Tarnished Lies and Dead Ends Page 10

  It was noon when they pulled into the parking lot chosen as the best staging point for the attack. A brilliant yellow sun hovered overhead, and he marveled at the dichotomy of bright daylight looking down on what was going to be a dark run. None of them get away this time. Within minutes, the rest of the men arrived, and they took off again in a close formation, bikes thundering up the street to the abandoned row of housing where they had good intel the escapees were currently squatting. The routed cartel members were supposed to be awaiting reinforcements, but after the drubbing the various alliance cells had received yesterday all along the coast from IMC, CoBos, Bama Bastards, and others, Wildman didn’t expect their back-at-home officers would be as quick to send more soldiers into the fray.

  People who’d been lazing around on porches along the way vacated, wisely disappearing inside their homes where it was far safer, because if this turned into a rolling shootout, slugs could and would go wild. The column had to go in fast and hard before any one of these helpful citizens became concerned enough to call in LEO. Reports of gunfire were not uncommon in the area, but a barrage of bullets and a herd of bikes would surely stand out. Twisted had opted to not alert the cops to this run, hoping to be in and out before their presence was much advertised.

  Toe punching the shifter down into neutral, Wildman heeled the kickstand down and was off the bike fast, thumb hitting the kill switch a microsecond before his fingers uncurled from the clutch. Racing side by side with Po’Boy, he sprinted to the front door of their assigned building, a single-family two-story. Noting the mesh window was already splintered, he yanked up at a corner peeled back to allow for access. Shoving his arm through, he twisted the handle to open the door as Po’Boy slipped past him. Wildman ignored the threatened rake of the exposed mesh and ragged glass against his skin, withdrawing his arm without missing a stride.

  Inside, he moved to the left, going around furniture clustered in the middle of the room and through the kitchen to meet Po’Boy coming from the other side. A loud crash from overhead had them both looking up, and without a word, he followed Po’Boy back to the stairs.

  “On three,” Po’Boy whispered loudly, and Wildman had to stifle his laughter. Long legs taking him up three stairs at a time, Po’Boy quietly made his way to the top. Hand around his mouth to redirect sound, he called out, “One.”

  Wildman hit the closed door with his shoulder, rolling with the impact and coming up with his gun in hand, already trained on the three men in the room. “Two,” he said, pulling the trigger in rapid succession, noting the spray on the walls across the room as the first two bullets found their marks.

  Po’Boy took down the last man, and in the silence that followed, said, “Three.”

  ***

  Wildman

  “Not a single man?” Wildman scrubbed across his jaw with one hand, hiding the grin trying to shine through. “That’s fuckin’ outstanding, brothers.”

  Every IMC and CoBos member who had rolled into Goodwoods now sat their bikes on the grocery store lot that was their homeward bound staging spot. Not a one of them missing, and none sported blood of their own.

  Wildman and Po’Boy weren’t the only ones who’d found targets in their assignments, and he watched as Twisted and Wrench compared proof photos against the cartel intel they’d had about the men who’d run from the shipping yard the previous day. The fierce smile Twisted wore as he lifted his head told the tale, and his raised fist was all the victory sign Wildman needed.

  “All of them, my brothers. Every fuckin’ one, eliminated.” Wrench flung an arm across Po’Boy’s shoulders and pulled him close to plant a noisy kiss against the side of his face. “Goddamned well done.”

  Wildman stepped closer to Twisted, bumping his shoulder softly to gain his president’s attention. “Brother.”

  “Yeah, man?” Twisted gave him a distracted glance, thumbs tapping across his screen. “Sup? I’m just updatin’ Retro.” Twisted’s features sharpened, and a muttered, “Fucking hell” was all he said before lifting the phone to his ear. “What kind of situation?” Silence flooded the space around where they stood, as nearby men recognized the urgency of the tone. Wildman wished he could hear the other end of the call, waiting impatiently for Twisted to give any indication of whatever had Retro torqued over. “Fucking hell, man. That’s some bullshit. In your motherfuckin’ house? The kids okay? Jesus, you give the word, and I’ll fuckin’ roll to Birmingham, brother. Those are my kids now, too. You left them with me for the summer, means I got a goddamned claim.”

  The fact Twisted was speaking in terms of possible and not probable was the only thing that kept Wildman from rushing to his bike. He’d gotten to know Retro’s kids well while they’d been staying with Twisted and Penny, and the idea of someone harming any of them set a flaming pit of anger loose in his gut.

  “Goddammit, Twisted, you gotta give us something.” Wrench’s voice was thin with suppressed emotion, and when Wildman glanced over, he was reminded that out of all of them, Wrench had grown up knowing Retro best, his uncle friends with the man for decades. “Good or bad, tip your goddamned hand.”

  “It’s all good.” Twisted patted at the air with one hand, and Wrench leaned back a touch. “Retro handled the shit, but we’ll need to cuss and discuss when we get back.” Twisted tipped his head towards the group of men. “Wild, get ’em mounted, and we’ll roll in a minute.” Twisted quieted as Wildman lifted a hand in the air with a loud whistle, forefinger making a large circle to urge the men to their bikes. The man was listening intently to whatever was being said on the phone, then nodded in mute support of whatever Retro had told him. “Heard and understood. Talk soon, gonna run my ducks back home. Yeah, yeah. Quack fuckin’ quack.”

  Wildman waited for the man to pocket the phone, waited for his gaze to lift, and once it locked with his, spoke his mind. “Don’t mean to add to your pile of shit, and don’t even know what it’ll take, but if she’ll have me, Justine LaPorte is mine.” The idea had been bouncing around his head since they’d left Hammond, and he’d leaned in and out on the thought with every pass. One time yes, the next no, and sometimes for the same damn reason. Removing the “where she came from” aspect settled the notion firmly into the yes column, without budging an inch. “I know it ain’t realistic, and fuck, man, she might laugh me out of the room for suggesting it, but if she’ll have me, then I want that goddamned chance. She’s mine, brother, and when I think or say it, the words resonate in a way I like. She fuckin’ fits me. Against all odds, yeah, but I’d be a stupid man to turn my back on what might be fate’s way of givin’ me back just a little bit of goodness.”

  “Never knew you to be stupid.” Twisted tugged on his fingerless gloves, flexing each digit to settle the garments into place, slotting his fingers together to push and pull the leather. “Saw your face this morning, man. Much as you tried playin’ it off, I know that look.”

  “What look?”

  A rare, broad grin split Twisted’s face, lips parting his signature beard to give out a flash of white. “Owned. I see it in my goddamned mirror every fuckin’ morning, but the first time I seen it was right before I made what could have been the biggest mistake in my life.” Twisted’s head swung back and forth heavily. “Pulled down Penny’s sun visor and stared at myself for half a minute before I jumped down out of her truck and walked away. Every fuckin’ step like sloggin’ through molasses, and it never got any easier. Not until I hunted her down and took her back. Worst goddamned days of my life, tryin’ to pretend I hadn’t been rocked to my core. Tryin’ to pretend I wasn’t missin’ a critical part of me.” The smile faded. “That’s the look you had this mornin’, readin’ that fuckin’ paper. Like you were tryin’ to reconcile what you knew in your gut with what your big head was tryin’ to tell you.” He leaned close, clapping a hand on Wildman’s shoulder. “Trust me, brother. You’re better off trying and failing than sittin’ with the coulda, woulda, shoulda. That shit’ll eat you a-live. We’ll sort out the rest.
It might not have sounded entirely like it this mornin’, but I always got your back, and where I go, so does IMC. Incoherent for life, man.”

  “IMC is me, and I am IMC.” Wildman rested a palm on Twisted’s forearm, gripping lightly in thanks. “We should get this crew rollin’ then, yeah? You got news from Retro needs more ears than mine.” Backing away, he lifted his hand a second time, pulling all fingers into a rigid fist as he shouted, “Asses in saddles, bikes ready to roll. Stop yer bitchin’, bitches.” He strode to his bike and slung his leg over, pulling the bike upright to balance between his thighs. Just before he flicked the switch to start the engine, he called out, “Twisted.” The man looked up from a similar position on his bike, chin lifted in silent question. “Never doubted you, brother.” An expression of relief flickered across Twisted’s features, and he nodded once. Bikes all around them roared to life, and Wildman followed suit, the rumble and shake underneath his ass as familiar as breathing.

  This is right where I’m meant to be.

  He understood the meaning of that phrase deep in his soul. Everything that had happened up to now had been in preparation for what would come, and the shitty moves the universe had made with his life in the past all had purpose. Wildman needed to have an unwavering trust most of all.

  In this moment, what he wanted to believe was the woman created just for him was waiting in Hammond.

  Chapter Ten

  Justine

  She had an instant of alert wakefulness as she jerked when a hard hand covered her face in a brutal grip. But a breath later, her brain was already groggy before there’d been a chance to fight or even catalog the bitter scent filling her mouth and nose. An instant and a single breath, and then she was gone.

  Chapter Eleven

  Wildman

  The smile he’d worn the whole way rolling back from Baton Rouge didn’t survive Wildman angling his bike into a parking space on the lot surrounding the clubhouse.

  A quick glance at the men milling near the front door had his instincts screaming, and he looked over to see an alert, attentive expression also on Twisted’s face. Even from yards away, the vibe was clear that something had happened in their house, and Wildman knew instinctively that whatever they were walking into, the scene wasn’t going to be pretty.

  The stench of smoke and burning plastic met them at the door, and Wildman wafted a hand in front of his face as he pushed inside. Coughing and cursing prospects were in the process of setting up box fans in the windows to push the tainted air out.

  The women they’d rescued from the trailer were clustered to one side of the main room, farthest from the kitchen. The positioning avoided where the smoke seemed to be the worst, and most of them just looked tired, not frightened. So whatever it was didn’t involve them. Wildman quickly scanned the group of women once, then slower a second time when he didn’t spot Justine right away. Shit. Fucking shit. The smoke and stench, the tension in the air, it all had to involve her. He knew Justine wouldn’t voluntarily be anywhere in the building except standing shoulder to shoulder with the women she’d claimed as hers to protect.

  Wildman’s heart thudded a rough set of beats as he grabbed a passing prospect’s arm and pointed at the women with his other hand, growling out his question. “Where is she?”

  The man shook his head and pulled away. But the expression on his face said he knew who Wildman was talking about, knew who he looked for. “She ain’t there, man. This room holds every nonmember in the building right now, and we’ve counted more than once already. Apparently, we’re down one body. But we don’t know where she went.”

  Wildman let his arm drop back to his side, feet stuck in place while his brain worked overtime, turning over ideas furiously. The easy answer would be somehow Justine LaPorte had managed to avoid detection as she set a minor fire to mask and enable an escape, but he didn’t believe she’d leave the other women behind. Not with how protective she’d seemed of them all along the way. Not a chance in hell. The women were her duty. And raised the way he knew she’d probably been, Justine wouldn’t shirk that just to run off.

  Nothing he could think of added up to such a scenario. Her brother could have swooped in, but the RWMC coming into the IMC Motherhouse with force or subterfuge would cause an inter-club incident of enormous magnitude, and nothing he’d heard about the man told Wildman he’d make such an egregious mistake. Could have been the Feds taking back one of their own, but the info from Justine’s brother said they weren’t even looking for her yet. No, it’s something to do with the goddamned, fuckin’ drug runner business. That felt right, somehow. Cartel wouldn’t hesitate to smash anyone in their way, which was why the clubs hated them with hot fury.

  One of the women was staring at him, eyes wide, bloodless fingers pressed firmly to her trembling lips. She knows something. Recognition struck him, and he barked, “Bring her to the office.” The prospect had hovered close, knowing better than to leave without having been verbally released by Wildman, and set off immediately, long strides angling the man towards the women.

  The one with the tell gasped, cheeks blanching as she realized she’d become the target of their attention. Fear. Oh, yeah, his instincts were gonna be proven right. This woman had some knowledge of what had happened while the rest of the club was out taking care of bloody business. Even if she didn’t think it critical info, any tidbit could tell him where Justine might be.

  He tilted his head towards Po’Boy, who responded with a nod. Twisted watched them from where he stood near a half-melted trash can brought out from the kitchen. He used a fire poker to sift through the detritus and shook his head. “Just trash. It was meant to make a mess and a stink. It’s a distraction, brother.”

  Like I thought.

  The woman had regained some courage and didn’t wait for an escort, preceding the two men into the office. She quickly turned and stared at them, one hand curled tightly in the collar of her shirt. She tucked her chin behind her knuckles and opened her mouth, hesitated, and then asked, “You aren’t like those other men, are you?”

  “You mean the ones who kept you locked in a trailer?” Wildman didn’t pause, jumping in before Po’Boy could respond, needing to get beyond the useless reassurance and on to the main reason he wanted to talk to her. “No, we’re not a lick like them. Different as night and day.” He waited, keeping his gaze pinned on her face as his fear morphed into anger. “Tell me what you fuckin’ saw.”

  “The man who took her, he said you were bad.” She held her peace only a moment longer before telling him everything he needed to know. Her unschooled imitation of the man’s accent—the man—screamed anything but cartel. What the hell? “She was over his shoulder like a sack of feed, and he looked at me and said he was saving her.” She swallowed, her body hitching in the middle so hard Wildman thought she might break in half. “You’re Po’Boy, right?” She had it wrong, but close enough, so he nodded. “The second man said to tell Po’Boy she’d be cooking up where the sun doesn’t shine, under the long blade of the clergyman.” Two men. She paused and then said, “That’s all. That’s what he said. That’s all of it.” Her tone turned plaintive. “Can I go home now? I want to go home.”

  “Was she alive?” Wildman stalled Po’Boy’s reach for the door and stood as stoically as he could, knees locked as he waited for a blow. Two fuckin’ men with chodes enough to bust into our clubhouse and take the only woman we’d roust a rescue for. Two informed men, and ain’t that a shitty thought. He pushed her on the piece he wanted—needed to know. “Did they take her breathin’?”

  “I don’t know. She didn’t…she didn’t move.” The woman shuddered as if she’d been hit by the blow he’d taken instead.

  I don’t know.

  His eyes drifted closed, a movie of Justine underneath him last night playing on the backs of his eyelids. Beautiful, courageous, submissive, strong, sexy. She don’t know if Jussie was breathin’.

  “Can I go home?” The woman’s voice scraped along his nerves, th
e trembling and fearful tone like nails on a chalkboard, because Justine had risked everything to protect her, and she couldn’t even be bothered to know if her champion was alive or not. Not her fault. He tried to believe his own thoughts.

  “Soon, honey,” Po’Boy softly soothed her as he opened the door and quickly ushered her out.

  Wildman heard him giving orders about the women, and the creaking of the wooden stairs said he’d sent them back upstairs. None of them would be leaving in the near future, not until the IMC and CoBos members sorted out what had happened. A federal agent had been held in what amounted to forced confinement—in other words, kidnapping—and then had been removed from the IMC clubhouse either unconscious or dead.

  Wildman’s brain shied away from that four-letter word as he tried to hold tight to the woman’s protestations that she just didn’t know. Need to move forward as if her survival is a surety. Justine LaPorte hadn’t vacated the clubhouse under her own power, and that fact was about all he knew with certainty. Not the Feds, either. Nor her family. But also not cartel. Whoever they were, they somehow had known which woman to take as the best possible bargaining chip. She survived so much already. Potential murderers and traffickers had Justine in their control a second time. I’ll set her free again. All he’d been left with were three clues, deliberately obscure to keep him from finding her in time to prevent whatever had been planned.

  “They didn’t count on one thing.” Po’Boy spoke from behind him as Twisted strode into view. Wildman turned to stare at both men, puzzled at the smug expression on Po’Boy’s face. Stretching his neck with a low crow, Po’Boy told them, “I gots me a long-ass memory, which means those boys done fucked up.”