I jump a foot in the air as my cell starts ringing. Snatching it up, I’m relieved to see Brooks’ name on the caller ID. I swipe to take the call, clutching the phone to my ear.
“Anything interesting?” I ask.
“Very,” Brooks replies over the line, “I trailed him from the field office, all the way to some shitty apartment complex on the far side of Vegas. He was making a little visit to a girlfriend of his. And you’ll never guess who she is.”
“You’re right, I won’t,” I reply, “so tell me.”
“It was Belle Taylor,” Brooks says, “from the Devil’s Playpen.”
“Belle?!” I exclaim, baffled, “The one Tyke is smitten with?”
“The very same,” Brooks goes on, “and I’ll say this, she did not look happy to see him. I heard him screaming from inside her place, and I’m pretty sure she’s down at least one lamp. Something shattered in there—”
“What else did you notice?” I press.
“He went in with a pretty thick envelope,” Brooks tells me, “and he sure didn’t have it when he came out again.”
“You think he was paying her?” I ask, pacing around the penthouse.
“That certainly seemed to be the case,” Brooks says. “I had to ditch him after he left Belle’s place. Got the feeling he’d start to notice me if I kept on him.”
“Good. Better to cut your losses,” I nod. “Shit, Brooks. If he’s paying Belle for sex, he can take the Playpen down for prostitution in a heartbeat. He’ll bring the whole operation tumbling down.”
“Let’s hope the Wraiths vet their girls better than that,” Brooks says.
“But if he wasn’t paying her for sex,” I muse, “what the hell could he have been paying her for?”
“I have no fucking idea,” Brooks says, “but I bet this asshole will be at the Playpen tonight. Maybe he’ll give himself away if we’re there to catch him.”
“He’ll flip if he sees me at the Playpen,” I reply. “He made it pretty clear that stepping foot on his turf will be bad for me.”
“Then don’t let him see you,” Brooks urges. “Besides, I’ll be there. He’s not expecting you to have backup. You’ll be safe, Red.”
“Huh...” I say, pausing in my frantic pacing. “This is what it feels like for someone to have your back.”
“You know it,” Brooks says. I can hear him grinning over the line. “So, what do you say? Want to try and catch a rat at the Playpen tonight?”
“Let’s do it,” I say.
“I’ll come and get you,” Brooks replies. “Shit. Is it wrong that I’m kind of having fun with all of this?”
“See you soon, you crazy bastard,” I laugh, and hang up my cell.
I can feel my heartbeat pounding through my entire body. It’s the feeling I always get when I’m hot on the trail of some criminal or other. Only usually, I’m only tracking my targets through pages of code and internet transactions. This shit with Bruno is real. By all rights, I should be scared shitless to take him on, and I’m sure I would be, if I were going it alone. But for the first time in my professional career—and my life, really—I have a partner. And that feels pretty damn awesome.
The sun is just beginning to set over the teaming neon village of Las Vegas when Brooks and I set off in search of the truth once more. It’s so strange to see him behind the wheel of a car, rather than on a Harley. But I have to hand it to the man—the cage he’s driving does nothing to impede his sex appeal. Tonight, he’s rocking black jeans, a white tee stretched tightly over his pecs, his Dante’s Nine cut, and a pair of weathered steel toe boots. His dark brown curls tumble artfully across his brow—a look I’m sure a thousand city boys would pay good money to mimic. His green eyes are gleaming with anticipation and intention, his inked muscles straining for action. It takes everything in my power not to demand he pull the car over and have me in the back seat.
The sizzling sidelong glance Brooks shoots my way tells me that I’ve cleaned up pretty nicely myself. I’m in full biker chick regalia tonight—daisy dukes, tiny white tank, big sexy hair, full face of makeup, and sky-high stiletto boots. I figure I’ll blend in with the natives this way, make it less likely that Bruno would notice me. And it doesn’t hurt that Brooks is totally into it, either. I return his look with a mischievous smile.
“Eyes on the road, buddy,” I tease.
“Not so easy with you sitting there, looking like that,” he murmurs.
“There’ll be plenty of time for every nasty thing you’re thinking of,” I assure him, “after we take Bruno down.”
“Trust me, I’m committed to the cause,” Brooks says, “I’m willing to put jumping you on hold to go after this guy. And that is fucking saying something, all right.”
We ride along in silence for a spell, the glowing beacon of Vegas falling away in the rear view mirror. We’re going to try and intercept Bruno at the Devil’s Playpen, catch him in whatever diabolical acts he’s been perpetrating. My working theory is that he’s trying to manipulate this case to the benefit of his own bank account. But the specifics are still rather hazy. Hopefully, he’ll give us another clue or two tonight.
“Can I ask you something, Red?” Brooks asks, keeping his eyes on the dark road ahead.
“Shoot,” I reply.
“What’s your end game, with all of this?” he goes on. “The Bruno thing, I mean?”
“Well. He’s clearly trying manipulate the law to his advantage,” I reply. “All I want is for him to get what he deserves. The FBI should know the truth about him.”
“I mean for you,” Brooks clarifies, “what do you want out of all this?”
“I...don’t really know,” I confess, looking out across the dusty, dusky landscape. “I guess I just want to make a difference, for once.”
“You don’t feel like you make a difference at the FBI?” he asks.
“I’m not sure I believe that the law is something to put faith in anymore,” I say quietly. “More and more...this life you lead is starting to make sense.”
“I’m really glad to hear that,” Brooks says huskily. “Not that you’re losing faith in what you’ve always believed in, of course. But I’m glad that you’re seeing things from another angle. Justice isn’t black and white. I know that better than most. It drives me crazy that most of the people in this country trust the legal system implicitly, when it’s as fucked up and corrupt as anything else.”
I steal a glance at Brooks, suddenly remembering what Kassie told me the other morning in the elevator. Brooks’ history is complicated—that’s what she told me. But what kind of complicated, I wonder? What makes him so vehemently distrustful of the law?
“My turn to ask you something, if you don’t mind,” I say quietly.
“Go ahead,” Brooks says, “I don’t want to keep any secrets from you.”
“Kassie mentioned that your life before joining the Nine was...uh...less than sunny,” I begin. “She used the word ‘complicated’.”
“That’s the right word for it,” Brooks sighs deeply. “Did she mention any specifics?”
“No,” I reply, “she said I should ask you.”
“I’ll have to remember to thank her for that, at least,” Brooks chuckles shortly. “I guess I wouldn’t expect Declan to keep secrets from his old lady. I don’t blame her for mentioning it to you. I’d do the same for a friend.”
We sail past the wooden sign that bears the Wraiths’ sigil. I hold my tongue, waiting for Brooks to continue on his own. After a heavy, seemingly endless moment of silence, he takes a deep breath and goes on.
“The truth is, Red, I never planned to become a civilian again, after I joined the Navy. I’d wanted to serve my country my entire life, just like my dad did. The proudest day of both our lives was when I enlisted. I fucking loved being in the military. All of a sudden, my life had structure. Stability. I had friends, family, a steady job. And I honestly thought that I was contributing to something good. Something pure. Freedom and justice have
always been more important to me than anything.
During my first tour, everything went pretty smoothly. Well, as smoothly as it could go. I did my job, served my country, believed in my mission. I met Dec, and a couple of other guys who really understood me. There was...a girl, too.”
“Oh,” I say, feeling my heart sink, “You...uh...fell in love with her?”
“Not in the way you’re thinking,” Brooks says quietly. “Besides Dec, she was the best friend I made. Natalie. I loved her like a kid sister. She was a firecracker, as good a mechanic as any guy around. She fucking loved her job, and her country. She was one of the good ones.”
“You keep saying...was,” I say softly. “Did she...? She wasn’t—?”
“She wasn’t killed,” Brooks says, his jaw tensing with long-suppressed ire, “but she may have preferred that to what ended up happening. My dad passed away during my and Natalie's second tour. I went on leave for his funeral. Just for a few days, but...” Brooks can barely speak through his clenched jaw. “There was this lieutenant, Davison. Entitled rich boy type. He’d been after Natalie since the day she showed up. She had no interest in him, turned him down every time he tried something. But he wouldn’t take no for an answer. While I was gone, he decided he was tired of waiting. He...he forced her...”
“Fucking scumbag,” I whisper, my heart breaking for Brooks’ friend.
“I knew something had happened the second I got back,” he soldiers on. “She didn’t want to tell me, at first. But the truth came out eventually. She refused to report what had happened, and I don’t blame her. The military is a fucking joke when it comes to prosecuting that kind of thing. No one was going to get justice for her, so I...took matters into my own hands. I tracked down Davison, and beat him to a pulp. I might have killed him, if they hadn’t stopped me. I was dishonorably discharged for assaulting an officer. Natalie left the Navy, the one thing she loved most. Last I heard, Davison had been promoted to commander.”
I can’t even speak, I’m so appalled by Brooks’ story. He glances over at me as the Wraith’s Nest comes into view.
“I still believe in justice,” he tells me, “and I still believe in freedom. But what I’ve learned since joining Dante’s Nine is that sometimes, you find freedom and justice where you’d least expect them. It’s not a matter of right or wrong, Red. It’s just a matter of seeing things the way they really are. Whatever happens with Bruno and the FBI...just remember that you have the freedom to decide what justice really means to you.”
Before I can formulate a reply to Brooks’ words of wisdom, something catches my eye at the heart of the Wraith’s Nest. Things are usually pretty rowdy at the Devil’s Playpen at this time of night, to be sure. But something’s going on inside the strip club that goes above and beyond the usual chaos.
“What the hell...?” I mutter, as we park the car and step out into the night.
We watch from afar as a stampede of finely-dressed men flee the Playpen, leaping into expensive cars and peeling off into the night. Pricking up my ears, I hear a whole different kind of cacophony than the usual blaring music and raised voices. Bloodthirsty shrieks rise in waves from the club as the hard rock cuts out. Breaking glass and loud crashes sound from inside. It sounds like some insane brawl has started up, scaring away every last patron. A bottle of tequila smashes through one of the front windows, and Brooks and I take off toward the fray.
The din of battle is deafening as we race into the Devil’s Playpen. My eyes struggle to adjust to the sudden darkness as my mind works to make sense of the scene playing out before me. Nearly every member of Dante’s Nine and the Devil’s Wraiths is here tonight, seemingly squared off against a common threat. That’s good. For a second, I thought Bruno might have found a way to turn the clubs against each other. But the actual situation at hand is even more baffling to behold.
A pack of scantly clad dancers face off against the MC brothers. They’re absolutely livid, ready to burn the Playpen to the ground by the look of them. Each of the two dozen girls is screaming in unadulterated fury—many of them are armed with broken bottles, whips, and stilettos wielded like bludgeons. The girls of the Devil’s Playpen seem to have declared war.
“What the fuck is going on here?” Brooks shouts to his club brothers.
Declan and Leo glance at Brooks from the front line. Leo’s golden eyes are blazing as he shakes out his mane of jet-black hair.
“One of the girls got beat up pretty badly,” he yells back.
“They’re staging a fucking coup,” Declan adds, ducking as a high-heeled shoe flies at his head. Kassie and Kelly are nowhere to be seen, but I recognize more than a few of the dancers who are lined up for combat.
“Someone’s hurt?” I ask, rushing forward, “Who?”
“It’s Belle,” shouts Mac, the snowy-haired president of the Wraiths, “Belle Taylor. The new girl.”
“Who beat her up?” Brooks growls, his voice full of deadly anger.
The assembled brothers exchange stormy looks. No one offers up an answer.
“I said, who the fuck is responsible for this?” Brooks roars, his fists balled tightly.
“She says it was Tyke,” Leo reports solemnly.
I feel the air leave my lungs in a painful rush. Tyke? The sweet, shy kid with the blonde crew cut and the easy blush? How could he have done something like this?
“Tyke...Tyke has a thing for Belle,” Brooks says, uncomprehendingly.
“We know. It doesn’t make any sense,” Declan says. “We’re just trying to calm everyone down so that we can get to the bottom of this.”
“Where’s Tyke now?” Brooks asks, his face unreadable.
“Took off,” Leo says, “He was too gutted to stick around. Seemed blindsided by the whole thing.”
“And Belle?” I ask. “Where is she?”
“In the back,” Mac says, “the poor thing is a fucking mess.”
“Can I see her?” I ask. “Maybe I can help.”
“If you can get past them, you can do whatever the hell you like,” Leo says, nodding at the brigade of strippers.
I turn to face the line of fierce women. They covered a lot of situations at Quantico, but I have to say that this was not one of the them. Still, I have a hunch that the timing Belle’s assault is no coincidence. I have to talk to her.
“I’m going in,” I tell Brooks, “Just...wait here.”
The women eye me suspiciously as I make my way toward them. But no one tries to impale me with a stray heel—so I take that as a good sign.
“What do you want?” snaps one of the head girls, a voluptuous blonde with mile-high legs and a broken bottle clutched in her fist.
“I just want to talk to Belle alone,” I say, “I’m trained to handle these kinds of situations.”
“What are you, a counselor or something?” asks a porcelain-skinned red head.
“Or something,” I shrug.
“She’s in a bad way,” says a tomboyish girl with a pixie cut, “if you can do anything to help her through this...”
“I think I can,” I say, “if you’d just let me through?”
The women exchange loaded glances, deliberating in silence. Finally, the busty blonde says, “Just you. None of these MC fuckers.”
“Thank you,” I tell her, darting around the assembled women in search of Belle Taylor.
I don’t have to hunt for long. As I make my way into the belly of the strip club, I spot a single sliver of light coming from one of the dressing room doors. I pad toward the illuminated room, and a soft sobbing catches my ear. I ease the door open as gently as I can.
“Belle?” I say softly, “Belle, is that you?”
“Who the fuck are you?” a voice asks from within. Jesus, she sounds so young.
“I’m...a friend of the Nine,” I say, unsure of which name to offer at this point, “Can I talk to you for a second?”
The door flies open before me, and I gasp as I take in the sight of Belle Taylor. Her girlish fac
e is swollen and tear-stroked, a ghastly black eye blooming across her skin. A surge of rage rises like bile in my throat. This will not stand.
“I already told them everything,” she says, struggling not to weep in front of me.
“I have reason to believe...that that’s not entirely true,” I say slowly.
She tries to slam the door in my face, but I wedge myself in before she can. Frustrated, she storms away from me, bracing herself against the makeup-covered counter. Her shoulders tremble with suppressed anger, but there’s something else brimming up inside her. It’s fear.
“I know you’re afraid, Belle,” I say softly, “And I know we just met. But I’m going to need you to trust me now. I need you to tell me who really did this to you.”
“It was Tyke,” she spits, “I already said—”
“I know that’s what you told the girls,” I reply, taking a tentative step toward her, “but I can also see that it’s killing you to say that. It’s killing you because you care for Tyke. And because...it wasn’t him that did this.”
Belle’s eyes find mind in the dressing room mirror, confusion clouding her baby blues.
“What do you know?” she whispers.
“I know that someone recently paid you a lot of money,” I say, making my way toward her, “and I know that this someone is not a good person. I think he’s the type of person who would buy a false accusation from someone who may not be in the position to refuse.”
A long, drawn out moment passes as a thousand emotions crash across Belle’s bruised face. I watch as the wave of conflicting impulses rears back and washes over her. All at once, she sinks down onto the floor, wracked with heartbroken sobs.
“H-he said...h-he’d kill me,” she weeps, holding her face in her hands, “if I d-didn’t...blame Tyke.”
“Who said that?” I press, kneeling beside her.
Impulsively (Dante's Nine MC) Page 16
