Dirty Aces MC: Box Set #1

by Hart, Lane

  “I already knew all of your names,” I admit. “But it’s nice to put faces to them.”

  “How did you know our names?” Wirth asks.

  “Research from when I was looking for Nash.”

  “If you say a word about us to anyone, we’ll fuck you up,” Silas threatens.

  “If you try to fuck me up, I’ll tell everyone what’s on each of your computers and phones.”

  The guys all stare at each other uneasily for several silent seconds before Silas smirks and responds with, “Touché.”

  A few moments later, Malcolm returns, and he doesn’t look happy. “Dirk wasn’t the rat,” he says. “He died before the warrants were issued. If he was the witness, they wouldn’t have bothered going after Nash.”

  “So then who else could be the witness?” I ask them.

  “Had to be the fucking chef!” Devlin exclaims.

  “Fuck!” Malcolm shouts. “How was that bitch able to call out Nash when we don’t even know her goddamn name?”

  “Jetta might have heard her name,” Dev says with a visible gulp. “I’ll call and ask her to come in.”

  “Sure, let’s invite all the old ladies to the table,” Silas huffs as he lights up another cigarette. “May as well bring Naomi and Honey in here too! Bunch of pussy-whipped motherfuckers.”

  “Watch it,” Malcolm warns him.

  Nash

  * * *

  The dude, Frankie, I spoke to was right about the cramped quarters and constant noise in the general population. Sometime, around the middle of the night after I was officially charged, a bastard started singing “I’m Blue,” that idiotic old song by Eiffel 65. And instead of everyone telling him to shut up, other guys joined in, and now it’s stuck in my head on repeat and I want to blow my brains out.

  I think I would pretty much do anything to get a cell all to myself.

  Before I can figure out a way to do that, though, the guards come and get me.

  “Let’s go, Kincaid,” one of the two uniformed men calls out.

  “Where am I going?” I ask as I step out of the unlocked cell door, even though I have an inkling.

  “You’ll see when you get there, won’t you?” the second guard mutters while the first slaps metal cuffs around my ankles that are connected by a chain. “Hands out.” I hold my wrists together for them to slap another pair of cuffs on them before one guard gives me a shove forward to get me moving, making me stumble thanks to the chain.

  It’s hard as fuck to waddle around in the restraints, but eventually we get to a locked door with a tiny window up top. Through it, I can see a man and a woman sitting at a small table on the other side, both in nice suits. Since they’re not the club’s attorneys, I assume they must be detectives finally ready to grill me for the names of who else was at Cox’s house the night shit went down.

  “I’m surprised it took you all this long,” I mutter when the guards shove me into the room.

  “We wanted you to experience a full day in lockup before talking to us,” the man says with a fake smile. “I’m Detective Ashby, and this is my partner, Detective Rollins. Have a seat and get comfortable; this could take a while.”

  “No, thanks,” I say, refusing to sit in the chair on the opposite side of the table. “I’d prefer to stand and make it quick. I’m not answering any questions without my attorney present. And even with my attorney, I’m not answering any questions. We’re done here.”

  “Sit your ass down. We’re done when we say we’re done,” Detective Rollins grits out, appearing not too happy about my refusal.

  “Make me,” I challenge her when I lean my back against the wall.

  “I don’t think you’ve grasped the severity of your situation, Mr. Kincaid,” Detective Ashby tells me. “You’re looking at death row, if convicted. The only way to reduce that to life is to tell us who helped you that night.”

  “I prefer death, sooner rather than later,” I reply honestly.

  “So you’re admitting that you’re responsible for the murders of six men?” Detective Rollins asks.

  “I’m not admitting or denying shit. I’m telling you a fact – death doesn’t scare me.”

  “You should be scared,” Detective Ashby says. “We’ve got an eyewitness who heard your name, and saw you pull the trigger. They were able to ID you in the lineup and told us there were five other men with you. We know there are exactly five other men in the MC you ride with. Tell us that’s not a coincidence. We know you didn’t kill all six men yourself. Some had different sized bullets in them. Confirm what we already suspect, and we’ll reduce your charges significantly. It’s possible you could even get out in forty years with good behavior.”

  A witness who heard my name. That’s what the damn face covered line-up was all about? But that’s impossible, right? Except, the sentence they made me say was one I remember…

  None of the guys would’ve been stupid enough to speak a name when we took every precaution there was to hide our identities, right?

  None except for possibly one, because he’s not the brightest.

  Fucking Fiasco.

  Thinking back, I’m pretty sure he didn’t just shout, “What the fuck,” but said, “What the fuck, Nash!” after I blasted the guard in the kitchen that was trying to sneak up on us. And I did it right in front of the fucking woman.

  Since my name isn’t very common and we were all wearing motorcycle helmets, a quick search of the DMV database and, boom…they’ve got me.

  “Everything okay?” Detective Rollins asks. “Looks like you’re having some deep thoughts. Considering talking after all?”

  “No,” I mutter.

  Hell, I’m not even going to tell the guys about this. If they find out Fiasco fucked up, they’ll give him hell; and he’ll spiral out of control, blaming himself. Dev too since we were there helping Jetta. And there’s no way they can find out about the chef, or she’ll be wiped off the earth.

  I remember hearing her fucking screams. She was terrified and probably still has nightmares worse than mine. Maybe she was scared we would come after her. Whatever her reason for ratting, I won’t hold it against her or Fiasco.

  What we did, it may have been a club decision, but I don’t care about that. If I have to carry the brunt of the entire ordeal on my shoulders, I will so that no one else has to pay the price for the consequences of our actions. This punishment is what I deserve. Trying to explain that to Malcolm or the other guys will be impossible. So, to avoid those discussions until I’m found guilty at trial or plead guilty and am sentenced, I don’t plan to give the MC a chance to talk me out of it.

  “Look,” I tell the detectives. “I know you’re going to do whatever you need to do here, and that’s your job. All I’m asking, no begging, is that you please don’t put me in solitary. I’ve heard that being in the hole alone like that can make men go insane. I need to be able to talk to my boys.”

  As soon as the man and woman look at each other, I know I’ve hit my mark using reverse psychology, just like Malcolm used on me with Lucy.

  “You know what?” Detective Ashby starts. “I think a month in solitary may be the best thing to give you time to think about your next step.”

  “What? No!” I exclaim, trying to sound enraged. “You can’t do that to me! Only the guards can put me in the hole!”

  This is perfect because I didn’t have to try and hang myself or kick someone’s ass to get away from the cramped living space.

  Detective Rollins goes over and flags down the guard waiting on the other side of the door. As soon as it unlocks and opens it, she tells him, “This one here just told us he doesn’t plan to make it to trial alive, so he needs to go into protective custody, solitary, for at least thirty days and then have a psychologist check him out.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” the guard agrees. “Let’s go, Kincaid.”

  “No! Please don’t send me in there!” I shout for shits and giggles as the big man grabs my elbow and yanks me to my feet, dragging
me out of the conference room with me fighting him.

  As soon as we’re in the hallway and the door slams behind me, I give up and follow along like a well-behaved inmate.

  “Show me to my new living quarters, Jeeves.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Lucy

  * * *

  “There’s my girl!” Devlin says, hurrying over to Jetta as soon as she steps into the pool hall.

  “Hey! It’s nice to see you again,” I say when I follow him over and give her a hug.

  “Lucy? What are you doing here?” she asks me.

  “Trying to help Nash,” I answer with a wince. “We’re hoping you can too.”

  Charging into the meeting room, Jetta says, “How can I help Nash?”

  “We need you to think hard about that night, Jetta,” Malcolm turns to her and says. “Did you ever hear the name of that chef at Cox’s house?”

  “The chef?” she repeats. “Why? You don’t think she turned in Nash, do you?”

  “We’re running out of ideas,” Devlin responds as he slumps down into his chair. “So, yes, possibly.”

  “And if I do remember her name, what then? Are you going to kill her?” she asks them pointblank.

  “No, of course not!” Devlin says, but then immediately looks to Malcolm to confirm.

  “We’re not gonna kill an innocent woman, even if she did rat out our boy,” their president thankfully confirms as his fingers tap against the armrest of his chair. “But we need to find her and convince her not to testify against him. At worst, she may need to disappear for a few weeks until the DA’s forced to dismiss.”

  “Disappear her but not kill her?” Jetta reiterates. “You swear, Malcolm?”

  “I swear,” he says. “There are plenty of ways to convince people to keep their mouths shut without physically hurting them.”

  I don’t exactly like the sound of that, but this may be our only option to help Nash.

  “Why can’t we see him?” I whine as Malcolm and I leave the front office of the jail a few days later. The officer checking people in couldn’t give us any details at all. Nash simply ‘isn’t being allowed visitors at this time’.

  “Fuck, I don’t know!” Malcolm exclaims. “Maybe the sheriff is just being a dick, or maybe they’re about to transfer him to county. There’s no telling what’s going on. The attorney said he would look into it this morning.”

  “What are we supposed to do until then?” I ask.

  “Wait patiently,” he grits out.

  I know I’m getting on his nerves, so I shut up and drive myself back to the Aces bar. The rest of the guys in the club are all gathered there, sulking in the pool hall, drinking before noon because they’re worried about their friend. I am too, which means I’m sitting my ass down on a barstool and staying here until they get answers whether they like it or not.

  Sleeping since Nash was arrested has been impossible. All I do is toss and turn, worrying about him, terrified that something bad will happen to him in the jail and that I may never get to see him again without handcuffs on his wrists.

  I lay my head down on my crossed arms on the bar just to rest because my body feels exhausted from lack of sleep and all the anxiety.

  Why didn’t I just tell Nash that I knew about the charges last Thursday and drive him across the Mexican border? If I had, he wouldn’t be in this situation right now.

  “Sorry, Malcolm. I tried to set you and Lucy up for a visitation, but it was denied,” Jay Hughes, the attorney the guys hired for Nash, explains as soon as he walks into the pool hall in his grey suit and tie.

  “Why the hell was it denied?” Malcolm snaps.

  “Apparently Nash got himself put in solitary. And until he’s out, he doesn’t get to have any visitors except for his counsel.”

  “Shit!” Malcolm grumbles while punching the wall.

  “W-what do you think happened to get him in solitary?” I ask in concern, my arms crossed over my chest.

  “I asked about infractions, but Nash’s record was clean on those. So, if I had to guess, I’m sorry to say that he could be on suicide watch.”

  “No!” I exclaim.

  “We’ve got to get him the fuck out of there!” Malcolm roars.

  “There’s no way he’s getting bond,” Jay explains. “Unless there’s some huge breakthrough in the case, he’s not going anywhere until there’s a trial, which could take months.”

  “Months!” I repeat.

  “Sometimes trials get put off for a year or more if there’s a backup at the lab and we’re waiting on evidence from them.”

  “He can’t wait a year!” Malcolm shouts.

  “If Nash agrees, I could ask for a speedy trial. The downside to rushing is missing something critical that will tank the case in court. As far as I’ve seen, all they have is a witness. No prints, no DNA, no videos or anything else tying him to the scene. So, do you think it’s worth the gamble?”

  “Yes,” Malcolm says confidently since we know that the DA’s witness is about to go MIA.

  “All right. I’ll go talk to Nash this afternoon; and if he agrees, I’ll file the paperwork.”

  “Thanks, Jay. We appreciate your help on this.” Malcolm holds out his hand for the attorney to shake, and then he’s gone.

  After he leaves, I go to work double-time on tracking down this chef, Cora Walsh, and locating all the properties owned by her relatives. Then, I take a little drive over to the closest one in her parents’ name.

  I’m only outside for ten minutes before I see a young, redheaded woman walk past a window. Good thing I’m not a sniper and the MC doesn’t want her dead. She’s not making this very difficult. It’s definitely her. She doesn’t seem to have used any filters on any of her photos online, and her hair is a dead giveaway.

  When I get back to the pool hall, I practically skip inside I’m so happy to have made progress for Nash.

  “I found her,” I singsong to Malcolm, who is sitting at the bar.

  “No shit?” he asks in surprise. I slip him a piece of paper that he lifts and reads.

  “What’s the plan now?”

  “Let’s get everyone to the table again and scan for bugs,” he grumbles, getting up and taking the paper with him.

  I head into the room with them without any electronic devices and lean against the wall to wait for the men to take their seats.

  “Thanks to Jetta and Lucy, we’ve got a home address for the chef. She’s been laying low, probably afraid even though the DA promised to keep her name off the record. She knows we’re not stupid and would eventually realize it was her. That’s why she hasn’t been at work and the house she’s staying in is deeded to her parents.”

  “How are we going to handle her?” Wirth asks.

  “You’ve got the chop shop to run, Devlin and Fiasco have their construction jobs, I’ve got the MC businesses and a kid to take care of, so I’m thinking we let Silas handle this one. Not to mention he may be the only one of us who has the balls to kidnap and hold a woman hostage.”

  “Fuck yeah,” he agrees excitedly.

  “You cannot, I repeat, cannot kill her no matter what, do you understand?” Malcolm asks the man. “I would prefer if you don’t hurt her either, if at all possible.”

  “I’ve got this,” Silas agrees. “I won’t let you all or Nash down. And the woman? She won’t even know she’s a hostage.”

  “How the hell are you gonna manage that?” Devlin asks with his brow furrowed.

  Cracking his knuckles, Silas tells him, “Now I can’t go around giving away all of my secrets.”

  “You’re a sick bastard,” Wirth says with a shake of his head.

  “Keep her in one piece,” Malcolm reiterates, as if it’s necessary. “And no mind-fucking either.”

  “I’ll do my best,” Silas agrees when he gets to his feet. Malcolm then hands him the piece of paper with the address I’m responsible for finding, making me feel a little queasy. “Give me…seventy-two hours; then repor
t her missing.”

  “Seventy-two?” Dev asks.

  “Yeah, man. It’s going to take a little time to line shit up.”

  “You sure you can handle this?” Malcolm asks.

  “Yep,” Silas answers.

  “All right then. Good luck. Stay in touch as much as possible,” Malcolm replies.

  “Might be tricky to reach out with what I have planned, but I’ll check in when I can.”

  With a nod from Malcolm, he takes off.

  And I’m not the only one who looks nervous. If his best friends are worried, that’s not exactly reassuring.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Nash

  * * *

  Solitary confinement is lonely; but honestly, I would rather be alone with my thoughts than crammed in with half a dozen other stinky bastards in a six-by-eight cell.

  Here, it’s quiet, peaceful, unlike the constant chaos in gen pop. I’m free to close my eyes and drift in and out of sleep with my memories of the past weekend with Lucy.

  Those were the best few days of my life, despite the circumstances or the location.

  By the second night we were together, the one right after the wedding, missing Ellie was the furthest thought from my mind. Lucy was what I had needed all along to finally move on. I hate that it took so long for her to find me and that we had so little time together. I spend most of my waking moments replaying every conversation we had, every touch and glance we shared, etching them permanently into my memory. They will be the last happy memories I have for the rest of my life.

  The best I can hope for now is just this — a barren, silent room with only one comfort. At least in here, I can close my eyes without worrying about what the maniac in the next bunk might do to me while I’m unconscious. I found out quickly that you never really sleep when you’re in jail. Everyone inside is a nervous cat, only one breath or twitch away from exploding, never able to completely let their guard down and relax.