Merciless Ride (19 page)

“Got it bad this time, brother.”
 

“Fuck off, Boomer,” I reply, not trying to hide my agitation.
 

“Took off from work when you knew she was okay, drove straight here, hugged her, and now watchin’ her work.”
 

“Shut it, Boomer,”
 

“She’s a hot thing. After what she went through, you’re her hero, man.”
 

“I’m no one’s hero.”
 

“I beg to differ,” Boomer states in all seriousness.
 

Boomer was part of my team. He knows me better than most and takes that liberty to be brutally honest with me. He got out of the Army two years ago, and after spending a year riding the open highway, he came to visit me and stayed. His brown hair is in need of a cut along with the shave he is overdue for. Boomer likes his shaggy look, but don’t think the man isn’t put together in his mind. He is setting down roots here in Catawba and prospecting for the Hellions.
 

When my phone pings with a text, two words pop up:
Sermon Immediately
. Something is going down.
 

Tossing some money on the table for Tessie, I make my way to her.
 

“Gotta run, baby. See ya tonight. You need me, you call. If I can’t answer, Boomer will.”
 

She nods her head and I take off. Unfortunately, I can’t answer my phone in sermon. I will leave my phone with Boomer, should Tessie need someone. Since she started her shift, she seems to be busy; therefore unable to dwell on what is going on around her. I doubt she will call, but I would rather be safe than sorry.
 

A thought hits me. Could the bike she heard have been Shep? Did they find him? Is that what a sermon has been called for?
 

Wasting no more time, I break more than one or two traffic laws as I make my way to meet with my club. Within forty-five minutes of the message, we are all assembled.
 

Tripp calls the meeting to order, his face not hiding the contained rage he is battling within.
 

“Gonna keep this short and simple. Got a message,” Tripp barks out at us.
 

After a swipe and a few clicks on his phone, a video plays. Slice, one of our drivers, is tied to a chair, his arms restrained with zip ties to the arms of the chair.
 

“Your club is now our enemy. Not by our hand, but by your own. We all face choices. Tripp, your brother has been delivered unto us. We captured him during your raid of our recent shipment. You may have gotten our goods, but we got your brother. The sins of one should not fall upon the shoulders of the innocent. Shep will not be handed over, no matter what my brother Thorn’s orders are to the crew.” Preacher’s sick laugh fills our now silent room as we watch the video, helpless to do anything for Slice.
 

“Joshua 21:44
. And the Lord gave them rest on every side, according to all that he had sworn to their fathers, and no one of all their enemies stood before them; the Lord gave all their enemies into their hand.
The Lord delivered you unto our hand, Hellion. We have been given rest. And now the Lord hath delivered our enemies to our hand,” Preacher recites the scripture in his sick, twisted version.
 

Then he pulls a knife out of his waistband. Taunting Slice, he cuts across his forearms. Four cuts on each arm for the eight shipments we have taken from their club. Slice fights against the unrelenting restraints as his arms bleed out, grunting in pain.
 

“By these hands, you stole from my family. By these hands, you pay,” Preacher rambles on while he produces a machete off a nearby table.
 

Tripp’s chest rises and falls heavily as his breathing increases, watching our brother helpless to do anything. When Preacher raises the machete and slams it down, blood splatters the video screen as we hear Slice scream out in pain.
 

“As the Lord delivered our enemy to our hands, we deliver your own hands back to our enemy. His hands will be all you get back.”
 

The screen goes black as the room fills with aggression and anger.
 

“Everything they say about Preacher is true. The fucker is crazy or on something. And his ramblings are gibberish. None of that bullshit he spouted makes sense,” Kix pipes up.
 

“He punished the club for our antics in pushing Shep out of hiding. We have attacked their entire club for the ‘sins of one,’ meaning for what Shep did to Tessie. We are their enemy. In that fucker’s head, God delivered us to their hands, so Slice was given to them for what we have done. It’s twisted and goes against anything the Hellions would do. Thorn has ordered Shep to turn himself in to us, but the order is being ignored or no one knows where he is. Either way, Thorn is fucked from both outside his club and inside,” Head Case explains.
 

Tripp is still staring at the now blank screen, breathing heavily. “I want Shep out of hiding. He will pay for Tessie and now Slice!” He looks to me. “You call every contact you have, both on the right side and the wrong side of the law. I want Shep brought to us. We are puttin’ that fucker in the ground by our own hands. Thorn needs the message that I’ll kill every fucker it takes to get to Shep. I’m done playing with his transports and his money. If they want blood, it’ll be their own I spill.”
 

“If the Outlaws and the Regulators can’t find him, Lock can. Lock, though, he won’t flip for us. He’s gotta stay clean in this,” I inform Tripp of who I can reach out to easily. Lock is a cop and stays in touch pretty regularly.
 

“I don’t give a fuck what we have to do, who we have to owe, you get Shep here. Call every marker we have. Make it happen,” Tripp orders.
 

“On it.”
 

My mind runs wild. Slice was a good man, and without having medical treatment, he most likely bled out in that chair while they did who knows what else to him. There is no way they let him live.
 

I step to the back of the room while the others continue to discuss how fucked up in the head Preacher is. Picking up a burner phone out of the file cabinet on the back wall, I dial the man with the most contacts. I reach out to the Regulators.
 

“Alibi,” Ice answers.
 

“It’s Shooter. I need a secure line.”
 

“Negative,” Ice replies. “Clean it up or tread water. Heard you got yourself an ol’ lady,” he laughs.
 

At his comment to ‘clean it up or tread water,’ I know he is telling me the line is secure, but he is not in a position to give me free replies. Therefore, I proceed with only tidbits of information so he can get started yet not give anything away to any ears listening around him. The mention of my ol’ lady lets me know he is aware of my situation to some degree. Doesn’t surprise me; the Regulators MC has more contacts on both sides of the law than any club.
 

“I need to find someone who is underground.”
 

“Toilet problems happen to us all, brother. Little wifey doesn’t like dealin’ with shit, either,” Ice states, letting me know he understands I need to flush someone out of hiding to take care of Tessie.
 

“Shep from the Desert Ghosts MC, Dana Shepard is his legal name.”
 

“Get a fuckin’ plunger, and I’ll call a plumber. You got a mess on your hands.”
 

Well, I do have a mess on my hands, but at least he will make a call for me. Ice will get the intel on Shep’s location or scare him enough to walk right up to our clubhouse of his own free will to avoid the connections the Regulators have.
 

Turning back to my club, I give Tripp a chin lift to let him know it is under control on my end. Waiting is the hardest thing. Some of the guys want to go in, guns blazing, after the Ghosts. However, Tripp is level-headed enough to know we have to plan our attack, especially if Thorn really has no control over his club right now.
 

 

Secrets Revealed
 

 

Something is going on. Shooter came home after my shift last week and moved us all into his house. This whole ‘club business’ shit gets real old, real quick. Not that I need to know every detail, but when my safety is an issue to the point that I have to uproot my son and my mother to protect them, then damn, some information would be helpful. Granted, I haven’t come right out and asked questions either. Would Shooter give me answers or shut me out?
 

I can’t complain, or at least, I shouldn’t; Shooter is keeping us safe. His house is amazing with the three bedrooms, two full bathrooms, and the family room with a fireplace a girl could fall in love with. His kitchen is a dream to cook in, and he has a full dining room with a table that could seat eight. Everything about his place screams family home, yet he lives here comfortably alone.
 

The rooms and door jams are wide, easily accommodating Momma’s wheelchair when she needs it. Shooter, ever the gentleman, has moved to his empty room on an air mattress so Momma could have his room with the bathroom connected. He was sleeping on the couch the first couple of nights, although I tried to get him to let us all share one room. I would’ve given Momma the bed and slept on the floor with Axel, but since he wouldn’t let us do that, I went and bought the air mattress and set it up for him two nights ago.
 

Axel is on a cot in the second bedroom, something Shooter had stored in his garage. With Shooter being ex-Army, Axel is obsessed now with becoming a soldier like him. He thinks sleeping on a cot in our room here is the coolest. The room is void of decorations. The cot doesn’t get in the way since the space only houses a bed, small dresser, and single nightstand. Everything is minimal.
 

Honestly, out of the nine nights we have stayed here, Shooter has ended up in his guest bed with me. Too bad needing to be strong for my son doesn’t keep the nightmares at bay. I end up crying out in the middle of the night or waking up in a panic. No matter how quiet I try to stay, it’s like Shooter can sense it. He ends up holding me until I fall back asleep.
 

There is something about him that soothes me. He carries himself in a collected, calm, and controlled manner at all times; maybe my subconscious is drawn to that. As long as I am wrapped in the safety and comfort of his strong arms, I sleep without waking and without the nightmares.
 

Deciding to be as helpful as possible, I have given his already spotless house a spring cleaning. Light fixtures are cleaned, floors scrubbed, and vents dusted. With there being so little furniture cleaning is relatively easy. Feeling like I need to do more, I venture into doing laundry for Shooter. Mistake.
 

Don’t ask a question you aren’t prepared for the answer to. Don’t go in a man’s drawers, whether to innocently put laundry away or not, unless you are prepared to pull out some skeletons from his past.
 

The black velvet box in his sock drawer is haunting me. I have pulled it out and put it back more times than I can count on both my hands. The soft fabric under my fingers is a firm reminder this was once a gift for someone very special. The temptation to open the tiny box, to test the hinge, to touch the silk lining I am sure is inside, is almost too much to resist. The box is an enticing temptress. I keep going back to it.
 

Someone at some point in time meant so much to Shooter that he bought the contents of this box for her. In all the years I have watched Shooter leave the bar, he is mostly alone. The more I think on it, he has never arrived with anyone on his arm. Sure, I have seen him leave with Corinne a couple of times and a few of the other barflies, but Shooter isn’t like the others. He isn’t in your face with his sexual conquests. Someone had him at some point, though: hook, line, and sinker. He was there, ready to give them everything. Why does that pull at me so hard?