BLOOD: An Evil Dead MC Story (The Evil Dead MC Series Book 7)

by Nicole James

  Black Jack’s eyes shifted to his men, and he nodded. The guns were holstered.

  Blood slowly lifted his cut and reached inside. He held the picture up for Black Jack. “Have you seen this girl?”

  Black Jack leaned forward and held his hand out. “May I?”

  Blood handed him the photograph.

  Black Jack studied it with an appraiser’s eye that made Blood’s stomach turn. “She’s lovely. Yes, quite lovely.” His eyes moved to Blood, and he handed the photo back. “In answer to your question, no, I’ve not had the pleasure. And who is she to you?”

  “A friend.”

  “A beautiful, young friend,” Black Jack elaborated with a twisted smile. “Is she a runaway, perhaps? You do seem to have a penchant for ‘taking up their cause,’ now don’t you?”

  Blood’s jaw tightened. He supposed Black Jack knew every move he made around here. Talking to Black Jack’s girls apparently had not gone unnoticed. Blood didn’t like the insinuation that he had no business sticking his nose in. Or perhaps it was a warning. Blood didn’t take too well to those either.

  “We’re looking for her. And we’re going to find her. And God help anyone who’s harmed her.”

  “My, my.” Black Jack made a fake tremble. “I shudder to think. I do so hope you find her. I’ll be sure to keep my… people informed of the missing woman. If I can be of further assistance, don’t hesitate to ask. Was there anything else I could do for you?”

  Blood leaned forward, his hands on the desk. “Do not misjudge me.”

  Black Jack held his eyes. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

  Blood stared the man down, wanting to rip the smug smile off his face. His eyes shifted to the balcony. There was another man out there smoking. Blood could only see his shadow, but he’d bet anything it was Big John, Black Jack’s right hand man, lurking like the scum he was.

  Blood grit his teeth and cut his eyes back to the man seated at the desk. “I’m sure we’ll see each other again.”

  The man smiled. “I’m sure we will. I look forward to it.”

  Blood straightened. “If I were you, I wouldn’t. My next visit won’t be so pleasant.” With that, he and Sandman moved toward the door. The two men guarding it didn’t move aside. They looked to their boss. Blood swiveled his head back in time to catch Black Jack’s nod, and then the men moved out of their way. The door was opened, and they were escorted out the front door.

  As they moved through the courtyard, Blood’s eyes shot up to the gallery. It was empty now, and the French doors were shut tight. He caught the scent of cigar smoke lingering in the air, a sickly sweet cherry cheroot—an unmistakable scent.

  They moved out onto the street and headed back toward Blood’s place.

  ***

  “He’s going to be trouble.”

  Black Jack looked to his second in command. “Let me worry about him, John.”

  “You gonna put the girl out on the street?”

  Black Jack leaned back in his chair, his elbow on the armrest, his hand running across his chin and moustache, deep in thought. “No, I have something special in mind for this one. After all, she’s quite the prize, isn’t she?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I have a buyer in mind for her. He’s been looking for someone just like her—innocent, young, beautiful, and blonde.” Black Jack’s eyes lifted, piercing into John’s. “Contact Mr. Yamaguchi. Tell him I’ve found what he’s requested. He’ll be in town next week.”

  “There’s also that Saudi prince,” John reminded him.

  “Khalid?” Black Jack considered it. “A bidding war? That could be interesting. Of course you’ll have to get some pictures of her. You can’t make a sale without showing the goods.”

  “I’ll see to it.”

  “I have an additional job for you.”

  John chuckled. “Who am I killing?”

  That got a small smile from Black Jack. “No one dies. We’ll save that for another day. For now, I want you to have him followed.” He nodded toward the door the two MC members had exited. “I want to know everything he does.”

  John grinned. “Yes, sir.”

  Chapter Twelve

  It was late when the two motorcycles rolled back into the Clubhouse compound. They parked their bikes and cut the engines. Sandman threw his leg over his seat and stood, pulling his helmet off.

  Blood was a little slower climbing off. His side was aching. He’d taken a couple of painkillers and could think of nothing better than falling into bed. His eyes drifted across the compound, seeing two women standing in the moonlight, one smoking a cigarette. The other one turned to look at him, and he realized, even in the darkness, that it was Cat.

  Sandman headed inside, and Blood strolled toward them. His eyes connected with Marla’s for a moment. She took the hint, dropped her cigarette, grinding it under her high-heeled boot, and headed inside.

  Cat stared up at the moon, ignoring him. He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her back against him as he dipped his mouth to her ear. “We still speaking?”

  He could feel her bristle, trying to hold her silence, but in the end she couldn’t. “Am I your captive now?”

  “You’re my guest.”

  “So, I can leave whenever I like?”

  “No.” He felt her body stiffen. Blood wasn’t a man who usually explained himself, but he felt the need this time. “It’s for your own good.”

  Her head turned toward the bikes.

  “I take it you d-didn’t find her.” Her voice came out shaky, like she was on the verge of breaking down.

  “No, babe. Showed her picture all over the Quarter. Put the word out to all my connections. She’s out there; we’ll find her.”

  She trembled in his arms. “I’m so scared for her. What if they’ve killed her?”

  His arms tightened. “They wouldn’t do that. She’s valuable to them.”

  “She must be terrified.”

  “I’ll get her back, Cat. I promise you.”

  She stayed quiet, and he wondered if she believed him. There was no sense trying to convince her—he’d have to prove it. And that was unfortunately going to take some time—time he wasn’t sure he’d have much of. He knew he couldn’t put off club business. It was going to have to take precedence over the next couple of days. At least until they got a handle on what the Death Heads were up to.

  His eyes moved to the low hanging full moon bathed in a red-orange hue, shining just behind the black shadows of the tall cypress trees. “That’s called a Blood Moon.”

  “So now you have a moon named after you?” she asked with a trace of sarcasm.

  “It’s called that because of the color.”

  She stayed quiet, staring up at it.

  He didn’t want to tell her that some thought it was a bad omen—a signal of foreboding. Blood didn’t want to believe that shit, but he couldn’t deny the bad feeling he had that the worst was yet to come. Christ, things were already bad; he hated to think they’d get worse.

  Cat didn’t need to hear any of that, so he racked his brain for something to lighten the mood. The midnight blue sky behind the dark shadowy outline of the cypress reminded him of a poem. For some odd reason that he couldn’t quite wrap his brain around and didn’t want to examine too closely, he found himself reciting it to her.

  When the day turns to dusk

  And the first stars emerge

  When the mist is forming yonder

  In a ghostly mystic blue

  When the cypress trees turn black

  Like phantoms rising up

  Let the golden moonlight shining

  Illuminate your heart

  And think of me with longing

  Until no more we are apart

  She turned her head to look up at him like he’d unexpectedly grown two heads, and he suddenly felt like an idiot, standing here reciting fucking poetry like some geek.

  “That’s beautiful.”

  He looked down at her upturned fa
ce, his eyes moving over every inch. “Don’t get too excited. It’s the only one I know. My mama taught it to me. It was a poem in a book she loved.”

  The door to the clubhouse opened, breaking the moment. Blood looked up to see Undertaker strolling toward them, and he dropped his arms from around Cat.

  Undertaker paused next to them, dipping his head to light up a joint before blowing out a stream of smoke toward the sky. His eyes fell to Cat. “Past your bedtime, little girl. Marla made up a room for you. She’s inside.”

  Cat looked at Blood, and he lifted his chin. “Get some sleep.”

  She turned and headed inside.

  When she was gone, Undertaker took another hit and passed it to Blood. “Give her space. I need your eyes on the Death Heads, and your head in the game.”

  “It always is.”

  “Take it you came up empty?”

  Blood took a toke, his eyes on the sky. “Unfortunately.”

  “And the Death Heads?”

  “No sign of them.”

  Undertaker nodded.

  “Any intel yet?” Blood asked.

  “Got a couple leads I want to check out tomorrow. Still waiting to hear back from Texas. They’re out scoping out the Death Heads’ numbers tonight.”

  Blood nodded. “I stopped by Black Jack’s.”

  That got Undertaker’s attention. He huffed out a breath, and Blood knew he was pissed he’d gone in with just himself and Sandman. “How’d that go?”

  “Claims he doesn’t know anything about her. I don’t trust him.”

  “Imagine that.”

  Blood’s eyes snapped to him. “I’m not satisfied with his answers. He’d sell out his own mother if it got him something.”

  “Don’t disagree.”

  “You don’t think it’s odd that I ran into the Death Heads near his place?”

  “I think he’s worth keeping an eye on.”

  “And…?”

  “I’ll put the Prospects on it. How are you holding up?”

  Blood took another toke. “With painkillers and pure grit.”

  Undertaker glared at him. “Don’t need you thinking you’re Superman.”

  Blood tried to suppress a smile. “You mean I’m not?”

  Undertaker shook his head with a chuckle and changed the subject. “What do you want to do with our friend in the back room?”

  “What do you think?” Blood wanted to kill him, preferable with his bare hands.

  Undertaker grinned, his white teeth flashing in the moonlight, and clamped his hand on Blood’s shoulder. “Get some rest. We’ll figure that out tomorrow.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Eighty-eight miles west of New Orleans

  Blood, Sandman, Bam-Bam, Easy, Wicked, and So-Cal stood in a line taking a piss in the grass at the edge of the gravel parking lot. The hot afternoon sun beat down on them.

  Sandman looked over at Blood. “Ever since you made that remark about the pin in my dick, I’ve been having a hard time getting it up.”

  Blood chuckled as he zipped back up. “The voodoo bullshit? It’s all in your head, bro. Or maybe you’re just getting old and need a little blue pill to get your dick stiff.”

  “Bite your fuckin’ tongue,” Sandman snapped back. “This isn’t funny. Don’t anyone laugh.” At which point, the line of men all burst out laughing.

  Blood replied with a chin lift to the man on his right. “Hey, Bam-Bam here swears by ‘em.”

  “Don’t drag my name into this fairy tale you’re tellin’ him.” Then he peered around Blood. “Sandman, the bitch put a hex on you, and your dick’s gonna fall off. Hate to be the one to tell you, but there it is, the sad truth.”

  Sandman looked down. “Fuck.”

  Blood’s phone went off, and he pulled it from his pocket. “Yeah.”

  Undertaker’s voice came through. “Where are you?”

  Blood scanned the area. “About ten miles from ‘wouldn’t be caught dead living here.’ Why?”

  “Quit fucking around.”

  Blood chuckled. “I’m standing in the parking lot of some dive bar called Whiskey-a-go-go. It’s on Bayou Teche in Morgan City. Been all up and down the area; there’s no sign of ‘em.”

  “Got a tip on a place about twenty miles west of there. An old body shop off Highway 90 and Kemper Road.”

  “Yeah? What’s the tip?”

  “Lot of bike activity in the area. Guy thought he saw a couple patches with Texas bottom rockers. Couldn’t get close enough to see the club insignia.”

  “We’ll check it out.”

  “Be careful.”

  “Ain’t I always?”

  Undertaker huffed out a breath. “Not lately.”

  Blood disconnected. “Mount up.”

  “What? I thought we were having a beer? It’s hot as hell out here.”

  “It just ain’t your lucky day, Sandman. Move.”

  A minute later, six bikes turned right out of the gravel lot and gunned it down the pavement.

  ***

  Fifteen minutes later, they rolled into another gravel lot in the middle of bum-fuck nowhere. There was a large metal shed to the right of a one-story brick office. A faded metal sign read Topper’s Body Shop. Broken down vehicles filled the lot, but no motorcycles.

  The men dismounted.

  Bam-Bam looked around. “This place looks more like a junkyard than a body shop.”

  They walked to the glass door. Blood pulled on the handle. “It’s locked.” He cupped his hand and peered inside. “Looks deserted.”

  “Let’s try the shed,” Sandman suggested.

  The men walked over, their eyes scanning the lot.

  “You see any bikes?” Bam-Bam asked.

  Blood looked down at the dusty ground. “No, but I see tire tracks.” He bent and examined them. “Definitely big touring bikes.”

  They moved carefully to the door. Blood drew his gun, and the others followed suit. The metal door was open two feet. They moved carefully inside, peering around.

  “Easy, Wicked, So-Cal, sweep the yard, the back, everything. Search for any trace,” Blood whispered. The men nodded and backed off.

  Blood, Sandman, and Bam-Bam entered. They looked around the cavernous space. Didn’t look like a lot of bodywork was done there. In the back was a wooden board set up on saw horses. Jugs of chemicals sat on top. Blood strolled over and examined the setup.

  A man darted from behind a wall, a gun firing. Blood and the other men ducked for cover and returned fire. A moment later, the man dropped to the ground. Bam-Bam knelt next to him and rolled him over. His face was shot up. “He’s done.”

  The other three bikers yanked open the big metal double doors. “What the fuck? You guys okay?”

  “Yeah. Stay out there and keep watch.” Blood glanced over the table again.

  Sandman moved to stand next to him. “Meth lab?”

  Blood studied the jugs. “Hydrochloric acid, sulfuric acid, and hydrogen peroxide.”

  “Hydrogen peroxide isn’t used in cooking meth,” Bam-Bam offered as he joined them.

  “That’s because he wasn’t cooking meth,” Blood replied. “He was making a bomb.” He gestured to the two five-gallon metal drums sitting on the floor, one filled with ball bearings and the other filled with nails.

  There was a small sound from the left, behind some old equipment. Blood put his finger to his mouth and signaled Sandman, who crept up and yanked a skinny girl out. She was dressed in jeans, a tank top, a ruffled apron, and rubber gloves. A paper-breathing mask hung around her neck. She looked terrified.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” Blood barked.

  She stayed mute as Sandman dragged her forward. Her eyes fell to the dead man on the floor.

  Blood’s eyes moved over her again, taking in her pink ruffled apron. “What are you, Betty Crocker, meth cooker, or homegrown terrorist? Or maybe you’re all three. A real renaissance woman, you are.”

  “Me and Gib, we were just making a litt
le extra money. That’s all.”

  “Making bombs?”

  “No, making meth.”

  “That ain’t meth.”

  “They made us do it.”

  “Who?”

  “The bikers.”

  A loud beep and a click sounded, and the men all looked at each other puzzled. “What the hell was that?” Blood swung back to the girl. “There someone else here?”

  Tears streamed down her face, and a moment later, the building exploded.

  The men all hit the dirt floor as the entire shed caved in.

  ***

  Cat stared at the clock above the bar. Blood had been gone the entire day. She’d heard not one word from him. He’d ridden out earlier with one of the three different groups who had left that morning. She knew they were looking for that other MC; they weren’t looking for her sister.

  She wished Blood would call and ask to speak to her. Something about the sound of his voice had a way of calming her, and she needed that.

  She chewed her lip, wondering if Holly was okay, worrying that right this minute she may be enduring a rape or beating. Blood had told her she was too valuable to kill, but Cat wasn’t sure she believed him.

  She felt so helpless, and Mama Ray’s words from that first day kept coming back to haunt her. “If that were my sister, I’d hightail my butt out of here and go find her.”

  Cat glanced around the main room. The place was deserted except for the Prospect at the bar. There was one old landline phone behind the bar, but he’d been ordered to keep her away from it.

  “You want a Coke or something, sweetheart?” he asked when he caught her looking at him.

  She shook her head. “I think I’ll go sit outside and get some air.”

  “Stay away from the gate.”

  Cat nodded and moved outside. She sat atop one of the picnic tables and studied the compound, the wheels already turning, formulating a plan of escape she hadn’t realized she was contemplating until right that moment. She couldn’t wait any longer. Her sister had been missing for days and must be out of her mind with fear. Cat had to do something.