Tarnished Lies and Dead Ends Page 14

  “Essa? I didn’t hear he’d reached out to Silent Deaths, but shit happened back on Watcher’s patch of dirt before we brought the Southern Soldiers into the fold.” Myron’s interjection was sudden, and Justine half expected Mason to slap him down, but all her brother did was grunt in response. “I mean, we had Duck out there, but it all belonged to the Soldiers.”

  “They had old ties to the Machos, right?” Justine wracked her brain for any additional information she felt safe sharing. “Diamante was key back when. I don’t know about now.” That tinged on private pain, but she ignored the sting.

  “Diamante is impotent.” Mason shrugged, then pulled her close again. “Machos are a different crew now. They’re allies.”

  “I would have called Silent Deaths allies too, boss. But they’re askin’ after your sister.” Myron shook his head. “Don’t seem too ally-ish to me.”

  “If I could interject.” Retro swept a hand across the bottom of his face. “Cartel is what will help us piece this together. SDMC’s ask will be sidelined, graciously, as we always do things. I’m heading home. I don’t think they knew it was you, lady, but I wouldn’t lower my guard for any reason. Way things looked to me today is you and Wild have set stones rolling. It’ll be up to us to steer them downhill, so they avoid the things we want to keep and burst apart the things we want to destroy. We just need to know what and who falls into each of those categories.”

  “I agree, cartel is key to every one of these things. From Wildman’s issues in Florida to the renewed VWMC presence in Louisiana. They’d certainly have contacts in SDMC, and the ask could be a pass-along, not direct from Smoke at all.” Mason shot a glance at Justine as he finished speaking, and she lifted a brow to let him know she’d caught the reference. We’ll be revisiting that sometime soon, promise, brother mine.

  “I’ll check into the veracity of that first thing when I get home. Call to clarify or some shit.” Retro grinned. “I’ll think of somethin’.”

  “You always do, brother.” Mason’s wide smile was visible in the video, and Justine felt the rush of affection he held for these two men. “My, no drones needed, brother. I’ll roll in less than five.”

  “Promised to leave the loc on, boss. Justine, you heard him, right?”

  “I did,” she agreed, and Myron’s grin lit up the screen. “Thank you, both of you.” She twisted to look up at Mason. “All of you.”

  It was twenty minutes later, not less than five, when Justine was watching the taillight on Mason’s motorcycle fade to dimness within the pine forest surrounding the shack, which she now knew had been a one-time meth-cooking spot.

  Lovely. She tried not to think about all the corrosive and dangerous compounds and residues associated with the process, even as she balanced on one bare foot on the rough boards.

  She’d counted to sixty twenty times and was launching into another round when there was movement at the edge of the forest. Something darker than the darkness behind it, a slinking silhouette low to the ground. Fuck it.

  The number was at the end of her fingertips, branded into the front of her brain with training methods she wouldn’t wish on someone she disliked, but they’d been effective. The number she’d learned nearly eight years ago and never before used still came easily to her.

  Justine scarcely had time to suck in a breath before the call connected, middle of the first ring, no verbal answer.

  Undeterred, she gave the phrase as practiced, not stumbling over the most idiotic aspects of it. “Rascal passes on their well wishes, but the press release is wrong.”

  “Rascal” was her, the call name assigned by her superior, who then—and probably more especially now—believed her a pain in his ass. “Well wishes” paired with “passes on” meant she was unharmed and alone, not held under duress. If she’d made the call at gunpoint, she would have said “designated a pinch hitter,” something equally obtuse-sounding that was certain to make a kidnapper believe it was a token for a message. It would have been up to her to ensure they believed it would get them what they wanted. “Press release” stood in for pickup needed, and the use of a word such as “wrong” added the urgency of ASAP.

  The line clicked, and she waited, gaze sweeping the edges of the clearing, searching for more of whatever had made the shadow moments ago. Another click, and she was treated to a voice steady as steel. “We’ve got you, Justine. Boots on the ground in less than fifteen. Can you…are you able to assist your rescue?”

  “I am” was all she returned as she swallowed hard, not wanting Greg Anderson to hear a break in her voice if she tried to elaborate.

  “Good.” Then he gave her one of the biggest compliments he’d ever paid. A simple, “Talk soon,” then the line disconnected.

  Thumbing the volume buttons kept the phone awake and alight enough to see the room around her dimly, enough to keep her nerves at bay. She’d reached twelve iterations of sixty when she spotted the helo coming in low and fast, spotlights sweeping the trees ahead of the chopper until they landed on the shack, the bird banking in a quick circle before the pilot determined there was not enough room to land. They hovered low, scarcely twenty feet off the ground, the backwash from the rotors sending wavelets of sand across the clearing. Three dark bodies separated from the helicopter, dropping quickly to the ground as she thumbed the flashlight on the phone, turning the light on her own face as a willing target.

  “SAC LaPorte?” Justine nodded at the faceless figure, the dark mask covering everything not shielded by the IR goggles the man wore. “I’m Michaels, the team’s out of NAS JRB New Orleans, and we’re here to take you home.” He lifted his hand, and she placed the phone in it. The mask covering his mouth moved, and she could swear he was grinning as he pocketed the phone and held his hand out again. Stupid. She placed her hand in his, and he stooped as he tugged her towards him, swooping her legs up with one arm while the other circled her back. “Normally I’d do a fireman’s haul, but—due respect, you’re awake and, well, kind of exposed.” She could hear squeaks from near his throat and kept her own mouth closed, assuming he had a coms device. “Ma’am, we’ll have you back to Baton Rouge in just a few minutes. There’s a blanket in the chopper with your name on it, right next to a bottle of water. You doing okay, ma’am?” Justine nodded again, jostled as he jogged back to the helicopter. “Mano, get me a cradle, yeah? Roger. Ma’am, you doing okay? You with me?”

  “Yes, I’m good.” Justine had to force the lie out between clenched teeth. Her adrenaline was spiking, no longer receding, and her jaw wanted to chatter, but giving into the physical impulse would reveal how fragile she felt.

  “You will be, SAC LaPorte. We got a jacket on you when we got the call. Mucho respect, ma’am.” He curled his body around her, protecting Justine from the worst of the downdrafts until he stood directly underneath the belly of the craft. Justine looked up in time to see another figure appear out of the darkness. He held up his arm and made a complicated series of gestures, to which Michaels responded, “Roger.” A third figure came into focus against the darkness just over Michaels’ shoulder, reaching up to guide a basket into place in front of Justine. Michaels deposited her into the cramped space, then climbed on with her, feet balancing on the side rails. “Hold on, SAC LaPorte. Short trip.”

  Inside the helo, she kept to the side seat they’d placed her in, the promised blanket and bottle of water appearing only an instant after she sat. The other two men launched themselves in through the side door of the helicopter, and she had to wonder if this was less than their training exercises demanded. The noise fell to tolerable levels when the door was closed and latched into place. Michaels had a quick exchange with the pilots, leaning into their space on one elbow. He pushed his mask up, leaving it bunched in a roll on his forehead, where it revealed strong features, burned dark by the Louisiana sun. Head tipped to the side as he listened, he nodded, then gave the pilots a thumbs-up, rolling to his feet. Hands wrapped in the rope mesh overhead, he swayed with the movement of t
he aircraft, his gaze fixed on Justine.

  One of the other men crouched at her side, holding out another bottle of water. She hadn’t realized she’d finished the first already, and took the second from him with a shaky, “Thank you.”

  “Our pleasure, ma’am.” His words carried a foreign cadence, and she steeled herself from shrinking away; he sounded so much like the upper echelon of the crew that had held her and the other women.

  “Brownstone.” Lips trembling, she gave the warning call and watched as Michaels stiffened, growing still. “I have an urgent message. Brownstone.”

  “I’ll hear the message, ma’am.” Michaels took the seat across from her, leaning close, elbows on his knees.

  She gave him the location of the shipping yard and information about the container where more than a dozen women had been held. These were not her women, the clutch of chicks she’d protected, but another cargo load that had come in after the initial raid and rescue, Myron finding out about them only after everyone had been dispatched to save Justine. The women who had been with her had each been deposited within feet of their homes, nothing more than a request to keep quiet about the club, no threats and no urgent demands, just a low warning that it wouldn’t do Justine any favors to say anything about IMC. Sparse hope, but unless the women found each other and had a conference, it was unlikely anyone other than an idly curious family member would ever question the veracity of their miraculous escape.

  The women the military would rescue would talk a vague story about a woman resembling Justine, and her clothing had been dropped into the mix of the offal at the bottom of the container. She’d listened to Mason and Myron concocting the story within a few sentences after Retro had dropped from their call, caught half the conversation as Mason chatted with Twisted, and Justine had found herself listening to the background, hoping she’d catch Wildman’s voice somehow, somewhere.

  Justine capped the bottle of water and dropped it to her lap, elbows to her knees as she bent forwards, fingers thrusting through her hair, coming up against each painful point of bruising. Heels of her hands against the bony sockets of her eyes, she rocked back and forth, willing the flight to be over.

  No matter what came next, it couldn’t be worse than having to watch Wildman ride away, taking a part of her with him.

  ***

  Justine

  Outside the trailer was war. There were loud shouts and gunshots, followed by cries of pain, grunts driven from lungs by powerful blows. Inside the trailer was chaos, and Justine did her best to keep the women calm, telling them what she’d seen through the vent. “We don’t know who it is,” she hissed, using the dim light that seeped in around the ill-sealing rear doors to catch every gaze she could. “Until we know, we stay quiet.”

  She’d been the final acquisition for the shipment. That’s how the men had talked about the humans they held penned inside a metal box, which did nothing to retain heat after the sun went down. Chattel, possessions where ownership could be transferred as easily as a transactional phone call. Goods provided to men with an appetite for pain and fighting, and given how well and long she’d brawled with his men, the leader had boasted how much Justine would bring for his pockets.

  At least in the two days she’d been imprisoned, she’d been able to keep the men from raping the captives. What happened before had been spoken of in whispers and tears, and the women had all looked at her with awe when she negotiated and bartered for a halt to the physical abuse. It had cost her, of course—that’s the way these things went—but a few blows were a small price for the relief she’d seen on their faces.

  Things quietened outside as Justine listened intently, shushing the women again when one would have called out. A sound at the doors had her cocking her head, trying to infer what was happening through scant clues. The door swung open, and an instant later, a man appeared as if by magic, not there and then there, and he was huge, blocking out the light with his body. Hands bloody, he had a tear along one arm of his shirt, as if a blade had come too close for comfort.

  He took a step inside, and Justine marshaled every ounce of courage. Without a word to the women behind her, she stepped forwards and held out her arms, creating a barrier with her body. Fingers clutched at her shirt from behind, and she shook them off, taking another step and another. The man’s gaze danced around the trailer, and she watched him catalog every detail before he locked on her.

  Trembling now, because he was so much larger up close, she hoped if she could distract him enough, the women could escape. I’ve got to make myself vulnerable. Justine’s arms shook with the strain, but she settled to her knees in front of him.

  He lifted her to her feet and kissed her, lips soft and warm against hers.

  No, that’s not right.

  “Jesus, Justine, you make me insane.”

  No, how could he know my name?

  His fingers touched her gently, reverently.

  No…

  Justine jerked sideways, startled when her shoulder thudded against a wall. Heart racing, she blinked, moonlit aspects of her bedroom coming into focus. Hand flat against her chest, she settled back down in the bed, feet kicking off the constricting covers.

  Even her dreams romanticized every moment they’d had together.

  Once released by her superiors on her own recognizance, she had made her first stop a cut-rate tech shop where she’d bought several disposable phones. After the multiple days of debriefing, she’d forced herself to finish the trip home, had taken a long-overdue hot shower, and then gorged on Thai takeout before finally allowing herself a phone call.

  Given who she was and what had gone down, only an approach through his president would do. If she’d tried to go direct to Wildman, he’d have taken her call, but it would have cost him. Even if he might have readily paid it, she hated the idea of him paying for her failure to follow protocol.

  Her intent had been to connect directly with Twisted. She’d tried, truly, circling and beating herself against the protective wall surrounding anything to do with the national president of the IMC. Dropped calls, missed connections, and outright dismissal had met her every effort, until she’d passed the last door without it opening for her.

  Next had come a call she hadn’t wanted to make, but to get to Wildman the right way—Justine found herself willing to do nearly anything.

  “Davy.” She greeted her brother with a smile on her face, hoping he’d hear it in her tone.

  “Justine, how are you?” The slightly aloof caution in his voice gave her pause.

  “I’m good. How’s Willa and the kids?” His sigh followed by silence was unnerving. “And you, of course, how are you doing since I saw you last?”

  “Why’d you call? You never call just to check in, so if you’re wondering how I know somethin’s amiss, that’s your fuckin’ clue right there.” She let the guilty silence hang between them. “My answer to the question you aren’t asking is no. You don’t really want this, Justine. IMC is no half-ass club, and you’ve stayed the course so far in keeping a distance from anything in the life. Not sure you want to break that streak for a man.”

  “Except you.” She closed her eyes. “I wouldn’t change anything about getting to know you and your family, and you’re deep in the life.”

  “Getting to know, while keeping at arm’s length.” The deep scoff he made burned, because what he said was true. “Justine, you don’t owe Wildman anything. You don’t owe IMC anything. Those debts only exist in your mind.”

  “Owing him isn’t why I want a chance to talk to him. Davy, that’s all I’m asking for—a chance to meet with him and have a conversation.” Justine’s breath caught in her throat, and she had to push to get the words out. “I just want a chance.”

  That silence fell between them again, heavy and long, and filled with something that tasted like regret. He’s done all the heavy lifting for what we’ve built so far, she realized, and anger at herself burned red in her cheeks. She was glad he couldn’t see h
er right now, because he’d ask and ask, never letting go of whatever it was making her behave this way.

  “I’ll make a call.” Short, brusque, his words chopped through the thick quiet. “This number good?”

  “Yeah. Yes, I mean. It’s a disposable phone I picked up for cash yesterday.” The sound he made before disconnecting sounded suspiciously like surprise, and she grinned at the idea she’d been able to shock him a little.

  The phone on the nightstand rang, and she glanced at the screen as she swiped to answer. Louisiana area code. Hopefully this bodes well for me.

  “Hello?”

  “Woman, what the fuck you thinkin’? You angled for a call, and I blocked your shit. I do not need some Fed thinkin’ they can just chat me up willy-nilly. You gotta work for this shit. Yet here we are, talkin’ at some godawful time in the morning because I was the recipient of a message and phone call from Retro. You just tap into the man’s network and buzz him until he couldn’t deal anymore, or what?”

  Justine took a second to unpack Twisted’s words, dialing in on the crux of the problem. “He at least took my call to hear my ask. Didn’t try to decide what Wildman wanted without even a conversation.”