Rebel

by Callie Hart

  “Is…this for me?”

  “Before you start complaining, they didn’t have any salads. If you don’t want it, I’ll gladly take it off your hands.”

  I close my hands around the paper bag, holding onto it tightly. “I do want it.” It’s annoying that he thinks just because I’m a woman, I’m allergic to carbs and a little grease. I manage to hold my tongue, though. If he wants to pretend like he knows who I am, based on the fact that I have tits and a vagina, then let him. That’s his loss. Cade pulls out onto the highway, and I tear into the paper bag, finding a simple grilled cheese and a chocolate muffin inside. Neither of us speaks. He drives. I eat.

  I’ve never enjoyed a grilled cheese sandwich as much in my entire life. The heaviness of it sits in the pit of my stomach, solid and weighty, which is reassuring. If I have to go without food again for a little while, I’ll manage. I don’t know when but I’ve decided that I’m going to make a break for it as soon as I can. At some point on our journey from here to our destination, we’ll have to stop, and he will take his eyes off me, even if it’s for a second. A second is all I’m going to need. I’ll be away before he even realizes what’s happened. Better start making plans.

  “Where’s the clubhouse, Cade?” I emphasize his name, testing it out. I don’t know anyone called Cade—I don’t think I’ve ever had to say it before. He huffs out a laugh, changing gear.

  “New Mexico. Should take us about thirteen hours to get there if you don’t talk the whole way.”

  New Mexico? My body sinks back into the seat, heavy as a lead weight. That’s way further than I anticipated. I thought maybe we’d be traveling for a couple of hours and then we’d arrive, but no. We’re headed across three states. That’s a good thing and a bad thing. If we were only going to be trapped inside this monstrosity for a little while, that’s less opportunity for me to run. But now, the further Cade drives me away from Washington is further that I have to make it back home without them coming after and finding me.

  You don’t need to make it home, I remind myself. It’s like I just told Cade. I’d only need to make it to a police station. Or anywhere I could report what’s happened. Then I’d be safe. A surge of adrenalin fires through my veins, electricity around a circuit board, powering me up. I need to be ready, and for that I need energy. I start on the chocolate muffin but then give up halfway through, the food making me feel queasy.

  “You mind if I put the radio on?” Cade asks.

  I frown, looking at him properly for the first time since we got in the car. “You’re asking me? I’m your captive. I’m pretty sure you can do whatever the hell you like and I wouldn’t have a say in it.” It’s strange that he would even give me the option.

  Cade grunts, dark eyes on the road. “You’re not a captive. That’s not what this is.”

  “If I’m not a captive, then let me go.” I already know he won’t, though. If they were going to help me or do me any favors, they would have done so as soon as we cleared Julio’s den out in the desert.

  “I already told you. Rebel needs you for something. Once that’s done, you can go.”

  “Bullshit. You’re holding me against my will. You may not like the sound of it but that makes me a captive. And it makes you my kidnapper. If you expect me to do something for Rebel, then you’re dreaming. I’m not performing sexual acts for anyone. Not willingly. If you make me, then you guys won’t just be my kidnappers. You’ll be my rapists, too.”

  Cade’s head turns so he’s looking at me, mouth slightly open. There’s a look of disbelief on his face. “Man, no wonder Hector got rid of you. You’ve got a tongue on you, you know that?”

  I just shrug my shoulders. No way would I have spoken to Hector or even Raphael like that. I would have been too scared. Being in the car with Cade is different, though. “Why did you help me back in that alleyway? Why did you even bother if this is what you wanted to do afterwards?”

  “This isn’t anywhere near as bad as you think it is. I helped you because we don’t like women being abused. The club has morals. And believe it or not, so does Rebel.”

  “I doubt that.”

  “Doubt it all you want. You’ll see for yourself soon enough.”

  “Who is he, Rebel? Who is he to you? The way you say his name’s like he’s freaking god or something.”

  Cade smirks. He must press his foot to the floor, because the Humvee picks up the pace until we’re speeding into the early dawn. “He’s the president of the Widow Makers,” he says. “He’s one of the good guys. He’s also my best friend.”

  ******

  REBEL

  181. That was the number advertised on Hector’s members-only website. I called back to the clubhouse and had Danny, our resident computer hack, check the records, but that’s all there was on her. No real name. No background information. Just 181.

  She’s fucking beautiful, of course. That fact isn’t acknowledged or discussed as Carnie and I mull over what to do with her; it doesn’t need to be discussed. It just sits there between us, her beauty an obvious truth that’s making me seriously fucking antsy. Things would have been a lot more straightforward if she was ugly. I wouldn’t feel bad for her, for starters. That makes me a shitty guy, I know, but I’m honest. No point in trying to sugarcoat it. The fact that she looks like a younger, hotter, curvier Penelope Cruz is making it hard for me to think of her as a means to an end. It’s making me think of her as someone to be pursued, and that is a bad fucking deal. I don’t have time to deal with that. I can’t afford to be thinking of a girl when there are important plans to be made. Vengeance to be plotted out. Information to be gathered.

  “If you leave her at the clubhouse, we can probably keep her there, out of sight, for three or four days before anyone notices. If we can keep her quiet,” Carnie says.

  If. That’s a big fucking if. I somehow doubt very much that we’re going to be able to keep this girl quiet for any length of time. “She can’t stay in the clubhouse, Carnie. For starters, which room would we put her in? Everything’s being used. And secondly, Keeler and Brassic are nosey as fuck. We tell ’em they can’t go into a certain room and what’s the first thing they’re gonna do?”

  “Go into the damned room. You’re right. Fuck.”

  Carnie swerves a little closer to me so that our intercoms don’t crackle quite as much. These aren’t the lame, bulky intercoms dentists install inside their helmets while they’re touring around on the weekend. For starters, we don’t wear helmets unless we can avoid it, which we can most of the time. Our intercoms—sleek, small button radios that fit into our ears—were created by Brassic, the Widow Makers’ resident tech genius. He was in the army up until three years ago, when he lost the lower half of his right leg. He’s fitter, faster, more capable than well over half the other Widowers, but the US Army decided he wasn’t fit for active duty so he gave them the finger and joined our ranks—a different kind of army, but an army all the same.

  “You know what you’re gonna have to do, don’t you?” Carnie asks. I hear him laughing, even with the wind whipping away his voice.

  “What?”

  “She’s gonna have to bunk in with you, brother.”

  “Nope. No. Not happening. She can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I need my fucking space, Carnie. Shit.” I paddle the gears with my left foot, switching up so I can go faster. I leave him behind, though I can still hear the bastard laughing in my ear.

  “Just sayin’, boss. If you want your little witness protection scheme to work, it’d be smart to keep the witness out of the way. At least for a little while, anyway.”

  I narrow my eyes, glaring at the road. “My little witness protection scheme only needs to work if my plan for all-out violence fails first. And when has all-out violence failed us before?”

  Carnie sounds grim when he says, “Never, boss. Not once.”

  We arrive in Vegas three hours after we leave Cade and the girl. Should have taken four, but
we’re heavy on the throttle. The city in the desert is roaring already, despite the fact that it’s still early in the morning. We rumble down the strip, dodging piles of puke and Nevada PD cruisers pulled up onto the curb, as the local law enforcement round up the wasted people being ejected from the casinos. Gotta love Vegas, city of the damned. Maybe that’s why the cartel we’ve come to see set up their base of operations here—so many drunk people, addicted to one thing or another, to abuse and manipulate.

  This is the first time in four years I’ve been to visit the leader of the Desolladors—the skinners. The Colombian cartel earned their name and their reputation by actually flaying the skin from their enemies’ bodies, usually starting on the chest first. That’s where most organizations and gangs wear their colors and ink.

  I haven’t been back here in so long because Maria Rosa, the brains behind the Desolladors, hates coming to America. She’s obsessed with the culture, but she hates the people. Like, really hates the people. Quite the contradiction. If she steps foot on US soil, there’s a good fucking reason for it.

  I know she’s here now because I pay one of her guards to give me a heads up when he finds out she’s on her way in.

  Carnie and I turn down one of the side streets off the strip and park up our rides—Carnie grumbles about abandoning his twenty-thousand-dollar baby next to a dumpster behind the Bellagio, but machines like these aren’t exactly inconspicuous. Ideally, Maria Rosa won’t know we’re rolling up on her until we’re knocking on her suite door.

  Sweat runs like a goddamn river between my shoulder blades, even though it can only be sixty degrees. It takes fucking forever for us to walk up to the MGM Grand. When we reach the entrance to the hotel and casino, Carnie’s making noises about getting a beer.

  “You really wanna face Maria Rosa after a beer?” I ask, trying not to laugh. Carnie’s a lightweight of epic proportions, and Maria Rosa is a deadly viper. She draws on people’s weaknesses. I’m pretty sure she sucks out their souls; I just can’t prove it. To spend time with her even faintly mentally compromised is asking for trouble. Carnie’s never met her before, but he’s heard the stories. He lifts one eyebrow, one side of his mouth lifting into half a smile—good point.

  The MGM is buzzing. People checking in. People checking out. Groups gathered around the casino tables still in their clothes from last night, gin and tonics still being placed into their open hands. The place smells like Vegas glamour and sweat, tinged with just the faintest hint of desperation.

  “So, she’s on the thirty-fifth?” Carnie asks, already stabbing at the button on the elevator call panel. I grunt, pushing my hair back out of my eyes.

  “She’s a creature of habit. I can’t imagine she’s changed.”

  “Excuse me, gentlemen. Are you visiting a guest this morning?” I turn around and end up facing a wall of muscle, dressed in a suit. The Hispanic guy—a good three inches taller than I am, shaved head, tattoos peeking out above his shirt collar—looks mean. Really fucking mean. He doesn’t work for the hotel, that’s for sure. The MGM are used to people coming and going from the hotel rooms, no questions asked. Their security detail would never bother people trying to access the guest floors—not even super shady-looking bastards like me and my boy. No, this guy…this is one of Maria Rosa’s men. Has to be.

  “We’re not here to cause trouble. We just want to talk to her,” I say.

  The guy scowls at me, two deep lines forming between his eyebrows. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Nuestra madre nos dijo que siempre estábamos bienvenidos. ¿Quiere que le digamos que nos diste la vuelta?” Mother said we were always welcome. You want us to tell her you turned us away?

  Of course, Maria Rosa isn’t my mother, nor is she Carnie’s mother, but she insists that those she keeps close call her that. By using that name, I’ve demonstrated who I am to this blank-eyed bodyguard. I’m someone his employer trusts, and I won’t have any qualms in telling her he denied us access if he causes any shit.

  He stares me down, back rigid and straight, testing me out some more. When I don’t back down, he gives me a single nod. “What’s your name?”

  I tell him. A flicker of recognition flashes across his face. He turns his back to us and begins speaking into the discreet radio he has stowed in the breast pocket of his tailored black suit.

  “So much for a surprise visit,” Carnie grumbles.

  “Yeah, well. I guess it’s better she knows we’re coming than getting shot in the belly by one of these punks.”

  “Oh, so that’s an option, is it? Fantastic.”

  “You two can go up. But I’ll need to accompany you.” Maria Rosa’s man has stopped murmuring into his radio. He stares at both of us as he reaches forward and hits the button for thirty-five. We wait in silence. A group of tourists come stand behind us, talking loudly and giggling—four overweight adults and three overweight kids. When the doors to the elevator open, Carnie, the guard, and I get on. The holidaymakers are about to follow suit but then they see our faces. The casual bulge of the gun on Maria Rosa’s henchman’s hip. The tattoos that cover the majority of our visible skin.

  They make the smart choice and don’t get on.

  The doors close and we begin our ascent. “Give me your guns,” the guard says. “You won’t be admitted into her presence without surrendering all weapons.”

  We already know this is how Maria Rosa operates. Smart, really. She commands the most lucrative gambling and drugs ring in the country. There are people who would kill her for that reason alone, to take her business, regardless of the fact that she’s faintly psychotic and slices off people’s skin for fun.

  “We left our guns at home,” I tell him. He gives me a look—he clearly doesn’t believe that. “You can have our knives, though. That make you happy?” I grin at him, which doesn’t seem to ingratiate me to him any further. Holding out his hand, his cold eyes travel over us, as though searching for the telltale bulge of a gun that we’re claiming we don’t have. I start pulling out my knives—one from the waistband of my jeans, one strapped to my side, one strapped to my ankle. Carnie has more; the guy overcompensates when Margo’s not on his hip. All told, the guard has nine knives in his hand by the time we’re done giving them up.

  He draws his lips into a tight line—not impressed.

  The doors to the elevator open then, and a housekeeping maid—a skinny woman with a neat ponytail and sensible shoes—is waiting on the other side. She nearly jumps out of her skin when she catches sight of the sharp blades clutched in the guard’s hands. “Sorry, I’ll…I’ll just…” She doesn’t enter the elevator. She spins on the balls of her feet and hurries off down the corridor, glancing over her shoulder at us as she flees. The guard gestures to us that we should follow him.

  “She gonna cause problems?” Carnie asks as we follow the hallway around, passing room doors on either side of us.

  “She might tell her superior,” the guard grunts. “But he’s one of ours. They’re all ours. It won’t go any further.”

  “Sweet.” Carnie pulls a face at his back. Fucking child. I give him a warning look, wondering why the hell I brought him and not Cade. That wasn’t really an option, though. There are times when Carnie just can’t behave himself, or hold his tongue, for that matter, but in this instance he was the sensible choice. Cade and Maria Rosa… Cade and Maria Rosa have history. She swore a long time ago that she’d have his balls if she ever laid eyes on him again. And Maria Rosa is a very literal woman.

  I smack Carnie on the arm, sending him an expression that I hope conveys how much shit he will be in if he fucks this up.

  The guard leads us to the end of the hallway, to the very last room on the right. He knocks twice, quietly, and then steps back, presumably so whoever is inside the room can see who’s at the door. A rattling, scraping sound follows—the chain being undone—and then the door opens and a huge guy in sweat pants and a muscle tee is standing in front of us, face drawn i
nto a dramatic scowl. Rico Mendez. Rico has been Maria Rosa’s personal guard for the past twelve years, by all accounts. He’s her personal trainer. He drives her anywhere she needs to go. She fucks him when the mood takes her, although I’m pretty sure she prefers American men. The first time I met him was in Colombia, when he was trying to kill me. He didn’t succeed, of course. I kicked his ass and gave him the gnarly scar that still twists the flesh down the left-hand side of his face.

  “Rebel,” he says, as though my very name is a statement in itself.

  “Rico.”

  The man looming in the doorway breaks into a broad grin, booming laughter filling the hallway. “It’s fucking good to see you, man. It’s been a long time.” He holds out his hand. I take it, letting him pump my arm up and down. Slapping me on the shoulder, he pulls me into the suite, still laughing. He points to Carnie, giving me a questioning look. “Who’s this? I haven’t met this one.”

  Rico thinks it’s hilarious that I took him down. He decided that we would be best friends after Maria Rosa declared she wasn’t going to have me skinned alive for breaking into her house. Ever since then, whenever I’ve had occasion to meet with his boss, Rico’s treated me like a long-lost brother. I’m no fool, though. As with all gangs and cartels, camaraderie and hospitality are part of a very tenuous front that will vanish in a heartbeat if you do anything to piss them off. If Maria Rosa decides she no longer likes me, Rico will rip my throat out as soon as look at me. And I wouldn’t have a hope in hell of fending him off. Not again. He’s not the sort of guy anyone would ever beat twice.

  “This is Carnie,” I tell him, clapping him on the back when he draws me in close for some semblance of a hug.

  “Carnie? You guys are all crazy. None of you have proper names.” Rico turns to Carnie, not offering out his hand for him to shake—Carnie hasn’t earned that privilege yet—and asks, “What do you call yourself that for? You like meat?”