No one says a word, mainly because everything Bas is saying is the truth we feel down in our bones. Finally, Jack nods and points across the table toward Rick.
“This here is Rick Grayson. Cobra’s family hired him five years after their daughter went missing. He’s the only one who was able to tie Yankovich to her disappearance.”
“I’m Bas and this is Needles,” Bas introduces himself to Rick. “We don’t know much about him or his involvement with Rush.”
“A Russian guy would show his face every now and then but Rush never let us in on anything,” Needles adds, pausing to reach behind him. Bringing his hand back around, he produces another envelope and hands it to Rick. “That’s all the clippings from the cabin, but other than that, we’ve got nothing.”
“Join the club,” Riggs says.
“Okay, well let’s start with what we know. There were four girls that went missing around the same time as Alexandria, all of which fit the same description,” Rick begins, rubbing his temples as he tries to piece together all the information he’s accumulated over the years. “I’ve got their missing person’s photographs back at my office, but like Alexandria, they were all kids and each of them became a cold case.”
“Rush had a projection drawing of what Ally would look like as an adult. Is there any way we can get one done for each of the others?” Stryker asks.
Whoa.
My gaze snaps across the table at him. He couldn’t seriously be suggesting we dig into that can of worms.
“Hold the phone,” I say, turning to Jack. “What exactly is the plan here? Are we going after Yankovich or are we signing up to be the biker gang that rescues all the missing children of America?”
“Can you lay your head on your pillow knowing there are possibly three other women suffering like Ally?” Stryker fires back.
I should point out that since this whole fucking mess started my head hasn’t hit a pillow for more than an hour, but I don’t want to sound too much like a bitch so I give him another fact to chew on.
“We don’t even know if these girls are alive,” I point out.
“The goal is to get Yankovich,” Jack interjects. “For whatever reason, this cocksucker wants our attention. It’s why he blew up our clubhouse and has been playing mind games with us ever since. Now, I don’t know what his motive is. Part of me thinks he’s looking to control Rocco’s organization and thinks I’m a threat because of my past connections with his uncle.”
“For fuck’s sake. Victor’s dead, and you made it clear our alliance with his organization died the day he was buried. How does this fall into our laps?” Riggs asks.
“I don’t know,” Jack says, with a shake of the head. “But that’s the only lead we got. Rocco was onto this guy before we even knew his name.”
“That’s not true,” I argue. “Cobra knew Yankovich took his sister. The guy has been chasing him for years. What if this has something to do with Cobra being our brother?”
“It could be a number of things,” Rick interrupts. “Maybe Yankovich has been planning to make a play for Rocco’s territory but then he found out about the club’s alliance with Victor and did some digging. He learns Cobra is part of the mix and decides to blow up the clubhouse because he knows Cobra is the only one who can ruin his chance at intercepting the mobster.”
“Clearly, we have to go after this guy,” I say, glancing around the table. “Even if he didn’t blow up the clubhouse, we need to end this prick for Cobra.”
And for Ally.
But I leave that part out.
“What about Alexandria? Doesn’t she deserve revenge?” Rick asks all of us.
“Of course she does,” I answer automatically.
“Which brings us back to the other three girls,” Stryker says, pinning his cold eyes onto me. “You’re right, I walked away from Albany and never gave Ally a second thought. Fast forward three years later, the woman I fall in love with is raped by men hired by the same cocksucker who terrorized Ally. I don’t know if its karma or not, but I can’t ignore this shit anymore. If there are three other women out there, alive and suffering, I won’t turn my back on them.”
I hadn’t thought about that. I momentarily forgot that Gina was a victim in all this shit too, and as Stryker’s words sink in, the choice to go all in became clear as day.
“How do we find out if these girls are alive?” Jack asks Rick.
“We establish a pattern through Alexandria. We need to know everything. Most importantly, we need to know how she wound up with Rush,” Rick instructs.
“That’s going to be a problem considering the douchebag is fertilizer now,” I point out.
“I’ll try to talk to Rush’s old lady, see if she’d be willing to meet with us. I bet she knows more than she’s willing to tell,” Bas offers.
“What about Ally?” Riggs asks. “Who knows better than her?”
“She’s not ready to talk,” Jack says.
“In the meantime, I’ll try to get a hit on where Yankovich is now. But you might want to get Rocco on the horn considering he’s the one who got the intel on the first shipment,” Rick suggests.
“Fuck me,” Jack mutters. “So much for not getting in bed with the mob.”
A few more orders are tossed around the table before Jack adjourns the meeting and we all rise. Halfway to the car, his phone rings, and as I climb into the truck processing all this shit, he takes the call. Wondering if now is a good time to tell him to drop me off at the motel, he slides in beside me and punches the steering wheel.
I’m guessing not.
“Fucking pigs,” he growls, turning the key in the ignition. “I’m on my way,” he says before disconnecting the call and flinging the phone into the console.
“What is it?” I ask, knowing the moment the question leaves my lips I’m setting myself up for more fucking chaos.
“The cops are at the house.”
“Of course they are,” I retort. “What’s it this time? Unpaid parking tickets?”
“No, they want to talk Ally.”
In a flash, everything changes. I no longer care about my lack of sleep or the shit storm swirling around the club. I forget about Yankovich, about the plan to uncover what happened to the three missing girls…I forget it all as anger boils in my veins. The need to protect, to fix and to serve washes over me just as I expected it would. I tell myself it’s not about Ally, that I’d be pissed if they were sniffing around any other helpless girl.
Facts are facts.
I may not want to admit it, but it’s a hundred percent about Ally.
It’s been about her since I saw those articles, since I pieced together who she was.
The cops failed her and now they want to cover their asses. They want to take charge and bring the glory of her rescue to the newspapers. To them she isn’t a girl who lost years of her life, she’s a fucking headline, a ticket to a promotion.
A fucking medal they don’t deserve.
Fuck that.
As Jack pulls up to his house, I reach for the door and glare at the blue and whites sitting on his stoop. Taking long strides up the walkway, I tune out Reina as she explains Ally isn’t there, and she’s in no condition to be questioned.
“Hey fuckers,” I greet, drawing their attention away from Jack’s wife.
“Deuce,” Jack warns.
Ignoring him, I step toward the cops and cross my arms against my chest as I glare at them.
“You got questions?”
“What’s it to you?” one cop asks.
“Nothing at all, but if you need something to put down on paper, I’m all you got because you’re not going near her.”
“You’re interfering with police business,” his partner warns.
“She wasn’t police business when you bastards gave up on her and she ain’t your business now. You got ten seconds to take me down to the station and ask me whatever you want, after that, you’re fucked.”
“You’re the guy that was taken
with the baby, right?”
“Yep, that’s me. I’m also the guy who discovered the girl you gave up on. So, what’s it going to be, officer? You going to go back to your captain holding your dicks in your hands or are you going to bring me in?”
The wind changes and the devil whispers in my ear, warning me I’m treading into dangerous waters. Never one to yield to caution, I follow the cops to their patrol car and seal my fate, choosing to sink and allowing Ally a chance to swim.
Drown baby, drown.
-Sixteen-
ALLY
A scream wails past my lips as a layer of sweat covers every inch of my body and my nails claw the sheets. Bolting upright, I pant as my eyes dart around the dark room and my mind races, trying to place where I am. Fear works through me and before I can compose a coherent thought I crawl out of the bed. Running out of the bedroom, my bare feet stomp down the stairs and I hurry for the front door.
Tears fall from my eyes as my hand closes over the brass doorknob and two strong arms wrap around me pulling me back.
“No! Let me go,” I cry as my fingers slip from the doorknob.
Struggling to break free from the arms that bind me, I kick my legs and elbow the man in his stomach. A groan rumbles in my ear followed by a curse then I hear him whisper my name.
“Jesus, fuck, Ally, it’s me,” Deuce growls, tightening his hold around me. “Damn it,” he mutters, rubbing his hands down my arms. “You’re okay.”
“What the fuck is going on?” Jack calls from the top of the stairs. A moment later his son starts to cry and something breaks inside of me. I sob, falling back into Deuce’s strong embrace.
“Nothing, we’re all good here,” he says. “Go back to sleep,” he adds, sighing as he leads me toward the couch. Senselessly, I cling to him as he gently deposits me onto the couch.
“You sure?” Jack asks, halfway down the stairs.
“I’ve got this,” he calls over my shoulder. Slowly he inches back causing me to immediately grip his shirt and draw him back to me.
“Don’t let me go,” I beg, burying my face in the concave center of his chest.
“Okay,” he mutters as he continues to hold me.
I’m not sure how long we stay like that, if it's seconds, minutes or more, but neither of us makes an attempt to move until my tears have dried and the dire need for comfort fades. Shame washes over me as I realize I’m holding onto Deuce for dear life and it’s then that I quickly drop my hands from his shirt. Turning my eyes away from him, I mindlessly stare at the muted television.
I can feel his eyes on me, waiting for me to explain my actions. I ignore him because the truth is I have no idea how to explain what just happened.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, keeping my gaze pinned to the actress on the television who is holding a gun. The cushions of the couch dip and he sits beside me.
“It’s fine,” he mutters, leaning back. “You want to talk about it?”
“No,” I reply quickly, finding the courage to meet his gaze. “I don’t.”
If I never uttered another word or relive another horrifying experience, it would be too soon. This morning when I agreed to take that first step, I was a desperate addict looking for a reprieve from the withdrawals. There may have been a small part of me that believed I was making a good choice. A little piece of me that wanted to take back my life. All that changed when I stepped foot inside the hospital.
I didn’t have a problem with hospitals, it was doctors that fucked me all up. The day before I sat in the waiting room for hours while they operated on Jagger and it didn’t bother me.
That was yesterday.
Yesterday I wasn’t the patient.
Yesterday I wasn’t the center of attention.
My story wasn’t the object of everyone’s curiosity.
Believe it or not, there was once a time when going to the doctor wasn’t so scary. A time when my brother and I would compete to see who was taller, and every visit ended with a lollipop.
That’s not how it went down today.
I could count on one hand how many times I had seen a doctor in the last few years. The first time was after the Russian made me swallow a balloon full of drugs and it burst inside of me. A doctor on his payroll came to the warehouse he was holding me in and performed emergency surgery right there. Luckily all I got was a six-inch scar on my stomach and not a deadly infection.
The second time came when Rush had claimed me. Wanting to make sure I was clean of any STDs, he took me to a real doctor’s office. Granted it was a clinic on the outskirts of town, but the guy at least had a license to practice. Instead of a lollipop as a parting gift, the good doctor gave me an IUD. Later when I got the flu, and he made a house call to the clubhouse, I learned he was on Rush’s payroll. Any other time I was sick, the house doctor was called and a script was waiting at the pharmacy for Rush or one of the guys to pick up.
Though I’m sure there were several other instances when I should’ve been brought to the hospital, today was the first time I was actually treated inside of one and it wasn’t pleasant. I don’t know which part was worse, the physical examination when they shoved a Q-tip up my vagina and took swabs of cells to test or maybe the countless vials of blood they drew. It could’ve also been the psychiatric evaluation or simply a combination of everything. It was as if these people were peeling back the layers of armor, exposing all the ugliness the drugs kept buried deep within me. Whatever the case may be, I felt more violated in those few hours than I had in the twelve years I was a prisoner.
Today opened my eyes to how bad my life had been over the last few years and I started to doubt how anyone could ever bounce back from that. More importantly, how I could bounce back from that and be the girl who strikes the match.
It started to seem like the drugs were the least of my problems.
By the time I was done, I had a script for methadone and a craving to get higher than a fucking kite. I wanted to forget every little detail I was forced to relive. I wanted to forget the botched surgery and the doctor that made house calls, only I didn’t know how to.
Lacey and Blackie brought me back here and that’s when I found out the cops were looking for me. I barely survived the trauma of a doctor’s visit and now law enforcement wanted to question me about my disappearance. They wanted to chip away at what was left of me and make me reveal more than I was ready to.
That’s when I learned Deuce had gone down to the station and spared me any more grief by giving them a statement of his own to tide them over. It was a nice gesture, one he didn’t have to make. A gesture I had yet to thank him for since I had fallen asleep long before they released him and he returned to Jack’s.
“I know what you did today,” I whisper, turning toward him.
His eyes stare at the TV as he lifts a hand and combs his fingers through his hair.
“I didn’t do anything your brother wouldn’t have done himself,” he replies.
“My brother,” I repeat, shaking my head. “Why is it so hard for me to wrap my head around that?”
Tearing his gaze away from the screen he looks at me, causing his forehead to crease as he narrows his eyes at me.
“Why is it hard for you to wrap your head around the fact your brother would’ve done something for you?”
I shake my head.
“No, I can’t even comprehend that my brother is in my life. I saw him, I heard his voice, and even though he’s in bad shape he’s not a dream anymore, he’s not a wish. He’s real. A person of flesh and bone.”
After a while, as one year became two and so on and so forth, I gave up on my family, believing they had already given up on me. It didn’t matter that I was the one who had gone missing. I had written them off just the same as if they were the ones lost. Like they assumed the worst, I guess I did too.
“Maybe it would help if you saw him, if you spent some time with Celeste,” he suggests. “It might make it more real. It might start to sink in.”
“Jack said he’d take me to see him when I’m ready,” I whisper, pausing to glance down at my hands. Twisting the sleeves of my shirt nervously, I draw in a deep breath. “I almost went to see him today but I stopped myself.”
“Why?”
Shrugging my shoulders, I divert my eyes to the digital clock displayed on the cable box and fight not to countdown until my next fix of methadone.
“I don’t want to watch him die,” I say finally.
“He’s not gonna die.”
“You don’t know that for a fact.”
“Yeah, I do,” he says, stretching his arms over his head as he releases a yawn. “Had he not seen your face or heard that his little girl was safe and sound he probably would’ve checked out for good. Everything changed the second Celeste told him Skylar was okay and he looked into your eyes.”
Picturing my brother as a father isn’t something I ever thought about and at the mention of Skylar I wonder what kind of dad he is. Does he get up early on the weekends and take her out for pancakes like our dad used to? Is he overly affectionate? Is he a sucker for her smile? I bet he is. I bet that little girl has him wrapped around her finger.
“What’s Jagger like?” I ask absentmindedly.
“Why don’t you find out for yourself,” he replies, reaching in between the couch cushions separating us. Pulling out the remote he points it to the television.
“He’s a good guy,” he adds after a moment then drops the remote onto his lap and turns to me. “He never truly gave up on you if that’s what you’re asking. Your brother carried a piece of you with him every day you were missing.”
“He told you that?”
“He didn’t have to,” he says. Lifting his hand, he brushes a strand of hair away from my face. Staring into my eyes, he tips his chin. “You lived in his eyes.”
Before I can attempt a response, he quickly drops his hand and turns back to the television. Pointing the remote, he raises the volume and props his bare feet on the coffee table in front of him. Contemplating whether or not to ask him what he meant by that, I follow his lead and stare at the screen.
The Nomad Series-Collectors Edition Page 75
