Rebel Wayfarers MC Boxset 4

by MariaLisa deMora

  Now, under cover of darkness in a spring nighttime that was as hot as the summer in Chicago, Bones eased to the wall of the house, positioning himself next to the back door. Opie pushed in beside him, leaning close to whisper, “Front team in position.” Bones nodded, stretching his neck and listening hard, trying to see if there was any noise from inside.

  A word, then a flurry of language. A woman’s voice, unintelligible, but he thought it might be Juanita. Opie leaned in close again. “Eyes across the street says two adults, male and female. Female is standing, appears to be brandishing a weapon. Man just hit his knees.” They had a spotter on top of the house across the street from their target, and Opie’s earpiece was coming in handy, keeping them all up to date on what was going on. Watcher’s men were more accustomed to this kind of activity than the rest of them.

  On the way in the plane, Bones had considered the differences in the clubs, coming to the realization that Watcher’s men worked more like a military unit, while his own had operated efficiently in a small group, but without the same level of discipline. Different strengths, he’d thought, and knew himself correct when they hit the ground in New Mexico running, with precise intelligence on where they were going.

  A shout from inside, the woman’s voice again, and then the report of a gun firing made Bones’ blood run cold. “We go now,” he told Opie and from the corner of his eye saw the man tap his earpiece, probably to relay the message. Bones had already reached for the handle and was yanking the door wide, swinging up the two steps and into the kitchen. Three strides later he was rounding an archway that led to the living room, seeing Juanita standing, feet firmly apart, a gun in her hand, aimed at a man he did not know. Before he could reach her, Juanita brought her other hand up to grasp the butt of the gun handle, and she pulled the trigger.

  The man screamed and fell hard, thrown sideways by the bullet, unable to stop his fall to the floor. Blood ran red across the tile, and Bones was reaching for Juanita’s gun even as she shifted, lining up for another shot. Without looking at him, she yelled wordlessly, pulling fruitlessly at the weapon he stripped from her fingers, then he felt the rush of men pushing past them and wrapped his arms around her, holding her tightly, shuffling them sideways and out of the way. Hands between them, trapped against his chest, her tightly clenched fists beat at him, each blow accompanied by her shouts and screams.

  “Juanita, I have you.” Bones tried to get her to hear him, seeing she was still focused on the man prone on the floor, restrained there by two Rebel members kneeling on his back and legs. “Juanita, please. Nita.”

  As he pulled her with him towards the back door, Bones heard her screams turn to sobs, felt her shaking, heard her voice breaking as she choked out the words, “He’s got my baby. He can’t have her. Watcher wouldn’t have let this happen. He can’t have her, Bones. My baby girl.”

  ***

  “You have information, give it up easy, and you know how things’ll go. So much better for you. You make me dig it out of you, and I ain’t gonna use care.” Opie stood from the chair he’d pulled in front of the man. Dragged into this tightly sealed basement, they had propped him in a corner, not bothering to bind his wounds. If he had been a part of Carmela’s abduction, he wouldn’t live long enough for it to matter.

  “You’re not Diamante, but you know ‘em. Know what they’ve done.” Opie leaned over the man, reaching down to dig a finger into a bullet hole in his shoulder, men on either side holding him in place. “Know where our girl is.”

  Moving deliberately, Opie lifted one boot, placing it squarely on the other bullet hole the man had, this one in his thigh. Juanita’s aim had been true, Watcher’s teaching having stuck with her through the years. The man howled, and Bones saw his eyes roll up into his head, leaving only whites shining in the light coming from an overhead fixture. “Fuck, man. Give it to me already. Don’t make me do this shit.”

  Opie reached back and flipped the leather locking strap off the knife belted to his hip. “Hold him.” That order was to the men on either side, and Bones saw their hands move, muscles in their arms bulging as they tightened their grips. The instant the man came back to himself was marked by a change in his breathing, going from hard and labored to a panicked pant, Opie’s knife poised scarcely an inch from his eye.

  “You know who I am.” Opie’s words sounded normal, quietly conversational, out of step with the entire scene. “Know how I am. Trained by my president as I was, all my life, I am how I am. Like him, I’m definitely a guy who’s gonna want an eye for an eye.” He made a small gesture with the knife, the tip dipping a half an inch closer. “Yeah, I’m definitely that kinda guy. The way I see it—” Opie straightened slightly, interrupting himself with a harsh bark of laughter. “Oh man, that’s funny, ‘way I see it.’ Yeah.” With a dark chuckle, he bent again, closer. “Yeah. Anyway, so, the way I see it, least I can do is deal with you. Our queen shouldn’t have to fucking touch scum like you, shouldn’t have to waste her time on you. You’re in the know. Aw, yeah, you are, ain’t ya? Means if you don’t wanna share, you get nothing from me. No mercy. Eye for a fucking eye.”

  The knife advanced, and the man’s face tensed, turning white. He was already flattened against the cement floor, no retreat from the blade, and finally, he broke. Stuttering words and screams mixed with tears and sobs as Opie moved backwards, away from him, and into the light. Bones saw dark bars cast by Opie’s brows, shadowing his eyes as they all listened to the dead man on the floor tell them where Carmela was.

  Hey, gorgeous

  Carmela

  “Light it up.”

  That was what Carmela heard as she swam back up into the uncertain waters of consciousness. She thought she’d made this journey before, but the sounds and sights in her head blurred together. Day and night, up and down, they were all the same. Light ‘em up, her brain supplied, not quite echoing the words of the male voice. Still swaddled in a woozy fog, she tried to move, but her arms wouldn’t obey. Secured at the wrist, they were tucked behind her body, her shoulders aching from the forced angle. With a grunt, she moved her legs, feeling the toes of her boots dragging on the rough surface.

  “Now?” This question came from a different male voice close beside her. Deep and rough, it gave her all the clues needed to recognize him. Diamond. She sucked in a hard breath to call for help and gagged as the smell hit the back of her throat. The air smelled dank and rancid, like the time the city workers failed to empty a garbage can. Full of discarded leftovers and trash, it’d been left to sit in the hot New Mexico sun, the rotting scent drawing scavengers for days. Head pounding, she sniffed and gagged again, trying to sort out the odors, overwhelmed by the smell of unwashed bodies. It wasn’t until she moved again and got another wave of the stench, and realized that came from her, too. Dios.

  Her back hurt, was tender, aching muscles already starting the windup into a scream even as she scarcely had time to recognize the pain. Exacerbated by the awkward position where she lay on a hard surface, it felt as if every muscle was in revolt, angry at her for something she couldn’t remember. A sound nearby, a weak groan followed by a series of painful sounding coughs. Carmela opened her eyes, blinking slowly, waiting for her vision to resolve into something recognizable.

  “Said so, didn't I?” Clearly the boss, the first speaker was farther away, keeping his distance, perhaps. Even knowing Diamond, everything in her was pinging with fear, instinctively knowing this wasn’t a good situation to be in. The man was out of striking distance, no matter if she had been armed. Which she didn’t think she was, but now wasn’t the time to start feeling around to see if she had her pistol or knife on her. “Daddy wanted to take me out.” A low laugh, then the sound of metal striking metal, suspended chains, maybe. “Both her daddies. He threatened me. Me! Back when he refused my trade in Kentucky. Coulda made both of us rich men, but he turned it down.” He’s talking about Papa Watcher, she thought, a chill coating her skin and settling into her bones at the words.r />
  Memories began invading her racing mind, making their presence known. Carmela felt her body jerking at the remembered sound of the gun, the report of the shots covering the noises the bodies made when they hit the sand. The echoing silence when it was all over. Hurley’s deep voice had been laced with an edge of fear when he shouted, “What the fuck?” She remembered. Scorching heat from his body when he pushed past her, putting himself between her and the fallen. Between her and the only other man on his feet. Diamond. Pulling in another retching breath, she remembered. He killed them all.

  “You want it here?” Diamond’s voice again, and he was close. Another metallic sound, this different, a scraping slide of metal against a hard surface. “This good?” A grunt in response, then a click like a switch had been turned on. Carmela looked around, rolling her eyes and trying to see where they were.

  There was a sudden assault of light, so bright it pierced her head, and she angled sideways as she screwed her eyes tightly closed. Heat followed, and she felt the prickle on her skin as the damp caused by her surroundings dried.

  “The fuck?” That mumble came from the same direction the coughing had earlier, and she wiggled, trying to turn away from the brilliance that kept her lids shut, needing to be able to see if it was who she thought. Hoped. Prayed. “Jesus H.” Hurley, she was nearly certain of it.

  “Camera ready?” The boss was closer now, and Carmela flinched as darkness gathered behind her lids, shadows cast by his body between her and the light source. “I’ll get the girl primed for her part.”

  Pain ripped through her scalp, down her neck, and into her back, head wrenched backwards at an acute angle. A hand gripped her shoulder and shoved, pushing her to lie flat on her stomach, then—weird as fuck—patted her shoulder paternally. A mechanical whine and the lights dimmed slightly, becoming bearable.

  “What about the guy?” Diamond asked, and Carmela blinked, still feeling blinded by the pain-fueled tears flooding her eyes. “Want him for this one?”

  “No, I think the girl will be all we need.”

  Blinking rapidly, she tried to focus her blurry vision, seeing a man’s silhouette in front of her. Both his arms were extended, and she realized one of his hands was buried in her hair, holding her head up. Swallowing hard, she opened her mouth to ask something, anything, because at this point she didn’t know a single thing other than Diamond had betrayed them all. Before she could say anything, the man moved to the side, and she was blinking into the lights glaring at her from two sides. His grip angled her head to the darkness between the spotlights, and he spoke.

  “You know I have her. You’ve known for a while now. You just don’t know where we are. Can’t find me, can’t find your princess. Oh, wait,”—his voice went from a chilling flatness to a false concern and Carmela shook her head, testing his grip, gasping in pain as he twisted his fingers into her hair, ruthlessly keeping her in place—“Jesus, didn’t think about that. Is she still a princess? If the king is dead, does the title still hold?” Knowing what Diamond had done to his own brothers, at those terrifying words which carried a threat to both her father and her papa, Carmela bucked against this man’s hold, writhing on the floor. She was not aware she was screaming until a blow from the back of his hand caught the edge of her jaw as he shouted, “Shut the fuck up.”

  Movement from between the lights drew her attention, and she caught flashes of Diamond’s face as the man hauled her back into place. She knew the growled, “Deacon, what the fuck?” must have come from him, but it sounded small, tinny, hard to hear over the ringing in her ears.

  Then the only thing she saw was Deacon’s face, pushed so close to hers she couldn’t get away from the stench of his breath—cigarettes and coffee and beer mingling to create a sickening miasma that surrounded him, pervading her space with every clipped word.

  “Dead, you keep that shit up. Shut the fuck up, bitch. You ain’t among friends, and I got few reasons to keep you alive.” His hand dragged her head backwards, sections of hair tearing out by the roots, abused muscles screaming at the sudden movement. “You want to stay breathing, you be smart.” His face angled so he could look over her shoulder, and he snarled, “Do what I can see you’re thinking about, boy, and you’ll be the first one I kill. I don’t need you at all, except your claim to be able to keep the bitch in line. Diamond shoulda just fuckin’ killed you, too.”

  “Hit her again, and you’re a dead man.” Rough, coarse, Hurley’s voice throbbed with hatred.

  Laughing, Deacon twisted and looked behind him, towards where Diamond stood. “Get the fuck out of the way, idiot.” Diamond stepped to the side, his body casting a shadow across the cement in front of Carmela, the darkness looking thick enough to hide her if she could only get to it. Pain at the back of her head again when his hand jerked, pulling and pushing so her neck twisted and she could look over her shoulder to where Hurley lay. “Boy, you’re trussed up like a turkey at Thanksgiving. The fuck you think you’re gonna do?” That was Deacon, talking to Hurley, but Carmela didn’t care about his words anymore; she could only see Hurley.

  One entire side of his face was swollen, eye puffed closed, angry purple and black bruises covering his skin. His other eye was opened a slit, and she could see he was focused on her. “Hey, gorgeous.” Ragged and low, his voice crossed the distance between them, curling around her like a warm blanket.

  Not weighed down by independent thought, or governed by any rules of logic, looking into Hurley’s face, Carmela knew they’d be okay.

  Never again

  Bones

  “Clear.” Bones heard the call from his left, twisting his neck to see Opie running in a crouch to the next room. “Clear.” That came through the simple earpiece they’d finally talked him into wearing, promising that while he could, he wasn’t expected to speak, just listen and keep up with the reports. While most had an earwig like Bones, the former Soldiers wore more complicated setups including a single lens. Opie had used the threat of denying Bones access to what he called the “ops” if he went naked, meaning without a communication device of any kind. After the video they’d received, there was no way Bones wouldn’t be in on rescuing Carmela, even if he had to wear a tiara on his head. An annoying headset and stiff body armor were small things in exchange for having a hand in saving her.

  “Clear.” To his right, the call came from the kitchen and dining hall that stretched across the back of the compound. The heat in southern California was stifling, even at three in the morning. Bones lifted a hand, swiping across his forehead. Mason was on his way, so was Raul, but the men already on the ground couldn’t wait. The information they’d gained left little time to chance, because what the man in New Mexico had known was that Carmela and Hurley had regularly been moved, and while he was aware of their location at the moment, they were set to be moved again in only a few hours.

  Now, from the quiet all around him, and the repeated calls indicating empty rooms, Bones feared they were too late. Fuck. Leaning against a wall, he watched as Duck moved up the hallway, alternately stooping and standing tall, running his hands over the wall. It looked like he was seeking something through touch alone.

  In his ear, Bones heard a crackle and then Mason’s voice. “On the ground, on my way. Give me an update.”

  Opie’s voice was loud, heard from a room away as well as through the headset. “Nothing so far, we’re still clearing, boss. ETA?”

  “Myron says it’ll take me forty-five minutes. Fuck.” Mason’s angry frustration ran along the soundwaves like rusty wire dragged through an alleyway. “Goddamned California traffic.”

  Opie responded again, “Copy. Stay on the channel. Myron can keep you patched in, you can listen.”

  “Clear.” Some of the men had worked their way to the second floor, and had begun the process of going through each room there. Soft footsteps on the stairway, Bones heard the whine of an elevator and shook his head. Fucking mansion, and they used it to keep a woman and man prisoner.

&n
bsp; Duck stood stock-still in the enormous room that opened onto the back patio. Head down, he seemed to be listening. Bones remembered old lady Donella’s dog doing that when it heard something in the wall once, motionless with cocked head along one baseboard, and then scratching and clawing at the surface until the rotten plaster came apart. The little dog had then darted into the hole, emerging minutes later covered in dust, but triumphantly carrying a broken-necked rat.

  “She’s not gonna be up.” Duck glanced at the ceiling above their heads, then looked down, toeing the edge of an area carpet. “Watcher’s stories, how he found Juanita in a hole under a building, the women buried under that truck that blew up on his place, fuck, even how I found Bella…these motherfuckers like to bury folks.”

  “Then find us the basement,” Bones suggested, and heard his words echo in his ears.

  “Basement stairs are at the back of the kitchen prep area.” Opie’s voice responded and Bones realized he’d spoken into the comm system. “I’ll meet you there.”

  Duck moved, long legs taking him across the room and Bones followed, feeling unsettled. Something about Bella’s rescue was gnawing at him, and the tingle from the almost memory had him distracted from what was going on around him. So distracted, he nearly missed it. Nearly, but not quite.

  “Stop.” His shout echoed in the room and through the headset, and Duck halted, one foot still in the air, hand outstretched to grab the doorknob. “Traps. Bella’s prison and the truck, both held traps. Consequences for attempting a rescue. Do not open that door, Duck. Not unless you are assured no surprises are waiting on the other side.”