Maelstrom

by Susanna Strom

  Copyright © 2020 by Susanna Strom

  This is a work of fiction. Names of motorcycle clubs, characters, places, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission of the copyright owner, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Visit my website at susannastrom.com

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  instagram.com/susannastrom.author

  Developmental Editor: Christina Trevaskis

  bookmatchmaker.com

  Interior Designer: Jovana Shirley

  Unforeseen Editing, unforeseenediting.com

  Proofreader: Brittany Meyer-Strom

  brittanym.edits@gmail.com

  Cover Designer: Lori Jackson Design

  lorijacksondesign.com

  Photography: Wander Aguiar Photography

  wanderbookclub.com

  Model: Zack Salaun

  ISBN ebook: 978-1-7348292-2-8

  ISBN paperback: 978-1-7348292-3-5

  Published by Cougar Creek Publishing LLC

  CONTENTS

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWENTY-NINE

  THIRTY

  THIRTY-ONE

  THIRTY-TWO

  THIRTY-THREE

  THIRTY-FOUR

  THIRTY-FIVE

  THIRTY-SIX

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  THIRTY-NINE

  FORTY

  FORTY-ONE

  FORTY-TWO

  FORTY-THREE

  FORTY-FOUR

  FORTY-FIVE

  FORTY-SIX

  FORTY-SEVEN

  FORTY-EIGHT

  EPILOGUE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ONE

  Kenzie

  Half an hour outside of Portland, Sahdev flashed the jeep’s headlights, the signal that we needed to pull over. I glanced back over my shoulder. The jeep slowed down and eased onto the side of the freeway. Ripper met my eyes in the Harley’s side mirror, then nodded. He saw the signal, too. No need to tap his thigh to get his attention. He released the throttle and braked, steering the bike onto the freeway shoulder. He cut the engine and put down the kickstand.

  Cars whizzed past us, more cars than I’d seen in weeks. Lately, it felt as if Portland were a ghost town, stripped bare of souls by the same virus that had laid waste to the rest of the world. Apparently not. The survivors must have hidden behind locked doors and drawn curtains, but now, with flames consuming the city, anyone with a vehicle had fled the inferno.

  Kyle hopped out of the jeep and opened the rear passenger door. Hector bolted from the vehicle, dashed toward a tree, and lifted a leg. Kyle threw his hands in the air and shrugged. When a dog’s gotta go, a dog’s gotta go. Kyle ambled toward the trees and disappeared from sight, probably feeling the same call of nature.

  Balancing on Ripper’s shoulder, I climbed off the bike, then stretched. I wrinkled my nose. Smoke from the fires in Portland discolored the air, bathing the landscape in a stifling gray haze that even the brisk Gorge winds couldn’t dissipate. Blinking against the acrid smoke, I unbuckled my retro-style helmet and tugged it from my head. Within seconds, moisture flooded my stinging eyes.

  Ripper swung off the bike, pulled off his helmet, and glanced at me. He frowned. Two long strides brought him to my side. He touched the moisture seeping from the corner of my eye, concern creasing his features. “You all right?”

  The simple question undid me, and genuine tears welled in my eyes. Was it really just an hour ago that I thought I’d lost him forever? Not knowing if he was alive or dead would have haunted me for the rest of my life. Yet here he stood, our reunion little short of a miracle. If I blinked, if I looked the other way, would he disappear like a phantom?

  “Mac...darlin’, what’s wrong?”

  I shook my head, not trusting my voice. So close. We’d come so damned close to losing everything. Since our unlikely reunion, we’d barely had time to talk, to reconnect. A quick kiss, a few words before we’d jumped on his bike and abandoned the burning city. I snaked my arms around Ripper’s waist, burying my face in his chest.

  He wrapped his arms around me, bracketing my trembling body in his reassuring strength. Beneath my cheek, his chest rose and fell, his heart beating in a steady, unhurried pace. When I inhaled, his familiar scent—leather, musk, a hint of exhaust—flooded my nostrils.

  He was really here. Not a phantom. Not a figment of my imagination.

  I tilted my head back to meet his eyes and finally asked the question that had been preying on my mind. “What happened? Where were you?”

  Ripper sighed. “A cop with a vendetta against the Janissaries got the drop on me. Locked me up. Tried to kill me. We fought. He died, and I got injured. Took me awhile to get back on my feet.” He released me and shoved a hand through his hair. “I want you to know that I never stopped trying, Mac. Never stopped trying to come back to you. To you and to Miles.”

  At the mention of my dead cousin, the tears brimming in my eyes spilled over onto my cheeks. Shit. Not now. We had to keep moving, and this was no time to break down. I scrubbed my cheek with the back of my hand. My throat ached, and I swallowed back the tears. “And I never stopped believing you’d come back, not until the very end when it looked hopeless.”

  He hauled me against his chest again, and we clutched each other, rocking back and forth to the rhythm of our heartbeats.

  His business done, Hector trotted over and sniffed Ripper’s leg. Hector whined and head-butted Ripper, as if the dog, too, couldn’t believe that he was back. Ripper dropped into a squat and threw his arms around the German shepherd’s neck, scritching his ruff. “Missed you, too, Hector.”

  Hector barked, and I sank to my knees next to him.

  “Good boy.” I kissed the top of his head. “You know, if it wasn’t for Hector, we would’ve been gone by the time you showed up. He ran away when I tried to put him in the jeep. I bet he heard your bike.”

  Ripper’s cheeks puffed when he blew out a breath. “That was too fucking close.”

  “Yeah.”

  He offered me a hand and pulled me to my feet.

  Sahdev climbed out of the jeep and approached us, his steps hesitant. “I’m sorry to interrupt.”

  “No problem,” Ripper said.

  Sahdev unfolded one of Uncle Mel’s old-school paper maps and held it up. A yellow line highlighted our proposed route to Valhalla. “The ranch is here.” He pointed to a yellow star at the terminus of the route. “We plan to turn south onto Highway 97 at The Dalles. The turnoff is just before the dam.”

  Valhalla truly was at the ass end of nowhere, like Bear had told Kyle. No major roads crisscrossed the area. There were no nearby towns. Instead, a yellow star floating in a sea of white marked our destination on the map, as if Valhalla existed in a void. Good. The ass end of nowhere, the back of beyond, the sticks, whatever you wanted to call it, an isolated,
self-sufficient ranch sounded like the perfect apocalyptic retreat.

  “Makes sense,” Ripper said. “Looks like the shortest route. No point in turning south too soon and going the long way around Mt. Hood.”

  Kyle walked out from behind the trees, fastening his belt. “What’s up?”

  “Sahdev was showing me the route to Valhalla. We’re less than an hour from The Dalles. Can’t say I’ll be sorry to get off the freeway.”

  A pickup flew past, stirring up dust on the side of the road. Kyle nodded. “I hear you. Too many people we don’t know on the freeway.”

  “We have hours of daylight left, but I doubt we’ll make it to the ranch before dark,” Sahdev said. “Maybe we should stop for the night at a town closer to the ranch.”

  “Good idea.” Ripper slipped his helmet back over his head. “Don’t wanna head off into the boonies when the sun’s going down.”

  “It’s a plan.” Kyle patted his leg, summoning Hector. The dog obediently followed him to the jeep and hopped into the back. Kyle slammed the door shut, then turned to us again. “Good to have you back, man.”

  Ripper nodded and swung onto the bike. I put on my helmet and held onto Ripper’s shoulders while I climbed on behind him. Ripper kicked the engine into life, and we pulled back onto the freeway. Once again, our small caravan raced east along the Columbia River.

  Less than an hour later, we rounded a sharp bend in the road and The Dalles came into view. Last September—a lifetime ago—Kyle and I had toured the visitor center at the dam on our way home from the big rodeo in Pendleton. What stuck with me from that visit was the shocking cost of progress. Construction of the dam came at a price—a site sacred to indigenous people buried under tons of water.

  For a small town, The Dalles had witnessed a lot of action. The biggest bioterrorist attack in American history—the crown jewel of harebrained schemes—happened there. It was before my time, but I remember Aunt Debbie telling the story. A group of crazy cultists sprinkled salmonella over salad bars, all part of their convoluted plan to win a local election by making the good citizens too sick to vote. Jeez. Gullible people were capable of the weirdest things.

  Up ahead, five explosions ripped through the air. Plumes of smoke and debris erupted atop The Dalles Dam. I flinched and fought the urge to cover my face with my hands. Reason overruled instinct, and instead of letting go of Ripper’s waist, I tightened my grip. He braked hard, steering his Harley onto the side of the freeway. Behind us, the jeep carrying Sahdev and Kyle swerved onto the shoulder and skittered to a stop.

  My mouth fell open, and my heart thundered in my chest, choking off my breath. How...how could this be happening? I blinked and shook my head, gaping at the spectacle unfolding before us.

  Pulverized concrete rained down above the blast sites. The smoke quickly cleared, driven west by a strong gorge wind. The dam cracked like an egg. The spillway spanning the dam crumbled. Enormous chunks of concrete tumbled forward into the river, and water from Lake Celilo cascaded over the wall.

  Holy shit. Somebody blew up the freaking dam.

  Danger was supposed to lie behind us, not ahead. Pestilence. Fire. Floods. Disasters of a Biblical magnitude.

  Did the universe have it in for us?

  Ripper shifted into neutral, toed down the kickstand, and jumped off the bike. I jogged after him to the jeep.

  Sahdev rolled down the driver’s window and leaned out. “What should we do?” he asked.

  “Freeway’s gonna flood,” Ripper said. “We gotta turn around and go west ahead of the water.”

  We were sitting ducks on a freeway that hugged the river, trapped between rising water on one side and the impenetrable hills that lined the interstate on the other. If the dam gave way completely, a wall of water would sweep downriver, inundating the land and drowning everyone in its path.

  “Why not keep going east?” Kyle called from the passenger seat. “It’s only a mile or two to the exit for 197 south.”

  “Too close to the dam.” Ripper’s face was grim. “We wouldn’t make it.”

  Kyle opened his mouth to argue—Kyle loved to argue—but Ripper cut him off. “There’s no time for debate. We’ll take the next exit, then make a U-turn and get back on the freeway heading west. Stay close.”

  Everything in me rebelled against the notion of rushing toward the crumbling dam, but we had no choice. Panicked drivers had screeched to a halt behind us, blocking any backwards retreat. A tall, concrete barrier divided the highway, preventing both the bike and the jeep from crossing onto the westbound lanes.

  Ripper whirled, and we ran back to his bike. He mounted, and I jumped on behind him, wrapping my arms around his waist. Strong fingers squeezed my thigh, and Ripper glanced over his shoulder. “I got you, Mac.” He kicked the engine into life, and the bike lurched forward.

  He didn’t promise we’d be okay. Ripper never made a promise he couldn’t keep, never offered easy assurances, never blew smoke up my ass.

  I got you.

  No matter what happened, he’d be by my side, using his formidable strength and skills to try to save us.

  I clung to Ripper’s waist as we hurtled onto the ramp for exit 85. Ripper veered left onto the overpass, and we caught our first clear view of the river. Directly ahead of us, rising water had swallowed both a riverfront park and a marina. Leafy tree canopies jutted up above the water in the flooded park. Mooring lines that tethered the boats to the docks had snapped, and boats bobbed and crashed against each other in the churning tide. A sharp left turn off the overpass led to the ramp to I-84 west.

  A short cement wall separated the ramp from the yacht club’s parking lot. Water had already spilled over the wall and crawled across the road’s surface, the river creeping higher as the seconds ticked by. Crap. We’d have to go through the water to reach the freeway.

  Could the bike ride through standing water? Could the jeep? I had no clue. Panic constricted my throat and I shuddered, trying to draw in a breath. Ripper dropped his hand to my knee, his touch offering an immediate reassurance.

  I got you, Mac.

  Pressing my forehead against his leather cut, I braced myself for whatever happened next. What would we do if the water swamped the bike’s engine and the river overtook us? I’d watched news footage of people washed away by tsunamis, their bodies bobbing in the churning water, while they desperately sought something—anything—that they could climb onto to escape the waves. I could barely swim. Mom always said that swimming lessons were for “rich kids” and not people like us. I could float on my back and do a mean dog paddle, skills that wouldn’t help much if I needed to swim to safety or dodge floating debris.

  I swallowed.

  I got you, Mac.

  If the water took the bike, Ripper would do everything in his power to protect me, even at the risk of his own life.

  It wasn’t fair. Against all odds, we’d found each other again, we’d reunited at the last possible moment. I wanted our happily ever after, or whatever passed for a happily ever after in this fucked-up, plague-ridden world. I couldn’t lose him now.

  If worse came to worst, if we went in the water, I’d do my best to stay afloat, to keep my wits about me. I couldn’t allow myself to freak out, to climb Ripper like a monkey while he struggled to keep his head above water and to haul me to safety. Ripper insisted that I’m tougher and more capable than I give myself credit for. Time to prove him right.

  Beneath my fingers, Ripper’s body was loose and relaxed, with none of the tension that made my shoulders hunch and my fingers curl into claws.

  Ripper reduced his speed, the narrow tires of his Harley slicing smoothly through the water covering the freeway entrance. It probably made sense to slow down—the water had to reduce the tires’ grip on the road—but all my instincts screamed to hurry. Ripper kept the bike upright, the speed steady. Spray soaked my jeans and obstructed my vision. We merged onto I-84 west, finally heading away from the dam. Water lapped over the freeway’s shoulder
and spilled across the right lane.

  Turning my head, I glanced behind us, expecting to see the jeep following close on our heels. Instead of our friends, I spied a pickup and a sedan immediately behind the bike. Shit! Where was the jeep?

  Frantic, I scanned the road. Had the jeep stalled in the rising water? Had desperate drivers barreled in front of them? There! I glimpsed the tank-green jeep at the top of the on-ramp, rocking back and forth in the rising water. The tires lost traction, and the jeep slid sideways toward the short guardrail. If it toppled over the rail and rolled onto the freeway below, our friends were screwed.

  No, no, no.

  Panic-stricken, I tapped Ripper’s thigh, our signal that something was wrong, and he needed to pull over. Instead, he veered onto the dry left lane and gunned the bike’s engine. The freeway curved to the right, and I lost sight of the jeep. I pounded his thigh again and this time, he laid his hand atop mine, acknowledging my signal, but still not stopping the bike.

  The freeway climbed above the river, granting us a temporary reprieve from the flood waters. Ripper swerved onto the shoulder and braked.

  “The jeep isn’t behind us,” I shouted into Ripper’s ear. “I saw it hydroplane across the on-ramp. I think it might have tipped over the guardrail.”

  “Fuck.” Ripper planted one foot on the asphalt and twisted around, scanning the road behind us.

  “We have to go back.” I clutched at his arm. “We have to help them.”

  Ripper’s gaze flicked to my eyes. For an instant, regret stamped his features, then he clenched his jaw. His expression hardened, and an implacable mask slipped into place. He shook his head once. “Nope.”

  Nope?

  I barely had time to process the word before the bike zoomed back onto the road and accelerated. Stunned, I slapped his thigh, demanding that he stop. He ignored me, weaving around cars as we raced west, away from the dam, away from Kyle, Sahdev, and Hector.

  I didn’t understand. The man I loved never hesitated to put himself between danger and his people. Ripper wouldn’t abandon our friends, would he? Was this some misguided attempt to keep me safe? Crap. I wouldn’t want to guarantee my safety by risking everyone else’s, but I couldn’t force Ripper to stop.