by Cathryn Cade
Shelle looked to her big Hawaiian, laughing with his brothers, but also standing where he could keep an eye on her. He raised his brows, asking if she was okay, and she smiled at him.
She was okay. She was with him, with his family—who were just as he’d described them, big, rowdy and loud, but also welcoming.
“You’re right,” she told Manda. “We do.”
Moke greeted Rocker and then Pete with hugs. They slapped his back, grinning. “Glad to have you back, brother,” Rocker said. “Hey, that tall, bodacious gal with you?”
“Yep,” Moke said, grinning widely. “That’s Shelle. She’s from Seattle.”
Rocker nodded. “Yeah, we heard.”
Moke looked around. “Where’s Stick? Want him to meet her.”
Pete shook his head, moving in close. “He’s in Seattle,” he said just loud enough Moke could hear. “Him, Sound, and bunch of the other presidents.”
Moke’s head went back. “The fuck? They catch Al—uh, the big dog?”
Rocker nodded, his face hard. “Oh, yeah. They’ll be handin’ him over to the law…after a serious chat.”
Moke nodded, satisfaction settling in his gut. “Fuckin’ awesome.”
Pete raised his shot glass. “I’ll drink to that. Hell, let’s all drink to that.”
“What’re we drinkin’ to?” T demanded, whiskey bottle at the ready.
Moke held out his glass for a refill. “My tita is safe now, that’s what. Nobody after her anymore.”
“Hell, yeah,” T approved, filling all their glasses, and managing to spill a fair amount in the process. He lifted his glass and roared, “To our Flyer queens—long may they reign!”
Rocker shook his head, laughing, but they all drank to their ladies. Pete poked him slyly. “Whadda you laughin’ at? Your old lady is an elf warrior, the rest of us should get queens or some shit.”
“Only in her gamer world, you asshole,” Rocker grinned. “But y’know, you’re right—I have noticed Lesa’s runnin’ you and The Hangar lately. So she must be the queen of you.”
Pete shoved him. Rocker laughed as he skidded into Bouncer, who held a full glass of beer.
“The fuck, you bastards!” the older biker squalled, looking down at his soaking shirt and jeans. “That was a fresh pull o’ brew.” He said nothing about his wet clothing.
“Sorry,” Pete said. “I’ll get you another. That’s our new fall amber—too damn good to waste.”
“First, another toast,” T offered, his eyes gleaming with excitement as he handed Bouncer a shot glass to replace his beer glass. “Moke and me are buyin’ JJ’s!”
“You are?” Rocker’s brows went up. “Got a loan?”
“Nah,” Moke said easily, although his gut was tight. “Got a clear title on my family place on Hawaii. Gonna sell it.”
Pete gripped Moke’s shoulder silently. T’s smile slipped, his clear hazel eyes worried.
“Oh, man. You don’t wanna drink to that. Sorry, bro.”
Moke held out his glass. “No worries. It’s the right thing to do. We’re gonna own a business, we gotta be all in, right?”
“Trade-offs,” Rocker agreed.
“Well, let’s fuckin’ drink to that, then,” Bouncer said, holding out his glass. “Bro, you don’t need some fancy-ass place clear over there, anyways. Not when you got all this.”
Moke caught Pete’s eye, and the two of them chuckled. “He’s right,” Pete said, his voice quivering. “Ain’t even a contest, right? Hawaii, or Airway Heights…who’d choose anywhere else?”
“Thass’ right,” Bouncer agreed, and knocked back his shot.
“Dumb fucker,” T muttered, and draped one enormous arm over Moke’s shoulder. “But we’re all here, so it’s home, right?”
Moke gave him a grin. “That’s right, baby brah. Anywhere you are is home for me.”
T batted his lashes. “You say the sweetest things.”
Moke elbowed him aside. “You do that again, I’m tellin’ Manda she’s got competition.”
His partner’s eyes widened in comic horror. “No, man. She won’t give me that special treat she’s been promisin’ me tonight.”
Rocker and Pete snickered, and T tried to look injured. “What? I’m a bear, and I gotta have my honey. Speaking of… Manda!” he bellowed.
His friends all winced, especially Moke, who was closest. He shook his head. “Yeah, time to find my tita, and get me some honey too.”
This being a good idea all round, the friends split up to go and do that.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
Darius Albany tensed in anticipation when footsteps entered the room where he was being held.
Ah, this was more like it. The night before, his bodyguards had acted on a tip that the cops were about to raid the borrowed luxury home he was using on the coast. They’d bundled him into his armored Rolls Royce and headed for another safe house.
The tip had been a ruse. His Rolls had been caught at a road block, and overtaken by a large group of armed men. He’d been bound, hooded and brought to this place. Wherever this was. Not in the city, not enough traffic.
Not that it mattered. He was an incredibly wealthy and powerful man. Whoever took him with such efficiency would know this, and that he would pay for his freedom.
Now the negotiations could begin.
When the lights sprang on, glaring into his eyes, he looked around at the hardened bikers standing in a semi-circle before him, and smiled slowly.
“Well, well,” he drawled. “Biker brethren. I’m honored. Recognize Whitaker, so the rest of you must be high in the chain of command in your various clubs too, hmm?”
Sound Whitaker, in the center of the line, curled his lip. “Yeah, Darius, you could say that. Could also say we’re sittin’ fuckuva lot higher’n you these days. Seein’ as you’re the one tied to a chair.”
Albany forced down the snarl that formed at his insolence and smiled again. “Yes, I did notice that. I admit, I’d hoped negotiations could be a bit more civilized.”
The tallest of the bikers, a lean slab of a man with icy pale eyes and hair, shook his head. “Sound, this is just sad. This govnyuk thinks he is here to negotiate with us.”
“Figures,” another man said, this one a thin African-American with silver hair and beard. “He’s too full of his own arrogance to know when he’s done.”
“Brother,” Darius reproved with a wry smile. “You know we got to be full of ourselves to make it in this world. No one else is going to smooth our way.”
The biker leaned forward and spat on the floor. “Albany, you ain’t no brother of mine. So don’t even try to play that card. You’re holdin’ nothin’ but a Joker.”
Darius shrugged. “All right then. We’ve established none of you are my friends, so the niceties have been observed. Perhaps we can finally get to business.”
Lifting his head, he regarded them with polite patience. And he knew very well that even in his pajamas and robe—crafted of burgundy and gold silk, with velvet lapels and hand-embroidered with his initials—he was the picture of wealth and power. He was handsome, he worked out religiously, and had his hair, nails and facials done each week.
“You know,” said the oldest of the bikers, a paunchy, white haired man with cigarette stained hands and beard. “He’s right—let’s get to bidness. Sound, you wanna do the honors?”
‘The honors?’ That was not a common term for opening negotiations. For the first time, Darius Albany felt a chill of real fear penetrate his self-confidence.
Sound nodded. “Thanks, Pico. Don’t mind if I do.”
He straightened, and the atmosphere in the room went dark and suffocating. Albany clenched the muscles in his groin to keep from pissing himself.
“Darius Albany,” Sound intoned. “You’ve been judged and found guilty by your betters—that’d be us—for the crimes of human trafficking, bringin’ in the worst kind of drugs this city has seen, runnin’ honest folks out of their homes and businesses, murd
ering anyone who’s dared to stand against you, and finally kidnapping and I got no doubt whatsoever murdering a good lawman—all on our club turf.’
He paused, and Albany felt the crushing weight of all the biker leaders’ gazes and their hatred.
“For these crimes, you’ve been sentenced to punishment of each chapter president’s choice. Seein’s you’re so good at being an evil shit-locker, reckon if we just took your money away, you’d find a way to slither back. So we’re gonna go with something you cannot miss the meaning of, and which you’ll be feeling for a long time. And I gotta say, it ain’t very often I enjoy a beat-down as much as I’m gonna enjoy this one.”
He unsnapped the sleeves of his crisp dress shirt and began to roll them up.
“Now, we all wanted to go first. So we drew straws. Pico?”
“Wait!” Albany called, searching for the note of command he used so well to intimidate and control his whores, his mules and the other miserables who called him lord. “Now listen. You have me. You’ve caught me, I get this. You win. But do you not understand how wealthy I am? I can make you all rich men. There’s no need for violence.”
The tall Russian chuckled, a deep cold sound. “Someone forget to tell him we’re already into his accounts? You got nothing left to bargain with, durachit.”
“An’ even if you did, I ain’t missin’ my chance to break your face,” Pico said, drawing on a pair of thin leather gloves. “Lost my youngest girl to a piece of shit, drug-pushin’ pimp like you.”
At least this one was an old man, Albany thought, steeling himself for a few weak blows. Yes, this would be bad. It would hurt. But he’d get through it, and then he’d loose his team of lawyers and rain down hell on these two-bit, motorcycle-revving thugs.
Pico didn’t hit like an old man.
Years of sparring in his club’s gym in Redding had left him with fists of steel, and the lean muscle to back up every punch.
After a few blows, Albany’s face was a mass of pain, and his eyes were nearly swollen shut.
Then it was the Russian’s turn. He went straight for Albany’s gut. And no amount of tensing could protect a man from the Russian’s mighty fists.
Soon, Albany was left hanging from his bonds, unable to do more than wheeze for each tortured breath. A bit later, he passed mercifully into unconsciousness.
An hour later, a big, old sedan rattled and clanked its way into the parking lot of a North Seattle PD. As soon as the driver rolled to a stop in the back corner, the motor died. The driver, a slim youth in a dark hoodie and pants, with no recognizable jewelry or ink, slipped from the car and walked away into the night, disappearing into the bus depot across the street.
A young uniform on night duty watched without interest until the driver stayed gone for five minutes. Then he sat up and pressed a call button.
“Abandoned vehicle in the lot. Request bomb check.”
His co-workers rolled out efficiently and cautiously. Lately there had been more than one bomb attempt in the metro area.
This time, however, they found no bomb. They did find the unconscious, battered and bloody body of King County’s number one fugitive from justice, Darius Albany.
After totaling up his injuries, it was noted it would be weeks, possibly months before he even could be read his rights, much less brought to trial.
The Seattle area news the next morning all blared the same headlines.
In their apartment in South Seattle, Tawny called to her husband. “Darren, baby. Come here quick and listen to this.”
Darren jogged into the living room, clad only in his briefs, with shaving cream on his square face.
The attractive newscaster faced the cameras, vibrating with excitement.
“Good morning, Seattle. Breaking news this morning--King County’s #1 fugitive from justice has been delivered to police. Last night, the unconscious body of Darius Albany was found in an abandoned vehicle at a North Seattle PD. At news time, Albany is still unconscious. He is apparently suffering from potentially life-threatening injuries. Police and local health officials are refusing to comment on the nature of those injuries, or how they may have occurred. The local businessman is believed to be behind the disappearance of a local DA.”
She went on to list the numerous other charges against Albany.
Darren whistled, long and low. “Holy shit.”
“I know,” Tawny agreed.
Their eyes met. “I wonder…?” she began.
He placed a finger over her lips, shaking his head. “Don’t ask, baby girl. Let’s just be glad the slime-ball is down for now, and hopefully for good.”
She nodded. She could do that, at least for now.
But she could not wait to talk to Shelle about this.
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
Stick Vanko arrived home on a sunny, warm September afternoon.
He’d been gone too long. After taking care of business in Seattle, he’d swung down to Cali to meet with some of the brothers there, then back through South Dakota, where events were unfolding with an allied club, The Black Wolves, that left him with an itch between his shoulder blades. He’d learned never to ignore his hunches.
Now he was back.
After stopping at home to kiss his wife and hug his boys, he loaded them up in the family pickup truck and drove them all to the clubhouse.
“So, what d’you think of Moke’s girlfriend?” he asked Sara.
The Flyers’ first old lady considered. “I don’t know, baby. Moke is gone over her, that’s clear. And I like the way she looks at him. T-Bear and Manda both love her, of course.”
Stick nodded. The two would be happy with any woman who made Moke happy.
“But there’s something…very cautious about her,” Sara went on. “Hiding something.”
Stick grunted. “Aren’t we all?”
This was true. Every one of their motley chapter had a past of one kind or another.
“Anyway,” she said. “All we can do is wait and see how she fits in.”
There, he found Moke, T-Bear, Pete, Rocker and their ladies lounging around one of the big tables in the main club room, pitchers of beer at hand, along with snacks and sodas.
Stick’s gaze zeroed in on the woman at Moke’s side, not without appreciation. She was indeed a stunner. Those eyes of hers—good thing she’d arrived already claimed, or she’d be starting fights among the brothers yet single.
The twins raced off, headed for the back patio with Blackie.
Stick stopped by the table, and lifted his chin to all present. “Brothers. Moke, good to see you back. Who’s this?”
Moke already had an arm around his woman, but Stick had the keen impression that if he had not, he’d have done so now. The big Hawaiian’s face tightened a hair, although he smiled.
“Stick, meet Shelle Mason. Shelle, this is Stick Vanko, our president. His old lady Sara.”
Shelle nodded to both of them, and smiled, although it looked strained. “Hi, uh, hello. Nice to meet you both.”
Stick pulled out a chair for Sara and sat beside her.
“Drinks for you two?” Rocker’s woman Lesa asked. “Pete and I brought over a fresh keg.”
“Da,” Stick nodded.
“Nothing for me,” Sara said. She looked to Shelle. “So, Shelle, what do you for a living?”
Moke’s girlfriend straightened. “Now, I’m a waitress. But I’m also a college student.”
“Really?” Now this was interesting. Sara approved of higher education. “What are you studying?”
“Counseling. I want to work with teens. Runaways, and from troubled homes, foster kids. That kind of thing.”
“She’s gonna be awesome at it,” Moke said, giving her a proud look. “She knows what they need.”
She smiled up at him, but then the two shared a strange look, one that set the hair up on the back of Sara’s neck. She and Stick exchanged a glance and he raised his brows.
“Ah, Shelle has something to share with you all,”
Moke told them. He frowned around the table. “So please listen with open minds, yeah? And learn.”
The friends around the table exchanged looks. Pete’s eyes narrowed on Shelle’s face. “Then why doesn’t she just spit it out?” he challenged.
Moke’s new lady had pretty skin tone, but now Sara watched with concern as she went pale under her natural tan. She had to give credit, though—Shelle had courage. She looked them all in the eye as she spoke.
“Okay, so, I decided to be a counselor for troubled kids because…that’s my background. And, uh, you know kids act out when their lives are shit, either harming themselves or others. Or uh, forming addictions.”
She paused, and Rocker broke the heavy silence, his voice gentle. “Well, you clearly ain’t no crack-whore, honey, so just share what your problem is.”
She made a sound that was half-laugh, half-sob. “I have…I’m a kleptomaniac.”
Another silence. “A what?” Manda breathed, her eyes wide. “I don’t know what that is.”
“She steals shit,” Pete said, his voice hard.
Shelle flinched visibly, and Moke pulled her closer in the circle of his arm.
Lesa smacked Pete’s arm. “Be nice.”
“Why?” Pete demanded. “That’s what it is, right? This mean we’re gonna have to lock everything down around here, watch our wallets and shit?”
“No,” Moke gave his friend a thunderous glare. “It doesn’t. She doesn’t steal from people she knows.”
“Oh, so just strangers? That’s great,” Pete muttered. “We gotta warn everyone who comes in here to party with us.”
Moke opened his mouth, but Shelle reached up and touched his face with her fingertips. When he looked to her, she shook her head. “I have to do this, not you,” she whispered. “You know I do.”
He lifted his chin but cast another warning glare around the table.
“It’s okay,” Sara said firmly. “We’re listening, Shelle. Please go on.”
Pete scowled, but kept his big mouth shut. Sara loved Stick’s little brother, but he could be a judgmental a-hole.
