by Nicole James
“She made that phone call for me. I promised her I’d get her sister back. I owe a debt to her. I’m not turning my back on her.” Blood stared him down.
“Goddamn it.” Undertaker looked back toward the bedroom door. “How many Death Heads were there?”
“Not sure. I saw at least four. Might be half a dozen.”
“What the fuck are they doing here in New Orleans for Christ’s sake?” Undertaker mused aloud.
“No clue. But whatever it is, its big.”
“Where’d they go? Got any clue on that?”
“One of ‘em said something about a meeting.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“Yeah.”
“We’ve got a fucking dead body and a town full of the enemy. Any suggestions?”
Blood grinned. “Burn it to the ground, and get the fuck out of here.”
“We’re not setting the damn place on fire.”
“Makes a statement.”
Undertaker grinned back at him, his white teeth flashing in his dark beard. Then he studied Blood. “Prospect’s got the van parked half a block down. Can you make it that far?”
“What do you think, old man?”
Undertaker studied him silently for a long moment, and Blood knew he was debating whether or not to let him go. Finally, he jerked his chin. “Take Sandman with you.”
Blood made to move back into the bedroom, but Undertaker pushed him back with a final warning. “If the sister’s not there, you come back to the clubhouse, and we get a plan together.”
Blood nodded, grateful that Undertaker was agreeing to put the weight of the entire club behind helping him get Cat’s sister back. “Thanks.”
Undertaker nodded. “Where’s your fucking cut?”
“Bastards took it.”
Undertaker turned and jerked his chin to his VP, Mooch. “You and the boys tear this place apart. See if you can find a clue what these cocksuckers were up to, and find Blood’s goddamn cut!”
The men moved downstairs.
Blood walked back into the room, his hand over his wound, and his eyes connected with Cat’s. “We’re going.”
Undertaker followed him in.
Her eyes shifted between the men. “Where?”
Blood clenched his jaw when she questioned him. Obviously, she still didn’t trust him. “To get your sister.”
Her eyes shifted between them again, and she nodded.
Blood’s eyes drilled into hers. “I gotta trust you, and you gotta trust me. Only way this works. Understand?”
“Yes.”
He grabbed her upper arm and pulled her close, dipping his face to hers. “There’s a van parked down the street. Stay quiet, move quickly, and everything will be all right.”
She nodded again.
Mooch stuck his head in the door, and Blood twisted his neck to look. The man’s eyes swept over Cat, but he said nothing about her. He tossed Blood his cut. “Got a couple holes in it, but at least they didn’t burn it.”
Blood caught it in his free hand and released Cat to slip it on. “Thanks, man.”
“I don’t want anymore holes in it, you hear me?” Undertaker ordered.
Blood grinned at his President’s way of telling him not to get shot again. “I’ll see to it.” His eyes moved over Cat’s head to Sandman. “You’re with us.”
“Ain’t I always?” Sandman grinned and hefted his shotgun up over his shoulder.
As Blood passed through the door, he bumped his VP with his shoulder. “Took you long enough to find me.”
Mooch grinned at him. “Hey, we all thought, ‘Blood can take care of himself; it’s not like he’s Sandman’.”
Blood chuckled and moved on, Cat’s hand secure in his as he pulled her behind him.
Sandman glared at Mooch. “Nice to know I’m loved around here.”
Mooch grinned and slugged him in the shoulder. “Take care of him.”
Chapter Eight
A white panel van rolled quietly into the apartment complex on Tulane and Carrollton, a single motorcycle following in its wake. They pulled to the back of the lot, and the Prospect put the van in park, eyeing the building.
“How many exits?” Blood asked Cat, eyeing the setup himself. “There a backdoor Dax can run out of?”
“Just one way in or out. The front door.”
Blood nodded, then looked over his shoulder from the front passenger seat. His eyes connected with Cat’s. “You’re waiting here.”
“Oh no, I’m not.”
“Cat—”
Sandman rapped on the passenger window, and Blood swiveled his head and rolled the glass down.
Sandman leaned on his forearms in the window. “Looks quiet. Didn’t see no bikes.”
Blood nodded, then looked back at Cat. “Stay here.”
“I’m going with!” she insisted.
“No, you’re not.”
“Yes, I am.”
“She always like this?” Sandman asked from the window.
“Apparently. Got any suggestions?” Blood asked him.
“Women are bat-shit crazy. Sorry, that’s all the advice I’ve got.”
Cat folded her arms, that stubborn jaw lifting. “Fine. Go. I’ll only follow you.”
“Goddamn it.” Blood whirled on the Prospect. “You got anything I can tie her up with?”
The Prospect, who looked like he wasn’t sure if Blood was joking or not, offered, “Uh, there’s some jumper cables in back.”
“You are not tying me up!” Cat snapped and threw open the cargo door.
Sandman looked through the window at the Prospect. “Jumper cables, really? That’s the best you got when a member asks you for help? I’m ashamed, Prospect.”
“I can pin her down, if you want, Blood,” the Prospect suggested, now nervous he’d let the club down.
“Shut up and get out of the van,” Blood snapped and pushed out his own door. He slid a round in the chamber of his weapon and looked at Sandman. “You ready?”
“I was born ready, Brother.” Sandman grinned back.
Blood grabbed Cat’s arm and hauled her to his side. “You stay behind us. You hear me?”
She nodded.
“Which one?” he snapped.
“214. Second one from the left. See it?” She pointed.
Blood nodded. “Let’s go.”
“Wait.”
They all turned back to her.
“I don’t have my keys. How are we getting in?”
Sandman looked at Blood. “Is she for real?”
“The MC way,” Blood said with a grin. “We boot the door, baby.”
She clamped her mouth shut, and they all moved across the lot and up a flight of metal stairs to the second level.
Blood held his index finger to his lips, signaling them to be quiet, as he leaned to the door to listen. He shook his head. Sandman jerked his head to the side, motioning for Blood to step out of the way, then he reared back and hit the door just to the side of the doorknob with his size thirteen boot.
The cheap door splintered from the frame at the lock and flung open. The men all charged through, with Cat right behind them.
Dax was kicked back on her sofa in a wife-beater t-shirt and a pizza box on his chest, one slice poised in the air halfway to his mouth. With a startled look, he tossed the box in the air and tried to run. He didn’t get far, seeing as he had nowhere to go. The only exit was blocked by the Prospect.
Cat didn’t waste time on him, she dashed through the apartment looking for Holly, calling her sister’s name.
A moment later, she raced back out to the living room.
Blood looked up at her, his hands fisted in Dax’s undershirt with the man pinned to the wall. “You find her?”
Cat looked at him, her eyes glassing with tears, and shook her head.
Blood could see her whole body was flooding with panic, her hands shaking. He turned back to Dax and slammed him against the wall. “Where is she?”
“I don
’t have her.”
Cat moved in next to Blood and shouted into Dax’s face. “You had her! You promised you wouldn’t hurt her!” She made a lunge for Dax, but Sandman grabbed her from behind and held her back.
“Let Blood deal with him, girl,” he ordered.
She yanked and pulled, trying to get to Dax.
Blood looked over at her. She was fighting mad, but she was scared, too. He lifted his chin to Sandman, who pulled her back farther. Then he turned his attention back on Dax. “You had her. What happened to her?”
“They took her.”
“Who took her?” Blood asked, praying he didn’t already know the answer.
“Death Heads. They sent a couple Prospects for her.”
At that, he heard Cat burst out crying, getting more hysterical by the minute. “You piece of shit!” she screamed.
“Where’d they take her?”
“I don’t know.”
“The fuck you don’t.” Blood punched him in the face.
He tried to block his face, pleading, “Stop! Stop! Okay! They said she’d seal the deal on some meeting. Something about business in the Quarter. That’s all I know, man. I swear!”
“When did they take her?”
“About an hour ago.”
“You fucking little shit.” Blood pulled his gun and put it to the man’s head. The punk really started to sweat then.
“I swear to God, it’s the truth! She was here. I was taking good care of her.” He looked at Cat. “I didn’t touch her, I swear, Cat.”
“Shut up! You don’t get to talk to her. You don’t get to look at her. Got me?” Blood growled.
Dax put his hands in the air. “Okay, man. Okay.”
Blood glanced back at Cat. He could see the desolation and despair this punk’s words had caused her. It was written all over her face. He jerked Dax forward. “You’re coming with us. You make a sound, I’ll drop you on the spot. Understand?”
He nodded. “It’s cool. I won’t give you any trouble. I’m a friend.”
“You’re no fucking friend to me. And any friend of the Death Heads is an enemy to me.” He shoved Dax toward the door. “Move.”
Sandman took hold of Dax and passed Cat to Blood. She fell against his chest, and he gathered her close, his head dipping to hers. “I’ll find her, baby. I promise you.”
She shook with sobs.
“You’ve got to be strong for her, Cat. You’ve got to hold it together.”
She pulled back and looked into his eyes, as he willed his strength to her. She nodded and wiped her face. “Okay.”
“Good girl.” He lifted his chin toward the hallway. “Go grab whatever you need. You’re not staying here.”
She looked up at him blankly. “Where am I staying?”
“Not here. I don’t want the Death Heads coming back for you. They know where you live. Ain’t got a lot of time, babe. Move.”
She nodded, and as if coming out of a trance, she dashed down the hall.
He watched her go. She may not like him taking control of the situation—and of her—but that was exactly what he was doing, and she’d better adjust.
Five minutes later, they were heading across the parking lot to the van. The Prospect had a hold of Dax. Sandman, Blood, and Cat followed behind him. One minute Dax was walking calmly and complacently toward the van, the next he took off sprinting for the road.
“And we have a runner,” Sandman joked as he and Blood watched their Prospect take off after Dax and tackle him a moment later. He punched Dax in the face, and then hauled him to his feet.
“Now if he can figure out how to restrain him with jumper cables, we’re good,” Sandman added with a grin.
Blood slugged him in the arm. “He can always sit on him.”
They secured Dax in the back of the van with some cable ties that the Prospect scrounged up out of the glove box. Cat climbed in the back and scooted across the bench seat to sit behind the driver’s seat. Blood climbed in next to her, sliding the cargo door shut.
The Prospect fired up the van, and they pulled out with Sandman riding behind them.
“Are you going to kill me?” came the muffled voice from the back.
Blood twisted to look over the back of the seat. “No body, no murder, right?”
“Oh, shit,” Dax mumbled.
Blood met the smiling eyes of the Prospect in the rearview, then his eyes moved to Cat. She sat staring blankly out the side window, looking absolutely shell-shocked. Blood pulled her away from the window. “C’mere, babe.”
She didn’t fight it, and he tucked her back against his side, his arms wrapping across her stomach and chest, one hand on her shoulder, one on her hip. He pressed his mouth to her temple, holding her tight, trying to comfort her. He knew what she was feeling. She was grieving, like she’d lost already, like she was leaving everything in her life behind, descending into a world she wanted no part of. But there was one thing she didn’t realize—she had him now. And it crossed his mind that he may be all she had now.
“I’ve got you, babe. I’ve got you.”
Chapter Nine
They headed northeast out of town and across Lake Ponchartrain. Then headed down some dirt back roads. Cat soon became lost and was content to stare emotionless at the scenery passing the windows: old fish camps and houses up on stilts over the water of inlets and bayous. Spanish moss hung from the trees that stretched over the road to form a canopy. At several points the narrow road ran adjacent to the bayou, no more than ten yards from the pavement.
Cat felt the vehicle slowing, and she perked up in the seat, frowning at what appeared to be a stockade. The gates swung open, and the Prospect pulled through. Once they were clear, two men scrambled to shut and secure the heavy gates again. This place was locked up like Fort Knox.
The tires crunched across the gravel as the van rolled up to the clubhouse. Cat glanced around, taking it all in: the six foot high wooden fence and the huge metal building with the extended roof that covered a cement slab with a half dozen picnic tables. There were a couple leather-clad men sitting on the tabletops, their booted feet on the wooden bench seats. Others stood around them, smoking cigarettes. They all turned when the van rolled in, eyeing it as it stopped up front.
Blood yanked on the door handle and slid the side door open, jumping out to the ground. Turning back, he held his hand out to Cat. “Come on, angel. It’s okay.”
She turned at the sound of the rear double doors opening, and then Sandman dragged Dax out the back. The Prospect jumped out and helped him.
She saw a biker walk up, eye Dax’s battered face, and ask, “What happened to him?”
“He decided to take a closer look at Blood’s fist,” Sandman answered with a chuckle.
“Cat.”
Her eyes swiveled back to see Blood still standing with his hand out. Everything seemed so surreal. She couldn’t believe her sister was taken. She couldn’t believe she was here with another MC. Would they be any better than the last bunch?
She looked into Blood’s eyes. He wouldn’t let anyone hurt her. She could feel his protectiveness radiating off him, had felt it as he’d held her close in the van, insisting to her over and over that everything would be okay, that she had to be strong for Holly. That he’d find her if it took him all over the state to do it. He’d track her down, and then he’d kill the motherfuckers who had her. He’d promised.
She believed him. She had no choice but to believe him, because if she didn’t, she’d shatter into a million pieces. Blood was right, she had to be strong.
She slipped her hand in his and stepped out.
Bikes, lined up in rows, sat gleaming in the hot sun, their chrome almost blindingly bright. She squinted and looked over at the men sitting under the overhanging roof.
They stared back at her blankly, and she wondered if they knew who she was and why she was here. Was that curiosity she saw or apathy? Perhaps they didn’t really give a shit why she was here. Perhaps she was as incons
equential as she’d heard women were to men like these. Cunts don’t count, she’d once heard Dax say, teasing her big sister, Stacey, with a phrase he’d picked up hanging around the MCs in Texas.
Was it true? Did she not matter at all?
Probably not to the club, but maybe she mattered to Blood. At least, he seemed to feel he owed her for what she’d done for him. And perhaps that’s all any of this was. Respect. Loyalty. She’d heard those were important to these clubs. Perhaps debts owed meant something to them, too.
Blood took her hand tightly in his, almost as if he was afraid she’d bolt. Then he led her through the doors of the clubhouse, and she clung closely in the wake of his tall body and broad shoulders. Sandman and the Prospect disappeared somewhere with Dax.
It was dim inside, especially after coming in from the bright sunshine. She blinked several times, waiting for her eyes to adjust. The place was cavernous. A bar came into focus off to the right, pool tables off to the left. A staircase in the back led to what must be a second level.
A man behind the bar called out, “Blood, Doc’s up with Undertaker waiting for you.”
Blood nodded, and Cat half expected him to park her ass on a barstool and go meet with his President. He surprised her by pulling her along behind him toward the stairs.
When they reached the second level, he led her down a long hallway to the last door at the end. Rapping twice, he barely waited for the “Come in!” that was hollered out, before he twisted the knob and walked in.
It was a large office with a big desk on the left side. The man she recognized from earlier sat behind it: Undertaker, their President. His VP, Mooch, leaned against a credenza off to the side, his arms folded. Another man sat in one of the chairs facing the desk. He wasn’t a biker; that much was plainly obvious. Although he did look pretty young. Cat figured he had to be the doctor the man downstairs had referred to. He was leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped between them. He’d been laughing at something Undertaker had said.
He twisted to look when they came through the door. He wore wire-rimmed glasses and his light brown hair brushed the button-down collar of his chambray shirt. He wore khakis and running shoes. Not exactly the picture of your average Intern. She wondered if he was a real doctor.
