Lone Star (Dartmoor Book 7)

by Lauren Gilley

“How angry?”

  “He broke a wine glass. Threw it across the room. But,” she rushed to add, “then he apologized, and he cleaned up the mess, and he said he gets these terrible headaches sometimes, and they make him cranky, and he just slips, and…” She trailed off, glancing between the two of them; her expression said she realized neither of them was buying it.

  “There’s nothing you can say that will make him – or you – look better in this whole situation,” Michelle said, entirely blunt now. “You might as well just get it over with quickly.”

  For a moment, she saw a flash of undisguised hatred in Melanie’s gaze. Then she took a big breath and stared down at the lumps of her feet beneath the blanket. “I knew something about him was off that night,” she said, flat now, no longer trying to wheedle and show herself in the best light. But I – I wanted what I had with him more than I wanted to know the truth. I had my head in the sand. We kept dating; he found a house. I slept over most nights, and he had guys coming in out all hours. Some were Latin, and some were, like, this huge fucking wrestler types. They always wore black, and they had flashy jewelry.” She closed her eyes a moment on a deep exhale.

  “You knew they were cartel.”

  “I knew they were drug dealers,” Melanie corrected with a brief flash of challenge. “I didn’t care.”

  “Once upon a time, the MC’s outlaw activities were something worth breaking up over.”

  “People change.”

  “Obviously.”

  “I’m not a dumb kid anymore.” Frustration, now. “I’ve been married, and divorced, and my life’s shit, okay? I can’t afford to be picky like I used to be.”

  Michelle snorted. Imagine trading in a life with Candy for this: concussed in a hospital with a dead brother and a murderer for a boyfriend. Melanie’s loss, but her own gain.

  “Look,” Melanie said, bowing up, “I don’t care what you think of me. You don’t get to judge. You’re a–”

  “I’m someone you dearly don’t want to piss off right now,” Michelle corrected, coolly. “What did Luis want with Pacer?”

  The other woman met her stare; she was growing more defiant by the moment, and Michelle hadn’t expected that. “To get to the Lean Dogs.”

  “Why?”

  “I dunno. Because he’s obsessed with you freaks,” she hissed. “Because he wants to beat you, and take the Dogs’ place in the outlaw world. There. Is that what you wanted to hear? He said he wanted to ‘obliterate’ you. He used that stupid word.” She was breathing hard, eyes glazed-over.

  Michelle had suspected as much, and so she wasn’t frightened to hear this, now – but deeply unsettled in a way she hadn’t expected. Here was a woman who had been mostly ordinary, and look at what she’d been twisted into. Luis had done that. Luis had the power to change people – or, perhaps more accurately, draw the poison that already lurked in them out to the surface.

  “You knew killing some of Pacer’s crew would get Candy’s attention,” she said.

  Melanie glanced away, and didn’t answer, which meant yes.

  “You drugged Pacer to keep him quiet. To keep him from knowing what was going on.”

  Again, no answer. Another yes.

  “Did you help them kill him?”

  Melanie’s head whipped around, mouth falling open. “What? No – No, I – no.” Her eyes welled up. Her voice cracked. “Luis told me he’d look out for me – and for Pacer. We were safe. We were…”

  “He turned on you?” Axelle said.

  A nod.

  Michelle stood, disgusted now. “I hope it was worth it.” She glanced back, once, at the door, and saw that Melanie was facing the window, harsh overhead lights glinting off the tears that slid silently down her face.

  ~*~

  Reese had watched Badger’s crew interrogate a man once. They’d bound him hand and foot to a chair with duct tape, and put another strip over his mouth. They’d used a hammer on his knees, and pliers on his fingernails, and they’d pulled the tape from his mouth every so often, when he’d stopped screaming against it, and asked if he was ready to answer their questions. He remembered the blood pattering down on the concrete floor; the stink of piss when the man wet himself; remembered the particular crunch of bone breaking when the hammer hit his kneecaps. In the end, it had been the threat of Reese that had dislodged the answers Badger sought. Reese had been standing over against the wall, half in shadow, watching as he’d been told to do, and when Badger pointed, and said, “Start talking, or I’ll turn him loose on you,” the man had caved in on himself and spilled his secrets.

  The whole thing had been inelegant, crude, and ugly. Badger and his men had been so proud of themselves, so full of bloodlust and self-satisfaction. But where was the joy in beating a captive? What was exciting about taking a man to pieces?

  Reese had spent his life honing his skills and his body for only the quickest, most efficient, most elegant kills. Torture was anathema to him.

  But he knew torture would be practiced here, now.

  The Amarillo clubhouse wasn’t a sprawling industrial complex like Dartmoor – it was, in fact, an underwhelming blip in a stretch of open scrub field – but it boasted a few outbuildings, one of which was a three-car garage with a concrete floor, and that was where they took their captive cartel member.

  He’d been injured in the crash; one of his legs wouldn’t hold his weight properly. The prospect, Nickel, and a skinny, baby-faced Dog named Pup hauled him by the underarms inside, and pushed him down in a folding chair. Pup cinched the doors shut, and Ten went to secure their captive: hands taped together behind the chair, ankles taped to the chair legs. Ten didn’t put tape over his mouth, yet, but Reese didn’t put it past him.

  “Fox said to wait for him,” he reminded.

  Ten tossed the tape roll onto a tool chest and turned to give him another of those bristling looks he’d been doling out since the van crash. He hadn’t seemed able to get his mask back in place properly; it kept sleeping. “Do you see me doing anything?” he snapped.

  Reese didn’t answer.

  Nickel and Pup had moved over the by pedestrian door, Reese noticed with a glance; both of them shifted their weight in obvious nervousness.

  “What’s wrong you two?” Tenny asked them.

  They shared a glance, and didn’t answer.

  Ten raked a hand through his hair, leaving it standing up in glossy tufts. He was coming unglued, Reese thought; his seams couldn’t hold much longer. Like it had at the crash site, the knowledge comforted.

  “You’re scaring them,” Reese said.

  Tenny sent him an ugly grin. “Me? What makes you think it isn’t you?”

  “I’m not scared,” Pup said, but they ignored him.

  “You’re losing control,” Reese said. “That scares people.” He’d learned that much, at least, in his time with the Lean Dogs. Humans thrived on predictability.

  Tenny’s gaze flared–

  And the door opened. Fox walked in; paused a moment to take in the scene. “Ten,” he said, calmly, “you want to take a walk and cool down?”

  He pulled himself together with obvious effort; strapped down his expression, forcibly eased the tension from his shoulders. It was a remarkable thing to watch, the way he slipped between personas like this. Reese had seen all the Dogs display emotion, laughing, and cursing, and sighing and fuming. All of it, no matter how baffling, spontaneous; honest emotion, belly-deep, that waxed or waned as situations evolved. None of them did this; none of them acted the way Tenny did. He hated the other assassin, and knew it was a mutual feeling, but Reese had the sense he himself wasn’t the root of whatever was happening to Ten now. This unraveling didn’t feel personal.

  Fox nodded with approval, and turned to Nickel and Pup. “Either of you boys have a strong stomach?”

  Pup shook his head.

  Nickel cleared his throat and said, “I do, sir.”

  “Brilliant. Go get a notebook. Pup, go see about digging a hole. A big
hole.” He walked over to the tool chest where the tape rested and picked up a heavy wrench. Swapped a glance between Ten and Reese. “It’s too bad Mercy isn’t here – this is really his specialty. But I suppose we’ll make do.”

  The man in the chair lifted his bloody face, eyes white-rimmed, but jaw firmly set. A last scrap of defiance that Reese knew wouldn’t last.

  And it didn’t. It took a half-hour. Fox had a finesse that Badger and his men had lacked; his voice was low, soothing, even friendly. His hands were quick, and precise, and he knew where to inflict the kind of pain that would elicit a scream, but which wouldn’t cause his quarry to pass out or become insensate. He questioned him, but he toyed with him, too; there was no joy in his expression – he didn’t enjoy this the way that Mercy did – but he was satisfied with his own effectiveness. At moments, the resemblance between him and Ten was startling.

  And Ten, watching with arms folded, nearly smiled a time or two, Reese thought; he looked impressed.

  When he had his answers, Fox killed the man, neatly and effectively, his knife sliding right between the ribs without resistance and finding the heart on the first stroke. He withdrew it, after, and cleaned the blade on the dead man’s sleeve.

  Reese had forgotten Nickel was there, until he heard the door opening, and turned to see it closing behind Nickel’s hasty retreat.

  He turned back to Fox, and found the man studying him, gaze assessing.

  “Learn anything?”

  “Yes,” Reese and Ten said together.

  Ten probably hated that.

  “Good.” He headed for the door.

  “What about the body?” Reese asked.

  Fox threw him an amused glance over his shoulder. “Our kind don’t have to do the cleanup. One of the perks.”

  Tenny followed him out.

  Reese waited a moment, glancing one more time at the dead man. Blood had run down his chest, glittering wet on the black fabric, and dripped now onto the concrete. Splat, splat, splat.

  Why did anyone ever cling to their secrets? How could something like knowledge offer you any hope in the last moments of your life? Everyone died, eventually; he didn’t understand inviting all the pain that came beforehand.

  Thirty-One

  It was dark when they finally left the hospital. Bikes rode ahead and behind of the GTO, and Michelle slumped gratefully in the backseat, which didn’t appear too badly stained, and which now smelled strongly of Lysol. She was ready for home, for TJ, for a hot meal and a shower and her bed. But it was a good kind of fatigue that dragged at her, the kind she hadn’t experienced in too long.

  In the passenger seat, Eden twisted around so she could peer over the console into the back seat; the pose, and the anticipation on her face, lit up by the dash lights, struck Michelle as terribly girlish, and she found herself biting back a smile. Eden had enjoyed their day, too.

  “She was sleeping with him?” she asked. “Honestly?”

  “So she says,” Michelle said, shaking her head, amazed all over again. “It makes sense, in a way. She has a type, apparently.”

  Eden snorted. “Criminals.”

  “To be fair,” Axelle said from behind the wheel, “he is pretty gorgeous.”

  “Axelle, I’m appalled,” Eden said, sounding like she tried not to laugh.

  “What? Did you see him? Back me up, Michelle.”

  “He’s dreamy, no denying. If you don’t mind the whole going-to-kill-you-eventually thing.”

  “Disappointing, both of you.”

  “Says the woman willingly dating Charlie Fox,” Michelle said, and laughed when Eden rolled her eyes.

  “Yes, fine,” she sighed. Then her gaze sharpened on Michelle. “Do you think she was being honest? That they’d turned on her – or do you think she’s still working with the cartel?”

  Michelle sighed, too. She’d been wondering as much herself. “I can’t say that I like her.”

  Axelle snorted. “Understatement.”

  “And I’ve had a bad feeling about her from the beginning.” She nudged the back of Axelle’s seat with the toe of her boot. “But I can’t think someone would stand there and happily watch her brother get his throat cut just for some good dick.”

  Axelle laughed.

  Eden frowned. “Fear leads people to desperate alliances.”

  “She says she was willing to make inroads with the club for them in order to keep Pacer safe.”

  “People like her say lots of things.”

  “Point taken. I never said I trusted her.”

  “I didn’t think you did. Only putting it all in the open.” She twisted back around, and the way she flopped back against the seat revealed a fatigue not apparent in her voice. “The club will protect her, I suppose, same as Gwen.”

  “And Jesse and Eric,” Michelle said. “It’s what they do.”

  “The noblest of criminals,” Eden said, fondly.

  The clubhouse, when they arrived, had never looked so welcoming, all its lights blazing. Michelle climbed out of the GTO in time to watch Gwen stagger off the back of Talis’s bike like someone afraid the machine might bite.

  “Enjoy your ride?” Michelle asked, and earned a glare that was more terror than aggression.

  “Come along,” Eden said, taking the girl firmly by the arm, “and we’ll see about accommodations.”

  They’d intended to let the girl ride in the car with them, but Candy had insisted she ride behind one of the boys instead. Michelle knew he’d been thinking to keep the three of them safe, should Gwen get the wild idea to try anything – “People are less likely to jump off a moving bike than hop out of a car,” he’d reasoned – but she also thought it had been a means of giving the three of them – the wayward girl-group that they’d become today – a chance to unwind without listening ears. In both cases, she appreciated the gesture.

  He appeared beside her, now, and looped his arm around her waist. Kissed the top of her head. “Tired, Mama?” he asked, softly, just for her.

  “Little bit.” But she leaned into his solid side and let him support her.

  Inside, Darla fussed over all of them. The common room was full of delightful food smells, and Michelle felt genuinely hungry for the first time in weeks.

  Dinner was brisket, beans, cornbread, and braised carrots. Plates were cleaned, beers were drunk, and the ever-expanding group of witnesses were shuffled into dorms.

  Michelle held a sleepy TJ on her lap, her chin resting lightly on the top of his head, content to let the idle conversation wash over her. She noticed Reese and Ten eating on opposite sides of the common room, both of them alone and hunched over their plates in near-identical poses, eating like men concentrating on refueling their bodies rather than regular, hungry boys enjoying a good meal.

  She watched Albie and Axelle sit side-by-side, elbows brushing, sharing private looks again and again.

  Eden and Fox, across from one another, exuded the same shark-like energy; they were a perfect match.

  “Soon as we get listening ears outta the way,” Candy murmured when she tipped her head sideways to rest against his shoulder, “we’ll talk shop.”

  That was her cue, then. She gathered herself to stand.

  And Candy put a hand on her knee. “No, stay. Darla can put the kids to bed.”

  She glanced toward him, startled. “She can?”

  “Yeah, I already asked her.”

  As if on cue, Darla appeared, hands out already, fingers flexing in grabby motions. “Come see me, little man,” she cooed, and TJ went right to her.

  Michelle felt a maternal tug in her gut. I should do that. But Candy squeezed her knee. He’s okay. My place is here right now. She glanced up at Candy again, still disbelieving, and he gave her a rakish, if tired, grin.

  Jack went along willingly with Darla, too, she saw, and Jenny looped her arm through Colin’s where they sat smushed together in a wide recliner.

  All their “guests,” to use the term loosely, were gone. Nickel bussed
away the plates and set to refilling glasses. The twins dragged some tables together in the center of the room, a makeshift echo of the long table in every MC chapel

  Candy patted her knee one last time and stood. “Alright, everybody, let’s listen up.” His voice wasn’t loud, but commanding and presidential. Over at the bar, Nickel switched on a radio, and directed its speakers toward the hallway that led into the back of the house. Thwarting eavesdroppers with bad bro country. “A lot happened today. But we learned a lot, too. I know most of you know what’s going on, but I want to get all of us on the same page.

  “For starters, Jinx and Melanie Menendez are in the hospital overnight – and Jinx for longer, probably. I left Cowboy and Gringo there on guard duty. We’ll handle it in shifts, and I’ve already got a call in to Ghost to see if anyone from another chapter can come into town and offer us backup. Last I heard from him, Cali’s on the way.” There were a few relieved murmurs.

  “Today we learned that we’re dealing with Los Chupacabras cartel. They’re pushing coke, scripts, designer party drugs, and they’re trafficking girls and women, too. Everything you can move, they’re moving. Jinx met a guy named Luis at Sandoval’s, and both Melanie and the Sandoval’s receptionist, Gwen, confirm that he’s at the head of the organization – he talks about his father being the boss, and they’ve not seen him.

  “Then we’ve got this ‘Holy Father’ shithead drugging and killing people as a distraction.”

  “Maybe he’s the dad,” Colin said, brow furrowed. “Like a joke, huh? Holy Father is actually the father?”

  “Could be,” Candy said.

  “I doubt it,” Fox spoke up. “Whoever he is, they won’t want him to lead directly back to the cartel. He’s a smokescreen – a sacrificial lamb to draw heat off the trafficking.”

  “Gwen gave me the names of the trucking companies they’ve used,” Eden said.

  Candy nodded, and Blue stood, a roll of paper in his hands that he spread out across the tables: a map of the city. He pulled a red pen from behind his ear.

  “Henderson’s, Pascal’s, Ready-Set, and Rapid,” Eden recited, consulting the slender notebook she kept in her pocket, and Blue circled the locations on the map.