Duck (Rebel Wayfarers MC Book 8)

by MariaLisa deMora

  Her disappearance wasn’t found, so much as reported. Watch got a call from Estavez, president of the Machos, who had gotten a call from a gypsy Outriders member, who had received a call from who the fuck knew. It was like a sick game of telephone, with the end result being the knowledge that Isabella was gone, and their most likely suspect was Lalo.

  A Diamante nomad, he was a man well known for his brutality, who seemed to have sucked at the teat of the devil himself, absorbing lessons of cruelty while he developed a taste for blood. Watcher’s first call had been to Mason, who sent texts to Duck and Fury while still on the phone with his friend. They were the only Rebels within hailing distance of the Soldiers’ stomping grounds and had the best chance of helping until Mason could get here. Clubs all over the region had rolled out, looking for Isabella.

  As Duck drove from Lamesa, Myron called, having picked up electronic chatter from two sources. Those leads pulled the club’s assistance in different directions. One was Memphis, where some dirty business had been conducted not long ago. Rebel members headed there as fast as their wheels could take them. Other brothers had been dispatched out of Little Rock, the intent to back up and support the Memphis chapter, and also to keep an eye on the men patched into that house. Memphis shit was dark these days, and there was damn little trust going their direction.

  Fury remained in Lamesa, his orders clear: Protect the prince. Chase was already in the air at the time, far too late to turn him around, so he would be met in Midland and taken to where he could be secured in Lamesa.

  Duck was in Las Cruces, having driven the 350 miles as fast as possible, making the trip in just under four hours from when he left. Now he was circling the area Myron had directed him towards, looking for anything out of place.

  Brenda had been with him when he got the text, and stared at him with wide eyes while, on the move, he explained what was going on and why he had to leave. She had told him, “Of course, go. Go, baby. God, how scared she must be. Find her.” Pressing a hard kiss to her mouth, he had jumped into the truck and headed off, earpiece in place so Myron, who was organizing the Rebel rollout, could talk to him.

  Which lead his thoughts back to here, now, where he wasn’t finding anything to indicate the girl was close. “You’re sure you got a ping from here?” For what seemed the hundredth time, he asked the question, hearing background chatter over the line for a moment before Myron responded.

  “Yes, her phone records show it logged towers in that area at least three hours before the first anonymous call came in.” Patient with the repeated questions, Myron repeated himself, then said, “Hold on, I got Pinto.” The line buzzed and hummed, on hold.

  Twisting in the other direction, Duck looked up a street, seeing more fences, more metal buildings, more loading docks, and a fucking lot of more nothing. Circling the block again, he instinctively slowed when he approached and passed a parked police car, and then shook himself when he remembered it had been there on his last circuit, too. Looking at it in the rearview mirror, he braked gently, gliding the truck to a stop while he stared, trying to decide what had caught his attention. The noise in his ear stopped, and he noted distractedly that, like it had on his last circuit of this block, his call with Myron must have dropped. Dead zone, he thought.

  Parked halfway between two buildings, the car looked relatively clean and free of the ever present dust blown in by the desert winds. But, now that the sun had shifted, shadows sliding backwards into the artificial crevasse between the structures, he could see only half the car was clean. Subject to some bizarre cleaning process, the front half looked to have been dusted. Perhaps in an attempt to make it look like the car hadn’t been sitting for long, the illusion destroyed by the thick layer of grime and dirt covering the back window and trunk. He wondered, Why in the hell would anyone clean an abandoned car?

  Pulling away from the curb, he glanced one more time at the car in the mirror. Why would anyone clean an abandoned cop car? To make it look like this was a protected area, maybe. To keep unwanted eyes away from the buildings it was set to guard? Whipping the steering wheel to the left, he turned the truck around, the passenger side wheels careening up and down as he ran over the curb and braked hard, springs rocking as the chassis shifted. Something isn’t right, he thought, sitting in the stopped truck, staring at the car.

  Easing ahead, he drove until he stopped directly in front of the car. Studying it, he saw the lights on top weren’t attached, just laid up there for looks. Something to make the façade more believable. Someone is definitely hiding something, he thought, opening his door and stepping out into the arid heat of Las Cruces, thumb tapping the screen on his phone. He frowned and shoved it in his pocket when the beep-beep-beep tones of no service sounded in his ear.

  ***

  Lamesa, Texas. Four o’clock in the afternoon, Central Time Zone

  Brenda sat on the top rail of the corral, attempting to take her mind off where Duck had gone by watching her son working with the young stud colt entrusted to him. Movements slow and self-assured, he approached the skittish horse, soft words flowing from his mouth like water in a river. The patter was instinctive and probably not something he was even aware of, but she watched, amused as the horse’s attention remained focused on the young boy edging into his space.

  The colt wore nothing but a halter. Eli’s intent for today’s lesson made clear by the lead rope he held loosely coiled in his hands. She grinned as he slipped one hand into the front pocket of his jeans, coming out with what looked like a piece of candy. She briefly wondered if he had pulled this trick before, but the colt’s focused attention at the crinkle of the plastic wrapper answered her question. She smiled when the horse zeroed in on Eli’s palm, neck stretching out and nose pointing to where the red-and-white sweet balanced, cupped slightly as proof against fumbling lips. When the colt pulled back, teeth clacking together as it enthusiastically crunched the candy, she saw the lead rope now dangled from beneath the horse’s jaw, attached to the halter without the animal’s knowledge. Ninja boy, she thought.

  Eli turned slightly and stepped back, hand going into his pocket again, the movement of his mouth never slowing as he talked sweet and low to the colt. The lead rope went taut between the horse and boy just as the next piece of candy made its appearance, the tug of the rope barely noticed by the colt in its efforts to get to the sweet part of the exercise again.

  ***

  Fort Wayne, Indiana. Five o’clock in the afternoon, Eastern Time Zone

  Mason’s bike skidded to a stop in the parking lot of the hospital, the rear wheel barking as it locked and slid, leaving black marks in its wake. He parked and dismounted at a run, heart thudding in his chest, choking the breath in his throat. Willa’s water had broken. He was at the clubhouse with Chase, then on the phone with Watcher then Myron, and he had missed her calls. Three hours she had been here by herself while he was taking care of club business. Fuck.

  Stopping his headlong run just outside the entrance, he took in two deep breaths, blowing them out and trying to compose himself. “Fuck,” he hissed, shaking his head hard. Then chin up, shoulders back, he strode into the lobby of the hospital and over to the elevators, steps still quick but controlled. Stifling a laugh when a nurse scurried out of the car, opting for the stairs rather than ride with him, he glanced at the only other occupant, a doctor. Clad in a white coat, the man looked familiar. Fuck, Mason thought, could be anybody. I ain’t no stranger to the med units in any city where I have a charter.

  Then the doc opened his mouth and Mason knew for sure he knew him.

  “How’s your man going?”

  Aussie accents weren’t something often heard in northern Indiana, and pair that with him being a physician and it was an even rarer combination. This was the doc who had treated Bear when they brought the man home from California with a punctured and deflated lung; an injury made worse by two flights, a significant change in altitude, and a delay in real treatment. The man had saved his brother’s
life and given Mason respect while doing it.

  “Well. He’s doing well. Nice of you to remember us.” Mason nodded at him in the reflection of the inside doors.

  “What’s brought you back our way today?”

  “Wife’s in labor.” Mason shivered silently, the phrase didn’t come close to illustrating the terror running through his veins right now, but taciturn was the way to go with any authorities, even the medical ones.

  “Devil you say?” His face split into a broad smile. “First tyke?”

  “For her.” He shrugged. “For me, too, in some ways.”

  The elevator stopped and the doors opened, Mason and the doc both stepping off. Lifting a hand in farewell, Mason turned to the right and stopped dead. The corridor was filled with men, every back bearing his patch. Fear struck him hard at that moment, clutching tight around his heart, causing it to stutter and stop until the expression on the faces registered. Laughter and quiet conversations rolled up the hallway towards him, and he heard the doc behind him ask on a mutter, “Bloody hell, you always bring a crew of bikies?”

  Making his way down the crowded hall, he didn’t respond. Didn’t stop to talk to anyone either, his steps falling faster as he got closer to what was clearly Willa’s room. The door opened and two men walked out, but after a single glance, he ignored them to stare at the woman standing upright and supported between them.

  Leaning lightly on Gunny’s arm, Willa was shuffling on socked feet into the hallway, her other hand clutching the edges of her robe together in the front. Her eyes were closed, but he could hear her muttering a slow singsong cadence, “Left-o, right-o, lefty, mighty, here we go and, keep up tidy,” in time to her steps.

  From behind him, he heard a loud, "How're you going?" Twisting to see the doc crowding him, he realized the white coat had addressed Bear, the other man standing beside his Willa. "You look a damn sight betta than I last seen ya." Bear nodded at the doc noncommittally, and Mason stared at them both for a moment until he saw the doc’s features flash white in the light of the hall.

  "Bloody hell," the doc whispered, eyes now fixed on Gunny's face. "I fucking know you. Never met a man survived worse. Bloody...Holy Mackerel. Never thought I'd see you again." Reaching around Mason, he shoved out a hand and Gunny silently gripped it. "I'm bloody glad to, though."

  “Mason,” he heard Willa’s whispered call and moved to her side, replacing Gunny’s support of her with his own, placing his arms around her. They stood there silently, him wrapped around her, surrounded by two dozen men he trusted with his life. He held her without care for his own safety because he knew every member in the room had his back. He breathed in her scent, the light vanilla musk she preferred, and closed his eyes, resting his cheek on top of her head. “I was afraid you wouldn’t make it.” Her whisper cut at him, the wound unintentional, because she would have understood, did understand so much more than she ever should have to.

  Instead of telling her it was a near thing, or telling her Watcher’s Bella was missing, he reassured her, “Of course I made it, babe. Ain’t gonna miss this one’s entrance to the world. I’m here.”

  That became the theme of the night, just his quietly voiced reminder, often spoken, reassuring her. “I’m here.” Even in the controlled chaos of the delivery room, a place he had visited once before, but this the first time for a child of his own, he told her with each touch, each caress, and each tender kiss that he was there with her. Body and soul.

  Later, after her hard work was done and he had been assured everyone was healthy, he stood holding his son and gazing down at Willa as she lay exhausted, sound asleep. Staring for a long time, he allowed his eyes to trace her serene features; her face, so well-known by now, relaxed and peaceful as she rested. Then, he looked back down at the babe in his arms. Eyes more infant blue than gray stared up at him, and the lips of his child pursed and moved in imitation of the nursing he would be doing again soon. My child. My son.

  With a soft smile curling the corners of his mouth, Mason stared down at his son, his gaze going to his wife as she stirred in the bed. A woman he had fought to hold, had struggled to bring back to herself, encouraging her, reassuring her with every step that he was in this with her, side-by-side. Mine. Worth every moment, every effort. My Willa, he thought and found himself easily able to define the feeling flooding him. Love.

  Three hours

  Something doesn’t add up, Duck thought, pacing off the dimensions of the room again. The cop car had been the first clue, and then he’d found the building next to it filled with a dozen other puzzles he had to piece together. False trails, red herrings to pick through to find the ones with real importance. The ones that didn’t scream ‘Look At Me.’ The office for the storage facility, which on the surface seemed unremarkable, but once he was inside, things felt…off. Nothing obvious. Just off in a way he couldn’t define, but which set his nerves on edge, so he had to pay attention.

  The room looked like it had recently been occupied by a tidy squatter, which was an oxymoron in his book. Dirty towels were neatly folded in one corner of the room, laid on top of a cushion taken from the couch. Newspapers disassembled, the parts reassembled into piles of similar assortments. Section ones, section twos, and advertising sections, all piled into squares. The papers, torn but tidy, arranged randomly on the floor along one long wall. Ripped and sagging furniture squared with the straight lines of the walls, impotent lamps precisely lined up with the center of the tables, electric cords stretched out on the floor, ends plugged into nothing.

  Pegboards on one wall held row upon row of keys, at first glance giving the impression of random arrangement. Upon closer inspection, if paying attention, it was possible to see the groupings matched the furniture in this room and the adjacent one.

  Duck was paying close attention. Absolute attention.

  Three keys together represented a couch, another similar set stood for the desk. Even the towels were accounted for, the jumbled piles of paper. Everything just right, even the things which should be wrong…too much so to be randomly arranged.

  Empty lines of pegs were the walls, straight and in place. All but one. One of them was misplaced. So, he paced off the distance, counting, pacing, and repeating.

  He stood, first looking at the peg wall, then swinging to look at the room. If the arrangement of the keys matched the contents of the room, with the groupings arranged to scale, and those empty lines of pegs were walls…then one of the walls he was looking at in the room didn’t exist, and there were about eight missing feet from that side of the room.

  Making his way along the wall, he thumped with his fist, feeling stupid. This wasn’t a fucking TV show where he would miraculously find a hidden door leading to the evil mastermind’s torture chamber. It was a fucking storage unit rental place in fucking Las Cruces, and he was an unemployed enforcer for a fucking motorcycle club, not a goddamned detective.

  He paused his advance, thumping hard against the same place on the wall, then moved his hand down a foot and thumped again. It sounded different, hollow. Running his fingers along the surface, he found a ripple, an unevenness in the drywall. Bending over, he looked closely, fingers and eyes working together to find a seam, a well-hidden join in the surface he could trace with his thumbnail. Reaching down further, he trailed his fingers across the bottom of the wall where it stood on the floor. There was a cool draft there, blowing outward across his skin. What the fuck?

  Down on his knees now, feeling like time was stretching around him as his blood ran cold, he realized the wall was not for support. No, not this wall. It was hiding something, he just had to find out how to get into the space behind it, find out what it was sheltering. Fingernails scrabbling along the floor, finding no purchase, but that draft of air remained fresh and steady, taunting him with the sure knowledge that something was there. Remembering the kitchen cabinets in his grandmother’s house, he found one edge of the wall section and used the tips of all four fingers and his thumb to push in. Click.
The top corner sagged out, and he quickly repeated the motion on the bottom corner. Click.

  Shuffling backwards, he rocked back over his heels, still on his knees as he stared at the opening. It was small, only about three-foot square. Small enough you would have to crawl through it, small enough to feel tight in ways that were uncomfortable. Constricting access, it would expose you as you entered, seemingly a contradiction. It gaped open a few inches on its own, the dark sliver appearing along the vertical edge beckoning to him. I feel like Alice, only I don’t have any fucking dope to make me smart, he thought, reaching out with one shaking hand and easing the door open. Heavy; his hands and arms felt like they weighed a thousand pounds and he was filled with heart-pounding terror at what he would find. I’ve got to be smart. Something isn’t right. I need to find it, figure it out.

  No doubt now this was a door, and—thank God—the smell rolling through the opening was sweet, not a stench to roll your stomach. No, this smelled of rich earth, dug deep, well-watered and fertile. Vaguely chemical laden, but not overwhelming. Glancing around behind him one last time at what he now realized was a waiting room—a holding cell for would-be rescuers—from this new angle he saw there was a medium-sized something shoved underneath the couch.

  He scrambled, making his way quickly over there, dragging out a worn and weathered canvas bag. Not locked, not zipped, just the placket folded over the open top. Easy entry. Without thinking, he reached blindly inside the bag, fingers fumbling, finding a cold, metal cylinder and another object, warmer wood. He gaped the mouth of the bag open, gripped the metal and pulled out a flashlight, and then looked inside to see a small tool, like a child’s garden spade. Wood and steel pretending to be a useful thing, more of an excuse to spend time with someone who loved gardening. Someone who loved to dig in the dirt, running fingers through loamy soil, finding treasures to share with a little one in the form of wiggling worms and tightly curled grubs.