by Zoey Parker
I was cautious. I’d seen his Jekyll and Hyde act. I knew that there was a madman lurking behind that face. But if I was careful not to upset him, maybe I would be able to make it out unscathed.
Just a little while longer, I told myself. Blaze will be coming. He has to.
I hoped.
“Are you harmed?” he asked me. I wondered what he wanted. The cicadas were chirping outside the window. For a brief, wild moment, I thought I was back home in Austin, listening to the sounds of the night from my bedroom.
“I’m fine,” I said, pushing his fingers away from my face. I saw a line of tension shoot across his forehead at my rejection of his touch. I shouldn’t have done that. I should have just let him brush my hair away, and maybe that would be enough. Maybe that would save me.
“I am glad,” he said, but his voice didn’t have the same overwrought politeness it’d contained before. There was a metallic undercurrent to it now, one that scared me. I knew what he was capable of.
“I must say, though,” he continued after a long pause, “I find it hard to blame him for wanting you.” The knife he had used to attack Jorge was still in his hand. As I watched, he pulled a rag from his pocket and began to clean it. He worked studiously and patiently, scrubbing spot after spot of blood away until the weapon gleamed again brightly in what little light streamed through the high window opening.
He held it up to test the reflection, a serious workman’s expression on his face. “It is very difficult to restrain oneself from a beautiful woman,” he said, still staring intently at the blade in the light. “Such as yourself.”
It felt like a creeping fog had begun to roll through the bottom of my stomach. My heartbeat beat painfully in my chest. Something bad was brewing.
He switched his gaze to me. Slowly, he lowered the knife to touch the flat of it against my cheek. The metal was still warm from the blood that it had spilled. I closed my eyes and tried not to cry.
Blaze is coming. Blaze is coming. Blaze is coming.
“Have you ever had a man?” Lobo asked me. “Have you ever been claimed?” The way he said the word was so different from how Blaze used it. In Lobo’s mouth, it became a degradation, almost an enslavement.
I didn’t say anything, but I was shivering all over my body now. Every hair stood on end. My mouth was as dry as the desert outside the building I was trapped in. The ominous fear kept curdling in the pit of my abdomen.
“Answer me, bonita,” he said, pushing up my chin.
With all the courage I could summon, I hurled in his face, “Fuck. You.”
Lobo gave me a sober nod. “I thought you would say something like that.”
I saw the storm churn over his eyes. Casting the knife aside, he grabbed me by the roots of my hair and pulled my head up. He unbuckled his belt and pulled his member free from his pants. It was monstrous, fully nine inches long, dangling just a few inches front of my face.
He rose up, tall and foreboding. His cock stiffened as he squeezed my cheeks to force open my mouth. He started to lean in, the head of his member coming closer and closer to my outstretched tongue.
“You must learn how a whore treats the man who owns her,” he said. He licked his lips. “Starting now.”
Chapter 10: Leader of Men
Blaze
With every step I took away from the ladder, I put more and more distance between myself and the men I called my brothers. My head was a vortex of emotion as I mounted my bike and twisted the key in the ignition.
The rumbling engine calmed my nerves, as much as that was possible given the circumstances. I needed to feel this shake in my bones. This was where I belonged—on the back of a motorcycle with nothing but blacktop between me and doing whatever the fuck I wanted.
But I wasn’t an Inked Angel anymore. I’d left that back in the tunnel.
No one had said a word as I’d climbed out. I knew as well as they did that Croak was right—this was a suicide mission. Lobo and his men would be halfway to their compound by now, and once they were locked in, it was gonna be damn near impossible to pry the bastard out. They’d lost a lot of men during the firefight, sure, but the Diablos were like cockroaches—stomp one to death, and two more came scurrying around the corner.
And I was alone—no comrades, no brothers-in-arms. It was me, by myself, against every odd in the book, with some new ones thrown on top just for good measure. The chances of me getting inside the Diablos territory at all were one in a million, and the chances of making it out alive and with Olivia in tow were even less than that.
Fuck it. I had to try. God always loved an idiot—I just had to hope that he liked this one.
I cranked the accelerator and took off down the road. I needed to cross back over the border, but first I had to make a pit stop by the Austin clubhouse.
After all, one didn’t venture into Hell without packing a little firepower.
* * *
I smashed the lock on the hidden closet door with the butt of my gun. It shattered and fell to the floor, allowing the secret entrance to swing open. I looked into the depths of the cobwebbed shadows.
Staring back at me was enough weaponry to invade Europe.
The shelves were crammed with guns of every size and description. Ammo was stacked high in crates that reached to the ceiling, while racks of blades and assorted explosives were squeezed into every spare corner. It was a gun lover’s wet dream.
I started grabbing everything I could get my hands on. I lined grenades around my belt, buckled sheaths of knives and spare ammunition pouches to my legs, and tucked a handgun into my boot. I holstered an automatic pistol on each hip. The big daddy of them all got slung on a loop around my shoulder—a high-powered sniper rifle that could take out a cartel baddie from a thousand yards. I couldn’t wait to spill some Diablo blood.
I laughed as I passed a mirror on my way out. Every inch of fabric concealed something that could kill a man. And if everything went according to plan, that’s exactly what would happen.
Clambering back onto my bike that I’d left idling outside, I wondered if I was hurtling towards my death. There was never any way to know for sure. When it’s your time, it’s your time, and a man has to confront it when his number is up. I wasn’t afraid to stand with my shoulders back and my chest squared and give everything I had in me, fighting to the bitter end.
An Inked Angel ain’t afraid of the Grim Reaper.
I revved the engine and let the sound wash over me. Music to my ears. Then I kicked into high gear and shot the hell out of there. I hoped Lobo was ready for me.
The ride was long, hot, and dusty. I didn’t know exactly where the Diablos’ lair was, but it didn’t take long to find out. I only had to threaten a couple of petty drug dealers in the last town back before they gave me some more specific intel.
Fucking scum, all of ’em, the whole cartel system. They all thought they were big swinging dicks when they were running the show, but the second the tables turned and they were the ones facing the business end of the gun, it was a whole different ballgame. I’d seen plenty of little shits wet themselves or start crying after just a couple minutes of beating ’em around.
They were nothing like us, nowhere close to the kind of man it took to be an Inked Angel. My brothers wouldn’t budge an inch, no matter what kind of licking you put on us. Shit, even the worst of us had balls bigger than any rat-faced Diablo fuck. I hated Luke Morris, but even he had been man enough to look down the worst thing he would ever come across and take it standing. That was what it meant to be part of this club.
Rather, the club that I used to be a part of. It hit me with a pang when I thought about the family I’d sacrificed. I used to be a loud mouthed punk of a prospect, and maybe part of me even deserved the ass whooping that Olivia’s brother had laid on me in the yard. But Croak and his ilk, they had took me in and made me one of their own.
My whole life I’d been proud to wear that skull inked on my shoulder. I’d been proud to walk with Ember,
with Steezy, with everyone who’d ever rode into a brawl beside me or even just sat around knocking back whiskey in the clubhouse. Those were my men.
And I’d left ’em.
But this wasn’t like anything else I’d ever encountered. This was a girl I’d bled for, taken bullets for, and lost once already. I was going to get her back, and from then on, she wasn’t going anywhere unless it was with me by her side.
I pulled my bike into a thick bunching of trees a few hundred yards off the road. Rummaging through the underbrush, I grabbed a few leafy fronds and draped them over the machine to hide her from sight. Before I turned and left, I gave the handlebars a loving tap. Who knew if I’d ever get to ride her again.
Dropping to put my belly in the dirt, I army crawled up the ring of hills on the other side of the grove. I reached the top and pulled out the night vision binoculars I’d grabbed. A few corrections on the focus dial, and then I could see everything clear as day.
There were maybe fifteen or twenty buildings altogether, set low and close together. I counted no more than eight men stationed on the rooftops with what looked like sniper rifles. The Diablos were a bunch of nasty bastards, but you had to give ’em credit for at least one thing: they knew their guns. These guys were packing top of the line weapons, and if I had to wager a bet, they’d probably be loaded with Teflon-coated bullets that could pierce straight through my bulletproof vest and would then explode the second they hit flesh, turning me into a lead-filled piñata from half a mile away.
I didn’t want any part of that shit.
To be honest, I didn’t know how the hell I was going to get in. I’d told myself the whole ride down that I’d figure it out when I got there, but as I sat and looked at the encampment, my swagger took a bit of a nosedive.
Everywhere I looked, there was another gun held at the ready. These dudes weren’t fucking around. They were armed to the teeth and they were serious. I was, too, and I had a hell of a lot more on the line than they did, but at the end of the day, it didn’t matter what you were fighting for—it just mattered if you were still alive to do the fighting.
Aside from the eight I saw patrolling the roofs, there could easily have been another fifty or a hundred men posted through the enclave. There was no way for me to know exactly what I was walking into. And if I did manage to fight my way through the mess, I didn’t know where Olivia was being held.
“Fuck,” I swore to myself. “That bastard Croak was right. I really am gonna die out here, trying to chase down this motherfucking lunatic.”
“I think that’s the first time you’ve ever admitted I was right,” quipped a familiar voice behind me. I did the fastest one eighty of my life to see who else but Croak, swaggering up from the trees like it was the most casual thing in the world. He was dressed like me—tactical gear head to toe, ballooning with weapons stuffed into every conceivable pouch or holster he could wrangle together—and the son of a bitch was smoking a cigar, too.
“You are a fuckin’ piece of work,” I told him.
He laughed and blew a ring of smoke into the night sky. “Ain’t the first time I’ve heard that one, kiddo,” he said.
“What in the hell are you doing here?” I asked.
He turned solemn. “Son, you are one special brand of stupid if you thought for a second that we were just gonna let you take off on your one-man wrecking show and not come after you.”
“I gave you my patch,” I pointed out.
“I don’t give a fuck what you’ve got sewn onto that goddamn leather of yours,” he snapped. “That shit don’t mean anything. Being an Inked Angel ain’t about fabric, for fuck’s sake. Goddamn,” he swore, shaking his head back and forth, “you really are a stupid son of a bitch.”
I wasn’t sure whether to laugh or slug the wise-cracking asshole right in his smug mouth. I settled on a handshake, sticking my palm out into the warm Mexican night air. Croak reached out and gripped my hand.
“Ride together, die together,” he said. I nodded.
Another voice called out from behind Croak’s shoulder. “Yeah, what he said!” shouted Ember.
Croak spun around, as grizzly and pissed off as ever. “Keep your voice down, you fuckin’ idiots!” He turned back to me and chuckled. “Oh, yeah, they came along, too.”
He pointed to the woods. I watched as the whole Houston charter filed out and fanned around us. They each saluted or pointed or laughed at me, letting me know they’d ridden all this way just for my dumb ass. I was struck speechless. It wasn’t like me to be at a loss for words, but in that moment, I just didn’t know what the hell to say. I thought I’d made a choice and there was no going back. In fact, I was sure I’d left the club behind forever.
Turned out that when you tattoo something in your skin, that shit stuck for life.
“Enough pansy shit,” Croak growled. “Let’s get down to business.” We drew into a huddle, put our heads together, and began to lay out the plan of attack.
* * *
Quiet permeated the Mexican desert. I was lying in the underbrush on my stomach, assault rifle in hand, waiting for the signal.
What a fucking trip this had all been. I couldn’t believe that it was only a couple weeks ago I’d been sitting in Croak’s office, listening to his idiotic plan to have me hitched to an at-the-time unknown broad just so he could go play patty cake with the Austin charter.
Too much shit had happened since then to even properly recount. More blood spilled and men lost than should ever have been allowed to happen.
But running through it all like a big fuckin’ rainbow was Olivia.
I couldn’t think of what I’d say to her, if and when all this worked out. It felt like years since I’d had her in my arms—or hell, since I’d even seen her face. It wasn’t hard to close my eyes and remember her screaming my name on the porch for the whole world to hear. But what if that was the last time I got to claim her as mine?
Shit, just the thought of that weekend turned me rock solid. The best fucking the world could offer, but it was more than that, too. If anyone had asked me ten years ago if I’d been thinking about anything but getting my nut while I was in a bitch, I would’ve laughed straight in their face. But it happened. I could be balls deep in her and look in that face, strained with all the horny-ass desire in the world, and feel a fucking emotion. Croak was right—I might be getting soft.
I needed her back right now. I’d fuck her right in the middle of this desert, bullets flying past us, just to let the world know she was mine.
If this scheme worked the way we’d sketched it out in the dirt, we’d be back in Texas by sunrise, with my bride on the backseat of my motorcycle, right where she belonged. And after that, she wasn’t going anywhere until I’d shot enough come in her to sink a warship. I was gonna put a baby in her belly and lock her down for life.
Me, a father. What a crazy fuckin’ world we lived in.
I looked out into the night. Everything was completely silent. There were no lights shining from the Diablos compound. Those fuckers were up there, though. I hoped they were ready for the storm we were about to unleash on them. You don’t fuck with the Inked Angels, and we were about to make these cunts an example that nobody would ever forget.
I glanced down at my watch. It was two minutes past midnight. Right when I started to wonder where the signal was, I heard it: a massive eruption ripping through the still night. A fireball on the western edge of the complex consumed a building immediately. Shouts tore through the sky, and I saw silhouettes scrambling to figure out what the hell was going on.
I counted the seconds under my breath until it was time for me to move.
Five…four…three…two…one.
Go time.
Chapter 11: The Lowest Circle of Hell
Olivia
A massive boom careened through the night, making the walls of the building shake like leaves. Dust clouds mushroomed from the ceiling and debris began to fall all around me. Windows exploded inwards from the
sonic force, and I curled into a ball to avoid being stabbed by the shards of glass slicing through the air.
What the hell is going on? I wanted to run as far away from the commotion as I could. But I reached up to touch the leash that had been fashioned back around my neck, and I remembered that I was trapped.
Without warning, horrific images flitted by my mental eye like film in front of a movie projector.
Jorge’s hands seizing my dress and tearing.
The knife in Lobo’s grip, reflecting the moon through the window.
His black eyes, boiling with insatiable anger, looking into mine as he unzipped.
I forced it all away.
“No!” I said out loud. “No. Fuck off! Fuck you!” I slammed fists into my forehead to banish the memories. Panic and fury flowed through my veins in equal measure. My head swam from just how much shit had been done to me and in front of me over the last forty-eight hours. I was on the verge of an irreversible collapse.
