Duck (Rebel Wayfarers MC Book 8)

by MariaLisa deMora

  Reaching in for the tiny spade, he heard a crinkle and stretched the opening of the bag wider, looking inside again. A piece of paper. He was unfolding it when his phone rang, the sound inside his head startling because he had forgotten about the earpiece. Reaching up to tap the button, he straightened the last fold to read the words just as he heard Myron’s voice say, “Pinto’s got squat. You find anything, Duck?”

  Eyes fixed on the paper in his hand, he didn’t answer for a moment, pulse jolting erratically, his breathing coming faster the longer he knelt there, reading and rereading the oh-so-brief message written in bold stripes of black ink. Absence scrawled in loops and swirls; lack as promise. He could feel the words’ weight through the paper, the pen having impressed deeply on the material, nearly punching through in some places. Unreadable Braille. Handwriting, small and cramped, even and unhurried. The author took their time with no fear of discovery, no need to rush. One more piece of the riddle to toss down, clues gobbled up by Duck’s brain like bread on the shore of a pond.

  As if from far away, he heard Myron’s voice barking a question, “Duck, you there, brother?” Duck sucked in a harsh breath, then another, Myron evidently hearing that because he shouted, “Brother, talk to me. Tell me. What the fuck’s going on?”

  “I got her.” There was a sudden increase of noise on the phone but he couldn’t focus on that. It didn’t come close to hitting the scale for attention. “I got her.” He sucked in a breath. “Jesus.” Another breath, urgency pounding through his veins. “I don’t got her, but I got her. I gotta go. I gotta get her, brother. Get someone here, Myron. Fuck, get them here. I gotta get to work. She ain’t gonna die, man. Not like that. Not alone, not like this.” He didn’t wait for Myron’s response, disconnecting the call. He knew the man could track the device within a three-foot radius, and also knew his brother would spin up help just as fast as he could fucking dial it in.

  Looking down at the joke of a spade in his hand, he stared at it for a moment as panic and adrenaline fought for dominance within his chest, and then he worked hard to stifle it. Successfully forced it all down, shoving it deep as he shifted his gaze back to the paper.

  You coming in shut down her air. She’s got three hours.

  Taped to the paper below the message was a picture of a young Mexican woman with light blonde hair. She lay contorted, legs curved tight to her body, curled up on a rag of a blanket. Taken through a pane of reinforced glass dividing the area in the picture into two spaces, the photo showed her position was reminiscent of the human remains in Pompeii, mummified by the volcanic eruption of Vesuvius. Lying on her side, arms tucked in front of her face, hands wedged underneath her head. With dark bruising on her jaw and cheek, she was isolated in a glass cage, waiting.

  Fuck.

  Spade clutched tightly in one hand, he took a picture of the paper with his phone, then texted it to Myron. He took another picture of the doorway, then one of the room in general, sending those on their electronic way as well. He set a timer, and then shoved the phone deep into his pocket and crawled towards the opening, dragging the canvas bag behind him.

  Flipping on the flashlight, he shone it into the dark recesses of the area hidden by the false wall to find his nose hadn’t misled him. The floor behind the wall was dirt, loose and dark, damp with water, it spread evenly from wall to wall, the space about eight-feet wide and fifteen-feet long. On the far end, a pipe stuck up from the dirt, pale and bone white in the glow cast by the flashlight. Vent. Air. Silent. You coming in shut down her air.

  Before going another inch, he impatiently scanned the area for traps, not trusting his senses which were telling him nothing was waiting. His muscles screamed for him to move, to get started, but he had to be sure there weren’t any more pieces to unravel. That there weren’t things lying along the path to trip him up, because he couldn’t make a misstep here. This was coloring within the lines, faced with an unthinkable consequence if he got it wrong. Scanning one last time, he knew there was nothing. No snares. This wasn’t a ruse. There was nothing to be found except the one thing he couldn’t wrap his head around. Nothing except a girl who would die if he didn’t dig her up in time. Think, he raged at himself. Think, you bastard.

  He knew the vent wouldn’t be by the entrance to the buried cell, it would be in the room with the girl. His brain shifted into a higher gear, thoughts racing as he tracked down the facts, lining them up like the pegs on that goddamned board in the waiting room. Jumping from clue to clue, leapfrogging past only to circle back to be certain.

  The girl will be behind the glass and away from the door, contained so the motherfucker can come and go without worrying about her escaping. The door will be behind the glass from the girl. Farthest end from the vent. Nearest the crawl through.

  Bringing the paper up again, he shone the light on it, looking at the picture, studying it.

  She’s got three hours.

  Isabella was young. Not yet twenty, she stood five foot six, weighed about a hundred forty. Look at the space she takes up, he thought, look at the space around her. From what he could see in the image, that made her end of the room about five-foot square, because while she had curled into a tight ball, trying hard to protect herself by presenting a smaller target, him knowing her stats meant he could gauge the room size.

  He glanced back at the peg wall, studying the just-right way things were lined up. Precisely arranged. Organized. Controlled. Motherfucker likes things symmetrical. Knowing that about her abductor, looking at the picture, knowing how big her space was, he knew the whole set-up would be a rectangle, knew it would be five by ten, or there about. Broken cement showed where the foundation had been removed, and he looked around at the dirt floor then up at the grooved, metal walls, gauging the size of the empty, barren space between the four walls in front of him.

  Eight foot by fifteen foot.

  The math was easy, easiest part of this whole fucking puzzle. Give it five square for the prison, five square for observation. The still-silent vent was set out about two feet from the far wall. That would put the front of the room at least three feet from the crawl through on this end. He drew a mental line.

  Foot and a half out from either side to find the edges of the space, dropping into the middle would put him four feet from the long wall nearest him. Then, checking the angle, he looked at a spot three feet from the end nearest him, noting where it intersected the other line. That was where he would start, and fuck him if he was wrong. Fuck him. If he got it wrong and killed her with his stupidity. Fuck. If he was wrong.

  Think.

  Go over it again. She couldn’t afford for him to be wrong. He couldn’t be wrong, so he wouldn’t be.

  Spend two minutes of her three hours to make sure you don’t fuck this up.

  He looked down at the ridiculous fucking spade nearly swallowed in his hand, and then back out over the expanse of dirt. Seeing, but not seeing, instead, he saw her bruised face, eyes closed in a mockery of rest, curled up protectively, fending off her demons. The demon who’d brought her here and laid hands on her. Made her life a fucking puzzle to be solved. Her survival a fucking game. He saw Watcher’s face as he looked when talking about his family, lines softening, and voice taking on an indulgent tone when he spoke about his girl. She was loved. Smart, sassy, cute, and loved. Watcher’s princess, his treasure. And someone was trying to steal that away.

  Please, God, don’t let me be wrong.

  If he was wrong, she would pay the price. If he got any part of it wrong, Watcher would pay, too. He couldn’t get it wrong.

  Don’t fuck this up.

  ***

  “What the fuck is he doing just sitting there?” The clearly frustrated question hit the quiet air of the cheap motel room and Lalo jerked, frowning at his cousin seated on the foot of the bed. They had both been staring at the screen of the small laptop, the image dark and grainy because the quality of the cameras he could get on short notice wasn’t great. Still unmoving, the video looke
d frozen, and his companion reached out, thumping the side of the computer.

  I need you to shut it, hermano. Don’t wake me up.

  “He read the letter. Don’t he realize he’s killin’ the bitch?”

  The window unit kicked on, noise of the air conditioner’s compressor rattling and loud. Lalo shook his head, his own frustration rising, and not just with the half-breed man stuck in place on the screen. “Chismoso, hermano. Do me a favor. Shut the fuck up.” Noise came from the computer and he turned, seeing the man was on the move, putting the bag and paper down inside the room with the furniture.

  “About fucking time.” Chismoso’s mutter was quiet, but even quiet, it still was not what he had asked for so Lalo’s arm shot out, the back of his hand connecting hard with the back of the man’s head. “Ow, fucker.” Chismoso reached up, rubbing hard as he twisted his neck to glare at Lalo.

  Lalo bared his teeth as he looked back at the computer, watching as Reuben Nelms, otherwise known as Duck, got up on the soles of his feet, creeping into the space Lalo privately called the graveyard. Duck walking, ha. If the man dug in the wrong places, he would find more than the box, but Lalo suspected Duck’s focus would be solely on getting to the girl, meaning he would be unlikely to go investigating the corners and shadows.

  Edwardo Suches, Lalo, was in the middle of a war he had not wanted. He’d tried hard as fuck to avoid it, but it dogged his heels across the states. He had always been good at puzzles, good at working through challenges of growing up in the barrio. Watching and learning from the men who fell around him, not making their deadly mistakes. Navigating club politics was child’s play compared to what he and Chismoso grew up with. Forced to adult roles early, they learned to dissect actions and intent in order to survive.

  Lalo liked order, liked things to be the way he wanted them to lay out, so not being able to derail events of the past months fucked with him, fucked with his head until it was all he could think about. Fucked with his gut until he couldn’t eat for trying to find a way out. Find a way he couldn’t lay hand to, fucking assholes all wanted their piece of him. Want their piece of me. Only until they were done, and then they would be throwing him against the wall, pointing their piece at his head. Unless he drew on them first, then it would be his party again. My piece, my party. Make it my party, fuck yeah.

  “Fuck them. All I wanted, needed was a small slice of the pie, but to get what I want means it had to be taken from someone. You know I’m right, cuz. You know.” Lalo shook his head. “That someone was the Southern Soldiers, fucking short timer’s MC that hasn’t held this territory but for only a few years.” Only a few years, not long at all in the life cycle of a club and he knew that well. Some clubs have been in existence for decades, so Soldiers are short timers, hell yeah. “Jumped-up upstarts, those motherfuckers in a fucking start-up club. Some of those clubs, the real ones, the ones we talk to, they’ve been around for longer than you and me have been alive.” Fuck them all.

  Vaguely he knew his fractured words couldn’t make sense so he turned and, seeing Chismoso’s eyes on him, nodded, assuming loyal agreement. “But the Soldiers won’t give. They hold onto fucking everything with a fucking tight grip, like the idiots they are, thinking they can best me. Me. Lalo, president of the Las Cruces Diamante.”

  He frowned, studying the impassive face in front of him, again making an assumption of the thoughts rolling through his cousin’s head. “Sure, I know what you’re thinking, cabron. You’re thinking the Diamante are another young club, birthed after the Soldiers, even. But, brother, we are strong. Strong with a long reach, each of our chapters boasts hundreds of members. And I’m proud to be part of this, part of everything. Proud of having expanded so fast most of the goddamned members didn’t even know how many chapters there are from week to week.” He fell silent, eyeing his blood cousin, watching as he turned away, attention back to the computer.

  Chismoso was president of the Chicago chapter. His cousin was stupid but so fucking loyal, when Lalo wanted him pushed to the top, it was easy to convince the nationals it was a good move. Well, he had been president until not long ago, but that changed because the fucking chapter was no more. Folded. Shut down, just like the one in Las Cruces. Sorrow filled him as he thought, My chapter.

  That led them here, because he needed to understand what the Soldiers had on him, on his club. He wanted to understand why they would collaborate with other clubs, but not his. No partnership extended, and the one he offered, not accepted. Thrown back like trash, a slap in the face. He knew his experience was limited. It was the only club he had ever known, but still, the Diamante were the shit. We party like nobody’s business. His proud voice filled the room, “With pussy and blow in quantities to boggle the mind.” They were strong, and there were a fucking lot of them. Every chapter a fucking arsenal. The club could roll a thousand from a single region, thousands from the entirety of the membership in the states.

  But they couldn’t fucking hold territory. They sat on some of the most lucrative places in the country and would spin up a charter piece, sit and ride that shit for a time, then it all fell to shit around them. Las Cruces, Chicago, Dallas, Kansas City, Memphis. “Memphis,” he muttered, gaze glued to the screen, watching Duck easily maintain his balance even on the loosely packed dirt. Rebels had fucked his play there, hard.

  In Memphis, he had backed a drug dealer, Ling, into a corner, knowing the man couldn’t hold his own against the Diamante. Then, before he could make his final move, had to stand in place and watch as the fucking Rebels rode into town and, “Fucked my play. Forget the fact they had a chapter there and didn’t dare fuck with me. Wasn’t until that man rode in from the Fort my shit got hot.” He heard Chismoso make a sound of agreement, and closed his eyes, remembering the aftermath of the war Hoss had raged against Ling. “Dios, the smell. So much blood, I could have bathed in it.”

  That was his first real understanding how far the Rebels were willing to go. Their boundaries. “Everybody’s got a weakness.” They would kill foot soldiers, members who fought against them, even kill those in the know, but families? Oh, hell no. That particular collateral damage was to be avoided at all costs. “Righteous motherfuckers, thinking their shit don’t stink.” Families were in the know. They supplied the next generation of fighters, so victors in a war between clubs couldn’t afford to leave anything behind. “Scorched earth.” Not the Rebels, though. Even if it left enemies behind. And the Rebels have enemies. “They are my enemy.” So do I. “Soldiers are my enemy.” He needed information on the Southern Soldiers, needed to find out what made them tick in their heads. So, he looked for and found the weak link in the Soldiers’ world. Daughter of the president. Isabella.

  “Weak. So fucking weak.” Lifting his chin, he reached out, tapping at the keyboard to change the view of the camera. “Broken in four days.” The screen showcased the box where she lay along one wall, silent and still.

  “Fucking waste,” he muttered, cycling back through the views and then laughed aloud when he saw Duck’s frustration with the tiny shovel they left him escalate in such a way he threw it hard against one wall of the open space. Tongue protruding from his mouth, lips pulled back from his teeth, Lalo laughed gutturally as he elbowed Chismoso hard, hearing a pained grunt, gaze fixed on Duck beginning to scoop dirt with his bare hands. “Told you he’d do it. Man’s in the dirt now. Told you he’d take the bait and fuck-up hard. Aaiieeee! Sumbitch’s gonna hurt in the mornin’. Dig for that gold, motherfucker. Dig in that dirt.”

  Chismoso rubbed his ribs and scoffed, saying, “Supposing he lives that long.”

  “Truth.” He cycled through the views again, stopping on the girl.

  Isabella. Useless bitch, she didn’t know anything. Even after he broke her, getting her to talk freely, it wasn’t long, not but a few minutes before he knew she didn’t know shit. “Waste.” Nothing at all about the club, her papá kept her clear of any questionable shit. “Wanted a different life for his baby girl, no doub
t. Club’s not good enough.” Then after a while, she just…shut down. Empty eyes, he knew from the look that she had vacated her own fucking head. Useless waste of my time, all of it.

  Then he got the call telling him the Soldiers had enlisted Rebel help. Fucking Mason. “Fucking asshole,” he muttered, gaze still glued to the screen. Rebels were the club the Soldiers wouldn’t abandon, the support line they held tight to, even when Diamante pressured them hard. “Duck’s a fucking Rebel, güey. What the fuck is he doing in Lamesa?” Soldiers had a chapter in Lamesa. Stood to reason the Rebels were looking towards what would always be his patch of dirt. Las Cruces. My fucking chapter. “Time to teach them a lesson.”

  So he’d made a plan. Put that plan into play, and waited. Took fucking forever for them to get a clue, and when they did, it took another fucking forever for them to find the right location. Half the club was east, half the club was north, and he got one fucking guy who had a fucking brain and found his puzzles…solvable. One fucking guy, and it was goddamned fucked-up the one guy was Duck. Fucking Rebel, the only one with his head outta his ass. Soldiers were worse than useless; they had all left the fucking country as far as he could tell, crawling up the cartel’s ass down in Juarez.

  “He’s too far out,” Chismoso said. “Wanna call him and tell him he’s fucking up? Tell him she gonna die if he don’t get himself straightened out?”

  Lalo laughed, the shrill sound echoing off the walls. “Rich, brother.” Holding thumb and pinky to his head he pretended to talk into a phone, affecting a high-pitched, mocking voice. “Uh, yeah. Duck? Yeah. Hey man, uh, uh, hey…how you doin’?” He paused, then said, “Good, good. That’s real good. Here’s the deal. Uh, yeah. You’re in the wrong spot, man. Shift two feet west and then a foot north. That should do it. Got it? Oh, yeah, you betcha. Happy to help.” His voice changed back to normal and he dropped his hand as he continued, “Fucking rich, ‘mano. Sure, call him up and help him solve it. Fuck you.”