Blaze (Twisted Devils MC Book 4)

by Zahra Girard

  “Shut him up, will you?” Anna says to Howser, and her words are followed right away by the big man ramming the club into my stomach.

  Doubled-over, I’m thrown into the back seat of a black SUV. Anna takes her place in the front seat, one thug takes the driver's seat, and Howser and the other one settle in to each side of me. I’m the meat in a dumbass sandwich.

  “Leather seats? Nice,” I say. “Going to be a shame to get them all bloody when I kill each and every one of you. I’ll try not to scratch them too much. They’re easier to clean that way.”

  “Shut the fuck up,” Howser says, ramming his thick fist into my face. “Seriously, just shut your fucking mouth. We’re going to kill you, but beating you the whole fucking ride to the place where we’re going to leave your fucking corpse — just because you won’t shut up — is a fucking waste of energy. Just be silent and die.”

  Then he hits me again. Son of a bitch just knocked a tooth loose.

  I spit a glob of blood on the floor. “So you’re lazy, too? Fat, lazy, and stupid. Jesus Christ, Anna, you sure know how to pick them, don’t you? I remember back in high school how you used to suck people off behind the bleachers for pot. And the kids who dealt pot at our school were the fucking lowest of the low. Did you grow up and miss that crowd so much that you hired them to do your dirty work?”

  She turns and slaps me. I spit blood back in her face. Some of it gets in her bleached blond hair.

  “You fucking nitwit. This was all working perfectly until you showed up. I had it all planned out, it had been going perfect for months — the loans, the foreclosures, having Tiffany around as leverage over her fucking dipshit father — we’d foreclosed and sold over two dozen properties this way. Do you know how much money that is?”

  “You were the brains? Really? God damn, so is your daddy just exceptionally stupid or what?” I say.

  Another slap. I spit on her again. And Howser pounds me with the club for good measure.

  “He’s always pushed loans and taking what advantages we can, but I’m the one who pushed to hire Tiffany and hold her over her stupid uptight father, and I’m the one who hired Howser and his friends. My dad might own the bank, but I’m the one who’s really making our money.”

  “You sound proud of yourself. You still going to feel that way when I choke you to death?”

  She laughs. Howser hits me — a shot to my side that dislodges one of my floating ribs — and then Anna slaps me when I’m doubled over from having my ribs fucked up. “Oh, I’ll be proud of myself. Once we dump your body in the desert and I catch a flight out of here. In a day or two, I’ll be sipping cocktails on the beach in Vanuatu. They’re tax free, non-extradition, and I can fucking buy citizenship there. I’ve got this shit planned out, you dumb son of a bitch.”

  I sit up, look from her smug face to the driver. We’re leaving the outskirts of Torreon and it won’t be much longer till we’re in the desert and Anna and her rent-a-thugs will feel safe enough to finish me.

  My eyes catch a shimmer of something dull in the distance in the rear view mirror. Something sun-weathered. Something that, even when it was brand new, was bland as hell. The Volvo.

  I never thought I’d ever be happy to see that beige trashcan on wheels.

  Crash is behind the wheel and Razor’s in the front seat — the cavalry has arrived on the ugliest horse in existence.

  Then another head pops up from the back seat. Tiffany. And she points towards us and I see her shout the words ‘Faster’.

  What is she doing here? She ratted me out.

  Did Saint Tiffany have a change of heart? Is the fact that Anna will definitely try to murder me make her change her mind? Or does she just want to rescue me so she can have another opportunity to say ‘I told you so’?

  Whatever it is, it pisses me off to no end seeing a snake like her or think about whatever lies she’s spouting into my brothers’ ears. I have no intention of dying, but I also have no intention of being saved by a rat like her.

  It’s time to act.

  There are six inches of steel interlocking chain links connecting my two cuffs. Just enough to cover the thick neck of the meathead driving the SUV.

  First, I throw an elbow, hard, sideways, right into the face of Howser and there’s a satisfying, wet snap as my elbow caves in his nose. He howls, but before anyone can move, I hurl myself to the left, ramming my body into the other burly meathead and slamming his head into the window. Then, I hook my arms over the top of the driver’s seat and lower the chain around the driver’s throat. Grunting, I plant my feet on the back of the driver’s seat, and I wrench with all my force in one hard tug. Chain meets throat. There’s resistance at first and then there’s a crack that reminds me of the times when I was a kid and my mom used to have me snap the wishbone in a chicken at dinnertime. The driver releases the wheel and throws his hands out in a gurgling cry of agony. After a few spasmodic twitches, he’s done.

  The SUV veers wild to the right. We leave the road.

  Anna screams.

  I laugh.

  The SUV thunders straight into a ditch. The inside of the vehicle becomes a mess of flying, bloody bodies. My world goes black for a blurry moment as my head hits the roof, then goes black again as the SUV rolls and I collide face first with the floor. Over and over we turn, steel screaming, bodies flying, and then there’s one final thud as the vehicle comes to rest in a dusty desert ditch.

  I awaken a moment later in this crumpled metal canister. There’s steam coming from the upside-down front hood, blood covers the dashboard, the driver is dead and my two backseat companions are out cold.

  But Anna is wide awake.

  With eyes that are two bloody slits of fury, with full lips split open, revealing three bloody gaps where teeth used to be, she is the perfect picture of rage; if rage were a bleached-blond, empty-headed bitch.

  She throws open the glove box and pulls out a gun.

  “I’m going to fucking kill you, Declan. I’m going to kill you and your stupid bitch mother. I will murder her with my bare hands and bury her old ass in concrete. You’ve fucked everything up.”

  I kick open the back door and hurl myself out of the back seat and onto the desert sand just as a crack erupts from her pistol and a bullet tears a hole right where I was just a second ago.

  “Fucking shit up is my specialty, you bitch. Look at what I’ve done to my life. But I’ll be damned if I let some whore like you be the one to take me out,” I shout at her as I crouch for cover behind the SUV.

  There’s grunting and repetitive thuds as she kicks at the front passenger door to force it open. Steel grinds, then there’s an angry whoop as the door flies open.

  Then come the bullets.

  She shoots like a virgin on Prom Night; bullets tear up the SUV, sending sparks and shrapnel into my face as I duck for cover.

  And with every shot comes her shrill scream; the rage of a woman watching her multi-million dollar masterpiece fall to pieces around her.

  “You fucked it all up, Declan. You fucked it up. And now I’m going to kill you and your stubborn bitch of a mother and put her wrinkled old body beneath six feet of concrete.”

  Sparks fly and a chunk of shrapnel buries itself in my cheek. Blood fills my mouth, and I spit into the thirsty desert sand as I circle the SUV, doing my damnedest to stay out of her line of sight.

  “This isn’t going to end well for you, Anna — I’m not a thinker and even I can see that. You want the best way out of here? Put that gun in your mouth and pull the fucking trigger, because if I get my hands on you, you are sure as fuck are going to wish you’d died quick.”

  There’s a moment of quiet. The swift sound of a cartridge being ejected; she’s reloading.

  It’s a small window, but I have to take it.

  I stand.

  My broken body screams in agony — my busted rib grinds against its neighbors, every bruise in my body turns my muscles to sludge — but I stand and I charge.

  B
ut Anna doesn’t have her eyes on me.

  I hear tires chew roadside gravel behind me. Doors slam. And Tiffany shouts my name.

  And Anna slides the fresh clip into her gun like a pro.

  Maybe this bitch isn’t so dumb.

  She rises. Takes aim at someone behind me.

  There’s a satisfied look on her face.

  She wouldn’t look that way unless she were shooting someone she really hated.

  Tiffany.

  The world slows.

  Ann crooks her finger.

  That evil smile grows larger.

  I have a choice: I can keep running, I can reach her, but she will get off a shot. This could all be over in a few steps, I can take down the bitch who tried to make my mother homeless, who is threatening her life, but that means Tiffany will die. Can I risk losing the only woman who even bothered to help me, despite my terrible credit score?

  Even if she did rat me out, the thought of her no longer being there to lecture me, or to tease me with her wavy brown hair and her unbelievable legs, strikes me deep in my gut and makes my heart seize with unimaginable pain.

  It doesn’t matter what she’s done. I can’t let her get hurt.

  In that split second, I make my choice.

  I leap into the line of fire just as Tiffany pulls the trigger.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Tiffany

  The last memory I have of this man is the fight we had. The threats we exchanged. The fire in his eyes as he told me I should leave his home. Now, as a puff of smoke and a crack of thunder erupts from the muzzle of Anna’s gun, I’m terrified that those are the last things he will remember me by. That I’ll never again get to tease him for his impossible credit score, or marvel at how big his heart is, or rest my head against his chest while he holds me.

  I scream as he hits the ground, motionless.

  That shot was aimed at me.

  I don’t have more time to ponder that, as another crack rings out and sparks fly from the Volvo behind me.

  “Get the fuck down,” Razor screams.

  My two escorts are out and have their guns drawn, but Anna knows how to use her gun way better than I would’ve given her credit for. She fires just enough to keep us pinned, and my escorts know better than to charge headlong into fire. Especially when their compatriot is prone on the ground twenty yards away. He’s our priority. We have to save him.

  Fuck Anna Ebri. Fuck revenge. I just want to get to Blaze.

  There’s a car passing on this suburb road, an ocean-blue Prius, and the driver’s eyes go as wide as dinner plates when Anna charges, brandishing her weapon, and she commandeers the vehicle in seconds. Moments later, she’s nothing more than a speck in the distance.

  “Come on, we need to get to Blaze,” Razor says. “Forget about that bitch, the others aren’t that far behind, they’ll catch her soon enough.”

  I race to Blaze, each beat of my heart crashing painfully against my ribs, squishing my lungs, making it hard to breathe.

  Please be OK, please be OK.

  He’s face-down in the desert sand, sand that is darkening around him as blood leaves his body. Razor and Crash both trade a grim look before they roll him over.

  The sight of his face is enough to make me gasp.

  Bruised, battered, he’s a wreck, and that’s not even counting the bloodstained bullet wound on his shoulder.

  “Shit. Shit, shit, shit,” Crash says. “They really fucked him over.”

  “I’m calling Stitch,” Razor says, whipping his phone out and staring back toward the empty road.

  Far in the distance, I hear approaching motorcycles. Will they get here soon enough?

  I don’t intend to wait.

  I can’t lose him.

  I have to act.

  “I need alcohol. Vodka, whiskey, it doesn’t matter,” I say, glaring at Crash because he looks like the type to have a flask on him.

  “This isn’t the time for a fucking drink,” he says.

  “Just fucking give it to me or I swear to God…” I shout and let my broken, angry voice trail off as he reaches into his cut and pulls out a flask.

  “Here, take it,” he says.

  I don’t answer. I grip the hem of my work shirt and rip it in half. It comes apart in one tear, leaving my entire midriff bare. I rip that in two and make two bandages, which I quickly douse in foul-smelling whiskey.

  “Lift him, and slip that under his wound,” I say to Crash, and I hand him one bandage. “Do it now.”

  He does. And the second he sets Blaze back down, I take my bandage and hold it tight to Blaze’s wound, pressing as hard as I can into his muscular frame. Blood soaks my foul-smelling bandages and, under my breath, I whisper a prayer to whoever is listening that he holds on.

  “C’mon, Blaze. Don’t leave me,” I say.

  Thunder rolls closer, though I hardly hear it over my heartbeat and the sobs wracking my body.

  Hold on, Blaze. Fight. Come back to me.

  I just want him to make it. I don’t care about anything else. This man gives and gives — to me, to his mother, to his friends — and the least he deserves is for luck to go his way. Just once. Just this one time.

  Footsteps approach behind me. A set of hands settles on my shoulders. A rough voice speaks.

  “You’ve done good. Let me take over,” he says.

  They still have to pry me away. And even then, I only take a step back. There’s not a force in heaven or hell that’ll keep me away from my man.

  Stitch pulls the bandage back from the wound and there’s a sharp, hissing intake of breath.

  “This is not fucking ideal,” he murmurs. Then he turns to Razor. “Go back to my bike. Get the medkit with the black cross on it — not the red one, not the blue one, I want the black one. It’s in the main cargo compartment. Grab a bottle of iodine, too. Hurry.”

  Razor leaves at a run, and then Stitch turns to Crash.

  “I need you to call Stone. Tell him it will be a fucking minute before we’re back on the road. And bring that fucking Volvo closer — we may need it to take Blaze to the hospital depending on how shit goes here.”

  I watch, silent, anxious as Stitch gives orders, and Razor and Crash both leap to obey. With each second that passes, I grow more twitchy, more fearful, and helplessness and anxiety flood through me.

  “Is he going to be OK?” I say as I watch Stitch work.

  He’s quiet for a second, his back to me, and I fear that he hasn’t heard me. Or he’s ignoring me because he doesn’t want to break the bad news.

  Instead, with one hand applying pressure to the bandage over Blaze’s wound, he turns and gives me a warm smile.

  “You did good. You acted fast, and you put pressure on the wound. If you hadn’t, he’d be in a much worse spot than he is now. He will make it, Tiffany,” he says. “I just need to get this bleeding under control, stitch him up, and then, once he wakes up, slap him around a bit for getting his dumb ass shot.”

  “I was the one who was supposed to get shot. He put himself in the way.”

  Stitch nods. “Sounds like Blaze. For all the shit he pulls, it will be the consequences of someone else’s shit that gets him killed. If he would just stop and think sometimes, I’d have fewer occasions to practice my stitching skills on him.”

  “He’s working on it,” I say, my eyes glued to Blaze. Glued to his face. Hoping for some sign of consciousness. “Sometimes.”

  Stitch chuckles. “Oh yeah? Cause, from where I’m sitting, it sure don’t look like it.”

  “He had a chance to kill some of these people earlier. He was spying on this construction site where Anna and the others were meeting, and some workers caught him. Instead of fighting, he talked his way out. He mentioned something about some video game — Animal Crossing, I think — and creeped them out until they let him go.”

  He nods. Then grunts. “Huh, didn’t know he played. I’ll have to check out his island sometime,” he mumbles.

  “What’s
that?” I say.

  Razor returns with the medkit and the bottle of iodine and hands both over to Stitch.

  “I said that I’m going to need your help holding him down, because he’s sure as fuck going to wake up once I douse his wound and get to work,” Stitch answers. “Now, Tiffany, take him by his good shoulder and keep a firm grip. Razor, I want you to hold him by his legs. The last thing I need is Blaze kicking anyone in the face.”

  Razor and I barely have time to get a grip before Sitch starts to work; he moves the bandage aside and I get a brief glimpse of the wound — it’s red and angry, but there’s less bleeding than before. Stitch makes a satisfied grunt, gives me a quick look and a nod, and then starts. And Blaze stirs. Gentle at first, and then struggling like an angry bear on the warpath; he’s so strong he sends me flying back and Razor shouts at me to get back in position while he struggles with Blaze’s kicking legs.

  Dodging Blaze’s swinging fists, I take hold of his arm with one hand and, with the other, I slap him square across the face.

  “Declan Dunne, you need to calm down,” I shout. “It’s me, Tiffany. Stitch and Razor and Crash are here, too. We’re trying to help.”

  He stills. And glares at me — a mix of animalistic anger and confusion.

  “What the fuck are you doing here, Tiffany?”

  His words come in fits and starts, interrupted by sporadic grunts of pain as Stitch sets about his namesake work.

  Before I can answer, Stitch speaks up. “She’s saving your dumb ass. Stormed into the clubhouse like a maniac, got all up in Adella and Mack’s faces, and practically dragged us all here. If it wasn’t for her, you’d be a dead man, Blaze.”

  Confusion contorts his face. “You rat me out, and then you bring the club here? Have I lost too much blood, or does that just not make any fucking sense?”

  “I didn’t call the police on you, Blaze. It was someone else,” I say. Staring into his dazed eyes, I see realization hit.