by Kate Kessler
“Not feeling so ineffectual now.”
They walked up the rickety front steps. Killian rang the bell. It would be amazing if anyone could hear it over the music. A few seconds later a big guy with a shaggy beard and dreads answered the door. “What are you sellin’? Fucking Girl Scout cookies?” He laughed at his own humor, gold tooth glinting under the light.
“I’m here for the Crows,” Killian told him.
He sobered, giving her a suspicious once-over. “I don’t know you.”
“Sure you do.” She smirked at him as she slipped her hand into her pocket, easing her fingers through the cool loops of the brass knuckles there. This could go south quickly. “I’m Killian Delaney.”
His entire body—even his face—stiffened. South it was, then. His meaty hand had barely touched the hilt of the knife at his belt when Killian punched him in the throat. The brass knuckles bit into her fingers, but Gold-Tooth staggered backward, gasping for air. A well-placed kick to the balls drove him to his knees. She smashed him in the face three more times before leveling another kick to the side of his head, putting him down.
“And I’m back to ineffectual,” Story commented drily as she stepped over the unconscious lump.
Killian wiped at the blood that had seeped between the metal and her skin. “You looked cool, though. Now might be a good time to reconsider joining me. If the way this guy feels about me is any indication.”
“Are you kidding? This is the most fun I’ve had on a Monday in months.” Story pulled a police baton from inside her jacket and snapped it open. “Lead on.”
This hadn’t been the plan, to come in on the offensive, but the bouncer had changed the rules and shit was going to hit the fan if they didn’t find Danny and the Crows fast and get the hell out of there. The guitar-heavy music—Southern rock, maybe?—had drowned out the sound of their altercation. Or maybe no one cared. Regardless, no one else appeared in the foyer.
There was a room to the left where the girls sober enough to be half-assed upright waited to be chosen by their “customers” and taken upstairs. Others were already splayed out on grimy sheets, ready for business. A quick glance confirmed there were about two men and five girls in the room. The women were barefoot and had on flimsy slips that were stained and worn. Three of them looked to be underage. The other two were so stoned and worn-out it was hard to tell. They were draped across a ratty old sofa that had bricks holding up one corner of it. One had bruises all over her leg and track marks on her forearm.
“Wanna party?” the girl called out. She didn’t look to be much older than Shannon. Young, but strung out.
Killian shook her head, but it was too late. The two men in the room turned and looked right at her. The music suddenly fell.
“Killian fucking Delaney,” one snarled. Of course he’d be the one to recognize her—when she didn’t want to be recognized.
He wasn’t an SOB, but he was definitely in a club. She couldn’t see his patch, but it didn’t matter—he knew who she was and he didn’t like her, which seemed to be the general consensus. That meant they were probably in with Rank. His buddy took out his cell phone while the other approached. He was calling for backup. Shit, shit, and shit.
“Danny!” Killian yelled. “Time to go!” The biker came at her swinging. One of his rings grazed her cheek. She kicked him in the knee and then got a fist in the mouth for her trouble. Her head snapped back and the coppery taste of blood coated her tongue. God, she hated having a split lip. When he swung again, she dodged the blow and used his own momentum to smash him face-first into the wall. She got in three shots to his kidneys before his elbow hit her temple.
Jesus, she was rusty. Nine years ago she would have had him unconscious already.
Killian tried to shake off the blow. Thick arms closed around her waist, lifting the bottom half of her body so that her head pointed toward the floor. What was he going to do, body-slam her? Just her luck to end up fighting a guy who watched too much WWE. He held her with her back against him, which enabled her to get her legs around his neck. As she hung there, she saw Story smack another biker in the head with her baton.
She heard the sound of several pairs of boots pounding down the stairs. Her opponent just happened to look up at the commotion and Killian took advantage of his distraction to use him like the monkey bars at the park. She curled up quickly, digging her calves into his shoulders for leverage. She smashed the brass knuckles into his face. He stumbled backward, then fell under her momentum, and she took him down to the scuffed wooden floor so that she straddled him. She hit him once in the temple—twice—a third time, with a smack of his skull against the floor for good measure, and he was out.
Definitely rusty.
Danny arrived at the bottom of the stairs just as she rose to her feet. She took one look at the girl around whose waist he had his arm, and her heart fell.
“That’s not her.” The girl’s hair and complexion were the wrong shade.
“Shit,” he said.
The girl lifted her head. Sweet Jesus…
“Madallya?” Killian took the girl’s face in her hands and lifted it to the light. “Oh, you poor baby. What did they do to you?” It was obvious she’d been beaten.
“They s-sold me,” Madallya told her, teeth chattering. “Th-they raped me. A lot, I think.”
Danny and Killian exchanged a look. He looked heartbroken. He’d always been soft where kids and women were concerned. “She needs medical attention,” he said.
Killian nodded. “Let’s get her to the hospital.” Then to the girl: “Madallya, where’s Shannon?”
“They t-took her with them. Left m-me here. Assholes.”
“They must have her at the fucking SOB clubhouse.” Killian shook her head. She ought to have realized that’s where Wex would take her.
The sound of a pump-action shotgun being primed caught everyone’s attention.
“Killian fucking Delaney,” rasped a voice that came from too many cigarettes and just plain bitterness.
“I’m thinking I should put that on my business cards,” Killian said, turning.
Annie Dawson wasn’t much to look at—never had been. She was a hard woman who looked like she sounded. Dark roots gave way to rust-colored hair that lightened toward the ends and needed to be washed. Her round, overly tanned body was stuffed into a tank top and jeans made for someone much smaller and younger. She wore cowboy boots, feather earrings, and heavy black eyeliner. Basically, she was a walking stereotype. Killian used to like her, but that was a long time ago, before she realized that being a madam wasn’t empowering; it was no better than being a pimp.
“You got a lot of nerve comin’ here,” Annie told her.
“You’re not the first to tell me that, either. I’m just here looking for someone, Annie. I didn’t come for trouble.”
“Looks like you found it anyway, darlin’.”
“I don’t want to spoil your party,” came a voice from her right, “but you got maybe five minutes before the White Reapers get here.”
“White Reapers?” Danny made a face like he’d tasted something bad. “Pansy-assed Nazis. You running with them now, Annie?”
She barely glanced at him. Her attention was focused on Killian. “I run with whoever pays me the most, sweetheart. You know that.”
“Lower the gun and we’ll leave,” Danny suggested.
“Leave my girl,” the older woman told him. “And Killy, here. Rank will pay me a lot for her ass.”
“Right,” Killian drawled, even as her heartbeat accelerated. She thought he’d lifted the price on her. “Rank’s going to pay you for rubbing what I did to him in his face. I’m sure he’ll love the reminder.”
Annie faltered, and that was all the opening Killian needed. She moved fast, letting muscle memory take over. With one hand, she shoved the barrel of the gun away and down, and punched the older woman in the jaw with the other. Her next blow connected with the woman’s mouth. Disoriented, Annie let her grip on
the shotgun weaken, and Killian wrestled it free.
“What now?” Annie asked, staring at her with narrowed eyes as she slumped against the faded wallpaper. She dabbed her bloody lip with the back of her hand. “You going to make a mess of me, too?”
“You’re already there, darlin’.” Killian tossed the shotgun to Arlo. “Let’s go.”
The words had barely left her mouth when Story came racing downstairs with a couple of girls chasing after her. When had Story gone upstairs? Killian hardly registered what was in one of the girls’ hands before she threw it into the empty room at the bottom of the steps. A Molotov cocktail.
“Jesus Christ!” Arlo shouted as it exploded into flames. No one said anything else; they just ran for the door. Except for Story, who took a moment to stop and turn to Annie, making sure the older woman saw her face. For a second they just stared at each other, and in the set of their jaws, the resemblance was undeniable.
Shit.
“We gotta go,” Killian told her.
On the street, Story corralled the girls. She’d managed to collect two more. Three others ran down the block in the opposite direction. Flames danced in three of the house windows, and smoke began to billow into the sky as half-naked bikers ran from the building, scantily clad women close behind.
“I’m taking them to a shelter,” Story informed her as they hurried the girls to her car.
“Where’s Madallya?”
“She was with your friend last I saw her.” She opened the door to the back seat and ushered the girls in.
Shit. She had to find the kid. “I’m beginning to think this was your plan all along,” Killian remarked. “You could have told me.” Honestly, she wasn’t all that upset about being played.
Story shrugged. “Let’s just say Annie and I had unfinished business.”
“Yeah.” It really wasn’t the time to dive into it. “Okay.”
“You want me to take you back to Dash’s?”
“I’ll get a ride,” Killian told her. “You get those girls somewhere safe.”
The other woman offered her hand. “It was nice meeting you, Killian. Thanks for a fun evening.”
Killian grinned. “You’re crazier than you look, Story. Thanks for having my back. And for actually setting this place on fire. Could’ve waited until we got out, though.”
“Now, where’s the fun in that?” She closed the back door as the last girl climbed into her car. They were all melted together in the back seat like crayons left in the sun.
Killian glanced over her shoulder. Annie stood on the sidewalk outside her burning brothel smoking a cigarette, looking up at the sky. She almost felt sorry for the old madam. Almost.
A siren wailed in the distance. Was it headed this way? It didn’t matter. They’d come soon enough, though any decent firefighter or cop would let the place burn as much as possible first.
Killian couldn’t stop thinking about what kind of help Shannon might need once she found her. She was glad the girl wasn’t there, but being with the SOBs could be so much worse if they decided to make an example of her. Fear tugged on the edges of her mind as she watched Story’s Civic zip away from the curb. Even her license plate was unmemorable.
“Hey, Killy.”
Killian turned, too caught up in her own thoughts to wonder who might be talking. There stood Annie, just a few feet away, a .38 in her hand.
“I’ve decided to take my chances,” the woman said.
She pulled the trigger.
It was like getting kicked in the chest. The force of the shot knocked her back, but Killian kept her footing despite having the breath knocked out of her.
“Balls,” Annie said, lifting her arm for another shot. This time she aimed for Killian’s head. There was no way she could close the distance in time to disarm her. Killian was about to be killed by a woman known as Annie Hole.
Before the madam could pull the trigger, her body gave a jerk and her eyes rolled up into her head. She crumpled to the sidewalk, .38 clattering beside her. Standing there, on the dead and faded grass, holding a large, smooth rock now smeared with blood, was Madallya.
“Fucking bitch,” she snarled over Annie’s prone form. She raised her arm again.
Those sirens were getting louder. The fire leapt into the sky.
“Madallya.”
The girl looked at her, arm still raised. “What?”
“We gotta go.” She didn’t want the girl getting arrested when the cops arrived, and she needed to find out what she knew about Shannon. She’d drive Madallya to the hospital herself after that. She held out her hand. The girl took it and together they started jogging down a side street.
“Where are your friends?” Madallya asked. The drugs they’d given her made her slow and off-balance. She still had the bloody rock in her hand.
“I don’t know,” Killian replied. Hopefully they’d gotten the hell out of there. As soon as the thought occurred to her, headlights washed over them and flashed twice. Killian turned her head. It was Dash. “Thank Christ,” she whispered.
Stingrays weren’t meant to carry more than two people, but that had never stopped them before, so why would it then? Killian jumped into the passenger seat and pulled Madallya in with her. The girl wasn’t any lightweight, but Killian was riding an adrenaline rush, so it didn’t matter.
“I’m sorry,” Madallya whispered to her. “I smell bad.”
She did, but her apologizing for it was heartbreaking. “You’ll be able to get a shower soon, sweetie.”
“Doesn’t matter. Won’t make me clean.”
Dash swore softly. Killian took her hand. “You did nothing wrong, and you have nothing to be ashamed of. We’re going to get you checked out and make sure your parents know you’re okay. You’re a tough bitch.” She smiled as she lied. No woman ever came through sexual assault unscathed. What those bastards had done would linger like an oily film. Hopefully, Madallya would be able to go forward and have a good life despite this. Or maybe it would break her. Killian didn’t have the answers. She was still dealing with the effects herself.
“I want my mom,” Madallya said.
“We’ll call her from the hospital,” Killian promised.
“I don’t want to go to the hospital.”
“Madallya—”
“Please!” It was a cross between a scream and a sob.
“Where am I going?” Dash asked, casting a worried glance in Killian’s direction.
Killian had no fucking idea, but she didn’t want to upset the girl. “Can we go back to your place?” She couldn’t take Madallya to the Crows’ clubhouse, not after what she’d just suffered at the hands of other bikers. And her apartment was something of a dump. Dash’s place would be safe and was better equipped to make the girl comfortable.
“Sure.” He checked the rearview and changed gear. He didn’t drive fast enough to draw attention—the ’Vette was too memorable for that—but he seemed to know exactly what back streets to take to avoid lights and traffic.
“Don’t you need the hospital?” Madallya asked, eyes slightly unfocused. “You got shot.”
“The fuck?” Dash demanded, his head whipping toward her, then facing front again.
“I’m going to have one helluva bruise tomorrow,” she admitted. “Thanks for the vest.”
His shoulders noticeably dropped. “You’re welcome.”
“Did you know Annie was Story’s mother?”
“Kind of. I knew there was bad blood, and I assumed from there. You know how it is with mothers and daughters. Complicated.”
Killian stared at him a moment, waiting for him to look at her, but his gaze was focused solely on the road. “My mother and I don’t have a complicated relationship.”
A slight smile tilted the corner of his mouth. “You think she’d say the same?”
Probably not. The woman had shown up every week like clockwork for visitation, and filled Killian’s ears with news about people she barely remembered or didn’t know at al
l. She told her about TV shows and books she’d read, about Megan and the kids. Never anything personal. She never once told her how she felt about having a daughter in prison.
Killian never asked.
“No,” she murmured. “Probably not.” She shifted under Madallya’s weight. The girl had fallen asleep.
“You okay?” Dash asked.
Madallya’s head lolled against her shoulder. She pushed the seat back a bit to give them both more room. “Like I said, I’ll have a bruise, but yeah, I’m good.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
She flashed him a forced smile. “I know.” And that was all she had to say.
Newington was just a couple of exits down I-91. Killian’s right leg was just starting to fall asleep when they pulled into Dash’s driveway. The Impala gleamed in the headlights. That car was close to sacred as far as she was concerned. It was her proof that the world wasn’t complete shit. It was hope, and that was exactly what she needed at that moment.
Dash came around and lifted Madallya off her, picking the girl up as if she weighed next to nothing. “Jesus, she stinks.”
“I know. She’s got spunk all over her. It’s even in her hair. Fucking bastards.” She drew a calming breath. “I’ve got to call her parents.”
“Thought you wanted to talk to her first.”
“I do, but I can’t let her parents go on worrying about her. They can come get her and take her to the hospital.” That way she was conveniently left out of it. She didn’t need Donna finding out that she had found the girl who disappeared with her niece.
“You want them to see her like this, though? With dried cum in her hair, on her face and clothes? Jesus, Killy, it’s running down her legs.” He didn’t bother trying to hide his disgust.
“And now you know how it feels to be a woman,” she shot back, opening the outside door of the house for him. “I’ll put some towels down.”
He gave her the house key and the alarm code, and then she ran to the bathroom to grab a couple of towels to drape over the sofa. Dash set the girl on them gently, then looked at himself and grimaced. “Fuck.” He unzipped his jacket.
