Burning Road (A Devil's Cartel MC Series Book 1)

by Skyla Madi

  …but what choice do I have?

  FOURTEEN

  C R E E D

  Two days.

  Two days had passed since Izzy and I were pulled over by those pig-fuckers under her father’s instruction. I grew angrier with every second I was stuck in this tiny cell. They wouldn’t give me my phone call. I hadn’t contacted anyone, not Judge or our lawyer, but that didn’t surprise me since the building I was being held in wasn’t the police station or the courthouse. I’d been in those buildings more times than I could count, and they were nicer than this shithole.

  Not for the first time, my mind drifted to Blondie. Was she safe? Was she worried about me? Was her father filling her head with more lies or, worse, physically hurting her? I drummed my fingers against the metal edges of my mesh cot and exhaled. Outside the entrance to my cell, a small television sat on a stand with wheels. It’d been there for hours, rolled in by a short guy with bright red hair. I asked him a few questions, and he ignored me, the dick. I exhaled again, more dramatic this time. I could go with a goddamn cigarette…

  A few heartbeats passed before the sound of shoes tapping along the concrete floor echoed through the building. Then in entered the redhead. I sat forward, resting my elbows on my knees, and watched as he stalked toward the TV and turned it on. What I was about to see had something to do with the club or Blondie. I didn’t give a shit about anything else.

  I held my breath as he flicked through the stations, stopping on our local news channel. The backdrop was a hospital, further wrenching my stomach, and the man the camera was steadily focused on was Jonathan. My ears twitched, and I lifted myself off the cot, the metal bars squeaking under my weight. I sauntered closer, and Red’s eyes were on me, smug as he surveyed me.

  “It’s a battle we’ve fought for a long time, and at cost to my family, it’ll finally come to an end,” Jonathan said as he swallowed hard and avoided looking into the camera. “I didn’t want to do it this way, but my daughter nobly insisted she address the public about the horrors she’s suffered at the hands of the Devil’s Cartel in hopes to ignite change and encourage the government to better aid us in our fight to clean the streets once and for all.”

  What the fuck? I grabbed the cold cell bars as movement in the background drew my attention. I flicked my stare over the shoulders of a man wearing an expensive navy suit. He was slightly hunched forward, pushing something. Jonathan’s entourage moved out of the way, giving the man space to move through. I saw her then…and my heart fell into my boots. Most of Isabelle’s small, battered body was hidden behind a blue hospital gown that looked more like a queen-sized bedsheet on her. For the limbs that did show, they were more purple than pale. What the fuck did he do? Izzy hid her face, her long, blood-stained blonde hair working as curtain between her and me, and concerned whispers floated from the small speakers. Jonathan kneeled beside her, touching her hair, playing the role of concerned father when he was the reason she was in this mess in the first place. The more he touched her, the more defeated she looked. He brushed her hair away from her face, and my breathing stopped. I swore. Her pretty face was beaten and bruised, her eyes almost swollen shut, her nose hidden behind gauze and tape. There was a huge lump on her cheek, and I could see the cracks in her lips from here.

  “Jesus,” Red said on exhale, moving in front of the TV, blocking my view. “He did a number on her, didn’t he?” I clenched the bars harder. “Serves her right.”

  Red straightened his black tee and went back to leaning against the stand, his arm draped over the top of the TV. There was an amused glint in his eye, one that begged me to take the bait, but I couldn’t drag my stare from Isabelle. What this fucker said to me wasn’t a priority. I’d disembowel him once I got out of here; that was a fact.

  Jonathan lovingly cupped Isabelle under the chin and made her look at him. She trembled and tried to pull her face away, but he moved to whisper in her ear. Her swollen and terrified gaze flickered to the camera, and my heart smashed into my ribs, filling my veins with…with…her pain. I was helpless—useless. I couldn’t help her. When Jonathan was done whispering to her, he stood and detached the microphone from the stand and lowered it to Isabelle’s mouth. He patted her hair and gently touched her arms. Izzy opened her mouth, and all that came out was a cracked sob. Her bruised face crinkled in pain, and she hunched her body and clenched her ribs.

  “Perhaps she needs time, Mr. Mayor,” a woman in the sea of reporters who stood behind the camera shouted.

  “She’s fine,” Jonathan insisted. “She wants to do it now.”

  He nudged her, and she breathed heavy into the microphone.

  “I’ve suffered for days,” she wheezed, her voice sounding nothing like her. “I was beaten…”

  I frowned, feeling my face screw up. She wouldn’t lie to appease her father, would she? She had to know we were stronger than him. My blood ran cold. Did she know what would happen to her if she spoke our names on television? The men would call for her head, and there’d be nothing I could do about it. The Devil’s Cartel had a chapter in nearly every state. They’d come for her, and they’d make her pay. They’d make this whole fucking town pay.

  I waited with bated breath as Izzy took her time to recover between every word she spoke. I silently willed her not to say it, not to lie and put a target on her back, when banging sounded off in the distance, growing closer and closer. Red noticed it too and turned toward the door.

  “What the hell is that?” he wondered aloud, pulling his handgun from the waistband of his black cargo pants.

  The door to the sector I was held in swung open with enough force to drive the door into the concrete opposite, and I saw the manbun first then the rifle. Light exploded from the end of Armi’s rifle, and a juddering bang rang out, leaving a ring in my ears. Red crashed to the floor, and the fucking TV blew up, sending me back a few steps as glass cut at my face and neck.

  Judge barreled in behind Armi and tugged on the black skull bandana covering his mouth. I took them in in their colors, proud as fucking punch to call them my brothers. Didn’t expect them to come looking for me, not in the middle of an FBI sting or while I was in custody, but here they were, raising hell.

  Armi moved toward Red and bent low, patting him down. While he did that, I scowled at Judge, and he grinned. “Thought we forgot about you, did ya?”

  “Two fucking days, Judge.”

  He shrugged his shoulders, stuffing his handgun into his cut then into the waistband of his black jeans. “Quit your bitching. We had the FBI to deal with.”

  I straightened. “They didn’t find anything?”

  Judge smirked. “Didn’t find nothing. We’re good.”

  Good. We kept the clubhouse clean, mostly, but sometimes things got delayed and left for longer than they should.

  “Shit,” Armi shouted, standing up. He turned and flashed us a police badge before he dropped it onto Red’s lifeless body. “He’s a cop.”

  Judge shrugged. “Not the first cop I’ve shot in the last forty-eight hours.”

  I arched a brow. “Aren’t they all cops?”

  Armi shook his head and dangled a set of keys between his fingers. “Twisted Sons mostly.”

  I grunted. I hated that they were on our territory, on our side of the country. “I wonder how much Jonathan is paying them and what they’re getting out of it.”

  As Armi approached my cell, his boots crushed glass and left bloody imprints on the concrete floor. He unlocked my cell, and I stepped out.

  He smiled and clapped me on the shoulder. “Good to see you, VP.”

  “Yeah.” I shrugged him off and headed toward the door.

  I had to get to the hospital. Izzy needed my help. When I was done helping her, I’d pull her father’s spine out through his stomach.

  Armi and Judge followed without a word, and in the halls, the carnage they left was sprayed up the walls. I stepped over every dead body as they came. I’d seen grosser, more twisted things in my time. Bloo
d was as traumatizing as water to me.

  Outside, I was surprised to see an empty parking lot in the middle of nowhere. I turned to look at the building. It was tall and made of gray stone. It had turrets either side of the roof and bars on its windows. It reminded me of my time in the detention center when I was a teen.

  “What the hell is this place?” I asked Judge.

  Was I even still in Exeter? I lived here most of my life and had never seen this building before.

  “It’s a home for troubled youth.” Judge shrugged his large shoulders. “Or it was meant to be.”

  “Jonathan and the council had it built a long time ago,” Armi chimed in.

  “What happened?”

  “Investors dropped out, and he couldn’t keep it running on his own funds, so he canned it.” He spat on the floor and scratched at his forehead. “Heard they were gonna bulldoze it and turn it into a youth camp site.”

  I paused then, as we walked further onto the parking lot. “Where’s my bike?”

  Judge laughed and shot me a look over his shoulder. “You’re riding on the back of mine.”

  Over my dead body. I stopped in my tracks and turned around. Armi laughed as I headed back toward the entrance of the building.

  “Where’re you going?”

  I flipped him off. “Rather rot in prison than be seen on the back of your bike, Damon.”

  I wasn’t fender fluff. Not in a million years. If Judge rocked up at the clubhouse with me on the back of his bike, I’d never live it down. I could see the twisted faces of the men now, hear their cackling. I wasn’t giving Modo more material to use against me. Besides, I didn’t have the anatomy to be fender fluff.

  Judge howled with laughter. “I’m kidding. We brought Armi’s cage.”

  I stopped and turned, and Judge pointed to the shrubbery on the far side of the lot. I headed in that direction, passing Armi on the way. I pushed through the shrubs, and as we reached the cage, I grabbed the passenger side door and yanked it open. “Shotgun.”

  “Oh, get fucked,” Armi growled. “It’s my truck.”

  “I’m not sitting in the back.” I climbed in and made myself comfortable. “I out rank and out man you.”

  He snorted, moving to the back door. “How do you out man me?”

  “Don’t wear my hair in a bun like a ballerina for starters.”

  Judge snickered as he climbed into the driver’s side and slammed the door.

  “Last time I save your ass, Creed,” he grumbled. “You can break yourself out of prison next time.”

  * * *

  At the clubhouse, it felt good to be home, but the feeling was fleeting. The men avoided my gaze as I walked through the door behind Judge. My stomach twisted, like cloth in a ringer. I knew it had something to do with Izzy. She was gonna give a live statement about the things we allegedly did to her. Did she follow through?

  “What’d she say?” I demanded, stalking toward the main table where most of our main men—and woman—sat, dread painted across their features. “What the fuck did she say?”

  I barked at them out of fear. I feared what I was about to hear and what was to come if she lied. I feared for her safety, and I feared for myself because I cared for her. I knew I’d do something stupid to protect her from harm—even from my brothers.

  Casino cleared his throat, sat back in his chair, and ran his fingers through his short hair. “She threw her father under the bus.”

  My frown faded, and my eyebrows lifted of their own accord. Thank-fucking-God. I straightened my spine and licked my lips.

  “What’s with the faces then?” Judge demanded, crossing the floor to the head of the table. “Who died?”

  I held my breath. Behind me, Armi toyed with his rifle. An annoying habit he had whenever he held one. I closed my fists at my sides as the silence from my men planted seeds of rage in my blood. The seeds grew into saplings as images of Isabelle filtered through my mind. She was a trust fund baby raised with a silver spoon in her mouth. There wasn’t a sliver of hard muscle on her body. She didn’t stand a chance against her father, or anyone, really. I was all she had to keep her safe. We were all she had.

  “They pulled her away while she screamed for you.” Casino avoided my gaze as he spoke, focusing on a spot on the table instead. “Jonathan claimed she was sick. He spun his own twisted tale about the things we did to her. She was in bad shape, VP. Did Jonathan do that? To his own daughter?”

  “You sound surprised,” Ayr muttered. “He’s fucking vile.”

  I turned from the table and headed back toward the front door. I didn’t care what Jonathan said or the lies he told the world. We’d deal with him. I needed to get to Isabelle, and I needed to get her somewhere safe. When she was safe, I’d burn the rest of the town to the ground and we’d fuck in the ashes of my destruction.

  “Where’re you going?” Judge called to me—and not for the first time today.

  It pissed me off that he felt he had to ask. He was president, sure, but he didn’t fucking own me. “To the hospital.”

  “She’s not at the hospital,” Casino said. “Rah already looked.”

  Before I turned to ask where she was, Kace sauntered into the room. He wore his usual brown cut and carried a medium-sized box in his hands.

  “Hey,” he greeted, and I noticed he was paler than usual, his gaze spaced, his face gaunt.

  “Please tell me there’s cake in that box,” Modo called out, jingling his keys. For as long as I knew him, he carried a small fork on his keychain he used only for surprise cake. “I could go with some cake.”

  “Um,” Kace murmured and extended the box to me. “There’s a head in here.”

  I stared at him, at the box he held in his hands, and dread crept over me like an icy chill, numbing me all over. Only one thought floated through my head. Blondie’s head is in the box. Swallowing hard, I peered over my shoulder at Judge, who stood still, his shoulders squared.

  “If you don’t take it, I’m gonna puke on it.”

  I looked back to Kace and took the box, relieving the poor kid. The second the box left his hands, he whirled around and hunched over, gripping his knees. I turned and walked the box to the table. Then, without pause, I tipped the box and dumped its contents onto the table.

  Most jolted backward in their seats as a head hit the wooden surface with a squelch and rolled until her lifeless eyes stared up at the high ceiling.

  “What the fuck?” Modo shouted. “That’s not cake.”

  The first thing I noticed was the blood-stained brunette hair. It was messed up, but I released a sigh of relief. It wasn’t Isabelle. Somewhere, there was a gag then the sound of puking.

  “Chelsea,” Armi said, placing his rifle on the table. “That’s Chelsea.”

  Izzy’s friend? The clubwhore? I lifted my stare to Judge, who clenched his jaw. We’d received heads before, so this wasn’t anything new. We’d handle it like we always did.

  With motorcycles, guns, rage, and fire. When we’re done, there’d be nothing left of Jonathan Laurent—not a legacy, not even a whisper.

  “Find Jonathan.” Judge turned his glare on Casino. “I want him dead by nightfall.”

  FIFTEEN

  I Z Z Y

  I come to with a groan. There’s an ache in every bone, muscle, and hair follicle in my body, growing worse with every thump of my heart. I don’t know what happened after I shouted my father’s crimes into the camera. I was hauled away on my wheelchair and injected in my thigh by something that put me to sleep in seconds.

  I groan again and blink, trying to focus on something, trying to find a sliver of light, but the darkness is absolute. I realize, then, that the air isn’t moving. Where the hell am I? I lift my arms, and my forearms hit a wooden panel. I gasp, and my breathing picks up. I taste metal and varnish on the back of my tongue, and suddenly, the darkness feels like it’s closing in on me, squeezing me tightly. Out of reflex, I lift my leg and my toes hit the wood above me. I scream and thrash a
nd scratch. Panic overrides my pain, and I don’t stop until my fingernails are lifted and broken, until I’m too exhausted to move. I pant, my chest rising and falling quickly, sucking up my small allowance of air.

  “Help!” I shout until my lungs burn and my voice gives out.

  My voice seems to carry further than the box’s limits, and I take solace in the fact I’m not buried six feet underground. I swallow hard and lift my hands again. I run my palms along the smooth wood and search for something—anything—but my fingers don’t find a lock or a seal, not even a crack. I can’t breathe. I gulp air and pull my limbs as close to myself as I can, trying to make my space bigger. Oh my God. I’m going to die. I’m going to run out of air and die painfully.

  “Please!” I call out, and there’s a metal screech, the sound of an overused door or an unoiled lever. I strain my ears. “Hello?”

  I speak, but my voice is all wrong. It doesn’t sound like me. I sound broken, like I’ve been smoking for eighty years or like someone has a tight grip on my throat. Warmth pools in at the soles of my feet. At first, I think I imagine it, but it grows hotter, and I realize it’s not a symptom of my panic. It’s something outside. As my eyes adjust, I focus on the tiniest glimmer of light at the base of my long box. It’s orange and moving—no, flickering. Heat wafts through the box, burning up my body to engulf my chest, my neck, and my face. I whimper and struggle against my confines as sweat bubbles all over me. I jolt as my prison moves, and the sounds of a machine whir underneath me. Cogs click and whoosh, and the heat by my feet becomes unbearable. Excruciating. Unlike anything I’ve ever felt. The pain isn’t sharp, like a needle or a knife, nor is it aching like a bruise. It’s how I imagine the sun to feel, or worse. I try to pull my legs away, but my knees hit the barrier. I scream and thrash so hard I feel my wrist snap and taste blood in my mouth, in my throat. I don’t care. I keep going until I can’t.