Nope. Heart must have given my name as Marc.
For some inexplicable reason I find the situation funny, and I’m still giggling as I return to the bedroom.
After putting away my meagre collection of clothes, I find the makings of an omelette and get myself something to eat. Then, moving to the living room, take out my phone and call Heart. I have to thank him for allowing me to stay in this beautiful house and for getting it prepared, even if the preparations are quite masculine.
Opening a beer, appreciating the generosity, though I would have preferred wine, I settle back and place the call. It goes unanswered.
Later that evening, I try calling again. Once more the tone rings, then cuts out. This time I leave my thanks via a message.
After two days I’ve got myself sorted. Shopping’s been done, the house full of food that I prefer, and the garage is now home to two bikes. I’m settling in, but I can’t get comfortable. I’m too worried. Every other time I’ve rung Heart I’ve managed to get him, usually on the first or if not, the second try—or recently, he’s taken to calling back. I tell myself there’s no need to worry, there’s a load of explanations. Maybe I’m just unlucky and finding him on the road each time. Maybe he’s lost his phone.
After a week my concern builds, expecting him to have contacted me if only to check how I’m settling in. We’ve spoken so regularly over the past few months, the calls increasing in frequency as time went on, and especially while I was recovering in the hospital. Our growing friendship meaning he kept checking up on my recovery.
Has he been arrested? Well, that’s one thing I can check. I place a call to the station and get them to run his name, and nothing comes up. I pace the room, biting my nails. He’s a lone biker in unfamiliar territory. Anything could have happened to him. I try to recall what I know of his itinerary. He should have been leaving Los Angeles by now and visiting his friend Dart in San Diego. Perhaps I can call there to see if he’s arrived?
But I don’t have the club’s number.
Now I’ve started fretting, I can’t stop. Where is he? Telling myself there must be a simple explanation, I can’t help grabbing my keys and go out to get my Kawasaki from the garage. There’s someone who might help me. I owe it to Heart to try.
The first hurdle is getting into the compound.
The prospect manning the gate won’t let me in. I tell him who I am, unashamedly using my police credentials. It takes a bit of to-ing and fro-ing, but at last the gate is rolled back. Once inside the Satan’s Devils’ compound, I have to wait to be escorted up to the clubroom. I’m hurried through the communal area, with only a moment to take in the suspicious eyes landing on me, then, at last, I’m in an office and in front of the man I’ve come to see.
“Drummer.” I nod my head, then turn to the other person in the room. From my previous dealings with the club, I remember he’s the VP, but check his name flash to confirm my recollection is right. “Wraith.”
The man behind the desk frowns. “Detective Hannah. I’d say it’s a pleasure, but…” He doesn’t need to spell out police aren’t welcome at the compound.
Pointing to the free seat in front of the desk, I raise my eyebrow. He nods, and I slip off my green and black jacket and place my helmet at my feet. He’s obviously waiting for me to speak, so I don’t disappoint.
“First, I’m not here in any official capacity. I’m on a leave of absence from work.”
Drummer cocks his head to one side. “You been up to things you shouldn’t?”
They don’t know? They must know and are playing it dumb. But if they want to hear it all over again, I’ll give them the short version. “I was injured and burned when someone threw a bomb into my house. I’ve only been out of the hospital for just over a week.”
They exchange looks. Well, perhaps there goes my idea that the Satan’s Devils had anything to do with it. Unless they’re very good actors.
“I’m sorry to hear that.” Drummer gives me an appraising look. “Has that anything to do with the reason for this visit? If so, we can cut this short. My club had nothing to do with what happened to you.”
I shake my head too fast and pause, waiting for the pain to subside, and I automatically put my hand up to my temple. It reminds me I should be resting, not cavorting around the countryside and meeting bikers. Drummer doesn’t miss much.
“If you’re on sick leave, should you be here?”
“I had to come,” I tell him simply.
“’Bout time you told us why. We’re busy men, Detective,” Wraith butts in.
I nod, slower this time. “Please, call me Marcia. As I said, I’m not working. I’ve come about Heart.”
Again, both men exchange glances, eyebrows raised as if they didn’t expect that. “Heart’s not here.”
I know. I lean forward and put my hands between my knees, studying them for a second before looking the president in the eye. “I’m aware Heart has been gone for five months or so. I know he was banned from the club. I know exactly where he’s been and what he’s been doing.”
Drummer sits up sharply and locks both hands behind his head. He stares at Wraith for a moment, and it feels like the temperature in the room has dropped by a few degrees. “You seem to know an awful lot of club business for a detective. I’d like you to tell me why the police have been keeping fuckin’ tabs on him?”
Shit. I’ve walked in here with my personal concerns about the man who’s become my friend, not putting sufficient emphasis on the fact that OMGs—outlaw motorcycle gangs as they’re known by law enforcement—and cops do not mix. I’ve got to tread very carefully here. My eyes meet Drummer’s, and I make sure to keep them on him, trying to convey my sincerity. “I’m going to tell you the truth, Drummer. When I first made contact, it was to update him on how the investigation into his wife’s death was going.” I frown. “Or not going as the case might be...” I break off and try to pull the right words together and in the right order, knowing I’ve got to convince this suspicious man that for once I’m on his side.
“And how is it going?” Wraith asks sharply, before I can say anything else, his eyes flicking to meet those of his prez.
“Not well enough. But we need to park that for now. It’s not what I’m here to talk about.” Once more, both men look surprised, but neither interrupt when I continue, “I called him first in my official capacity. One thing to cross off my list. Just another working day.” In my mind I’m remembering that call. “I knew immediately Heart was in a bad way, but I doubt that comes as news to you. Let’s just say we’ve got losses in common, and I understood his state of mind only too well.”
Their expressions give nothing away.
“He told me he was out on the road for six months, but it was clear he wasn’t going to last that long without someone on his side.” I feel brave enough to glare at Drummer. “He never shared club business with me, didn’t tell me the reason he was out on the road or why he was staying clear of the club. I surmised you thought getting him away from where all his memories were would be the best thing. But you were totally wrong. He was out on a limb with no support.” I pause, knowing I’ve got to lay everything on the line if I’m going to convince them. Taking a breath, I continue, “He was suicidal when I first spoke to him. I’d go so far as to say if I hadn’t called him when I did, he wouldn’t be breathing today. Survivor’s guilt is a hard thing to deal with. I’ve been there, done that, so I decided to help.”
Drummer looks at Wraith, who grimaces. Drummer’s face is impassive, but his steely grey eyes say a lot. I know MCs are a brotherhood, the camaraderie unequalled. Suddenly I feel enraged on Heart’s part. “You sent him away at the worst possible time, with no back up, and no one in his corner. If he wasn’t still here, it would be on your head.”
Drummer’s taken aback at my attack. But it’s Wraith who speaks. “Did he admit what he’d done before he left?”
I shake my head. I guessed something had happened, but I didn’t know what. “I
had no choice.” Drummer waves Wraith down. “It’s on me. I made the decision.”
“Club vote,” Wraith quickly reminds him. “He couldn’t have stayed.”
“Leaving that aside,” I take back the conversation again. Whatever Heart had done, it was in the past. “Heart needed someone. Really, he needed, needs, therapy, but I did my best. We got into the habit of talking, at first every couple of weeks, and then more often. He’d tell me what he was doing and where he was going.”
I glance at one then the other. “Do you even care what he was up to? Well, I’ll tell you anyway. He was travelling on a road trip that he and Crystal had planned, seeing the things she wanted to see. He started off at Death Valley, and very nearly didn’t make it out of there. That’s when I first spoke to him. After that, he made his way to Yosemite, San Francisco, then down the Pacific Coast Highway. Last time we spoke, he was heading for Los Angeles. From there he planned to stop in San Diego and visit the clubhouse where his friend Dart now is, before heading back here when his six months were up.
“He wavered this way and that about coming back to the club, but when I spoke to him that final time, he was fully committed that he’d return, and at last felt strong enough to look after Amy.”
“You know a lot about him.” Drummer doesn’t sound comfortable.
“We’ve become friends. He needed one.”
Now the president leans forward and puts his hands flat on the desk. “Have you come here to accuse us of not supporting him? You’ve got a fuckin’ nerve. We were here for him. Never left him alone for a moment from the time he went into the hospital until he came out. But he pushed us away, did things that hurt the club. I sent him away to give him space to get his head straight once and for all.”
I match his ire. “You nearly lost him for good.” Then I remember the reason why I’m here. “And perhaps you now have.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
“It’s why I’ve taken the unusual step of coming to you today.” My voice drops, my concern for my friend coming out. “I knew the reception wouldn’t be friendly, but I’m asking you to put my connection with law enforcement aside. I’m worried about Heart, Drummer. I haven’t been able to contact him for more than a week. He’s gone missing.”
A further look between the two men and some silent exchange passes between them. It’s the VP who speaks. “Maybe he’s gotten sick of you bothering him all the time.”
“If he was sick of me, he wouldn’t be letting me stay in his house,” I snap back.
Drummer’s eyes open wide. “You’re Mark? Well, fuck me. What the fuck you using a man’s name for?”
“Marc. M. A. R. C. It’s short for Marcia.” I don’t know why I have to explain.
“You’re a fuckin’ cop and you’re staying in a club member’s house?” Drummer’s cheeks blaze red.
Knowing I have to talk him down to get him off the subject of the strange friendship between Heart and myself, I start speaking quickly. “That doesn’t matter for now. It’s Heart that I’m worried about. And you should be too.”
Drummer’s eyes bore into me, then at last he nods. “You’re fuckin’ right, I should be worried about him. Letting a cop stay in a club’s house for one thing.” He glares at me until I get the point. I return his stare, almost unblinking, hoping what I thought of him would be true, that his worries for one of his members would override his hatred for the law. It takes a few more moments, during which I refuse to back down, then he wipes his hand over his beard. “Okay, working on the assumption that you’re still pals, what makes you worried about him? What do you mean he’s missing?”
“I can’t get in touch.” Then I tell him what little I know. When I last spoke to him, and where he was at that time.
Chapter Eleven
Heart…
Why the name Scratch sounds familiar comes to me while I’m standing in front of him wondering what the fuck this club wants with me. But it couldn’t be the same man, could it? The Scratch I’m thinking of was one of the last Rock Demons out of Phoenix. One of two men who hadn’t been killed when the Satan’s Devils blew up their club. Slick had already taken out one and has a massive hard-on for that last man left standing, being as he was one of those who’d raped his wife, Ella. I’d heard the name in the club before I left. At that time, Mouse was pulling out all the stops trying to find him.
But that Scratch had been a prospect, as far as we knew—a nephew of their president who we’d blown up, but otherwise only of lowly club rank. The man Slick was searching for and this man in front of me couldn’t be one and the same? How the fuck could you go from a prospect to becoming the prez of a club in under a year?
Despite the oddity of that possible promotion, there are two more things which give me chills in my gut and make me believe my suspicions are right. One that the names of the two clubs are eerily similar, and the other is that it’s far from the hand of welcome that’s being extended to me.
“Brought him in, Prez. Thought you’d want to speak to him.” Painter laughs. “Didn’t have too much trouble finding him.”
“Thanks, Paint.”
“Here’s his stuff.”
Scratch stops fumbling with his balls to turn to the newcomer and give him a chin lift. “Thanks, Witcher.”
“What the fuck?” I stare in disbelief as the man wearing the sergeant-at-arms patch hands something to Scratch. It’s everything I had in my saddlebags. They must have broken the locks to get at it. “You don’t mess with another man’s ride.”
Scratch steps up so when he speaks he spits into my face. “We do what we fuckin’ want.”
If I hadn’t already, I’d be having serious doubts about this club now. There’s a code we all follow, which they don’t seem to abide by. Sure, we don’t give a damn what we do to an enemy… Fuck, that’s what they think I am. Is it the same Scratch? Those chills in my gut become icy cold.
Scratch is rummaging through my spare clothing and has picked out the tissue-wrapped Christmas ornament I’d bought all those months ago in Flagstaff, taking it out and dangling it from one finger and then looking at me. “Pretty fancy stuff for a biker. And Christmas has long gone. Doubt you’ll be needing this anymore.” He tosses it to Witcher, who throws it to the VP. It’s a small thing, but one whose loss hits me hard. I feel violated and have to suppress the urge to scream at them to give it back. It would only let them see how important it is. I bought it for Crystal. I bought it for Amy.
My eyes narrow. His eyes land on my cut. “Take it off.”
I shake my head to refuse, and then two men step up, and though I struggle, successfully strip it off me and hand it to their prez. He holds it gingerly as if he doesn’t want to touch it, then turns it around. As it rotates, he looks at the worn leather and the lines of stitch holes showing something’s missing. His eyes crease and his mouth curves. “Looks like you’ve been stripped of your patches.”
What do I want him to believe? That I’m out bad, or still a trusted friend of the club, and in little more than a month will return and resume my place as a member? But the decision is taken out of my hands when he gives a signal and the two men who divested me of my cut grab my hands once again. Scratch walks around me and pulls up my shirt, once again revealing the full back tattoo of the Satan’s Devils’ patch.
“You’re not out in bad standing, else this would have been inked out.” He walks around in front of me again. “Unless you didn’t want to do it. In which case you’re showing disrespect to this life.”
It’s him showing disrespect, and to the dom club, but perhaps he doesn’t know it. I decide to come clean. “I’m no longer a member of the club, I’ve taken a break to go on the road. I’m a Ronin. I’ve got my card, and the Wretched Soulz have given me clear passage through California.”
I didn’t know what I expected, but it wasn’t that Scratch would grin widely, treating me to a mouthful of white teeth that don’t look natural. “And we’ll need to thank them. Hea
ring the word was out to keep an eye on a Satan’s Devils’ Ronin promised safe passage by the Wretched Soulz was just what we needed as a heads-up to know you were coming our way.”
Shit. They were waiting. I’d run into a trap laid for me. Deciding to take the initiative, I ask, “Just who are you? What do you want with me? You’ve obviously got something against our club. Why? We’re hundreds of miles away in Tucson…” But I’ve got a very nasty feeling I already know the answers. And if I’m right, this is not going to go well for me.
Again I get spittle on my face. “I’m asking the questions here.” Then he turns to Painter and beckons over another of his men. “VP, you and Zip take him downstairs and string him up.” He turns back. “Yeah, I got some fuckin’ questions for you, and you’re going to answer every single fuckin’ one.”
Being taken to the basement by the VP and enforcer can’t bode well. But there are a dozen men in the room, and if I try and fight my way out of it, I’ll only earn more bruises before I have to. I put up no protest as they lead me away, and earn myself a round of name calling, with “pussy” and “fuckin’ pansy devil” coming over the loudest. I square my shoulders. Insults I can handle.
Descending the stairs, I wonder whether there’s a blueprint for MC torture chambers—let’s face it, where I’m headed can’t be called anything else. Chains hanging from the rafters are wrapped around my hands, and plastic sheeting hastily spread under my feet. Am I afraid? Fuck yes. My hands are sweating, my heart’s beating fast enough to leap out of my chest, but I try not to let my fear show. Any weakness will be leapt upon and mocked. All I can hope is that I won’t be reduced to begging for my life, or more likely for death. Remaining as stoic as I can, taking everything they give to me is the least I can do for my brothers I left behind in Tucson. To depart this life with dignity, showing what a Satan’s Devil stands for, his club.
The spirits are waiting. Well, they probably won’t have to wait long. There was a reason I’d seen the coyote, the owl, the mouse, and the crow. The warning that I hadn’t heeded. Dead man walking. Well, yeah. That could very well be coming.
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