Sarge, my VP, my best friend, whips his head up to glare directly in my eyes. “Step back, brother. She’s traumatized and you’re not helping. Don’t make me have to lay your ass out.”
Fuck.
Nostrils flaring with each heavy breath, I grit my teeth to get a lock on a temper threatening to consume me whole. Hands pressed in balls to my hips. He’s right. He’s so damn right. What the hell am I doing yelling at a helpless woman? A still-recovering woman.
Once I’ve got a lock on this anger, I step back, rubbing a hand down my face, and take in a cooling breath to keep from scaring her any more than I already have.
I need to apologize, but I can’t force the words from my mouth. I’m still on edge. Not at her, at the situation. Fear’s not a good look on me and neither is anger. That breath helps me focus on my next move. I place a call to Duke.
“We need you again,” I say without fanfare.
“Issue?” he asks.
“Nic’s gone. Had a guard on her. Guard’s dead. Greer’s here, unharmed.”
“Rallying now. On our way.”
Now all we can do is wait. Sarge is good hunting men down, but the Lords have more men able to help out and this isn’t the kind of situation you want to take on without a man at your back.
It doesn’t register at first when I hear a car engine because it’s only been forty minutes after we hung up, but there’s a van heading up the drive.
My brothers go on alert until the driver comes into view. Scotch. Scotch? How the hell did they make it here already? I bound down on them. “How the hell is this possible?” I demand. The Lords’ compound is over an hour away.
Sneak, the first man out of the back of the white utility van, steps up. “Wife’s brother is a pilot. Owns a Cessna. We paid him to fire it up—get us here faster. Called ahead to the airfield. They had the van waiting. It’s amazing what people are willing to do if enough cash is involved.”
“You’ll get it back,” I promise.
“Not worried about it. Let’s find your woman.”
He knows Nic’s my woman, which means either Blood or Hannah talked. One less thing to have to explain.
Along with Scotch and Sneak, Blood, Blue, Hero and a new guy—I recognize him but have to check his name patch to remember who he is. Boetcher. He was still a prospect last I saw him.
Blue stomps to me like a man on a mission. “Where’s Greer?”
“Inside with Sarge.”
He nods, taking off inside without another word. Blood, the highest ranked of the Lords’ brothers here, makes his approach. “Duke, Boss and Chaos stayed back in Thornbriar to spread out the search. Boss called Tommy Doyle. He’s working it, too.”
Tommy Doyle, Boss’s best friend, a police sergeant in the Thornbriar Police Department. He’s a good man to have on your side. The kind of man who doesn’t mind getting his hands dirty for the people he cares about. Hell, I’m surprised he still has a job, considering he goes his own way if the need arises.
“Where do we start?” I ask Blood.
Sarge emerges from the cabin. “Blue’s got Greer for now. Let’s find Nic.”
Hero, Blood and Sarge lead the men back to the road. Hero bends down, touching the ground where the dirt meets the pavement.
“Too many bikes, too many tracks in the dirt, but look here.” He moves his hand to where the two butt up to point out faint tread marks on the pavement turning right off the property, heading up the mountain, where it’s nothing but woods.
“Stay here.” Hero gives the command. “Let Blood and I do our work.”
“Fuck that,” I answer curtly.
“I know how you feel. I’ve been there. But unless you’ve got tracking skills, you’ll just be in the way.”
“Sarge goes. He’s got tracking experience.”
“Right,” Blood says, cutting in. “Then let’s go.”
The two Lords jog for the van while Sarge mounts his ride. Sneak and Boetcher hop back in before they peel out.
If Rage has harmed a hair on her head, I swear to all things holy or unholy, he will learn a new level of pain.
16
Nicola
“Thought you could get away, cunt? I don’t fucking think so.”
“Who are you?” I push with full understanding that I’m taking my life in my hands by doing so. The man sneers but doesn’t answer my question. “Do I at least get to know the name of my kidnapper?”
“Who I am makes no difference to you. He knows.” He knows. Vlad knows. I have to believe that Vlad will find me.
Defiantly, I square my shoulders, staring him down. “You know he’s going to kill you, right? A man like Vlad, he won’t let this go.”
It becomes clear that I should’ve kept my mouth shut when the man shoots his hand out, taking me off guard, squeezing it around my throat as he marches us until my back hits the rough bark of an oak tree, snagging the fabric of my tank that’s too thin to protect my skin from scraping.
“Will he? Will he have it in ’im to end me or will he be too distraught over findin’ your broken body?”
Those words are used pointedly, purposely to scare me, and make no mistake, they do. I won’t share this with the giant asshole holding me hostage. A man like him feeds off fear. He’s planning on hurting me. He’s planning on killing me whether I show my fear or not, but this way at least he’s faced with disappointment before I go.
“No,” I choke out. “He’ll kill you.” The man’s hand tightens around my throat so every swallow and every breath hurts like a son of a bitch. Still, I don’t look away and instead stare him down with even more defiance. If he wants someone to cower, he really shouldn’t have gone after a woman with my background. We’re embroiled in our own little game of chicken. Despite having the upper hand, he gives first, loosening his grip, allowing me to suck in more air into my lungs.
“This is gonna be fun,” he says, shoving me back toward the hovel. My foot catches on an exposed tree root and I stumble. He uses his foot to push me inside on my hands and knees. Nothing about this will be fun. Nothing.
Once I’m plunged back into darkness, the man who has to be Rage stays outside and I’m sure he’s smoking because I smell it. Only now do I allow myself to acknowledge the fear. I need Vlad and I have no idea if he’ll be able to find me.
The only way I know to note the passing time is by how the heat and humidity rises inside. The smell becomes almost unbearable. Air so thick, it sticks to the inside of my nose and mouth, coating my tongue. The small structure has turned into an honest to God sweatbox. I’ve probably lost five pounds just sitting here.
I’m already feeling helpless bourgeoning on hopeless when my body goes rigid with the addition of a different male voice outside. I know it’s a different man because up till now, Rage hasn’t talked to himself and this new voice is slightly higher than his scratchy grumble.
He’s a tricky ass, that’s for sure. He gets me used to the way of things, how he’s handling my kidnapping, and then out of the blue, he changes things up. Right. Shame on me for letting my guard down. It won’t happen again. It can’t.
I’m thankful I caught on in enough time to brace myself because in the next instant, the blackout curtain gets ripped open and an arm plunges inside, the hand gripping my ankle, dragging me out, my arms and back scraping against the hard, uneven ground. The abundant scratches sting, but not as much as the back of my head when this new face wrenches me from the ground by my hair, close to ripping it from my skull.
“Move!” he shouts in my face and I begin to march.
Rage’s words, “Have fun,” reach me before we clear the small ridge.
“Oh, I’ll definitely have fun,” this man says menacingly. He might think so, but I won’t go down without a fight. Right now, I bide my time. He has to have a vehicle close.
As the hike continues, his grip moves from my hair to dig into the skin on my arm. I eye the graying braid hanging halfway down his back, wondering if I could latch on
to it hard enough to bring him to his knees. Or there’s the red bandana he’s wearing folded and tied around his forehead, maybe I could yank it down over his eyes as a diversion? He has a pretty long, shaggy goatee. I might be able to catch him off guard by yanking on that along with his hair.
The inherent problem with all of these choices is I’m not familiar enough with the area to know if it’ll be worth me taking the shot to escape now or if waiting would be the smarter choice.
Eventually—it’s hard to know how far we traveled over this woody, bumpy terrain—we stumble upon a small access road where a black sedan is parked along the shoulder.
He loosens his grip to pull a set of keys from his pocket and that’s when I decide it’s now or never and strike, spinning to take him off guard. He drops my arm and I snag the keys from his hand, pressing the key fob as I run for my life. Blood pounds against my eardrums as he chases me down, but I get to the sedan first, jumping in behind the wheel, fumbling to get the key in the ignition in my haste and dropping the transmission into drive. I slam my foot on the gas pedal, peeling away.
For the first time since my kidnapping, I feel truly confident that I’m going to see Vlad again. We’ll enjoy our time getting to know one another even better. I’ll find a job. He can help me set up another stop along the road to getting women to safety. All that goes through my mind prematurely as it turns out because I don’t drive fast enough to outrun the bullet from an experienced marksman. The pop rings through the air. There’s an explosion and I lose control of the vehicle, turning the wheel left and right in an attempt to keep me from plowing into a tree as I let up off the gas.
He blew out the tire. He blew out the goddamn tire. The only choice I’m left with is to run. I throw the door open and run for my life. There are more pops from the gun. Bullets strike trees. I duck and dodge, sure that I’m going to get away, when the worst thing possible happens. I’m on a mountain and don’t know where I’m going. I picked the wrong way, skidding to a stop before I run right over the edge of a cliff with probably a twenty-foot drop. I’m trapped with an angry, gun-wielding man barreling down on my position.
“Bitch,” he roars. “You goddamn fucking bitch.” When he reaches me, it’s with the gun lifted to point at my head. “I’m gone make you regret that move.” Oh, I have no doubt he will. The man pulls zip ties from his pocket as he moves closer to my position. “Shoulda used these to begin with.”
Being pistol-whipped feels exactly like I thought it would—that’s to say, it hurts a freaking lot. His final blow opens a gash on my forehead, blood oozing down my face. I lose the fight after that. He has easy access to my hands, pulling them behind my back to zip tie them together. I cling to consciousness, with blackness creeping in along the edges of my peripheral vision.
I’m not allowed to pass out. Keep walking. Keep marching. Keep. Keep. Keep. Back to where I abandoned the car. When he drops my hands this time, I don’t run. I can’t run. It takes all my concentration to stay standing. My body sways leaving me no option but to step out to stop from falling.
“Trying to run again, bitch?” he shouts, smacking my cheek—hard. I shake my head, shaking off the hurt, the black creeping farther into my vision. He pulls a donut tire and jack from the trunk, dropping them to the ground. I notice the clank instead of his hand coming for me until it’s too late and he shoves me inside the trunk, slamming the door shut and I’m plunged once again into darkness.
He jacked the car with me in the trunk. Who knew it was possible to jack a car up with a person in the trunk? It’s hot again. Hard to breathe from the lack of air circulating and the exhaust fumes. They’re not heavy, but the smell is still strong enough to cause a headache on top of the headache I already have thanks to his pistol-whipping.
Today has not been my day.
We drive for a while, with me slipping in and out of consciousness. When the car eventually stops and he keys open the trunk, I’m a dirty, sweaty, bloody mess. And this is when he chooses to snap off several pictures of me for posterity. At least he snips the zip ties.
This new place isn’t as hot as the animal den hovel in the woods. Although I have no idea where we’re at, it appears to be an abandoned motel. The strip kind with like ten rooms connected in a row. Fingers crossed, but these places usually have some sort of air conditioner. Please have some sort of air conditioner—that works. I amend my plea to the universe.
The room is dirty and I’ll probably have roommates of the bug variety, but it has a bathroom that actually still has water running to it, flushing toilet and all, and a blessed air conditioning unit. It makes a sound like tiny pebbles being tossed around inside it and there’s a high-pitched wheezing from the fan, but the air begins cooling as it swirls around me.
I check the bed, around the bed frame and the outlets, the places experts say insects like to congregate, and aside from the occasional dead spider or spider’s web, surprisingly, there’s nothing creepy-crawly. I suppose even evil bikers don’t like sharing a bed with bugs.
Best of all, he didn’t come inside. Though, I’ll admit to being confused by his intensions, then. If they were to take advantage of the situation, there wouldn’t be much I could do to fight him off. Of course, I’d try, but I fear I wouldn’t get very far.
Time passes while I listen to old TV shows on the even older television that only gets one fuzzy PBS station, as I flip through a thirty-year-old telephone book someone left behind. It’s coffee- or water-stained with a chunk of the front cover ripped away, but it has some large advertisements for businesses which may or may not still be in business. That’s sort of interesting. And I’m still alone.
It’s dark when the door opens. A paper fast food bag flies at my head. I catch the bag as the door slams shut again. The meal consists of a greasy burger and a small order of fries. A feast considering I haven’t eaten in who-knows-how-many hours. I fall on that burger and fries like a parched man at a desert oasis.
Middle of the night, the door bursts open, hitting the wall behind it. The door handle busts a hole in the wall, trapping it open. A hand grasps my ankle, dragging me from the bed. I lose my breath when my back hits the floor, but I at least had the presence of mind to protect my head before I hit. The giant man drags me across the carpet, leaving rug burns on my skin, which becomes worse when he drags me over the seal of the threshold and rug turns to the gravelly peas of broken sidewalk that embed themselves in the broken skin. It becomes worse still when he continues to drag me from the sidewalk to the porous parking lot pavement.
When we reach a pickup truck, he binds my hands behind my back with almost an entire roll of duct tape, then hauls me up into the truck bed, where he pushes me down on my back. I’m made to lie flat. He pulls his gun, cocks it, and presses the barrel to my forehead.
“Try to run, bitch. I dare you. Itchin’ to end you.”
That’s not going to happen. I lie there, unmoving, while he walks to the cab of the truck. I’m flat on my back with my arms bound behind me. How could he think I’d be able to run? But before leaving me, he moved the gun to my temple and snapped off several pictures. The second man to take photos of me, I get an idea of what might be going on.
Although it’s possible the pics are for Rage, to give him proof that I’m still alive or that they’ve worked me over, I have a feeling these are meant for Vlad. Same reasons apply. I’m alive, getting worked over. These kinds of photos would set off any decent man, but when that man happens to be a biker who cares for you, these are going to tear him up, and they know it.
That pisses me off.
We’re on the road for a while when the weather starts to turn, the sky growing dark gray and ominous. The charged air smells of impending rain. He drives on. The skies open up, pelting the land, the road, the truck, me, with a torrent of tears from heaven. The truck bed begins to fill with water. I’m drowning. Coughing up wet. Face up, rolling to my side is my only option to save myself. But with the truck bed filling, I’m pretty much s
crewed.
17
Vlad
I’m on the phone with Cutter listening to the sounds of assault rifles popping in the background. “They’re trying to take it back,” he yells into the line. “Has to be other Horde chapters. Too many to be only Rage’s men.”
“On my way,” I bark back, then holler, “Reap. Compound’s under attack. We need to get there.”
“Right,” Reaper shouts, running to his bike. He takes off not waiting around for me.
“What about Nic?” Cut asks.
“Sarge and the Lords are on it. Rage takes the club, we’re all dead.” And because this was a complete setup, the minute I disconnect with Cut, another one of those damn pictures comes in. My woman has been through hell and it keeps getting worse. This newest one, another Tennessee traitor, sends a shot of Nic, hands bound, in the back of a pickup truck, drenched, the bed with at least a couple inches of water inside. The next one, he’s licking up the side of her face. Her fucking face.
It guts me to do it because I should be out searching for her myself, but I forward the newest photos to Blood’s phone right before taking off for home. I don’t know what to do. Call in the Sherriff’s Department? Handle it ourselves? We could use the backup, but I don’t know how many of our brothers carry legally and how many will end up doing time for illegal firearm possession. The large crates are kept off property. Those are safe.
I opt to check it out for myself, to see if anything changes once I arrive. My bike eats up the miles between the cabin and the compound faster than I’ve ever made the trip, but before I reach the property, I take a little-known back lane that’ll get me close enough to the club to ditch my bike and sneak into the fight hopefully without being seen.
The scene unfolding all around me has to be seen to be believed. A warzone. A shitstorm of bullets zip past my head, piercing the air. Some go wild and I have to keep low while trying to run into the mix. Stealthily, I move through a small open field to the closest big tree lining the property. It has to be thick enough to absorb the bullets and not spit them out on the other side, where I’ll be standing. I don’t have much in the way of ammo. My shots have to be on.
Devil's Advocate: Vlad (The Bedlam Horde MC Book 1) Page 13
