Slate (Rebel Wayfarers MC) (50 page)

Taking in a deep breath, Slate let it out in a series of gasps, feeling lightheaded. “Holy shit, she’s okay,” he breathed. “She’s okay. Oh, fuck me, she’s okay,” he repeated to himself until she walked into his arms. Holding her tightly, he kissed her hair and cheek fiercely over and over. “Baby, oh, thank fuck.”

“Slate, babe...what’s wrong?” she asked into his chest; he had her trapped immobile against him.

“Ruby, you weren’t in the car, but your phone was. Baby, you didn’t take anyone with you, and I didn’t know where you were,” he whispered. “Thank fuck you are all right, baby.”

“I’m right here, babe,” she murmured. “I’m right here.”

He held her until his heart slowed and the pressure eased in his throat. When he finally regained his composure, he cleared his throat, pressed his lips against the side of her head again, and asked, “You still want lunch, baby?”

The four of them sat on the upper level at Clara’s Pizza King, taking up residence at one of the tables that had a porch swing on one side instead of a bench. Slate and Ruby had claimed the swing, and she had her feet tucked up on the seat; one arm around her knees, she was leaning into his side as they ate their pizza.

“I love this place,” she said. Pointing at the wall behind the two men across from them, she said, “That stained glass window is beautiful; it makes this place unique.”

“Me? I just like the pizza,” said PBJ, rubbing his belly lightly and laughing.

“After this, you can head out to Slinky’s,” Slate said. “I’ll follow Ruby to the apartment, make sure she gets inside okay, then I can meet you at the club.”

PBJ shook his head. “I’d feel better if we rode with you, Prez. Highwaymen are still reporting shit from up north, and you know the success we’re seeing here in the Fort makes you a target.”

Slate shook his head. “Nah, it’s a short run. I’ll meet you at Slinky’s, man. It’s all good.”

***

“Holy fuck,” said a voice, and a different one responded, “No shit.” Slate wanted to tell them to keep it down to a mild roar; he hadn’t suffered from a hangover this bad...ever.
Fuck
, he felt like his head was nearly detached from his fucking body. Good goddamn, it hurt...oh no; goddammit, he was gonna puke. Fuck, he
hated
throwing up.

“He’s vomiting; roll him,” he recognized Goose’s practical-sounding voice, and then hands roughly pushed him around so he didn’t puke all over himself. Nice of them, but they could have been easier with it; his head fucking hurt. “What the fuck is that smell?” was asked from somewhere near his feet. “Ether, I think,” he heard, as he started slowly regaining control.

“Fuck me,” he muttered. “What the fuck…?” He raised one hand to clutch at his forehead, knowing he was going to puke again.

“Welcome back, Prez.” That was Goose again. There was a wheeze, and without opening his eyes, he knew someone was down in his face.

Sure enough, he heard Hoss’ voice from right in front of him. “Prez, where’s Ruby?”

With that single question, Slate was pulled from the fuzziness that still surrounded him, and propelled into the present, complete with debilitating pain. He opened his eyes to see he was lying in front of the elevator in the parking garage. Twisting his body, he saw the Civic parked behind him, the doors all tidily closed.

“She was standing with me, here,” he said. “Ruby was right here.” Turning to scan the garage, he didn’t see that mane of red curls anywhere. “She was right here,” he said again, puzzled. There was a flurry of activity as Hoss called out orders to the brothers gathered in the apartment’s garage. Men were pulling out phones, scattering towards their rides, which were randomly parked like pick-up-sticks across the area near the elevator.

“Is she in the apartment?” Slate asked rolling to his hands and knees, trying to get his feet underneath him so he could stand. “Prez, hold on; you’ve got a nasty head wound,” Goose said soothingly. “Let me help you up, man.”

Slate glared at him, shouting, “
Is she in the fucking apartment?
” He clutched at his head again as the pain ratcheted up about fifteen degrees.

Hoss looked at him steadily. “She’s not in the apartment, and her phone is turned off; it’s going straight to voicemail. We can’t track it. No one has seen her since you guys left the pizza place.”

Slate bent over, hands on his knees, puking again. He stayed there for a minute, thinking there was something important he needed to remember about the garage. Straightening up and wiping at his mouth with the back of a hand, he said, “Security cameras…there are security cameras here. Make the call Hoss; let’s get the footage. Lock us down too, man.”

After searching the apartment himself, Slate rode his bike back to the clubhouse; he knew he wasn’t any use right now out searching, but he’d be damned if he would simply sit around. He’d uploaded the security footage, and then called Myron. By the time they got there, he would have the video sorted, and they’d see what happened.

Slate pulled out and checked his phone again, looking for any new texts or calls he might have missed. Whoever took Ruby had to want something, and he was ready to trade anything to get her back. He simply had to be ready when they contacted him. He couldn’t get a handle on who would have vanished her, but his money was on the fucking douche canoe Manzino. That fucker had released his territory way too easily, and he’d known it felt wrong. Now, he’d touched Ruby, and he was going to pay...and pay...and pay.

Slinging himself off the bike, he hurried into the clubhouse and into Myron’s office. “Tell me you found something,” he barked. “Fucking tell me something is on the footage.”

Nodding, Myron said, “We have it on the camera, Prez. It’s cued up and ready. Tell me when, man.”

“All right...roll that shit,” he told Myron, turning to look at the computer monitor. He saw the car and bike pull in, and saw them park beside each other. Slate watched as the two figures on the screen came together in what was clearly a passionate kiss, Ruby stretching up on her toes to meet his mouth. He saw as they turned towards the elevator, facing the camera, then figures came into frame from the sides and he stopped breathing.

There was no fighting; they’d dropped him within seconds, holding a cloth over his mouth and nose. Ruby struggled in the grip of one big guy; they could see she was screaming, her mouth open wide. Another figure walked into frame and kicked Slate in the head; Ruby sagged in the big man’s grip, still screaming. The figure moved towards her, reaching out one hand to cup her face and she stilled; they saw her knees buckle.

Turning around, heedless of the camera, the figure walked out of range of the camera as the big guy dragged Ruby along. One look at the face was all Slate needed to identify the motherfucker. It wasn’t Manzino, as much as he’d rather it be. The man who took Ruby was Demon, President of the Devil’s Sins, and Ruby’s personal nightmare.

***

He’d always been good at putting puzzles together, whether it was a job, run, or business. Slate’s gift was bringing the right people to the table to pull off whatever was being planned. He needed to tap into that talent, stir that skill, and right now, it was like his brain was frozen. He couldn’t think of anything except how Ruby had collapsed when Demon touched her face.

He knew he needed to pull it together. This was no different from dozens of other plans he’d laid over the past years. If he could simply get an outline going in his head, he could figure it out. Ruby’d screamed and fought when they took him down; she’d tried to get to him. He had to find her. Had to...

Staring at the floor between his boots, Slate sat on the edge of his desk with the door open so he could hear the comings and goings in the main room. He’d come in here to plug in his phone, not wanting to risk it going dead. She could be calling him soon, any time now.

One of the prospects had turned on music; Slate heard
Just Save Me
from Like A Storm, which was one of Ruby’s favorite songs. One night last week, she’d told him it was her song for him; as he’d thrust into her, she whispered between moans into his ear that it was because he’d saved her.

“Fuck me,” he breathed, “pull your shit together, man. You got this.” He called out to the main room, “Hoss, to me, man.”

His brother strode into his office. “Yeah, Prez?”

“You call Mason yet?” he questioned, and swore again when Hoss shook his head. “All right, how many brothers do we have available in the Fort?” He was making quick lists in his head.

“We have over fifty, Slate,” Hoss told him. “Did you put the chapter in lockdown? We got families coming in?” He needed to know, so he could plan on the clubhouse’s defense if needed.

“Yeah, you called that back at the garage.” Hoss looked at him quizzically.

“Okay. Get DeeDee in here if she’s not already on the way, man. I’m gonna make some calls. I want to talk to you, Bear, Gypsy, Tequila, and Deke in five minutes.” Slate ran his hands through his hair, leaving it standing up in all directions.

Hitting a number on his phone, he waited for the call to connect, cutting off Mason’s greeting harshly. “Prez, Ruby’s been taken. I’m going to war with Devil’s Sins. Motherfucker took her from my side, man. She was at my fucking side and wasn’t safe from him. I’m leaving Hoss here and taking twenty men. I think I know where they are; Bingo told me Sins had a clubhouse here in town. We’ll go there first, looks most promising.”

Listening to Mason’s crude response to the news, and relieved he gave full support of whatever it took to get Ruby back, Slate’s muscles unknotted a little bit. In response to Mason’s offer to come down, Slate said, “Nah, Prez, I got this. If he’s in the Fort, I got this. If he’s in the UP, I’ll need you where you are. Someone will update you every couple hours; I’ll see to that.”

They hung up after Mason told him, “I know this is shit, Slate, but you didn’t find her only to lose her. She’s your fucking always, man...not happening.”

Walking out into the main room, Slate shook his head at the offer of a beer; he wanted his mind clear for this. The men he’d asked for were waiting for him, and he strode over to where they stood. “Devil’s Sins had a clubhouse down on Wayne a few years ago. We’re going down and taking it. I’ve got Mason’s approval—any force necessary to get Ruby back. Fucking war, man. He’s calling the national president for the Sins now, but since that’s the same fucker who took Ruby, we don’t hold out any hope he’ll be reasonable,” he laid out the beginning of his plan.

“We need twenty members. Hoss, you aren’t going, man. You are second, and need to stay here, just in case. Tequila, Bear, and Gypsy, I need you to pick six members each, get them armed and ready to ride in ten minutes. Serious as fuck, man, I’m out the gate in ten fucking minutes, and it’s taking everything I have to wait that long. You don’t know the history between this motherfucker and Ruby, but every minute she’s in his control is sixty seconds too fucking long.”

“Pick your men, and assign them front or back for the entry. Gunny’s my pick; he’ll be on point from the back. She’s probably in the basement, which is accessed through the backyard, as well as through the house. Make your list, give it to Myron. He’s going to text building layout and the address to everyone.” He looked from face to face, making sure they all understood what was going down.

“Hoss, call Gasman and bring him up to speed. You need to call Mason in two hours; tell him what you know at the time. Rinse, repeat, Brother, as long as it takes. Deke, I need you to call your brother, man; warn LEO to stay the fuck out of my way.” His face turned grim. “I can guaran-damn-tee you there will be casualties today, Rebels. Pick your men wisely; let’s not leave babies fatherless if we can help it.”

Stepping back from the group, he yelled across the room, “Goose, come here.” Turning to walk back into his office, he waited for Goose to enter and shut the door. “Check me, man. Make sure I’m not putting anyone at risk; my fucking head hurts like shit, and I’m still trying to sick up.”

While Goose checked him over, Slate kept talking. “The motherfucker who took Ruby had her for six months a few years ago. He beat her bad, raped her over and over, and poured something down her throat that made her miscarry a baby. I want you with us, but hanging back. Only after we go in and find her do you breach a fucking door, but I need you there, man.”

He watched Goose’s hands pause as they moved over his head, and then saw them start to shake as the full import of what he’d said sunk in. “Not a fucker here knows this except me, and now you. That’s as Ruby wants it, but she’s going to need all of us, man. You are the only one I trust her with if he’s been at her again.” Slate tipped his head down in response to pressure on the back of his head.

“The stitches I put in are holding fine, and you don’t really show any signs of a concussion except the nausea. I think you are as o-fucking-kay as you are going to be right now, Prez.” Goose paused a second, then said, “I’ll pack a bag to take on my bike. She have clothes in your room?” Slate nodded, and Goose left the room at a run.

Outside, sitting astride his bike at the edge of the compound driveway, Slate looked at his phone to see the time. It was nearly eight minutes after he told them to roll, and there were more than twenty men sitting alongside and behind him. His brothers were ready to ride with him, no matter what the outcome. Lifting his hand and motioning, he roared into the street, headed towards where he hoped and prayed Ruby was.