Biker's Baby: Devil's Wings MC

by Nicole Fox

  Dazed and bleeding, I shook my head.

  He was already back over to Lydia, though. He tore her clothes from her hands, throwing them aside as she screamed in protest. His hand shot out, grabbed her by the jaw, pushed her back against the wall. “Bet you like it rough, don't you little baby girl? Bet you like a strong man to show you what's what, tell you where to put your hands, make you beg for his cock, don't you?”

  “Lydia!” I yelled, trying to get back to my feet. “Lydia!”

  Lydia shut her eyes tight, thrashed her head from side to side as she struggled to get away from him. He got her by the throat and kept her pinned to the wall. Standing on just her tiptoes she choked and gagged, her face turning red. He dropped her from the wall and spun back to me. I watched as she dropped to her knees with a grimace, her hand coming up to her bruised throat.

  “Lydia!”

  He came back over, cracked me across the face again with his gun, the iron site tearing across my cheek, sending a stream of warm blood down my face. “Settle down, boy! You keep acting up, I'm gonna have to show you how a real man fucks a woman! You wanna see that? You wanna see me balls deep in your little honey pot over here? Watch her gagging on my cock while I put a gun to her head?”

  “Kort,” Lydia gasped out from just past Tyson. I could see her face, but he couldn't, and she flashed me a pained wink. “No! Uncle Tyson, you don't understand, that's all. I wanted Kort here to kill my father, so your hands would be clean. You'd be able to step in when the job was done. That's all!”

  Instantly, I knew what she was doing. What she had meant when she told Tyson he didn't understand. Now, it was time for me to play the fool. The only question was, would he believe our little charade?

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Lydia

  Never in a million years would I have imagined that Tyson would be doing this to me, not even after the way he'd looked at me in the shower down the passageway earlier in the night. The look in his eyes was murderous, and I could practically here his teeth grinding themselves to pulverized chalk dust from across the room. The things he was saying, the threats he was making. Rape? This man was my uncle in every way except blood. Clearly he'd gone off the fucking deep end. But there was still a chance we could use him to get us into the sanctum, to allow us access to him. All I had to do was win him to my side. I just hoped Kort had caught my earlier wink, and that he'd know I wasn't trying to hurt him with my betrayal.

  Kort nodded at first, but then slowly shook his head. “What are you saying, Lydia?” he asked, a little dejected whine creeping into his voice. “You . . . you used me?”

  Perfect. We'd been playing so many parts these last few days, trying to convince the other we were on their side I figured he'd be good enough to play his little role in this. Tyson stayed over Kort, glanced back and forth between the two of us as I began my tale.

  “I didn't know if you'd come back for me, Tyson,” I rasped as I settled back against the wall, my hand still trying to rub away the soreness from my throat. “And I thought, even if you did come back, we'd need some more muscle when we went in there. After you left, he slipped down to the cages and broke me out, tried to drag me away from the Warehouse like some caveman because he'd been a dipshit and beat up some guy and had to run. I convinced him to stay, though, so you and I could pin it on him when we took this place from Pops.”

  Tyson glared at Kort, seemingly gauging the level of hurt he was feeling at my betrayal. Blood coursed down the side of his head where he’d been hit, and his lips were bloody from being smashed in the teeth with the pistol. He frowned and closed his eyes, turned away from Tyson in shame.

  Tyson turned and came back over, his demeanor more subdued. He bought it, I figured. He stooped down and began collecting my clothes, handed them to me and turned around. “I-I'm sorry,” he said as he turned his back to me and allowed me to get dressed in a little privacy. Kort, for his part, kept his face turned into the quarter.

  I stood up and began to put my clothes on. “It's okay,” I whispered after my panties and bra were back on. “You didn't know. He came to me, and I had to think on the fly, that's all.”

  “You're so much like you mother,” my uncle said after a while, “you know that? She was smart as a whip, too. Way smarter than your pops ever gave her credit for.”

  Not smart enough to keep her from marrying a psycho, or dating a piece of shit like you, I wanted to say. Instead, I just mumbled a thanks as I slid into my jeans and pulled them up snugly around my hips, fastening them tight. I grabbed my top and pulled it on, suddenly very grateful to be fully clothed.

  “Do you think it'll work?” Tyson asked as I stepped up next to him and glared down at Kort with my best haughty bitch impersonation.

  “Why're you asking me?” I replied with a grim smile. “You're the real boss around here, aren't you?”

  He puffed up a little, standing taller at my compliment. “Yeah,” he said. “You're right, baby cakes. I am.” He nodded. “It'll work.”

  My skin crawled at his nickname for me. I felt like I needed another shower, and it had only been a few hours. “Have the keys?” I asked my uncle. “I say we get this show on the road before it's too late.”

  Together we unlocked Kort. I undid the cuffs on both sides and Uncle Tyson covered him for me, to make sure he wouldn't make a move on either of us. Now free, Kort dressed himself, his hard body disappearing back beneath his clothing again. I always hated it when that happened, but right now there were important things to be concerned with.

  My adopted uncle kept his gun trained on Kort the whole time. Of course, my handsome man wasn't going to make a move. Why would he? Tyson here was our ticket through the front door so we could get to his boss. We ushered Kort out of the storage room and back into the tunnels, turned right to continue down the way I'd originally been walking. He stayed a few feet ahead of us, his hands behind his head.

  “Sorry,” Tyson said quietly after a few silent moments of the three of us just walking, his voice breaking the sound of echoing footfalls as he wrapped his arm around my shoulders and pulled me into his bulk. “About earlier, I mean. All the stuff I said, baby girl. I didn't really mean it.”

  Sure he didn't, I thought. Because that's the kind of shit you say to your niece when you don't mean it. “Don't mention it,” I said, pressing myself into his side with a creeped out shudder as his big, creepy hands squeezed my shoulder and upper arm. “I wasn't worried,” I lied.

  His hands stroked my bare arm as we continued to make our way through the tunnel, sending a wave of nausea through my stomach. He'd been bad before with the way he'd looked at me like a piece of meat, but this was even worse. I wanted to slap him in the face, steal his gun, and pump him full of lead for what he'd threatened to do to me back in that room. This man was human filth.

  We walked the rest of the way in silence, twisting and turning through the tunnels beneath the Warehouse. “Don't shoot” Tyson called out as we rounded a corner and saw two security guards flanking a secure door. “It's me. Got a prisoner is all.”

  One of the men was Pork Chop, the guard who had grabbed me earlier when I was in the manager's office. “Mr. Banks says he doesn't want to be disturbed,” he said, stepping forward. He had a big shotgun hanging across his chest by a strap. “That means even you, Mr. Maxwell.”

  “Pork Chop!” screamed my father through the intercom next to the door. “Who in the fucking blue skies is that, boy?”

  Pork Chop frowned and sighed, visually displeased at our having awoken the beast. I sure hope he was getting paid well for all he the bullshit he had to deal with. Pops had been a handful even before he went crazy. “It's Mr. Maxwell.”

  “What in Christ's name he want, Pork Chop?”

  Uncle Tyson walked closer. “Joey, I got the guy that beat our boy Riley just a little while ago. And Lydia, too.” He looked to me pointedly.

  I made a face as I stepped closed. “Hey,” I said. “I'm here to, um, apologize for the way
I misspoke earlier.”

  The radio crackled off and on a few times, its pops and static hollow and distant in that passage below the earth. Finally, he spoke. “Well come on in folks!”

  There was a loud buzz, and then the sound of locks releasing on the security door. I looked pointedly at Tyson, and he returned my gaze as the door came slightly ajar, letting out a crack of soft yellow light.

  “Now,” Tyson muttered as we began to march Kort into his so-called punishment, “you've seen your father up in the office. Here, though, um, you'd best prepare yourself.”

  “Is it worse down here, where he's living?”

  Tyson just swallowed and nodded. “Much.”

  Kort pushed through the door, swinging it wide. It was like a bunker down here, the kind of place you'd imagine they would have built for the government during the 50s to stop atomic bombs. Candles lit the room like some sick, science fiction version of Phantom of the Opera, the warm yellow light throwing dark and twisting shadows onto the walls all around us, shadows made by the piles of raw cash and giant bales of white powder and bags of methamphetamine crystals. There, in the middle of it all, sat two giant, high-backed chairs, virtual thrones.

  Kort walked in first at my adopted uncle's prodding, his gun digging into my man's ribs. He walked in and stopped in his tracks just ten feet through the door as Tyson slammed the door shut behind us. “My fucking God,” Kort said in disbelief as the door hummed like before, this time sealing us in with the old man.

  My father sat on the right wearing soiled boxers and the same dirty wife-beater undershirt as before, his old trucker hat with a Skoal label printed on the front perched atop his balding head. He grinned at the three of us, his yellowing, stained teeth like a row of tombstones in his mouth. “Howdy y'all. Lydia, honey, welcome home. Your mother's missed you something fierce.”

  I stepped to the left, my eyes adjusting to the gloom of my pops' private residence. As I came out from around Kort, I sucked in a sharp breath, my eyes wide, my heart immediately pounding.

  “Mother!” I screamed as my chest immediately felt like an elephant took a seat on it.

  There she was. Seated on the throne next to my father. Her skin desiccated, her hair falling out, the pearls she'd always loved hanging from her corpse neck, her Sunday church dress pulled crudely over her body. My father really was insane. His memory wasn't simply gone, his mind was broken like a dry twig. I dropped to my knees, my breath seizing as I felt my chest close up. I couldn't handle this. Was this my father?

  “Now, come on, Lydia, baby,” he said as he leaned over and stroked the back of his hand on my mother's cheek. “Give momma a kiss. She's awfully sore about not getting to see you yet.”

  I slumped forward, bracing myself with my hands as I dry-heaved onto the concrete. I just hoped Kort could fix this. Because I sure as hell couldn't.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Kort

  This was just too much. This man was fucking nuts. Like Charles Manson, Jeffrey Dahmer, and the Texas Chainsaw Massacre all wrapped up in one. How could a man like this actually exist in a day and age like ours? Running drugs? Sure. Sex-trafficking? Alright, I knew it existed, even though I couldn't stand it. Rapists, wife-beaters, murderers, all the others? Yeah, I hated it, and I punished it when I saw it.

  But digging up his own wife and dressing her like that? Propping her up as he sat in his own filth, surrounded by his money and drugs? Tyson had known about this, about this descent into insanity, and he'd allowed it to continue, enabled it even. He deserved no sympathy from me, or any other human being alive. This wasn't going out and doing a line of blow at the bar on a Saturday night, or getting a hooker for a business meeting while you were at a business convention. This was evil at its worst, the kind of thing that ate away at societies from the insides, leaving just a hollow husk behind as the rest crumbled and fell away.

  I heard Lydia drop to the floor behind me, heard her gasp out my name as she panicked. I could practically feel Tyson's gun on me as well. Feel the barrel lining up with my spine, the back of my head. Adrenaline kicked in, my years of living on the edge of the law taking over. I stepped backwards till the gun hit my back.

  When you moved like this, no one had reason to pull the trigger. You'd just bumped them, but you hadn't moved your hands, which is what they were tracking with their eyes. Most people didn't have the tactical training to know they needed to step away and keep a safe distance.

  Tyson didn't move. Didn't say anything. He was too stunned. “Lydia?” he called out from behind me, the barrel of his gun massaging my spine. “Baby girl, it's okay.”

  In front of me Joey Banks cackled like a madman, clapping his hands gleefully as his daughter fell to the ground. Now was my chance. I needed to keep the barrel away from me. A bullet has less than inch across where it can enter your body, and it's like a mini cannon. If you're going to get hit, it's because you're standing in front of it. I spun around quickly to my right, whipping my hand out as I went, hitting the gun that Tyson had briefly held against my back.

  Tyson, slow on the uptake, pulled the trigger too late. The gun discharged, firing its shell out into the concrete enclosure, zinging as it ricocheted around the creepy-ass bunker before it embedded itself in a bale of cocaine. The muzzle flash burned my shirt, and the skin beneath, but I didn't care. I grabbed the gun with one hand, trying to twist the barrel away from me, even as I grabbed him with my other and tried to take him down to the ground.

  He fired again, almost on reflex, as he struggled against me, the muzzle flashing again as another bullet went ricocheting around the room. Still, old man Banks' cackle echoed in my ringing ears.

  “What're you doing?” Tyson asked as I took him to the ground, a surprised tone to his voice.

  “Making Lydia safe,” I growled in reply, “from you.” I twisted the gun back to him, pointing it at his chest as we wrestled on the concrete.

  He twisted the gun away from me for a moment, got the barrel pointing towards Lydia, where she still rested on her knees in panic-mode. With my other hand, still tied up with his, I grasped forward, letting go of the gun. I stabbed my thumb into his left eye, digging in deep.

  He screamed and thrashed, his hand trying to drag mine away, the gun jerking up to the ceiling in his pain. “My fucking eye, you fucking piece of shit!”

  I bared my teeth and pressed deeper into his socket as I twisted the gun around in his grip, pointed the barrel back into his chest. And still, all around us, Banks' cackle swooped over the room like the calls of a murder of crows, taunting us, calling us nothing and less than human. Tyson struggled, but I kept the gun pointed to his chest. He was a good grappler, solid all around, but I was better.

  I tried to get his finger out of the guard, tried to disarm him. I didn't want to kill him anymore than I wanted to kill any man, no matter who they were. Finally, as Lydia gasped beside me, and Joey Banks cackled all around us, I realized I had no choice. Tyson had to go. I got my thumb in with his through the trigger guard, the barrel pointing right into his chest. I pushed my thumb, pressing the trigger down.

  The gun leaped in his hand, thundering loudly again, as it fired into his chest, two bullets entering with a wet thud. His good eye flew open wide, stared aimlessly at me, losing its focus as it looked through me and past me. He tried to speak, but all that came out was a wet gurgle as blood dribbled from his lips. He blinked, gasped again. His body spasmed and sagged, the life gone from his eyes.

  I grabbed the hand from Tyson's lifeless corpse, prying it from his dead grip. I rose and spun on Joey, leveled the barrel at him. Joey just grinned at me with those nasty teeth of his, his teeth and gums pulled back from them like they wanted nothing to do with that dental work. He held up a black device, about the side of a small cellphone with a red button on top. “Nah ah ah! You drop that gun, son, or we're gonna make the Fourth of July look like a backyard tire fire,” he said, holding up the device.

  I kept my pistol on him as I glanced towar
ds Lydia, who was still on her knees gasping for breath, her face red, the veins on her neck standing out as she continued her panic. I swung my head back to Joey, licked my lips.

  “This whole fucking place is wired to go,” he said with a cackle. “You shoot me, son, and we all go up together. Gotta enough ANFO and C4 rigged around this place, they won't even be able to use our dental records to identify the bodies. Between that and all the diesel and ammo we got stored here, we'll be crispy critters in no time.”

  ANFO. I knew the stuff. It was what had been used at Oklahoma City to destroy the Federal Building. The blast had been strong enough to shatter windows fifty-five miles away.

  “Now lower the goddamn gun, boy. Do it.”

  I licked my lips, lowered my gun, and pointed the barrel at the floor.

  “Drop it, son!”

  I tossed the gun aside, sending it clattering into a bale of white powder. I turned and knelt down beside Lydia, put my arm around her shoulders.