The Nomad Series-Collectors Edition

by Janine Infante Bosco

  Stepping inside the office I see Deuce sitting behind the metal desk staring at the computer screen in confusion. He lifts his head and lets out an exasperated breath.

  “Dude, this place is a fucking mess,” he declares.

  “What?”

  “You know anything about ordering parts? There’s two dozen Atlantic Express buses due to arrive for repairs and I don’t know how in God’s good name to order the parts. Hell, I don’t even know if I have to order them, we might have them but this computer system is as old as Wolf.”

  Stepping around the desk, I stare at the black screen of the monitor then back at Deuce.

  “You need to turn the fucking thing on, Deuce,” I point out.

  “Yeah, smartass. Go ahead, turn the fucking thing on.”

  I search the monitor for a button but I come up short and lean over the back looking for a plug.

  “Where the hell is Pipe?”

  “Gone,” Jack says.

  Lifting my head, I turn my attention to the door and spot Jack, Blackie and Riggs.

  “What do you mean gone?”

  “Everyone here?” Jack asks, ignoring my question as he strides to the glass window and peeks out of the mini blinds. “Where’s Cobra?”

  “Out back waiting for the buses to show up.”

  “Get him,” Jack says, turning away from the window. Pointing a finger to Riggs, he grumbles, “Find out what the fuck is wrong with the computer, will you.”

  “It’s from the fucking stone age,” Riggs says. “Shit don’t even have a flat screen.”

  “Pipe never had a fucking problem, and he’s not nearly the computer whiz you claim to be,” he barks.

  “Man, aren’t babies supposed to make you warm and fuzzy?” Deuce questions.

  Riggs slaps him upside the head and pushes him away from the computer.

  “That don’t happen until they sleep through the night. Now move aside and let a real man fix this shit.”

  “Deuce, go get Cobra and tell him we’re having church,” Blackie instructs as he pulls up a chair and straddles the back of it. Deuce does as he’s told and Jack closes the door behind him, turning around to face me.

  “Funny thing happened today,” he starts, narrowing his eyes at me as he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a stick of Nicorette gum.

  “Yeah? Hit me with it. I can use a laugh.”

  I divert my eyes to Riggs who isn’t fixing shit and is staring at me with his hands propped behind his head. Blackie’s got his eyes pinned to me too, assessing me through the long hair that hangs in front of his face.

  “Got a call from my boy Richie at J&J Towing,” Jack says pointedly, taking a seat on the worn sofa in the middle of the tiny office. “Told me he got a call from one of my guys about towing a Maserati here. Said the car is as fucked as a two-dollar hooker and is going to need a ton of work,” he leans back against the cushions, spreading his arms wide along the back of the sofa. “You going to tell me why we’re fixing Rocco Spinelli’s Maserati?”

  Crossing my arms against my chest I lean against the wall and stare back at him.

  “The girl I’m seeing crashed into the fucker’s car and he’s being a real dick about it. I offered to help her out.”

  “So…you’re pussy whipped,” Jack declares with a nod.

  “If that’s what you call helping someone out,” I reply with a shrug. “Then yeah, I’m pussy whipped.”

  “Well fuck me, I didn’t think you’d be next,” Riggs chimes in. “I thought Deuce would get nailed to the cross before you.”

  “She ain’t my old lady,” I tell him.

  “Ah, don’t be a bitch. If she’s hot and ducks you right, own that shit,” he says, pointing a finger at me. “But make sure you wrap your dick because you seem like a flight risk.”

  “Did you just say ducks?”

  “Yeah, I did. Like I said, wrap your shit, bro, or you’ll be ducking right along with me,” he warns.

  The door opens and Deuce and Cobra walk into the tiny office.

  “Gangs all here,” I announce, eyeing Jack. “We done here?”

  He stares at me for a moment before laughing in my face.

  “Saddle up boy, you’re about to find your heart,” he says through his laughter. “Now, where the fuck is my table?”

  I refrain from telling him to bend over so I can show him his table by shoving it up his ass. Instead, I follow them out of the shoebox of an office and into the garage. We pull up a bunch of oil drums and take our respective places around the table.

  Blackie reaches into his leather jacket and pulls out the meat mallet we gave him and hands it to Jack.

  “What the fuck am I supposed to do with this?”

  Demonstrating how he should call order to the table, Blackie taps the top of the table with the mallet before he hands it back to Jack.

  “Like that,” he says.

  “Fuck you, Black.” He takes the mallet in his hand and slams it against the wood. “Fuck, that feels good,” he mutters, pausing a moment before he takes in all of our faces and leans forward on his elbows. “I’m proud of you sons of bitches.” He points to Blackie, “You especially, you’re a born leader and when this body can’t handle this shit no more this club will be in capable hands.”

  “I had a good crew,” Blackie replies, looking around the table.

  “With that being said, we’re fucked,” Jack sighs. “It’s going to cost a shit ton of paper to get the Dog Pound back. This place…” He waves a hand around the clubhouse, “…isn’t going to cut it. We’re going to have to find a buyer for the guns sitting in Pops’ range. Riggs has been looking into any legit ventures the Bastards had that we can take over, but they were running smack all over Boston and looking to bring that shit here too, so there isn’t much to work with.”

  “Wait a minute,” Cobra says. “Where’s Pipe?”

  All eyes turn to Jack as he lets out a sigh and leans back.

  “Pipe handed in his patch,” he declares.

  “He went nomad?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.

  “No,” Jack replies with a curt shake of his head. Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out a bunch of folded papers and throws them down on the center of the table. “The deed to this place.”

  “He’s done with the club?” Deuce asks skeptically.

  “He’s done with everything,” Jack answers. “Wolf is chomping at the bit to get back to us so for now you three take over around here and when he’s well enough Wolf will take Pipe’s place.”

  He turns his gaze to me.

  “I hear Linc is fucked and Wolf mortgaged his house to get him the care he needs. When that shit runs out the club will step in.”

  “Prez, you’re talking about rebuilding the clubhouse and taking on Linc’s medical bills, but we ain’t got a pot to piss in right now,” Cobra tells him.

  “He’s right,” Blackie intervenes. “Even if we get a buyer for the guns, we’re nowhere near where we need to be.”

  “I’m probably going to regret even saying this but what about Spinelli?” Riggs questions.

  Immediately my eyes turn to Jack and I watch as he scratches the scruff lining his jaw.

  “The club isn’t looking to play nice with the mob anymore,” Blackie replies. “Besides, that motherfucker has five fucking families looking to gun him down and take what they thought was going to be theirs.”

  “You know that for a fact?” Jack asks.

  “I’d bet my life on it,” Blackie says.

  “Well then, that’s how you get your money,” Riggs chimes in. “Call the guinea bastard here and tell him we’ll protect his Mafioso ass but it’ll cost him.”

  “Because we’re doing such a fine job of keeping the people around us breathing,” Blackie mutters.

  “We’re still standing,” Cobra insists. “That’s gotta count for something.”

  “Hold it,” Jack interrupts. “Before we shake down Rocco for a dime, there’s something you should know. He came
over to me after the funeral and made a pretty bold accusation. According to him, the Bastards didn’t blow up the clubhouse.”

  “You’re fucking kidding me, right?” Riggs says.

  “No, now I think he’s reaching—”

  “Who does he think did it?” I interrupt, lifting my gaze to Jack.

  “Some Russian named Vladimir Yankovich,” he says, peering at me. “You know the name?”

  “No,” I lie.

  “I do,” Cobra says, lifting his head. Stone cold blue eyes stare across the table at Jack. “And if there is a grain of truth to what Rocco is saying we might as well hang up our cuts because we’re no fucking match for him. And if he’s looking to inch in on Rocco’s territory, he might as well surrender now because anything he loves is as good as dead. Yankovich has no fucking mercy.”

  “That’s some pretty harsh words, boy,” Jack grunts.

  My vision blurs and all I see is Gina’s pretty eyes.

  The bile rises in my throat as I listen to Cobra fit the pieces of the puzzle together.

  “Alexandria.”

  “Who’s that?” Blackie asks.

  “She was my twin sister,” Cobra reveals, bowing his head as he balls his tattooed fists on top of the table. “Went missing after our fourteenth birthday. The cops never found her body and with no body my parents believed she was still out there somewhere. My father hired a retired bounty hunter to look into her disappearance and he was more successful than the cops that worked on her case for four years. Turns out there were over two dozen girls that fit Alex’s description, all of whom went missing that year.”

  He pauses, reaching up to run his hands over his face before he continues.

  “It took five years to find a common thread amongst the kidnappings. That common thread is Yankovich. After we found out he may have had something to do with Alexandria’s disappearance my old man went after him. Two days later they found my parents’ bodies in the bottom of the river.”

  “You think Yankovich took your sister?” Jack asks. “And what? Is there a possibility she’s alive?”

  “I know Yankovich took my sister,” Cobra seethes. “Been spending every day since I turned nineteen years old trying to find her. It’s why I went nomad with the club. That motherfucker don’t stay in one place. But he’s rarely in the states.”

  “Answer the other part of the question, boy. Do you think your sister is alive?”

  “No, I don’t. Yankovich doesn’t keep his girls long. The ones that survive his torture are sold to the highest bidder”

  Unable to listen to another fucking word I slam my hand against the table and look over at Cobra.

  “I found Yankovich’s business card in the Corrupt Bastards' clubhouse,” I confess, turning to Jack. “What if Rocco is right? What if Yankovich is the one who blew up the Dog Pound?”

  “Why us?” Blackie says, turning to Cobra. “Does he know who you are?”

  “No, I’ve never gotten close.”

  “Yo, guys…” Riggs says, pulling the skull cap from his head. “Remember when Ronan came to the clubhouse trying to warn us about the Bastards? He mentioned girls. We thought he was fucking talking out of his ass, looking for a handout but what if the motherfucker was right? If Yankovich was working with Charlie Teardrops, then they were making a play for the harbor.”

  “Rocco controls the harbor,” Jack mutters.

  “Jack, if this is true I can’t sit back and ignore it,” Cobra tells him. “If Yankovich is playing on innocent girls like my fucking sister, this may be my chance to avenge her death.”

  “Simmer down, boy,” Jack orders. “We’re getting ahead of ourselves.”

  “You said Rocco mentioned Yankovich, right?” I query. “Then he’s gotta know something about him. What if I got him to tell me what he knows?”

  “How you plan on doing that?” Deuce asks.

  “The car,” I rattle off. “I’ll use the fucking car.”

  I turn my eyes to Jack, pretend like I’m waiting for his approval but the second he throws down his meat mallet I’m paying Rocco a visit.

  He’s going to tell me everything he fucking knows.

  Every fucking thing.

  -Twenty-five-

  Stryker

  The offensive mansion, all lit up like the fucking white house, comes into my line of sight the moment my bike turns onto Circle Road. Anger floods my veins as I throttle my bike in a hurry to wring pretty boy’s neck. I don’t give a flying fuck what kind of problems the mobster has, he can have every gangster from here to California gunning for his ass, but if I find out this shit bleeds into Gina’s life, I’ll make every fucking enemy he has look like a choir boy.

  The moment Yankovich’s name was brought up, Cobra turned white as a sheet. Watching him relive the disappearance of his sister, seeing his eyes change from blue to slate gray as he pinned the whole fucking thing on the Russian—it fucked me up. Listening to him say the motherfucker tortures girls and only the ones who survive are sold; well, I kept picturing Gina’s face.

  If this guy is after Rocco and he knows about Gina then of course the motherfucker will go after her. It’s nothing short of a miracle that he hasn’t already.

  My bike comes to a halt as I pull up to the gated mansion and stare at the iron bars blocking my path to Rocco’s front door. Turning my head, I notice the intercom and lean forward to press the button. I slam my thumb against the button and wait for pretty boy’s voice to filter through the system, but it never comes and I turn into a six-year-old, repeatedly pressing my finger against the intercom.

  “I know you’re in there pretty boy!”

  I don’t really know if he’s in there.

  His fucking car is at Pipe’s garage and the cobblestone driveway is clear. For all I know, the son of a bitch keeps his lights on so his enemies think he’s home. I press the button a final time before backing out and making a U-turn. Rolling up to the stop sign on the corner, I plant my boots on the street and pull out my phone, dialing Rocco’s cell.

  The fuck doesn’t answer the phone.

  “Answer your phone, douchebag, it’s important,” I say after the beep, and pocket my phone before taking off down Todt Hill.

  Trying to clear my head I ride with no destination. I should go to Gina, I should fucking take her ass, put it on the back of my bike and drive her out to the middle of nowhere, a place where no one can find her.

  Jesus fuck, listen to me.

  I sound like a desperate man trying to keep the woman he loves in his life safe and away from harm. I don’t sound like a soldier wishing to be someone’s hero but the man who needs to be hers.

  I’ve seen torture, delivered it at times.

  Witnessed death, and been the one to deliver that too.

  I’ve also been the man standing when it’s all over, the man surrounded by nothing but carnage.

  I can’t be the man who stares at my pretty girl’s carnage.

  I won’t be that man.

  Cobra thinks we’re no match for Yankovich, but I swear on everything holy he’ll be no match for me if he tries to hurt Gina.

  I think I love her.

  If I don’t love her, then fuck me, I’m almost there.

  That should scare me. Another time, another place, I’d be riding my ass to Jack and handing in my patch declaring myself a nomad again. I don’t know when the switch happened, when she became the thing in my life that kept me going, a man who wanted to stick—someone who was content sitting in a chair watching her sleep night after night. A guy who looked forward to going home and eating bologna sandwiches off her fancy plates.

  Home.

  I didn’t have one.

  Until I looked into those green eyes.

  Wherever those green eyes go, that is home, and right now I’m feeling kind of homesick, missing my pretty girl.

  Still, I don’t go home.

  I don’t go to her.

  I park my bike at the hospital, stare up at the building and think
of the man who brought me here.

  He couldn’t have known by looking at me that I was as fucked as I am. He doesn’t know about the PTSD and he sure as hell doesn’t know I’m a statistic. A veteran who survived war to live in hell and tried to escape it with a gun pointed at his temple. He couldn’t have known that. He couldn’t have known I was too much of a pussy to take my own life or else I wouldn’t be here.

  The men who ride with Brooklyn aren’t pussies. They are men who have no fear in the eyes of the devil.

  I make my way to Wolf’s room, rap my knuckles on the door twice before pushing it open and stepping inside. His eyes are glued to the flat screen perched on the wall of his hospital room and he’s shoving potato chips in his mouth.

  “I’m no doctor or anything, but should you be eating potato chips?” I ask, walking further into the room.

  He ignores my question and waves his hand toward the television.

  “Are you watching this shit? I mean out of all the people in this country this is our best shot? Fuck that shit, put me up there, I’ll make America great again.”

  “Yeah,” I agree, swiping a hand over my head. “I bet you could.”

  “Damn straight I could,” he mutters, muting the television and turning his gaze to me. “You come here to talk about my political campaign?”

  “No,” I say, pulling the chair over to the side of his bed. “Pipe left.”

  He stares at me for a moment before rolling up the top of the potato chip bag.

  “I know, the Bulldog came by and told me,” he mutters. “The son of a bitch didn’t even say goodbye.”

  “I guess he had enough.”

  “The fuck that mean?” he sneers. “We’re still his brothers. We’re his fucking family.”

  “You really believe that with all your heart, huh?”

  “You bet your ass I do, boy. You should believe that too.”

  “What else did Jack tell you?”

  “Let’s cut through the bullshit, yeah? Tell me why you’re here, boy. Tell Uncle Wolf what’s on your mind,” he coos sarcastically.