THORN: Lords of Carnage MC

by Daphne Loveling

  My bike is nowhere to be seen. I think he’s gonna shit his pants right then and there.

  “Oh my God!” he yells. “It’s gone! I don’t know where it is! I swear! I don’t know!” His head is shaking back and forth so fast it looks like it’s about to fly right off his neck.

  “Well, you had the charge of it, didn’t yeh?” I growl, taking an angry step toward him. I make a show of pushing up my sleeves and coming at him with clenched fists. “Yeh’d better find it, then, or I’ll rip yer feckin’ head off yer neck, boyo!”

  “Jesus fuck, quit torturing the prospect, Thorn,” Beast drawls lazily as he comes up behind me. “And lay off the fuckin’ leprechaun act. Jesus, you sound like a fuckin’ Irish cop from an old-time movie.”

  I turn and flash my brother a grin. “All part of the role, brother.” I let my accent slide back into its natural slight brogue. I grew up in Ireland, true. But I’ve lived here in the States for long enough that most of my accent’s gone. Unless I’ve been drinking, that is — in which case my brothers tell me it comes back with a vengeance.

  Fucking with prospects is a time-honored tradition. And I’m a man who respects tradition. Besides, Beast is a fine one to talk. He’s legend for putting young hopefuls through their paces. I should know: I was a prospect once myself, and Beast accidentally shot me during a prank gone wrong. I’m lucky I lived to tell the tale. But do you catch me holding it against him? You do not.

  Since Beast has ruined the fun, I bark out a laugh and nod over toward the other side of the lot. “You’ll see my bike’s just over there,” I say to the prospect’s pale, sweating face. “I moved it. To teach you a lesson. As long as one of our bikes is under your supervision, you’re responsible for whatever happens to it. Don’t you forget that.”

  We don’t refer to prospects by their names — the idea being that they’re unimportant and interchangeable to us, until they’ve proven their worth and get patched in. Or until they’ve proven their worthlessness and get kicked out. I’ve heard another prospect call this one Hollis, though I don’t know whether that’s his given name or his family name. Hollis’s head nods up and down like a bobblehead doll. “Yes, sir. I will, sir.”

  “Good.”

  “Thorn,” Beast grunts. “Rock wants to see you. He sent me out here to find you.”

  I nod and turn back to the prospect. “I’ll check the bike later to see how good a job you did of washing her. Meantime, take one of the cages to the store and pick up some Guinness. And some Lucky Charms.”

  The prospect laughs. “Good one.”

  I look at him sharply. “What?”

  His face turns uncertain. “I mean… You know. Lucky Charms. Irish. Leprechaun.”

  “I fuckin’ like Lucky Charms!” I roar at him. “Get the fuck out of my face and do what you’re told!”

  Wide-eyed and white as a sheet, the prospect runs off to do my bidding like his ass is on fire.

  “God, you’re an asshole,” Beast mutters.

  I laugh. “At least I haven’t shot him yet, fuckface.”

  With that job done, I go off in search of Rock, our prez. I find him in the chapel with our vice-prez Angel.

  “Hey, boss,” I call as I walk through the heavy oak door. Rock is sitting at his usual spot at the head of the table. To his right, Angel is reclining in his chair with his feet up, hands laced behind his head. “Angel.”

  “Brother,” Angel nods.

  “Have a seat,” Rock rumbles.

  I do as I’m asked, quickly scanning their faces for any trace of what this is about. They don’t look too serious, which is a good sign. But the fact that they’re both here, and that we’re in the chapel, tells me this is a little more than just a casual conversation.

  “What’s up?” I ask as I lean back and eye them both.

  “I’ve got a job for you,” Rock says without preamble.

  “What kind of job?”

  “Protection.”

  The club offers protection to a number of businesses here in Tanner Springs, in exchange for a small fee or some other type of arrangement. I immediately assume this is what Rock’s talking about. “Okay,” I nod. “Who?”

  Rock hesitates. Angel glances at him, and then at me.

  “Oz Mandias’s daughter,” he says.

  What. The. Fuck?

  “I’m sorry, what?” I ask. “Oz’s fuckin’ daughter?”

  “Your hearing is excellent,” Rock mutters, narrowing his eyes.

  Oz Mandias. The president of the Death Devils. A rival club to our east. We’ve done business with them before — some drugs, primarily guns. Recently, our two clubs have been approaching something like an alliance. Kind of a mutual back-scratching arrangement. With a vague promise of mutual aid in case of infiltration from other clubs to the south of us.

  Mutual aid. Like, providing backup muscle. Extra protection on runs. Things like that.

  But babysitting?

  “I didn’t even know Oz had a daughter,” I say stupidly. I’m stalling for time, because I don’t know what the fuck this is, but everything in my head is screaming no fucking way I’m doing this.

  “Apparently,” Angel says mildly. He leans back further in his chair and shrugs slightly. “I guess she’s his only kid. Name’s Isabel.”

  “Jaysus,” I mutter, running a rough hand through my hair. “What’s the problem? She in danger?”

  “Don’t know.” Rock shifts in his seat and grabs a pack of cigarettes sitting in front of him. Lighting up, he continues. “Oz wouldn’t tell me the details.”

  “Why the hell doesn’t he put one of his own men on it?”

  I’m envisioning being posted outside the girl’s fuckin’ high school or something. I can’t even imagine how old Oz’s daughter would be. The prez of the Death Devils has one of those craggy, weather-worn faces that seems ageless. He could be anywhere from thirty-five to fuckin’ sixty, how the hell would I know? The only indication is that his beard has a few flecks of gray in it, but that could just be due to the hard life he’s led.

  “Well, that’s the thing,” Rock begins, leaning forward and putting his elbows on the table. “Oz wants her out of sight. And somewhere not connected to their club. That’s why he’s not putting any of the Devils on it.”

  Angel laughs again. “Yeah. And probably because he can’t trust his men to keep their hands off her.”

  “Shit, are you kidding me?” Rock tosses back. “Can you imagine what Oz would do if he found out one of his men was screwing his daughter?” He mimes pulling out his dick and cutting it off with a knife.

  So. She must be at least past puberty, this girl. Fuckin’ great. Although I guess I should be relieved that I’m not being asked to protect a little kid.

  My blood runs icy in my veins at the thought. A flash of the darkness — the darkness I try never to think of — erupts behind my forehead. It threatens to grow large, but I close my eyes and push it back. Even so, my heart starts to thud erratically in my chest.

  I don’t want to protect someone helpless. I don’t want to do this. I can’t…

  With an effort that’s almost more than I have in me, I take a deep breath and open my eyes again, hoping to Christ I’m quick enough that Angel and Rock won’t notice anything. But Angel’s peering at me curiously.

  “Why are you choosing me for this?” I say quickly, to keep him from asking me whatever question is in his eyes.

  “Actually,” Rock replies, “Oz is the one who chose you.”

  “Oz chose me?” I didn’t even know he’d be able to identify me by name.

  “Yeah,” Angel snorts. “He said, ‘I want the Irish cunt’.”

  Rock laughs, but I’m still too stunned to join him. “Fuck you, Angel,” I growl. “What the fuck does he want me for?”

  “Apparently, he’s done his research on you,” Rock says mildly. “He chose you because he knows you’ll do anything to protect her, and to keep this away from the cops.” A corner of his mouth goes up. “He
said he knows he can get your ass deported if you fuck up.”

  Shit. That’s undeniably fucking true. I’ve got a prison record in the U.S. that’s just bad enough one more trip to jail could wind me up on the next plane back to Ireland. And I do not want to go back to Ireland. What’s waiting for me there is worse than death.

  And then after that, maybe death.

  “How the fuck am I supposed to protect this girl, when I don’t even know what I’m protecting her from?” I say helplessly, reaching for my own pack of smokes.

  “Oz told me to give you this number,” Rock says. He pulls a slip of paper out of his jeans pocket and hands it to me. “He’ll give you as much information as he wants you to know.” He takes a long drag of his cigarette and lets it out. “We’re going to set you up in our safe house outside of Connegut River. Not even Oz knows where it is. Oz will have us meet up with some of his men, do the transfer of the girl, then we’ll bring her up there. I’ll send up a couple of the Lords periodically with supplies, for as long as it takes for whatever shit to die down.”

  “Wait a minute,” I explode. “I’m gonna be holed up at Connegut with this girl? Indefinitely?”

  “Oz says maybe a couple weeks. Maybe a month. Long enough for them to deal with their problem, till it’s safe enough for Isabel to come back.”

  “Fuck me runnin,’” I mutter.

  “Do not fuck this up, Thorn,” Rock growls as I stuff the slip of paper into my pocket. “I don’t have to remind you how important our alliance with the Death Devils is.”

  “No. You don’t,” I agree.

  “And keep your dick in your pants.”

  No worries there. I’d have to be a fucking idiot to screw Oz’s daughter. And I’m not a fucking idiot.

  And so there it is. I’m doing this thing.

  I get up from the table, shoot Rock and Angel each a look, and leave the chapel without a word. I think I catch Angel giving me a sympathetic eye on my way out.

  This is happening. I have to obey my president. I have no choice in the matter.

  I’m gonna be stuck out in the middle of nowhere playing bodyguard, protecting some snatch from the wolves for the fuckin’ duration.

  Or die trying.

  3

  Isabel

  The disgusting rag that’s in my mouth smells of motor oil and decay. The rough, dirty feel of it on my tongue makes me want to gag, but I force myself to calm down and breathe through my nose.

  The air is stale in the bag that’s over my head. I’m fighting a creeping sense of claustrophobia because I can’t get a deep breath.

  My feet are tightly bound now, along with my hands, with what feel like zip ties. I’m lying on the back bench seat of a van. The seat material is slippery, and I have to keep my knees pressed against the seat in front of me to avoid falling to the floor. Except for the sound of the engine revving and slowing, it’s eerily quiet. I realize that none of the men — assuming they’re all men — has said a word since they abducted me.

  Their silence is what scares me the most. They seem so calm. So deliberate. Whoever they are, they don’t seem to care at all about getting anything from me. Not money, information, or even sex. They’re treating me like an inanimate object. Like a package to be delivered.

  Whatever they want me for, it feels like a done deal. They’ve already decided what they’re doing with me. And I’m helpless to resist. I can’t struggle, or beg, or even move. I can’t do anything.

  I may already be dead, and not even know it yet.

  My breathing speeds up as my heart begins to race. The thudding is so insistent in my chest that I feel like it’s going to burst through my skin. I wonder if it’s possible I’m starting to have a heart attack from the fear. Suppressing a moan, I take a long breath in and close my eyes, willing myself to concentrate and slow my respiration. Hold it for a second, then another. Then back out, just as slowly.

  In. Out. In. Out.

  My heart begins to thud a little less rapidly. I keep breathing, forcing myself to focus just on that. Not to think about anything else. After a minute or so, I start to calm down just a little. My eyes still closed, even though the bag’s still over my head, I try to take stock of my situation as best I can. I flex my feet. The zip tie around my ankles is tight, but my circulation’s still okay. Both my sandals are still on, the heel on the right one broken off and gone now. I flex my fingers, which are starting to go a little numb.

  I shrug my shoulders experimentally, and feel the strap of my small bag pulling against my skin. They never took it off of me when they tied me up. The realization gives me just the slightest source of hope. Maybe, just maybe, I can keep them from noticing I have my bag long enough to get to my pepper spray…

  A loud thud shakes the frame of the van as we go over a large bump. With nothing to steady me, I fly off the backseat and land painfully on the floor, hitting my head against something sharp. I let out a muffled cry of pain. In front of me, one of the men mutters a curse. I hear a body slide across upholstery, and then rough hands are pulling me up and back onto the seat.

  Through the haze of pain, I hear a voice. “She okay?”

  “Shut the fuck up!” another one hisses.

  It’s not much, but it’s enough. Enough for me to realize that I recognize the second voice.

  It’s one of my dad’s men. One of the Death Devils. Lazarus, I think.

  The realization slices through the throbbing in my head, flooding my body all at once. I feel weak with relief for one dizzying second, almost to the point where I want to laugh. But then confusion starts override the relief, followed by dread. Am I sure that’s Lazarus, or only imagining it? I only heard a couple of words, after all. And why would Dad’s men fucking kidnap me?

  Suddenly, I need to know for certain that it was his voice. I need to do something to make them talk more.

  Tensing up and ignoring the pounding in the back of my head, I ready my body for the next abrupt motion of the van. Sure enough, about two minutes later, the driver hits the breaks a little abruptly, and I take the opportunity to roll back off the seat and onto the floor.

  This time I take the impact on my knee and shoulder, so the sound of me landing is louder than the first time. It hurts like a motherfucker, which is helpful because I don’t even have to act: I double over and begin crying out as loudly as the rag in my mouth will allow.

  “Goddamnit,” someone mutters, and I hear the scrambling again as I’m hauled up. I keep myself doubled up once I’m back on the seat and start to rock back and forth. A rough hand reaches under the hood and pulls the rag out. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” a raspy voice says savagely. I can tell he’s trying to disguise his tone, but it’s not enough.

  “Why didn’t you belt me in if you didn’t want me to fall off the seat, Franco?” I spit back. The moment of silence that greets me tells me I’ve hit my mark.

  “Shut up,” he grits next to my ear.

  I could cry, I’m so thankful. But I will myself to calm my voice so it doesn’t shake. “What’s with all the drama, guys?” I continue in a taunting voice. “You could have just asked nicely, you know.”

  One of the men snorts. “Just keep quiet and do what you’re told,” he barks.

  “If you’re taking me to my dad, why don’t you just do it? What’s with the bag over my head? It’s not like I don’t know where the clubhouse is.”

  “We’re not taking you to Oz.”

  This news is a surprise, and it pulls me up short. The sound of a seatbelt unfurling hums past my ear, and I’m belted in roughly as I struggle to make sense of this.

  For one terrible moment, I think…

  But no. I know my dad has done unspeakable things to his enemies in the past. He’s killed more men, or had them killed, than I ever want to know. Still, he’d never hurt me. I can’t imagine it. Sure, there’s no love lost between us. And I piss my father off on the regular. Most of the time, it seems like he considers me more of an annoyance than any
thing. But even if he hated me, his sense of family is too strong to have me hurt or killed.

  He could send you away, though.

  As soon as the thought forms in my head I’m absolutely sure that’s what’s happening. A cold pit of dread opens up in my stomach. No! I resist the urge to scream, to fight, to argue, because it wouldn’t do any good, anyway. If I start yelling, they’ll just shove the rag back in my mouth. And besides, there’s nothing I could possibly say or do to get them to go against my father’s wishes. If I know one thing about the Death Devils MC, it’s that not a single one of them would ever disobey a direct order from their president. My father has an iron grip on authority in the club. He could tell any one of them to hold a gun to their heads and shoot themselves, and they’d probably do it without question.

  “Where are we going?” I ask uselessly. My voice sounds defeated and small, and I hate it.

  “None of your business.”

  “How much longer?” I try again. “I have to pee.”

  No one even bothers to reply.

  We continue to ride in silence, the damn bag still on my head so I can’t see shit. I’m starting to feel a little woozy from the lack of air and the motion of the van. I ask once if they can at least lift the bag up a little so I can breathe, but it’s like I never even spoke.

  Huffing with irritation, I slide my body so that my left shoulder is leaning against the back rest, and try to ease up on the tension from the zip tie cutting into my wrists. Goddamnit, I’m being treated like a fucking hostage. When I see Oz, I’m gonna tell him how rough these guys treated me, I tell myself with bravado.

  If I see him.

  Again, I wonder where the Devils could possibly be taking me. Someplace my dad thinks is safe, I assume. But more importantly, out of the way. Oz has been really on edge lately, and it’s only gotten worse in the last weeks. I know the club has been having some sort of problems, though of course I have no idea what they are. All I know is whatever is going on, my father has turned into a freaking tyrant where I’m concerned. Enough so that he saw fit to pull me out of the college I’ve been attending the next state over. He didn’t even tell me he was going to do it until he was knocking on the door of my dorm room with two of his guys to pack up my stuff. Three weeks into the fall term, to be exact. I almost had to take the entire semester off. In the end, I was able to cobble together enough online courses to keep it going, for now.