"Your territory is the Pacific Northwest," I recall. "Is that where Lesher's gone?"
"More than likely," Wolf says. "They're more localized than we are. The RBMC sort of considers all of North America its territory, considering how much money we're working with. Our influence is pretty far-reaching. Not a lot of other MCs appreciate that fact…then again, we try to fly below the radar and avoid interaction with the other clubs when we can help it. There are only five of us at the end of the day, you know. We can hire out for thugs like Lesher did, but we're not going to be winning any knockdown drag-out gangland wars any time soon with our numbers alone."
"I assume this club is one that knows about your existence, then," I murmur aloud. "If they consider themselves rivals with you. What's the name of the MC?"
"Devil's Bastards," Wolf replies grimly. I detect a bit of smugness underscoring this new information, and when I look at him in question, he crosses his arms and rocks back in the chair. "Think our name's better. That's all. And you haven't even seen the shitty patches they wear—"
"Wolf," I interrupt. "Focus."
He clicks his mouth shut, and I try not to look too obviously stunned by the fact that my bid for silence has actually worked with him. He is certainly a different man from the one Lesher has made himself out to be.
"I need to know more about these…Devil's Bastards." I try to soften my tone, not exactly an easy feat when you're trying to discuss a club by that name. "You said the RBMC mainly keeps to itself. But other clubs…I assume they trade in stuff other than information in their day-to-day line of work."
"You assume correctly. The DBMC is a pretty rotten bunch. They run drugs, and sex slaves," he pauses in thoughtfulness to my disgusted shudder, "but mainly they're illegal arms dealers. Now that you mention it, I'm not sure what Lesher's motivation would be in striking a deal with them. These are all things we can acquire easily on our own."
"Is there…" I pause to gather my thoughts. I'm grasping at straws here. "Is there anyone he has a vendetta against?" I ask finally. "Anyone that he could gain access to by claiming he has this information?"
I don't think I'm imagining it when I say that I watch all the blood drain from Wolf's face in the next few minutes. His complexion, usually so full of youthful vitality, looks positively sick beneath the chestnut-brown stubble of his jaw.
"Shit," he mutters.
"Oh, Wolf, I don't like that look," I beg. "Please tell me what it is. You know, don't you? You know why Lesher would do something like this."
"It's only that…and I only heard this secondhand from Bentley. He's the pack leader, to use your terminology," Wolf says. "But I heard something about Lesher losing his sister when he was young."
I feel as if an icy-cold hand has just gripped my heart. "She died?" I ask.
After a long moment, Wolf shakes his head.
"It's…well, I won't say it's worse than that. I'm not in a position to judge, and it's not my story to tell. But…" Wolf sucks in a long breath, producing a low whistle through his broken canine. "Bentley told me Lesher's sister was kidnapped, ten years ago maybe? Right out of her bedroom. Both of them were still kids at the time. I assume that's his motivation for doing what he does—the pursuit of information as to her whereabouts. He's built up a lot of money, and a lot of connections in the criminal underworld over the years. Last I heard, he had tracked her to a brothel in South America somewhere."
"Oh my God." I cover my hand with my mouth. "Did he…did he find her?"
Wolf shakes his head again.
"No. He hasn't been down there as far as I know…but what Lesher did find are the people responsible for his sister being sold into the sex trade."
"Devil's Bastards." I supply the name without meaning to. It makes me sick now just to say it. "He's going after them from the inside. God, Wolf he's going to tear them apart. I know I would. But this…this will be a massacre."
Wolf shakes his head. "Not if he went in alone. Lesher is a badass motherfucker, but it's like I said before, Nancy. We lack the numbers for this sort of war. He goes it alone, and he's liable to get himself killed. I think he knows this. I think he wants to take the man responsible for what happened to his sister down with him."
My throat clenches over any words of reassurance I might have had for the both of us. Wolf clearly considers Lesher a friend—a brother—and I can see all too clearly that we are both invested in what happens to him.
"So we’re assuming he got in," I say.
Wolf nods. "He must have taken at least some of the information with him to sell and earn their trust. The shell companies are his ticket into the inner circle. But he left the rest with you."
Wolf looks at me now as if admiring a stranger he had never been previously acquainted with before. I can't halt my thoughts for even a moment to consider what Lesher's trust in me might mean. All I can think about is Lesher as he must have been ten years ago, cleaved from his family and heartbroken. Had the change come over him then, or after he learned of his sister's terrible fate? Sometimes he seems so inhuman, so immune to morality and even minor day-to-day conflicts. Now I know why.
"There's one thing I still can't work out…" I begin uncertainly. "And that's the Devil's Bastards' fixation with trying to kill him. If they want the information he stole that badly, then why did they try and blow up the warehouse where it was stored?"
"Honestly, I kind of doubt that was them," Wolf replies. "Actually, the more I think about it, the more I really doubt it was them. They're the worst kind of thugs, Nancy, but there's enough of them that even they aren't that stupid. The only entity I can think of that would have anything to gain from this information disappearing is a, well, a government entity."
"The government!" I moan. I'm about to fall back into my own chair, when I realize too late I never pulled one up to sit in; thankfully, Wolf jumps out of his chair to wrangle me around the waist before I can make it all the way over.
"Whoa, Nance. Easy!" he says. He gives up the desk chair to me, and I collapse in its seat with my head hanging in my hands.
"No, Wolf. No, this is not easy," I mutter into my fists. I scarcely know what I'm saying, or if it registers on a scale of sense. "The government wants Lesher dead, and so does everyone else. What am I supposed to do? I think I've fallen in love with a man who is doomed to be murdered."
"That's…kind of deep, actually." Wolf takes a knee beside me and lays a hand on the armrest. "Listen, I think I might know a way out of this. It might be a suicide mission, but I'd say our chances of getting Lesher out are about one percent. You in?"
"Yes," I answer automatically. "Yes, of course I'm in!"
"Also, it's going to require Flint's cooperation," Wolf adds.
I moan as if I'm on my deathbed.
The youngest Baron puts his hand up to quell my disappointment. "But the good news is, this is something I think he can get behind. Flint wants Lesher out of the MC. My plan would call for him to take a…brief sabbatical. So Flint will probably be down. Anyway, I know there's bad blood between them, but it's not like either of them wants the other dead."
"That's comforting," I mutter.
Wolf's eyes shine mischievously beneath his tousled brown hair. He pulls it back from his forehead with an unconscious sweep of his hand
"So…" he invites as he leans in. "Wanna hear my plan?"
I listen intently as he fills me in on what he's thinking. This can't be the best of all possible plans, I think in borderline awe as he eases back on his haunches and lifts both hands to demonstrate how it will play out. In fact, I'm certain it isn't. It might be the worst of all possible plans.
But we're out of time, and out of options. Lesher's life hangs in the balance, and Wolf's plan is like dangling a shoestring lifeline to someone already hanging off the precipice.
It's so insane, it just might work.
#
What Wolf's plan didn't call for, or even take into account, was the appearance of police sirens.
It started as a mute wail. I turn my head to look over my shoulder back down the road, clutching onto Wolf with all my might. I've begged him repeatedly up until this point to slow down, but I don't think Wolf is capable of driving slow. We've been riding for almost three days and I don't think I've ever seen the speedometer fall below ninety.
I'm not used to wearing a helmet riding with Lesher, but Wolf insisted. It takes me a moment to adjust my vision to the tinted visor, but I think I can make out a car coming up fast a few miles away. The red flashing light confirms my suspicion.
"Uh, Wolf…" I almost unhook my arm from around him to tap his shoulder before thinking better of it. Wolf turns to look over his shoulder; he has his skull bandana pulled up so far I can barely see his eyes. I may as well be riding behind an anonymous skeleton.
"Shit. It's Officer Lane."
"Who is Officer Lane?" I have to all but shout the question to be heard through the helmet; that, and I think he's just put on an additional burst of speed. The siren is still getting louder behind us. "And why are you on a first-name basis with him? Unless…wait, is Lane his last name?"
"You're asking all the wrong questions! It's kind of adorable, to be honest!" Wolf shouts back to me. He has his eyes fixed on the road again, thankfully. "Speaking of things that are kind of adorable, Officer Lane is a woman!"
"I'm sure an officer of the law appreciates your calling her 'adorable'!" I exclaim. "What are we going to do?"
"In a few years, I'm going to marry her!" Wolf hollers. "She's my dream woman, Nancy! She just doesn't know it yet!"
"That's great!" I shout back. "But I mean, what are we going to do now? Because unless your dream wedding takes place handcuffed in the backseat of a police vehicle, I'm pretty sure we're about to be arrested!"
"Not likely." He's stopped shouting now, and I almost think I've imagined the promise. Then, clearer: "Hold on. This will be over in minutes."
"Oh God." I shrink down and bury my head between Wolf's shoulders, but there's no escaping the macabre skull grin—I might as well be French kissing the Robber Barons' flaming skull logo emblazoned on his back. "Please don't let me die. Please don't let me die," I pray into the helmet. "Please let Lesher be okay so I never have to ride with this maniac again."
"Here we go!" Wolf whoops as we shoot like a cannonball off the backroad and merge right into the midst of freeway traffic. A bump nearly unseats me, and I scream into the echo chamber of the helmet. I can hear Wolf laughing in what I'm certain will be my last earthly noise, and I feel his barrel chest move with each booming laugh.
"See you later, Lane!" he calls over his shoulder. He starts to weave through the speeding cars, carrying us into needle-thin spaces between bumpers and moving us out at the last instant, continually putting on bursts of speed like a porpoise following ships in the harbor.
When I feel my horrified paralysis starting to thaw, I turn to look again over my shoulder. The police car is gone, but I don't feel comfortable breathing a sigh of relief…not yet. And especially not with Wolf's next words to me:
"We're almost there."
CHAPTER 12
LESHER
At least now I’ll have a second black eye to match the first one.
The fist that slams into my socket isn't propelled by a personal, vengeful strength akin to Flint's, but I know without glancing in a mirror that it's enough. I stumble back and fall to one knee.
A chorus of hoots and hollers rises up from the Bastards that encircle me. Across the warehouse's makeshift arena and standing only a few feet away from me, Diablo—the club leader—peels his shirt off and throws it to the side. The smile that splits his face is nasty. I've fought in pits before, but never against such a towering opponent. Diablo stands about six-foot-six, and he's almost as wide as he is tall.
This is all I wanted. A chance to avenge what became of my sister's life on the man who arranged for her to be stolen from me. Maybe I'm a coward. Maybe this is easier than tracking her down and facing her myself, seeing firsthand what’s become of her.
It had been remarkably simple to gain access to the DBMC's inner sanctum. I had informed them of my intended arrival days before, and they had an ear out already—so despite the media blackout surrounding my robbery of the Grand National Credit Union, they knew about it well in advance. All I had to do was show them a one-page printout of the list and have their men check it for validity. There was more to follow, I promised—but first, I needed to see Diablo.
And when I got my interview with the Devil himself, I was the one who threw the first punch.
I'm probably going to die here, and that's fine…or at least, it used to be. I wish Nancy's face didn't keep flashing before my eyes. I wish that every blow I take didn't force the thought of all that’s been left unsaid between us. Suddenly, being cold and removed from humanity for all these years, making myself a marble statue without threat of emotional fissure, seems like a really stupid way to live life.
If only I could take it back. If only.
But there is nothing about this that I would do differently.
"You done?" I demand with a cold laugh. My voice struggles to be heard as much as my body struggles to stand. I spit a jet of red blood out onto the floor of the warehouse. Diablo pauses and stares at me incredulously, before throwing up his arms with a laugh. His men join in, and he circles the arena like a master of ceremonies.
But last I checked, I'm the one calling loudest for an encore.
"Do you hear that, amigos? The white boy wants more!" Diablo shouts. He wheels on me again with impressive speed for a man his size, and I'm certain that this is it. He's enjoyed hosting the show, but he wants this interview over. He wants his men to know his strength, almost as much as he wants a tattered, bloodstained RBMC jacket mounted on his wall. It's time to finish the fight.
I couldn't agree more.
Diablo falls on me, like a panther dropping from a tree onto its wounded prey. I brace myself; then, with a quick flick of my wrist, and a flash of silver, I thrust upward.
It's his ego as much as the weight of gravity that drives my switchblade home.
Diablo half-collapses with a choking sound, and I am able to hold him propped against my shoulder. Around us, the Devil's Bastards start to murmur in confusion: is this part of the show? They can't see the handle of my knife embedded between his ribs. Not yet.
Who knows if he'll die or not. I don't care anymore—as long as he feels like his heart is being ripped from his chest, I can die feeling satisfied. Almost. Images of Nancy's face swim in and out of focus, fighting with memories of my sister to hold my ultimate attention.
I have one last thing to do now. I bend close, and whisper in El Diablo's ear: "My sister sends her regards."
The warehouse erupts after that. I brace myself beneath the choking leader, waiting for fifty pairs of hands to fall upon me and tear me to shreds, but the DBMC isn't the cause of the commotion. The garage door to the warehouse has risen, and I hear a familiar roar. It almost sounds like the Ural.
But it can't be.
The men scatter, swearing explosively, and I turn. Two mounted figures ride into the arena: one carries a sawed-off shotgun, retired against his shoulder and pointed toward the roof of the warehouse. What I mistake at first for a terrible, inhuman grin soon resolves itself, and I can see that the figure in the lead wears a skull bandana tied around the lower half of his jaw.
Wolf.
The other figure wobbles in after the terrifying specter, trying her best to keep the Ural upright. It takes me longer than it should to realize that the woman driving my bike is Nancy. Her legs are barely long enough to touch the ground, and her strength definitely isn't enough to hold off becoming crushed beneath the frame of my bike forever.
I rise, extracting myself from beneath the hulking figure of Diablo. He slips to the ground and lies unconscious in a blooming pool of his own blood, but none of his men move to help him.
I hobble over to the join the Calvary
as Wolf points the shotgun around the room, warning off any sudden movements by the Devil's Bastards.
"Need a…need a lift?" Nancy asks as she struggles forward. I put out a hand to arrest the handle of the Ural, braking it for her as well as my adding my additional (albeit diminished) strength to hold it upright for her.
"…admit it," I manage finally. "You planned this ridiculous rescue mission just so you could say that to me."
"Admit it," she returns. "You're happy to see us."
She slides back on the bike as I take easy possession of it once more. It was excellent thinking on their part to recover my bike from where I parked it outside, although I'm not sure allowing Nancy to drive was a good idea. Not until I teach her, anyway.
And I think this woman has just proved she's more than capable of taking on more than what the outside world thinks she can handle.
"Wrap your arms around me," I whisper. I feel the thin pair of arms come home to roost on my waist, and I settle my hand on them, securing us both in the assurance that neither of us will break from the contact.
"You two lovebirds ready?" Wolf hollers. "Because we need to jam out of here, like now."
I rev my bike, and blow a suffocating cloud of exhaust back in the faces of the men who nearly destroyed my life ten years ago. It's time to move on, and maybe even recover the life of the one who has been lost to me for so long.
It's time to find my sister—and something tells me that for once in my life, I won't be riding into battle alone.
#
Evening spills like ink in the sky above the private runway. The Ural putters to a stop on the tarmac; I settle my boots on the ground, but I don't dismount. Not yet.
"Are you sure you want to do this?" I ask.
Nancy slips off the back. She takes a moment to resettle her hair before stepping in front of me. I know that no matter what she says, she's nervous: she can never stop touching her hair when she's anxious.
BILLIONAIRE BIKERS: 3 MC Romance Books Page 28
