Indulge

by C. D. Breadner

  Gertie was astounded. The beer sat in her hand, forgotten, as she tried to get a visual of that in her head. “So … a girl from here?”

  Jolene nodded. “They know the deal. They know I’m the old lady. They just do as they’re told. And they’re mostly there for me, not him.”

  Gertie thought on that for a moment. “What about another guy?”

  Jolene snorted, nearly choking on her beer. “Are you kidding? We only know the club, and there’s no way a brother is touching his old lady.”

  Gertie nodded. “So … you like that though?”

  Jolene shrugged. “It’s nice. Thrilling. Something different. And Mickey is good in all aspects, don’t get me wrong. But having a woman go down on you … well, there’s something amazing in that. And I like doing it, too. And like I said, Mickey is always game.”

  Gertie quickly swallowed a mouthful, trying to ignore the sudden heat that ran up her neck. Jolene was suddenly pretty bad ass in her estimation. Her eyes were still roving the room. “Although, if he changed his mind …” Gertie led, sounding like the answer didn’t matter.

  “Knuckles,” Jolene said immediately.

  Gertie snorted, leaning into Jolene’s arm. “That answer came quickly.”

  Jolene raised an eyebrow. “Honest to God, you breathe a word to Mickey and I’m kicking your ass.”

  Gertie shook her head. “No, no. I won’t tell a soul.”

  “I just like the way he fills out his jeans.”

  Gertie damn near coughed beer out her nose, which cracked Jolene up.

  “Come on, like you haven’t noticed,” Jolene drawled.

  Gertie shook her head. “Only got eyes for Buck, sorry.”

  Jolene shrugged a shoulder. “He fills his out pretty good too.”

  Now Gertie lightly punched her shoulder. “Hey now. Watch it.”

  “He does! You know your man is a nineties Levi’s commercial.”

  Gertie shook her head. “Mickey is adorable. I could cuddle him all day.”

  “Me too,” Jolene agreed quietly in such a way that Gertie followed her gaze. It was on her man, laughing next to the pool table over something Tiny had said, collapsing against Buck. Their laughter was still noticeable over the noise of the room, and it made Gertie smile too.

  “It’s sexy,” Jolene mused, almost absently.

  “What?”

  “This whole … club thing. These hairy, large men with their denim and leather and stubble.” She shook her head. “That’s just the surface though.” With a thoughtful look Jolene pointed across the room. “They love us, but this club comes first. And as their women, we accept that and make it okay for them to have that. Because we love them, and it’s important to them. And if we support that it means they let us in.” She shook her head. “But the club is what they love most. I don’t know if that makes us strong or sad.”

  Gertie watched the three across the room like Jolene did and a strange calm settled over her. It was something like a relief to hear for a strange reason. Being the first and foremost of anyone’s life was a scary thought to Gertie; she was most likely going to let someone down. But if she had to share that with something like a club of bikers it took a lot of pressure off of her. No one was perfect. When she was weak the club was strong for him, and when he had problems with the club she could be the one to support him.

  “It makes us old ladies,” Gertie mused.

  Jolene turned a wary eye on her as she took a swig of beer. “You’re not an old lady until you’ve been fisted.”

  Gertie nearly spit out her beer. “I beg your pardon?”

  Jolene set her beer down, yanked up the side of her tank top and pulled down on her jeans to display the tattoo on her hip. It was a stylized fist to match the Rebels’ emblem, a cool-looking “Mickey” across what had to be the wrist.

  Gertie’s eyes widened. “When did you get that?”

  “When we got married. It marks me as his.”

  Gertie frowned. “Like a brand?”

  Jolene picked up her beer again. “My names is on him, this is on me. It just shows who we belong to.”

  She wasn’t sure she’d ever accept that on her skin, and she glanced across the room back at her Levi’s Man. Like always her stomach tumbled over itself just a bit, the realization that he wanted her washing over her in a warm surge. Like lightning, a camera flash, a sudden stroke of genius she realized she was lucky. She was lucky to have someone who wanted to be with her, and she swore she wouldn’t take it for granted like she had in her marriage.

  Gertie had secrets she had to deal with; that was true. She had to figure a way to get out of the mess she’d started with these G-Town assholes. And if that didn’t work she’d go to him for help. Either way, she’d come clean. She swore it.

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Same place, same time. And here came the same damn vans, likely with the same drivers. These guys were either stupid or well-connected. Jayce and the Rebels were betting on stupid.

  Their surveillance point was closer than last time. Tension was higher. Emotions were taught. Everyone was jazzed on adrenalin, itching for danger and maybe some bloodshed. Hopefully Gypsys’ blood.

  Buck could feel the weight of the knife strapped to his thigh. It wasn’t usually there so it seemed strange but comforting. His gloved hands were tensing and releasing from fists, the leather creaking. At his back the Glock was both cold and burning where it was tucked in his waistband. His neck tingled with anticipation and he couldn’t stand still. It was the same for all of them.

  Knuckles kept cracking his namesake. People might take that for a sign of nervousness, but in fact he was cranking himself up. He once told Buck it hurt like a bitch when he cracked his knuckles, but it was the kind of pain that got him focused and angry. It was strangely comforting to see it in use at times like these.

  Of course the sound of straight pipes brought them all to attention like dogs at feeding time. To Buck’s left he could hear Tiny chanting “Come on come on come on.”

  On the other side of this slight canyon-like land formation the Banshees were watching and waiting too. With a club to each side the Gypsys weren’t getting out of there with all their cargo.

  “We leave the van drivers unless they run with the shit,” Jayce muttered low but with plenty of authority. It was strange how when he was frustrated Jayce was a firecracker of anger, but in a situation like this he could remain remarkably calm. “Try and keep a few Gypsys for questioning. We don’t want them all dead, but we want their cargo. Right?”

  Most of them mumbled their agreement, voices terse. Across the shallow gorge a flashlight quickly shone their way then blinked out, and it was on.

  Luckily the Gypsys didn’t see the signal. The plan was to use stealth creeping up on the group until they were noticed. When they were looking one way, the other side could continue on in the sneaky method and catch them by the ass. As long as they weren’t shooting. No one needed the Polish Firing Squad.

  On their way Buck was noticing that the Thebaine transfer was happening rapidly but still smoothly. He watched the bags of “groceries” make their way into the vans. By the time they were close the van doors were sliding shut and Buck cursed internally. They’d have to hold the drivers and take the shipment now. Dammit.

  “Hey – look out!” The shout came from the opposite side of the vans. As predicted, the Gypsys ran towards the approaching threat. In an almost unplanned surge the Rebels double-timed it to the meeting spot. Buck and Knuckles each opened the driver’s side van door, guns drawn. In front of Buck the woman driving the red Caravan jumped and immediately put both hands up, eyes wide in terror.

  “Get out of here,” he muttered, unclipping her seatbelt before moving back to the sliding door. He pulled back the blanket on the car seat, finding a baby doll buckled in. Thank Christ.

  “Please don’t kill me,” the woman was pleading just as gunshots rang out in front of the van.

  “Get going,” he snarled, g
rabbing her and tossing her behind him. “Run for the road. I mean it, get the fuck out of here!”

  Something in his face or voice convinced her, and she turned and ran with her cohort fast on her heels, clutching a screaming baby.

  “Shit,” Buck muttered, hoping they stayed out of harm’s way.

  Then he was on to the fight. He and Knuckles crept along the Mommy Wagons, using them for cover from the gunfire and the Gypsys that suddenly came running their way to take cover themselves. Knuckles dropped a blonde one as the guy was bringing up his piece. When he heard footsteps behind him Buck spun and took a split second to confirm that there was indeed a threat and plugged a long-haired, wild-looking Gypsy right between the eyes. Another shot sounded behind him and he turned in time to see another Gypsy drop in front of Knuckles.

  Knuckles ran between the vehicles to creep up the other side and Buck stayed put, back to the van, knowing that he was grinning.

  This was one of the things the club lived for. They didn’t crack under this kind of task. The loved it, reveled in it. It was better than sex. Better than any high out there. Pure adrenalin.

  Three more Gypsys were at his feet before it was done, the last only wounded with a shoulder nick. The guy’s clip was empty and he’d ducked behind the van to reload. He became Buck’s hostage. As he marched the bastard to Jayce and Tank he noted that they had three in all. In the distance they heard bikes, and as Buck tossed his offering to his knees next to his brethren he had to ask. “How many got away?”

  Jayce shrugged. “Only about three.”

  “There’s no officers here, it’s all entry-level members,” Tank pointed out.

  Jayce nodded at that. “They’ve been at this a while. It’s become routine.”

  “There will be retaliation,” Buck mumbled. “Hopefully they’ll think first about who has their cash crop.”

  “And a few hostages,” Jayce added, pulling out his cigarettes and a lighter. Buck hid his smirk. Trinny was going to lose her shit if she smelled that on him.

  “Holy shit!” Tiny exclaimed from the direction of the vans. “There’s gotta be twenty pounds of it here.”

  “Get the truck,” Jayce instructed Buck.

  He was nodding and heading off in that direction immediately. He picked his way in the dark to where the majority of the Rebels had left their bikes. Buck had drawn the short straw and was responsible for the old black RAM pick-up.

  Blood still humming he maneuvered the pick-up out of their hiding spot around his brothers’ bikes, pulling up alongside the Caravan holding the baby doll in the car seat. As he climbed out Fritter was holding up the doll, laughing. “What the fuck, man. Dolls in the car seats?”

  Buck slammed his door shut, shaking his head. “The other one had a real kid, man. All this one would have to do was pretend the kid was sleeping.”

  Fritter tossed the doll over his shoulder and grabbed a bag of what looked like iced tea mix. He pulled off the plastic top, then tilted it to show Buck. “Is this it?”

  Buck squinted at the white powder inside. “Who knows? I’ve never seen it before.”

  Fritter put the cap back on and tucked it inside the plastic bag again. “There are four here. How many you got?”

  Buck poked through the bags on his side of the van. “I got dehydrated milk cans, not sealed. About ten pounds.”

  “Not sealed?” Fritter repeated. “Dumb fucks. One good look from a border guard and they’re nipped.”

  “Let’s just get it in the truck and get the fuck out of here.”

  They did just that. Their three hostages were hog and zip-tied before they were loaded into the back of the pick-up. Fritter tied them together as well, making it hard for them to run. And then, just to make sure they weren’t going anywhere, Knuckles tried to wrench a kneecap on each of them. One guy passed out just from the pain of that.

  They pulled into the Rebels’ compound about twenty minutes after that, a prospect waiting in front of the loading door. Buck pulled the truck inside as soon as the door was open enough, and Rusty started lowering it again immediately. The “work room” was already lit and ready.

  Buck circled around to the tailgate, dropped it and grabbed the nearest fucker by the leg and pulled him towards the end. The asshole tried to kick him but missed. With a grin Buck pulled out his Bowie knife, and that made the guy’s eyes widen to comical proportions. He used the blade to cut the rope tying the prick to his friends and stood him up against the rear quarter panel.

  “You gonna misbehave again?” he mumbled, slipping the knife back into its sheath. The answer didn’t really matter, and the guy seemed to know it. He just nodded, gulping air like a goldfish.

  This guy’s patches were at least worn and a bit dirty, not stark white like the other two. This would be the hard one to break. So they’d have to start with the newbies.

  The rest of the club entered through the kitchen. Knuckles grabbed one of the new recruits, tying him to a metal folding chair over the drain in the center of the floor. The kid was likely about twenty-five, tops, and stoic for now. But Buck had seen how Knuckles operated, and it made him squeamish. And this was the one that had passed out from the kneecap, so that was a pretty safe bet.

  One of the kid’s arms was tied to his own thigh, which he found odd. He still wasn’t talking but Buck could see he found it weird.

  Jayce instructed Fritter, Tank and Buck to unload the Thebaine. They carried it into the kitchen and stored it in the walk-in cooler, confident that it would be safe. Not a lot of intensive food preparation went on in the clubhouse.

  Knuckles’ interrogation was going on swimmingly. The Mad Gypsy lost the first knuckle of his index finger and was shrieking. The industrial exhaust fan provided some camouflage for noise like this, but this guy was testing the limits. Buck took his place along with the other Rebels, leaning against the wall, hands at ease, trying their best to look like this mutilation was standard operating procedure. Which it was, they just hadn’t had to use it in a while.

  In an odd way Knuckles was a master psychotic with this kind of thing. His face was always one small movement away from smiling, which made a person think he might be enjoying this. His tone was devoid of emotion, robotic, and he gave no reaction whatsoever to the curses being spat at him. He just nodded as though he understood why the guy would want to see his mother raped and her throat slit, and clipped off another portion of the index finger with side-cutters.

  It made a noise, and no matter how many times Buck heard it that weird click-snap still turned his stomach. The screaming amped up a level, and as the bastard watched the blood flowing Buck knew what his thought was. How many more snips on this hand before he was fingerless, how many more agonizing amputations before he bled out.

  A person likely wouldn’t bleed to death from this, which made it excellent torture. And working with small pieces like Knuckles did meant there was a lot of time for it to hurt, a lot of mental game-playing that could happen before the beans were spilled.

  Knuckles had never gotten through two entire fingers. One or two portions of the second finger, that was tops.

  “Galiendo cartel,” the bastard was eventually sputtering, and the reaction of his two brothers confirmed that it was the correct name. “They run the poppy fields, and they have a lab in New Mexico that processes the Thebaine. It heads to Vancouver and it’s turned into Sunshine. Swear it man,” the dead man concluded, his eyes and nose leaking pain and emotion, his skin slick with sweat.

  “Who does the processing in Vancouver?” Jayce asked. The Rebels wouldn’t go into New Mexico; that was too close to cartel territory. But Vancouver was a possibility to make a mess of the system.

  The guy shook his head, and his voice was pitiful. “I don’t know, man.”

  “Go ahead Knuckles,” Jayce muttered, and immediately the Rouser was placing his side-cutters around the next available finger portion.

  “Wait! Wait!” The man was screaming, and his voice was already so hoarse i
t sounded almost as painful as the torture. “I swear, I don’t know their name. We deliver, they pick it up. The processing takes place at a pharmaceutical college or something.”

  Buck cast his look to the other two out-of-town guests, and the oldest of the crew, the one with the worn patch, looked ready to murder their little songbird. Unless the guy was an exemplary actor this all had to be real information.

  Getting a guy to sing in front of his brothers was another tactic Knuckles liked. It had something to do with his time in Afghanistan. Buck knew he’d been held captive for a month or so, but he never asked. If the guy ever wanted to share he would, but Buck wouldn’t press. He knew better than that from his time with Skip.

  “G-Town the only ones distributing Sunshine around here? Or anywhere?” Jayce wanted to know.

  Apparently once the gates were open the guy had no trouble sharing. He had to know he was dead as soon as they were out anyway. “Nah. There are gangs selling it in Seattle, Oakland, parts of Washington. It’s expanding.”

  “I bet. I see the mommy wagons are bringing it into Canada. Are they bringing it back, too?”

  The guy shook his head. “Nah. They have another mule for that.”

  “You know who that is?”

  The guy started sobbing, which had to mean he didn’t know and expected another piece of his finger to get snipped. “No,” he blubbered, shaking his head. “They’ve tried a few ways. They’ve had a few people busted. It’s still … experimental.”

  Jayce nodded to Knuckles, who reached out to untie the guy’s arm from his leg. He jerked as though expecting more agony, but when Knuckles released him he was crying again. “Just kill me man,” he was moaning. “Fucking kill me, man.”

  Buck and Tiny each grabbed a whole hostage, leading them out through the service door to the lot, across the blacktop and towards the street. Rusty was opening the gates already, and Knuckles had hold of the snitch right behind them.

  Their three guests were shoved onto the sidewalk. Jayce was there, lighting a cigarette and pointing in the general direction that Hazeldale was in. “Go on back and tell Thor we’re looking for bids on that Thebaine. He can buy it from us to save face, or he can lose it to someone else and explain it to the Galliano’s. In the meantime, I’ll be calling the cartel to let them know you lost a shipment and we found it.”