked his messages as he pulled on his jeans and his cut. Slade was at the bar—that kid had some shit on his shoulders but Wince had too much of his own crap going on to ask about it. No matter, Slade seemed like the kind of guy who kept his shit to himself. The kid contacted Wince twice wanting a face to face. Even though he was beat, Wince was going to have to stop at
Lenny’s
first. He’d deal with Slade and kick back a few before he told Rhee that her baby sister was involved in a child sex scandal.

It was that special part of the day when the daylight had all but faded but there was still a slight glow present. The streets were empty and still—just the way he liked them. He hit the gas, feeling the machine beneath him hum with power. Sometimes, speed had a way of making him feel like he could outrun the demons that chased him.

But, too much speed was dangerous.

Too much speed made you lose control.

Too much speed made you fly right past the present moment, without taking time to appreciate what was right in front of you.

Like the kid who stumbled into the road.

“Shit!”

He hit the brakes so hard that he had to fight to stay on his bike. He laid the thing down next to the gutter, amazed that he hadn’t crashed straight into the bar. Wince pulled off his helmet angrily, and tossed it onto the asphalt. Some fuckin’ kid, probably drunk off his ass, dressed all in black, passed out in the street—what the fuck was he thinking?!

He stomped over to the small figure lying crumpled in the road and took a closer look.

The kid was small—he couldn’t be more than a teenager. A low moan issued from the inert form. He took another step and a car door slammed, jerking his attention to a spot about hallway down the road. Someone was there. Maybe this kid was running from them? Wince glanced back. Seemed like the kid was headed for the bar. Maybe he knew Lenny, or one of the guys.

Fuck it all to hell.
Just what I need.

He knelt over the kid and gently rolled him over to gauge how bad his injuries were. Wince took in the small, heart-shaped face, stubborn nose, and rosebud mouth. It took a second for him to realize that this was no boy.

“Fuck.” Wince swore aloud.

A soft groan issued from the girl. She curled her body into the fetal position. Wince knelt closer and she stared at him with unfocused eyes. He cocked his ear to her full mouth to hear her whisper something that sounded like, “I’m in hell.”

“Yeah, baby, I’m sure it feels like that right about now.”

Her eyes fluttered closed. Wince checked her over quickly, looking for blood, contusions, or anything else that might suggest why this girl was lying unconscious in the middle of the road. He didn’t smell the telltale reek of alcohol on her so he knew she wasn’t drunk. He pushed up the sleeves of her oversized sweatshirt and found no track marks.

Not a drunk.
Not a junkie.
Maybe a hang-around?

Could be that the girl was on her way to
Lenny’s
to get invited to the yard party? Wince sighed. He couldn’t just leave her here, where anyone could come along, or a car could finish her off. He gathered the girl in his arms. She was small and frail—he was able to pick her up easily.

A vehicle came up so fast that when it slowed down a few yards away he took notice. Then, the driver floored it and the vehicle zoomed past, nearly clipping his bike.

Fuck, we need to get out of the street.

The girl’s eyes flew open. “No…no cops…” she whispered.

“No worries, sweet thing.” He had no reason to help her—but a strong pull deep inside him urged Wince to act fast.

He took three rapid steps towards the bar before the door opened and Slade emerged, rubbing his eyes in the dim light.

“What the fuck happened now?” The Phantoms
’
newest patch wanted to know.

“Get me the keys to
Lenny’s
car.” Wince barked.

“That piece of shit?” Slade stepped closer, to examine the girl. “Who the fuck is she?”

“Don’t know. Ever seen her before? Maybe she’s a stalker?”

“Nope. Promise you that, brother. Never seen her around. Not here, not at any of the yard parties.”

“I’m gonna take her to the compound—fix her up. Get a better look at her. The light is shit out here.”

Slade nodded. “The van’s out back.”

They loaded the barely conscious girl into Lenny’s seventy-four Dodge.

“Fuck, man, I have some intel for you. The guys at the dock…”

“Slade, whatever it is, fuckin’ handle it. Got my hands full here.”

The new patch nodded and pulled the heavy side door shut. Wince turned the key and the vehicle sputtered to life. He prayed the damn thing made it to the compound. He glanced at his passenger, wondering what her poison was. Drugs? Drink? She didn’t make a sound and her silence was disconcerting. A text lit up his phone. Slade again.

Club doc on the way.

Wince nodded to himself. Good. Wouldn’t do to have some chick die in his bunk. He knew he should have minded his own business but there was just something about this female that brought out the same protective feeling he had for Rhiannon.

The clubhouse was quiet that evening and the few guys who littered the front room didn’t blink an eye when he strode in carrying a passed out girl—one of the perks of living in an fuckin’ compound. He managed to get the door open without putting her down—she was that slight. Underweight. Yeah, all signs pointing to drugs. Hard shit. Maybe smack.

Aw, fuck it,
Wince told himself.
Give the chick the benefit of the doubt.

Carefully, Wince placed the girl on his bed and turned on the light to examine her better. She was thin—too thin—with delicate features. Pretty—even with the short, choppy haircut she was sporting. Her hair was pretty light and upon close inspection, he could see patches of darker hair at the nape of her neck. The girl had obviously rushed a dye job. He conducted the rest of his search to make sure she had no needles or weapons hidden in her clothing and that’s when he found it.

Inside the girl’s front pocket, he discovered a tattered newspaper clipping that was so worn it was paper thin and fraying at the edges. When he got a good look at it, he froze. It was a photo of Rhiannon at one of her fundraisers. He was so tired, it took him a minute.

Why would this girl have a photo of Rhee in her pocket?

The hairs on the back of Wince’s neck began to tingle as he switched on the ceiling light.

No way.
No fucking way.

Wince was a numbers guy—he always had been—and he knew that the likelihood of this girl being the one he had been searching for was fucking impossible. With shaking fingers he pulled up the best picture of Michaela Blake that he had on file. He studied it for several moments and then stared at the young woman who lay senseless on his bed. Wince shook his head in disbelief. He fell into his recliner before his legs could give out on him.

Then, he just stared.

Chapter Forty-Five

The first thing Mickey became aware of was well, a lack of the usual physiological drama that was present when she woke up. Her heart was not pounding so hard she thought it was going to break out of her chest. There was no damp sickly sweat dripping down her neck. There were no splinters of horror lodged in her brain to remind her of her past as the memories faded back into the recesses of her mind.

No, there were none of those things and that’s why Mickey thought she was dead.

There was a certain kind of relief that went along with thinking she was dead, which she punctuated with a long sigh that echoed for a few moments. The brief lightening of her heavy heart was all too soon replaced by oppressive regret and guilt. Even in death, Mickey thought regrettably, there was still shame. Silently, she opened her eyes to survey her surroundings.

It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dim light, so she lay there, stretching her arms over her head. Ouch. Experimentally, Mickey moved her limbs, feeling a dull pain in her neck and shoulder. Her back positively ached and there was something quite wrong with her right ankle. Odd. She didn’t expect that she would feel pain after she died. Unless…

I am in hell.

With a gasp, Mickey sat straight up—and that’s when she saw him.

A man sat facing the door in a recliner—she could just make out his features in the dim light that glowed from a crack in the door to his right. A familiar panic began to overtake her as the figure rose from his position. A light clicked on and now she could see his features.

He was tall, but not overly so, with an athletic build. His hair was short and dark. But it was the intelligence that glittered in the stranger’s dark eyes that got to Mickey—the man seemed to see inside her very soul. She held her breath, confused and frightened. Finally, the man spoke and his words terrified her so much that she could no longer hold the fear in check.

“Michaela Blake. I’ve been looking all over for you.”

Terror ignited by his words propelled her onto her feet—and then she promptly fell back onto the bed with a yelp. Her foot, her ankle, something—hurt terribly. She was trapped, like a lame animal trying in vain to escape a predator. Mickey sucked in a breath as she heard his slow, measured footsteps come closer. When she dared to open her eyes a slit, she could see the tops of the man’s sneakers through the space between her folded arms.