Satan's Devils MC Boxset 1

by Manda Mellett

  “He’s the laziest motherfucker in the whole department. Who always seems to have more change in his pocket than he should.”

  “He on the take?” It wouldn’t surprise me.

  Silence. Then, “It may be that I’m paranoid.”

  Paranoid? “He’s checking up on you?”

  “That’s what I believe. And it goes further than that. I didn’t tell you this, but my sergeant threw out my report on Archer.”

  “What did the report say?” My ears perk. Ah, perhaps here’s something for the club. Something to give credence to my extended time on this earth.

  A sigh, a pause. “This is only conjecture, and Archer’s dead, otherwise I wouldn’t be telling you this, but I believe it was Archer who ran you off the road.”

  The cops, or at least this one, has gotten there at last. But have they found any links to the club? I sit up and run the last two sentences back through my head. “Did he?” I try to inject surprise into my voice. “That’s what you think? But clearly your sergeant doesn’t agree.”

  “No. He’s trying to convince everyone Archer died a hero.”

  What the fuck for? “Perhaps you’ve got it all wrong.” I consider how to continue this conversation. Really, I should put a stop to it, but I’m wondering how far she’s gotten putting things together. “What reason could there be for a cop to run me and Crystal off the road?”

  There’s no delay in getting to the point. “Money, I suspect. And possibly because Archer’s got a link to the Herreras. I suspect my sergeant’s covering for him.”

  The sergeant as well as the partner? If he was involved, maybe there’s someone I can take down after all. “Who’s paying them?”

  “I don’t know. But I want to find out.” A clearing of a throat and a slight delay before the clarification. “It could be the Herreras, or it could be your club.”

  I slap that down fast. “Satan’s Devils don’t have cops in their pockets. Assure you of that.” Now this is the reason I’m still talking to the cop—to knock any idea of that sort on the head. I’m not even stretching the truth. Oh, I know some of our other chapters have police on the take, but not in Tucson. There’s a good reason why we haven’t. We don’t trust them. Not even the bad apples.

  “I’m not leaning the Satan’s Devils way, or not at the moment. Look, Heart, if they were paying my partner and sergeant, or any other cop, I’m not stupid, and I know you wouldn’t admit it. But something tells me that’s not the line I should be taking for now.”

  But might in the future. I can’t forget it’s a cop I’m talking to. I’ve not exercised my brain cells for a very long time. “Why are you telling me this? What the fuck has it got to do with me?” I’ve got to take a step back. From the cop. Drummer would kill me if he knew I was even having this conversation.

  Another sigh. “Because I don’t think it’s over. Whatever Archer was involved in? Well, it’s still going on. I’ve been looking into the paper trails and files on the computer. Records have been changed. I’ve spoken to Crystal’s mother and don’t like that she’s still walking free.”

  But Prez and the boys took out everyone involved who was grooming those kids. Didn’t they? Then as I add two and two together, the dire thought slams into my head, the reason why this cop’s ringing me. “Are you saying Amy’s still in danger?”

  “I can’t tell you she is, but I can’t assure you she’s not. There’s unfinished business, of that I’m certain. But I think she’s safe at the compound. Drummer will be able to protect her. And I might be completely wrong, Heart. It might be something else altogether. Or nothing at all. All I know is I’ve been threatened with demotion if I keep digging around.”

  And from the sound of it, she won’t be putting that shovel down yet. “You should stop.” Leave it to the Satan’s Devils.

  “I can’t. Not until I’ve gotten to the bottom of what’s going on. I’m not made that way, Heart.”

  I breathe in deeply through my nose. “As far as I’m concerned, it’s over and done with.” And even if it isn’t, I don’t want anyone else doing my work for me.

  “Well I don’t give up. I’m going to talk to Leonardo Herrera.”

  Now that’s just dangerous. He’s the head of the largest crime family in Tucson. “I wouldn’t fuckin’ go there. Especially if you don’t have backup.” If I wasn’t so far away, and essentially kicked out of the club for the next few months, I could have involved Drummer. He might have provided someone to have this cop’s back. But on second thought, that would never work. He wouldn’t want to side with anyone connected to law enforcement, however much they were going out on a limb or for what.

  “Heart, I can’t give up. And what about you? Don’t you want to know the truth? Don’t you want to get all the bastards who played their part in the death of your wife?”

  A week or so ago I was ready to give up, and maybe I still am. Perhaps the reason I’m still breathing is to discover the whys and wherefores of what happened. “Maybe,” I tentatively reply. “But I can’t see what I can do.” I’m nearly eight-hundred miles away and not allowed to go back, even if I wanted to. I made a bargain with Drummer, and I’m going to keep to it.

  A sigh. “I can’t talk to anyone else. It helps that you’re there and listening, I need that.”

  Strangely, I find I’m smiling. “You gonna keep calling?”

  A pause. “I’d like to do that, if you don’t mind. And Heart, you need to stay in the land of the living. Nothing makes sense if you’re not around to learn all the facts.”

  Two weeks ago I thought that was impossible. “Why are you bothering? Wouldn’t it be easier for you to let everything drop?”

  “I’ve been where you are, Heart. I know what you’re going through.” There’s a rustle as though the cop’s getting comfortable. Maybe lying on a bed? Then, “It’s called survivor’s guilt.”

  Hmm. That was mentioned to me before. For the first time in a long while I find I’m interested in someone else. Perhaps there might be a magic solution to what I’m going through, but I sincerely doubt it. Can’t hurt to ask. I ease my way over to my own bed and sit down. “What happened to you?”

  “I… I lost someone too, Heart. Let’s just leave it at that.”

  “How long ago?” How long does it take to start to come back?

  A sigh, then, “Eight years.”

  Eight years. Eight years of grieving. Eight long fucking years finding it hard to put one step in front of the other. Can it be done? “Does… does it get easier?” I’m not sure why I’m asking, or whether I’m bothered about the answer. The next eight days will be hard enough.

  “Yeah. Yes, eventually it does. Have you heard about the stages of grief, Heart? Well, the last one’s acceptance. You won’t be the same, you won’t forget your wife, but it will become easier to think about her, and you’ll learn to live with your loss.”

  I’m shaking my head as I just can’t see that happening. As we’ve moved into personal territory, I suddenly have the desire to know who I’m talking to. “What do I call you?” I don’t want to say “Detective” every time the phone rings.

  Silence. Just when I think I need to give encouragement, the softly spoken answer reaches my ears. “Marc. You can call me Marc.”

  “Marc?” I huff a laugh.

  “Yeah. It’s the pet name my family gave me.”

  It’s the first piece of real information that’s been shared. And now knowing a name makes our call seem less formal.

  “Take care, Marc.” I lower my voice. “Don’t take any risks. Stay away from the fuckin’ Herreras.”

  But Marc makes no such promise, just ends the call with, “I’ll keep in touch.”

  The Satan’s Devils don’t trust the police. Our only interaction is if any of us get arrested, and then we have the club lawyer to help us get out. We’ve been cleaning up the club, earning money from the legit businesses we own, staying clear of drugs and only running guns when we need to. Most arrests nowadays
are on a trumped-up charge, simply because we’re known as outlaws.

  We have no involvement with law enforcement. I shouldn’t be encouraging the cop, but something doesn’t sit right. I don’t know if Marc is right to suspect the sergeant and partner. As I stay seated on the bed, I go back over the conversation. Archer’s dead, but for some reason he’s still being protected. The cop’s right. I don’t like it.

  Is it simply to cover up they had a dirty cop? Or does it go much deeper than that? All I do know is that I don’t like the thought of Marc following it up alone. But what the heck? What do I care about a detective who means nothing to me, but who’s willing to put their neck on the line? Fuck all. I’ve got far greater concerns than that—like how to survive today and tomorrow. I toy with the idea of contacting Drummer, but he made clear he wasn’t my prez anymore. Without checking, I know he’ll do everything to protect my daughter, even if I’m not there. Marc’s identified no real risk, just a gut feeling, intuition.

  The cop might be jumping at shadows and could be totally wrong. It might just be the department not wanting to investigate now that Archer’s dead, a cleaner result than admitting he was corrupt. Nah, I don’t think I should do anything, not unless something else turns up. If I had any real sense Amy was in danger, I’d be on the phone to Drum like a shot. But there’s nothing concrete to go on, and I trust the club to have completed the job. I know more than Marc. I know Drum met with the Herreras. I know everything the cop doesn’t.

  No, there’s no need to raise the alarm.

  Finally, my mind winds down enough for me to sleep. Waking the next morning, I realise my time at the park is coming to the end when I once again learn via the television weather forecast that icy conditions are on their way. Not wanting to be caught in bad weather, I check out of the lodge and get back on my bike, leaving the scenic park behind me, and get back on the move.

  Sorry to cut it short, babe, but it’s time to get on.

  With the familiar sensation of arms around me, I set off on my way, quickly realising the two weeks’ stop-off has done me some good. Now stronger, I’m not fumbling so many gear changes. My muscles don’t protest as the weather grows relatively warmer as I head for the coast, nor when it drops again as five hours later I arrive on a wet, foggy day with the temperature hovering in the mid-fifties at what was to be our next destination, San Francisco. Yeah, Crystal and I had planned to make this trip in summer, but in some ways it’s fitting, as the cold and dismal grey suits my mood.

  Unpacking my saddlebags in yet another anonymous room, I make a mental list of the things we’d planned to do while here. Taking a cable car is a must, as is a visit to Fisherman’s Wharf, and then Alcatraz.

  It’s not until I venture out the next morning and make my visit to the first of the sights on my list that I realise the burning anger I previously couldn’t escape has at last started to fade. In Yosemite I’d gotten into the habit of eating and sleeping—the fresh air and exercise helping banish my insomnia. Physically I’m recovering, and my body is healing. I miss my wife like fuck, yet when I try to conjure up Crystal’s face in my mind it’s fuzzy, her features indistinct. I remember them like a snapshot, a picture, but not in 3D.

  But fuck, I’m not imagining the hand on my shoulder, and the soft touch around my waist as I ride. She’s still with me. She’ll never leave me.

  I can’t let her memory fade. As I ride back to the motel from Fisherman’s Wharf, I’m struggling to recall exact details about her—her scent, the touch of her skin under my fingers. I must keep her with me. Suddenly feeling alone and afraid, I retreat to my room, bending double as I let out the sobs which wrack my body.

  I’ve got to go on. I’m not sure I’m strong enough.

  I stare at the phone, which doesn’t ring, wishing for living human contact, someone to tell me there’s a reason to go on. And if it’s just reassurance from that cop, right now I’ll take it. If I hadn’t fucked up, I’d still have my brothers behind me. There’s no one to speak to, not even my ex-Army buddy who I’d stayed with after I left the hospital. I’d pissed him off as well by returning, albeit briefly, to the club.

  I’m a man. I can’t remember ever crying before in my life, but now started, the tears won’t stop falling. I miss Crystal so fucking much. Why couldn’t it have been me that had died and not her? Amy wouldn’t be missing both her parents, Crystal wouldn’t have abandoned her.

  Now I start hating myself for not spotting the truck that had been bearing down on us and evading it, for leaving my daughter, and the way I forced my brothers to turn me out of the club.

  Eventually, feeling more like a woman than a roughened male biker, exhausted, I cry myself to sleep.

  With reddened eyes the next morning, I feel strangely refreshed, as though some of my grief was expelled alongside my tears. With even a little enthusiasm, I resume our itinerary, riding through the city and parking up for a moment to admire the Golden Gate Bridge, taking advantage of the brief moment when the sun is shining. After that I simply mooch around, riding the unfamiliar streets purely for the enjoyment of being out on the road, and relishing that my leg is now strong enough to cope with the gear changes necessary on these hilly streets. Eventually I spy a Harley dealer and, like any biker, can’t resist pulling up outside and taking a smoke out of my pack as I eye up the glorious machines parked in a line.

  Disposing of the cigarette butt and remembering Adam’s bike isn’t mine, I decide to see if there’s a model that catches my eye, something to think about for the future. The thought pulls me up and I start. Future? Am I starting to see a way past this at last? Dismissing the thought which seems too difficult to think about, I stand frozen to the spot, my earlier interest in the latest additions to the Harley stable suddenly taking a back seat.

  As I stand, battling with the thoughts in my head, a thunderous roar reaches me, and ten or more Harleys come and park up. Oh shit. I’d forgotten San Francisco was where the Wretched Soulz had started. How could a biker forget something like that? Unless he had a death wish, of course.

  Even in the circumstance under which I became a lone biker, exiled from his home, I retain a strong loyalty to the Satan’s Devils, and a desire to represent the club in the same ways that I would in Tucson. So far I’ve done nothing to draw attention to myself, or have come across trouble on the road, and had hoped it continues. Now, unless they ignore me, I’m to be faced with my first challenge.

  I wait, a lonesome biker without his pack, wearing a leather vest with lines of holes demarking where patches once sat.

  I don’t turn and look at them, just stand as if I’m interested in the new bikes. I hear talking behind me, general chitchat, suggesting they’re leaving me alone. The sun’s come out again, the day warming up. Suddenly too hot, I slip out of my cut and reach behind me and pull my sweatshirt up…

  “What have we here?”

  Shit. I must have bared my back. Throwing my sweatshirt on my bike, I hastily pull my long-sleeved t-shirt down and, nonchalantly as I can, put my cut back on.

  “Brother.” As the man comes around in front of me, the words are said with a friendly enough nod. The stranger walks around my bike and examines my cut. His eyes fall on the one patch I do have. “Ronin?”

  Careful to show I’m not reaching for anything else, I pull out my wallet and dig around, coming up with the business card-sized token, and wave it under his face. He takes it and reads it. Then going behind me, his hand grabs the back of my shirt and pulls it up. I know what he’s seeing, my full back patch tattoo. “Long way from home.”

  I let a small smile play on my lips. “I’m a Ronin. My home’s everywhere. The wide-open road.”

  “But you’re from Tucson? Originally a Devil?” Once a Satan’s Devil, always a Devil. I just nod.

  “Out bad, but your ink’s not blacked out?”

  “Fuck, no,” I throw in sharply. “I left in good standing, Brother.”

  As he comes to my fore again, I don’t see anythi
ng in his face to suggest he doesn’t believe me, but a look of suspicion has appeared. “Any reason you’ve come to San Francisco? Are you here on behalf of your club?”

  He thinks I might be scouting for a new club location. Big disrespect if we haven’t approached the dominant club first.

  I shake my head rapidly. “No, I’m not Nomad nor representing my club. I’m here for personal reasons. Keeping my head down and trying not to attract attention.”

  “But you’ve caught ours.” It’s said conversationally, and he points at the pack of smokes I’ve untidily tucked into the pocket of my cut. Noting the enforcer patch on his, thinking some things never change, I take them out quickly and offer him one.

  After I share my lighter, I try to explain. “You know how it is, man.” I point to the new bikes. “Can’t resist having a look when I come across a shop.”

  His eyes seem to look through me, then he starts to walk around my bike. “You’ve already got a nice ride,” he compliments, but automatically. No one would insult another man’s bike.

  “It’s not mine.” The words come out without filtering.

  “No?” And there’s a brief accusation in case it’s been stolen. No biker would steal a brother’s sled. They’d be out bad, for good. Or dead.

  Hastily I speak, knowing I need to offer some explanation. “Was run off the road, man. My bike was totalled. This belonged to one of my brothers who was killed last May. You know how it is, he might have no need for it anymore, but I don’t feel like it’s mine.”

  Again he examines my face. “Run off the road? It wasn’t an accident?”

  “No,” I reply through gritted teeth.

  “Sounds like there’s a story there. Come back to our compound. We’ll share a beer or two and you can tell us what happened.”

  Or they might kill me and bury my body. Or give me a beatdown for being on their turf. It’s impossible to tell. During our conversation, his brothers have sat, waiting impassively. As I take another drag on my cigarette, I feel that hand on my shoulder like it’s reassuring me. What do I care what they want to do to me? I’m outnumbered and there’s no way out. It wouldn’t be suicide if I go with them and end up dead.