Chrome & Leather - The Novel (Adriana Ness ♯1) (Motorcycle Club Romance) (15 page)

The three riders stopped in the deserted lot in front of the harbor. Row upon row of stacked and rusting cargo containers created branching corridors and blind alleys any one of which could lead to a trap. Pops stomach lurched as he got off his bike and approached a weather beaten map of the site. Every fibre in his being screamed at him to get on his bike and drive away. He knew that he had to do this for Blackjack and Red. The map displayed a list of cargo containers by number and color coded zone. His destination was in the green zone close to the back of the area. “You two go here and here,” he said pointing to the black and grey zones on the map. “That should give you a good view to where I’m going. Dig in and wait for my signal,” he said mounting his bike.

Pops took a side road that lead to the back of the massive container lot and parked his bike under a covered awning. The whole place was silent and not even a bird squawked.

Pops stopped at a row of containers and checked the serial number on the outside to see if it matched the one in the picture. It did. Pops placed one hand on the head of the claw hammer hanging from his belt. The weight of it in his hands reassured him, he felt a little safer knowing it was there and ready to be brandished in a split second. He reached out and grabbed the handle of the container door and yanked it down. The door swung open on well oiled hinges. The interior of the container was lit by florescent lights making everything inside look stark under the harsh illumination. The two brothers lay on the floor in a pool of congealed blood. Sitting on the chair and tied to it with electrical cord was Red, his head flung backwards. He had been shot below the chin sending a spray of blood and viscera over the walls and ceiling. Pops stomach churned at the sight. Red had been like a younger brother to him and he had often sought Pop’s counsel on some of the major deals the gang might get involved in. Red was one of the core revengeful eight whose numbers were now quickly dwindling. Pops felt like his life and the gangs very fabric were being torn apart by some force greater than them.
 

The gang had worked from the shadows for so many years, dispatching lesser hoods and gangs with ease when they stood in their way. Now it seemed like it was all starting to come back to cruelly bite them. Someone was out to kill the core members of the gang in a hope that it would pull them asunder. Pops would go down with his hammer swinging viscously before he let anybody destroy the gang and his fellow brothers in arms. Fly's buzzed around the corpses and several crawled over the faces of the fallen. Pops felt a greasy queasiness well up inside, he had to get outside and get some fresh air. Before he turned away he noticed a splash of color on Reds chest. A bright sticky note was stuck to him. Pops entered the container and pulled the note off. In neat block letters it said, “You fucked up. Now Blackjack. You die”.

Pops dropped the note on the ground and pulled his hammer from the belt loop. Fuck they were watching our approach he thought to himself, did they kill Red as soon as they knew Blackjack wasn't with him? As he stepped towards the door shots rang out across harbor. The high powered volley of automatic fire echoed around the container loading area. Fuck, Sam and Ed are under fire he thought as he slowly edged towards the door to get a better view. He scanned the tops of the rows of containers directly in front of him and could see no one. The coast looked clear. If he booked it he could make it to a tight alleyway between two rows of cargo containers directly ahead.
 

He ran towards the alley and as soon as he was clear of the safety of the container bullets kicked up dirt around him as they thudded into the ground at his feet. He pumped his arms and legs and ran as fast as his ageing frame could carry him. He felt a whistle of air zip by his ear and then a force twirled him around completely and he fell tumbling into the alley. He scrambled away from the open and exposed area were the gunman must be perched. His shoulder began to burn and a warm wetness began to fill his shirt. The bullet had hit him in the shoulder and passed clean out the back.
 

He got to his feet and his injured arm swung limply by his side. The mixture of adrenaline and the copious amounts of energy drinks he downed this morning pushed him on. He wove in and out of the myriad corridors between the containers hoping that he was heading in the general direction of were his bike was parked.
 

The gunshots stopped and he could feel it in his gut that his men had not made it out alive. Pops turned a corner and at the end he could see his bike parked under the canopy. He knew the men would be starting to convene on his area. If they had killed his gang brothers already his time was running out. He stopped for a second, looking down the narrow alleyway knowing that these next few moments could be his last. He kissed the head of his hammer for good luck and then sprinted for his bike. Blood oozed from his shoulder and splashed onto the gravel as he ran. He got to his bike and swung his leg over it. He lifted his damaged arm and ferocious lightning bolts of pain shoot through his shoulder. “Suck it up,” he growled to himself. The bike started and Pops focused on the road ahead knowing that as soon as he was out from under the canopy he would be exposed form several angles. “Now or never,” he shouted and gunned the engine.

The bike shot out from under the awning like a snarling beast. The engine roared and its meaty sound echoed off the containers. Almost immediately shots began to rain down around him. Clods of dirt exploded into the air as the high caliber rounds chewed up the surface. The side mirror of the bike exploded in a shower of glass and metal as a bullet ripped through it. Pops did not dare to look back as his bike sped forward. If he could make it to the sharp turn at the end of this row he would be able to get some cover from the tall rows of stacked containers. He turned the corner in a shower of dust and dirt and could feel the back wheel dangerously slide out as the bike tilted at a sharp angle. The bike wobbled and he righted it as he came out of the turn. He was feet away from relative safety and he hunched down as he focused on the road ahead.

Pops felt a burning line of fire trace its way from his ear and across his check as a bullet grazed his skull. Bullets dug into the road behind him in loud thwacks as his bike became obscured from view from the gunmen. He reached up to his head and his hand came away bloody. His ears buzzed from the sound wave of the bullet that had grazed him and cutting a ragged line from the base of his ear to the jut of his jaw. A few more skilful manoeuvres by Pops and he was clear of the shipping yard and back on the open road with no sign of pursuers. Yet..

With the war zone fading in his one remaining rear view mirror Pops finally let out a long jagged breath. It felt like he had been holding his breath since the first shot was fired. Only now as the adrenaline surging through his body began to wear off did the true brute force of the pain in his shoulder and jaw begin to hit him. His fingers felt numb and his whole damaged arm throbbed white hot pain through his body. Pops grimaced through the intense pain and drove at top speed back to the ranch.

“The time for talk is over,” Darian announced as they returned, “its play time now.”

He picked a syringe up off the trolley and walked behind Blackjack. Emily was hopping from foot to foot with a broad and crazed grin on her face. Linda saw the needle jab forward and glint as it entered Blackjacks chest a couple of inches from his heart. Darian depressed the plunger and stood back smiling at his crazed handiwork. Blackjack was completely still in his chair and for the first time his eyes showed signs of fear. Suddenly his body began to convulse against his ropes and every muscle on his chest was visible as they contracted into painful knots. He threw his head back and groaned loudly. Sweat drenched his body as he shook with the pain searing every fiber of his body. His skin darkened in color as he thrashed against his constraints. The chair creaked as his bulk flexed and relaxed again and again.

Linda couldn’t take it. The look of absolute pain on his face and his wild thrashing was seared into her brain. She had never seen someone in so much pain before. She looked away in horror. “Please stop,” she cried out.

Darian picked up a needle containing a green fluid and injected it into Blackjacks thigh. Slowly his body stopped contorting on the chair and the enflamed red pallor began to leave his skin. When the last of the cramps left his body his head sunk to his chest in complete exhaustion. His body was drenched in sweat and his chest heaved with relief from the searing pain.

“That’s only a fraction of the pain I went through. Pain that you caused me. I wont be so quick to end your suffering on the next injection. I’ll let the drug run its course. It takes a horse a few hours to flush it from their system. So what can we say for a man? Maybe twelve hours until its effects fade. Do you think you are strong enough to take that? Who knows maybe your heart will just give out under the pressure. Pain changes a man, it humbles him and holds a mirror up to his true self. Do you think this woman will see you in the same way when she sees you writhing around on the floor begging to be put out of your misery like a rabid animal. Pain strips away all pretences, all the swagger and fake bravado someone like you has falls away. This bitch is about to see that you are nothing more than a scared and mewling wretch.”

Darian picked up a syringe and walked towards Blackjack.
 

“Don’t do it please,” Linda screamed in panic.

Emily giggled at her outburst and Darian turned and winked at Linda and then plunged the syringe into Blackjacks neck. He pressed the plunger down all the way emptying the full contents of the syringe into his bloodstream. Darian bowed theatrically towards Linda while smiling broadly and creepily at her. “Enjoy the show,” he said as he and Emily walked away arm in arm towards the offices at the rear of the room.

Almost immediately the muscles in Blackjacks neck and shoulders began to twitch. He locked eyes with Linda as his face contorted with pain. Veins bulged in his neck as his skin darkened. His biceps and stomach muscles contracted painfully as the drug began to spread throughout his body. Linda couldn’t take it anymore, she couldn’t sit her and watch him as the pain ripped through his body. She frantically began to move her wrists and with each movement she could feel the rope loosen a tiny bit more. The skin on her wrists was ragged and broken and the rope burns had begun to draw blood. Linda tried her best to ignore the searing pain as nothing she was feeling could match the hell that Blackjack was going through.

The tape on Blackjacks face peeled off from one corner, loosened by his thrashing and the rivulets of cold sweat running down his beet red face. “Linda look at me,” he said in a growl, clenching his teeth through the spasms of pain. “You have to get free and kill those psychos. I’m not sure how much longer I can hold on. Kill them for me.” He threw his head back and bellowed in pain. The sound was almost inhuman in its unbridled agony. Linda could not bear it any more, she felt like she was going crazy her sanity slipping away as all hope seemed to diminish to nothing more than a lit match on a darkened night. Despair and abject horror were threatening to consume her when the rope loosened a fraction more and through a combination of her blood slicked hands and feral tenacity she freed her right hand from one of the loops.
 

Adrenaline was coursing through her body and her eyes were wide in fear. Linda tried to calm here self to blot out her surroundings and focus on her goal. She jerked in her chair and it hopped an inch forward, she twitched again and by painfully tiny increments she edged towards the trolley between her and Blackjack. She dared not look up at him, as the sounds of his extreme pain were enough to make her sick to her stomach with each of his shouts. Again the chair moved slightly forward in the right direction. Linda’s muscles buzzed with the exertion. Time seemed to standstill as she edged ever closer to the trolley. She looked wildly around to see if she was being watched, afraid that this was all some sort of elaborate set up to make her feel free for a brief moment only to cruelly snatch it away from her grasp. She could see neither of them watching at that moment, but she knew they could return any moment with more sick and twisted ways to torture Blackjack.

Her exertions got her closer to the trolley and she needed only one or two more hops and she would be in reaching distance of it. Her muscles felt like lead weights as she felt them weaken under the strain. She jerked her body and misjudged it, the chair began to topple and for one elongated second it looked like it was going to right itself. She toppled sideways knocking the trolley over and sending the contents spinning in every direction across the floor. The trolley clanged loudly as it slammed into the floor and Linda let out a pained “OOOFFF,” as she slammed into the floor. Her shoulder throbbed dully from the impact.
 
The syringes glittered like jewels on the dusty floor.
 

A door swung open and slammed loudly and Linda looked across the room. Emily was skipping out of one of the derelict offices towards her. Within seconds she would be on top of her. Linda looked around wildly for any syringes that had landed close to her. The closest one was outside of her reach and she would never wriggle closer to it in time. Than her hands behind her back touched something, the cold glass of a syringe. One had had been thrown to within her grasp when the trolley came crashing down. She stretched out and the tips of her fingers brushed against the needle. Please don’t let it slip away she feverishly thought to herself.

As Emily closed the gap Linda’s fingers found purchase on the needle and pulled it into the palm of her hand.

“You look like a disgusting dirty wriggling worm down there,” Emily said with a sneer. “You know what I do to worms? I crush them under my boot.” She placed the heel of her boot on Linda’s throat and began to press down all the while laughing manically. Linda became dimly aware of a succession of flashing lights as she felt her air cut off by the pressure. Her neck creaked and popped at the increasing force from her boot.