HALE: Lords of Carnage MC

by Daphne Loveling

  “You wound me, woman,” Angel mock-scowls.

  Jewel rolls her eyes and kisses him on the cheek. “Whatever. Don’t you two have things to discuss?”

  “Yeah. Grab us a couple of beers, will you, darlin’?” Angel tells her. “We’re gonna go back into the office. Let me know if you’re gonna take off, okay?”

  Jewel goes behind the bar and hands us two bottles. “Will do.”

  “So.” Angel is leaning back in his chair, boots up on the desk. He’s frowning at me. “You’re tellin’ me everything’s going good with Axel and the Dos Santos cartel, but you wanna go back down there anyway?”

  “Just for another week or so,” I tell him, wondering if that’s the truth.

  “What for? You were so fucking pissed off about me sending you to Ironwood in the first place, I thought you were gonna shoot the tires on my bike.”

  I was gonna make up some bullshit story about keeping an eye on the Ironwood MC. But lying to my prez’s face ain’t something I want to do. Angel’s a good man. And a damn good president. So I may as well tell him the truth — at least part of it.

  “I got some unfinished business down there,” I say carefully. “Someone I wanna keep an eye on for a bit.”

  One corner of Angel’s mouth tilts up. “Keep an eye on, eh? Is that what they call it down there?”

  “Naw, it ain’t like that.” Well, it is, but… “She’s…” As soon as the word’s out of my mouth, Angel’s smirk grows. “Goddamnit,” I spit. “She’s just someone I used to know. She’s in a bind. Her dad’s sick. And, uh, it turns out she’s muling for the MC. Which is fine, but… I just wanna make sure she’s okay.”

  “You got worries about her muling for them?”

  “Not exactly. She’s trustworthy. I just don’t like her doin’ it, is all.”

  Angel snorts as he rolls his eyes toward the ceiling. “Brother, you’ve got it bad. But hey, you just go ahead and keep telling yourself you’re just bein’ a Boy Scout.”

  Anyone else other than my prez and we’d have a fight on our hands. “You good with me going down?” I grit out through clenched teeth.

  Angel shakes his head. “All right. Tell you what. We got church tomorrow, and I want you here for it. You can go back down the day after that. Stay down there for your week, or whatever. Keep me in the loop, though. I wanna know if you’re plannin’ to go nomad or some shit like that.”

  “It ain’t nothin’ like that. I’ll be back.”

  He gives me a long look, clearly amused.

  “So you say.”

  20

  Kylie

  The next day I call Mal. I tell him I need to talk to Axel, and that it’s urgent.

  When I get to the clubhouse, I walk right in like I own the place, and say that I need to see the president. Miraculously, they take me to him without an argument. He’s the same small room off to one side of the main clubhouse room. He and another man, whose cut says he’s the vice-president, are sitting on two of the low chairs at right angles to each other. Axel looks up at me and tilts his head, one corner of his mouth lifting as his eyes narrow. I can’t tell if he’s amused, or pissed, or both.

  “I need more jobs,” I say without preamble. “I did well on the Dayton run. I’m ready for Cincinnati. Send me out.”

  “You’re gutsy, I’ll give you that,” he smirks, glancing toward his VP. “Yeah, you did the Dayton run, and you did fine. But you had Hale with you. And it was an easier run.”

  “How was it easier?” I challenge. “It’s the same work, no matter what. I drive, I park, and I drive again. There’s no issue.”

  “It ain’t that simple, girly,” the VP says. I suppress my irritation at the nickname and wait for him to keep talking. “The Dayton run, it’s territory we and our allies control. There’s no competition worth worrying about. We even got the Dayton cops on the take there. In Cincy, it’s different.”

  “Different how?” I repeat, insistent.

  Axel speaks again. “In Cincy, there’s more turf wars. The guys we’re supplying to, they’re in a war with another gang, for control of the opioid trade in that part of town. You get in the middle of that — you get caught by the wrong guys — and you’re in a world of hurt, darlin’. Not to mention, you’re on your own out there, and we ain’t anywhere near you to help you out.”

  Axel’s words chill the blood in my veins. But I tell myself it doesn’t matter. I’m not exactly wearing gang colors. I look about as much like a patched MC member as I do an armadillo. There’s no more danger for me either way. I just drive, park, and drive. Just like I did in Dayton.

  “There’s no way they’re going to notice someone like me,” I insist, waving a dismissive hand. “If you’re worried about turf wars, I’m the exact person you should be sending in. I’m invisible, Axel. I’m totally unknown to all of them. So is my truck. And I don’t know a single one of them, either. Isn’t that what you want?”

  The VP nods. “She ain’t wrong. That’s why we wanted her in the first place.”

  “I can do it,” I say again. “There’s nothing to my part. I just drive, and park, and then drive again. In the meantime, I go shopping for clothes or something. Just like I did last time.”

  “You really need the money that bad?” Axel asks me.

  “Yes. I do.” My jaw sets, so I won’t show any weakness or emotion. They don’t need to know why I’m doing this. Just that I’m committed, and that they can trust me.

  “Fuck.” He blows out a breath. “Okay, fine. We’ll give it a shot.”

  He barks out the words like he’s not entirely happy with the decision, but I don’t care.

  “When’s the next run?” I ask, before he can change his mind.

  “Tomorrow, if you can do it. I can arrange for the drop-off and get you the details when you come in with your truck.”

  “I can do it.” I’m already calculating how much time I’m gonna have to switch with Nevaeh at the salon. It’s worth it, though.

  I leave the clubhouse feeling lighter, but also jittery. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t nervous about this. But I’d rather be nervous than desperate, which is how I felt before I knew I could count on this money.

  In the car, I make a quick call to the salon, make arrangements with Nevaeh to cover my shift. Then head over to the hospital to visit my dad, and to meet with the oncologist to discuss treatment options.

  The hospital decides to keep Dad at least one more day. As much as I’d like to be able to bring him home, in a way I’m relieved. He’ll be safe and cared for while I’m gone to Cincinnati, which is one less thing for me to worry about.

  That night, sleep mostly evades me as I try to calm my frayed nerves and convince myself that everything I told Axel — that I’d be fine, that the run was no big deal — is the truth.

  When I drive into the parking lot of the MC compound the next day, the similarity to the last time I was here momentarily comforts me. I wait for the garage bay door to open, pull my truck in, and go into the waiting room to drink bad coffee until someone comes to tell me it’s ready to go. Once again, I’m the only one in the waiting room. I shift uncomfortably on the plastic seat, thinking about last time I was in here. How Cam stormed in, looking pissed off, and refused to take no for an answer when he told me he was coming with me.

  My stomach churns as I realize how much I wish he was coming with me today.

  Last night, as I was getting ready for bed, I did something that I thought would make me feel safer and more in control on the Cincinnati run: I went into my father’s room, opened his nightstand, and pulled out the pistol and bullets he keeps there for protection.

  I know how to shoot a gun — Dad made sure of that when I was younger — but I’ve never actually carried one with me. I’ve never felt the need before. Holding my purse on my lap now, I feel the solid weight of it inside. It’s supposed to make me feel better. But in a way, it might be doing just the opposite. Having it with me is a heavy, present reminder that I�
��m more afraid of doing this than I’m pretending to be. And that I think there’s a possibility, however slight, that I might have to use it.

  I’m trying to distract myself by watching the morning show that’s playing on the old television in the corner when my cell phone buzzes. I take it out to see that it’s Cyndi.

  “Hey, are you okay?” her worried voice asks through the earpiece. “Nev said you called and asked for her to fill in for her again.”

  “No, I’m fine,” I reassure her. “I just have some stuff I have to take care of. My dad’s still in the hospital.” I’m hoping she’ll think that’s where I’m going to be today. I know Mal wouldn’t tell her otherwise, since that’s club business.

  “Oh! Well, good! Because I was gonna ask you when I saw you whether you wanted to come out for drinks with me and some of my friends tonight. Heather and Taylor and Dina. You’ve met Taylor before, right? We were gonna meet at The Hollow at five-thirty.”

  “Oh, yeah. Um…” I pause, trying to figure out when I’ll be back from Cincinnati. “I think I can do that. I might be a little late, but it sounds like fun.”

  “Great! So glad you’re not sick, girl. Talk to you later!”

  “Yep. Sounds good!”

  She hangs up and I take a deep breath, reveling in the normalcy of her call.

  This is going to be fine, I say in my head as I exhale. It’s all going to be fine.

  The drive to Cincinnati is longer than the drive to Dayton. Especially because there’s no one to talk to on the way. I plug my phone into the stereo and pass the time by singing all the upbeat songs I can find in my playlists. Once I hit the city limits, I pull off the highway and find a gas station. I fill up my car, go to the bathroom, and plug the coordinates of my destination into my phone. Just before I leave the bathroom, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I’m wearing the same clothes I was on the last run. I look pale, my eyes wide and serious. I take a deep inhale and smile, pretending I’m just a nondescript girl going on a shopping trip. Just like last time. Then I exit the bathroom, pay for my gas, and go on my way.

  The address my phone takes me to ends up being in the middle of the city. I cross the Ohio River, drive through the central business district, and then into an area north of downtown that’s filled with historic buildings of red brick. Some of the buildings look well maintained and cared for, but as I drive through the streets, I notice some of them are deteriorating. Some windows and doors are boarded up, and a few have chain link fences blocking their entrances. The street I’m driving down looks like it’s gentrifying, with cute shops sitting next to abandoned businesses, and a few fading for sale signs sitting in windows.

  The GPS on my phone tells me to turn left, and then I arrive at my destination. It’s the parking lot of an old church, which looks like it hasn’t been used in a while. The main part of the lot is a large square, with worn, potholed cement that’s been repaired haphazardly with tar here and there. There’s a smaller, more hidden area of the lot around the back of the church, which is where I’ve been instructed to park.

  My truck is the only car in the lot as I pull in. Even so, I reflexively squint to see the lines well enough so that I can park more or less inside one of the spaces. I feel incredibly conspicuous as I shut off the engine, then look around nervously for activity. There are no people within sight. The closest houses and businesses all have their back sides to me.

  I decide I’ll jump out of the car and walk back to the busier street. It seems safe enough, and I can probably manage to kill an hour or so there, browsing the shops. Maybe I can find a coffee place to wait in for a while.

  Ignoring my hammering heart, I exit the pickup and do my best to look casual as I walk quickly toward the busier street. Once I’m on it, and in sight of other people, I start to relax. For the next hour, I stroll up one side of the street and back down on the other, looking into shop windows and going inside every one that looks interesting. I don’t manage to find a coffee shop, but I do stop into an ice cream place and treat myself to a cup of cookies and cream, my favorite flavor. The normalcy of the simple act helps to calm my nerves. I stare out the window as I eat, watching the people passing by, and check my phone once in a while to keep track of the time.

  I wait an hour and fifteen minutes, just for good measure. Then I toss my cup in the trash and go back outside, walking casually back to the cross street leading to the church. Just like before, I’m still the only car in the parking lot. And just like with the Dayton run, it’s surreal to realize that in the hour I’ve been gone, the whole transaction has been taken care of, and now all I have to do is drive back home.

  The thought that it’s all over makes me so relieved I’m almost giddy. My steps are a little lighter as I approach the car, already thinking about getting back to Ironwood and checking in on my dad before meeting Cyndi at The Hollow. Having a night out with her and her friends will be a nice little celebration for me, though of course I’ll have to keep the reason to myself.

  Climbing into the cab of the truck, I stick the key in the ignition and reach into my bag to fumble out my phone. I’m going to compose a quick text to the burner phone number Axel gave me, and have it ready so I can just hit send once I’m headed out of town.

  I bend my head over the screen and call up number. I raise my thumbs to start typing when suddenly a loud, shaking thump from the back right end of the truck makes me shriek and turn my head. Almost immediately, the driver’s side door flies open. Rough hands grab my arms and yank me out. As I fall out of the cab toward the pavement, I open my mouth to scream, but an explosion in the back of my head cuts off my breath, sending me into a deep, dark tunnel of pain, as everything goes black around me.

  21

  Hale

  After sleeping in the shitty bed in that apartment at the Ironwood clubhouse, spending the night in my own place feels damn good, even though I have trouble keeping my mind off of Kylie. I think about calling her, but after the way we left shit, I don’t feel like fighting it out over the phone. I do text her once, asking about her dad, but she doesn’t answer.

  The next morning, I’m up and out of the house reasonably early. Church is scheduled for mid-morning, and I want to swing by Twisted Pipes on the way. My bike needs a tune-up, and it’s easier to do it in our garage than it is in my driveway. On the way there, I feel my phone vibrating and pull it out at a stoplight. The number’s unfamiliar, but the area code’s Ironwood.

  I shove my phone back into my pocket and pull it back out when I get to the garage and shut off my engine. By that point, there’s no voicemail, but there’s a text from the same number.

  Hale. It’s Mal. Call me.

  Frowning, I hit redial and wait.

  “Hale.” My cousin’s tone is sharp and serious. “I think we got a problem.”

  “She never showed up back at the garage after the run.” Mal’s voice crackles over a bad connection. “She had a burner phone, but she never made contact afterward. And Cyndi said she had plans to go hang out with her and some other chicks at some bar last night. She never showed.”

  “Shit.” I start to pace in the Twisted Pipes parking lot. “Anyone been by her house?”

  “Yeah. Driven by. No one’s home. Her truck ain’t there.”

  “Her dad’s still in the hospital, I’m pretty sure.” My brow furrows as I try to think. “I doubt if he’d know anything, though. She was trying to keep this shit secret from him.”

  “You think she ran off with the cash?” Mal asks.

  I consider his question. “That makes no fuckin’ sense. Even if she was tempted — which I don’t think she would be — she’d have to leave town for good if she betrayed your club, and she knows it. She’d never see her dad again, and she’d have a death warrant hanging over her.”

  “Yeah.” Mal exhales. “That’s what I thought, too.”

  “Fuck, man,” I explode, as the full weight of the danger she might be in hits me. “Why the fuck did your club send her on
this run, anyway? I thought you were just using her for Dayton for now.”

  “She came to Axel and asked for more work. She said she needed the money. Managed to convince him she was ready for the Cincy run.” He shook his head.

  “Jesus Christ,” I groan. “So, she was muling what, to who?”

  “Scrips and Fentanyl. To the Black Seven.”

  “You think they have her?” I demand.

  “Doubtful. The Seven are in a turf battle with the OTR Kings. Axel thinks the most likely scenario is that the Kings got her. That they’re sending it as a signal for whoever she’s with to stop doing business with the Seven.”

  “Fuck!” I yell. “So, Axel sent her in there with no goddamn protection at all, to be slaughtered as a goddamn example! And you fuckin’ let him!”

  “I didn’t know, man!” Mal shouts. “She sure as shit didn’t tell me! And it sounds like she didn’t tell you, either!”

  Of course she fuckin’ didn’t. Kylie would have known I’d never let her go by herself on a run like that. And she sure as hell wouldn’t have asked me to go with her. She’s no fucking good at asking for help. Never has been.

  “Goddamnit, I’m gonna fuckin’ punch Axel’s teeth in for him,” I seethe. “So has anyone called from the burner phone he gave her?” If the Kings or someone else have her and want to send a signal, they’d fucking call, wouldn’t they?

  “No. But there was a GPS tracker on the phone. Yoda says its last location was near the drop spot, and it’s offline now.”

  “Jesus fucking Christ!” I roar. Turning, I slam the fist that isn’t holding my phone into the corrugated wall of a storage shed, leaving a dent the size of my head.