by Jc Emery
Turning back to Duke, I move forward, and as quietly as I can, I lie down on the mixture of grass and fallen leaves beside him. I don’t get too close, but I don’t want to be too far away either. There’s a fine line between two men lying next to each other at a professional distance and two men coming close to cuddling. And I ain’t fucking cuddling Duke.
He begins to talk as I awkwardly set up my position with the rifle. I try my best to mimic his stance. His AR-15 has a bandana over the top of the scope. He sees me eyeing it and pulls a spare out of his pocket and hands it to me. I fumble with tying the fucking thing on without messing up anything. Just because Dad let me shoot these things when I was a kid doesn’t mean I know much about working a scope.
Duke shifts a little. “These two have been fucking gabbing forever now. I really kind of wish that we could just shoot the fucking WOP.”
“We find out who he is yet?” I ask.
“Leo Scavo is our best guess. Seems to fit the bill, but aside from that, we ain’t got shit on him.”
With that, Duke directs his attention back to the magnifying scope on top of his rifle and continues to watch the conversation between Jim and this guy Leo. I adjust the scope on my own rifle so that I can see what’s going down a little bit more clearly. Jim scuffles his boots in the dirt and places his hands on his hips. Ever so slyly, he adjusts the phone in his pocket. It almost goes unnoticed, but the sound in my earbud is so much clearer now. I can actually understand the shit they’re saying. I’ve never been good at distance or nothing, but from here it looks like we are probably a half mile or so away. Thanks to the phone, I can hear him like he’s a few feet away.
“Why the fuck are we so far away?” I hiss. Sure, I can hear and see everything from here. Fine, whatever. But I’d like to be closer just in case this fucking asshole tries anything on Jim.
Duke turns and glares at me. “The whole idea is to hide. How the fuck we gonna hide if they can see us?”
“Shit. Sorry,” I mumble. Fuck him and his attitude. I still want to be closer.
“Now shut the fuck up, and don’t shoot unless I tell you or there’s a bullet in my skull, okay?”
I keep my mouth shut because I’m not a fucking pussy, but I’m not cool with the image of my brother taking a bullet. Nic couldn’t handle that shit, and neither could I.
“None of this answers my question, Mr. Stone,” the Italian says.
“You been bullshitting me so fucking long, I forgot your question,” Jim says with a smirk.
“Sampling too much of your own product, then?”
“I’d give you a sample of our product, but we seem to have this issue about you and yours trying to take what belongs to me.” Jim’s tone is dark, and he’s no longer smirking.
“What’s yours, Mr. Stone? Alexandra was promised to me. That means she is mine and that she belongs to the Mancuso family.”
“So what you’re saying is Alexandra was stolen from you?”
“You transported her across the country without her father’s permission, did you not?”
“Don’t know how shit works in New York, but I’ve been trying to get my old lady to listen to me for years. Ain’t fuckin’ working. Got any tips?”
“If you’re unable to properly lead your woman, there is nothing I can say to guide you,” the Italian says. He rolls his shoulders. I can’t really see his face, as I mostly have view of his back, which is fine since it’s a wider target.
“Like your boss has control of his women?” Jim asks.
“Shit’s about to get ugly,” Duke says into the conference. When he lifts his finger off the button, he says only to me, “Ryan has a thing about people talking about his mom.”
“Got my target on his skull,” Ryan says.
“Stand down, momma’s boy,” Wyatt says. “Can’t shoot the guy unless he moves first.”
“Shit,” I say. “Good thing Ian’s not here.” If there’s one thing I’ve learned about Ian it’s that as attached as Ryan is to Ruby, Ian is worse. I wouldn’t call him a momma’s boy, though. I like breathing too much.
“Mr. Mancuso is a traditionalist,” the Italian says. “But your sergeant let on that you know more about Mr. Mancuso than you have lead me to believe.”
“I know shit about the cocksucker that would surprise you. The stories I could tell you about my old lady and Mike. Too bad none of them are happy.”
“Curious choice of words you’ve used, Mr. Stone.”
“Which one—cocksucker or Mike?”
“Nobody refers to Mr. Mancuso by his first name, much less such an informal nickname.”
“Well, I am his daughter’s stepfather. I don’t really think formalities are necessary.”
“You see, while you and your sergeant seem quite taken with this twist on reality, the Mancuso family buried Alexandra and Michael’s mother some years ago.”
“The woman who mothered those kids is not the woman who gave birth to them. The woman who had Princess and Junior stolen from her has scars you can’t possibly imagine, but I can because she’s in my bed every fucking night. I wouldn’t worry too much about your place on the totem pole, though. Mike kept that shit quiet for years. Unfortunately for him, he fucked over the wrong woman.”
“While this little walk down memory lane is intriguing, I do have to be on my way. Now, please answer my question. What will it take for you to safely return Michael and Alexandra to Mr. Mancuso?” The Italian’s voice wavers ever so slightly before he rectifies his show of weakness.
“You’re not listening,” Jim says. His voice turns cool and disinterested. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he’s bored, but it’s exactly the opposite. Ryan is so much like his father. They both grow cold and quiet before they lay waste to anything within reach. Duke tenses beside me, and I do a quick check of my equipment to make sure I’m on my game should I need to pull the trigger. “This isn’t about money. It’s about righting the wrongs of the past. A man stole a woman’s infant children from her, and then he sliced up the face of the only child he let her keep. He forced her sister to raise her stolen babies as her own. You want to know what price I’m willing to accept? Mancuso dead and served up to everyone he’s ever hurt. Anything less is an insult.”
“Very well,” the Italian says. “I will relay your message to Mr. Mancuso. My two men here will follow me out. I have certain contingency plans in place that will ensure my safe exit, so please spare yourself the trouble and don’t bother following me.”
“I’m on it,” Wyatt says through the conference.
“Road’s clear,” Fish says.
The Italian strides to his black Mercedes and climbs into the driver’s seat. From there, he slowly makes a three-point turn and then stops. His men climb onto the closed trunk and sit down, their rifles comfortably propped on their laps as the Mercedes crawls down the dirt drive and toward the highway.
“Fuck,” Duke says. “Shit is either about to get bad, or we might have made a breakthrough.”
“You mean this isn’t bad?” I say.
He snorts and smiles in my direction. “You ain’t seen nothing yet, Baby Boy.”
We stay put for a few minutes before Fish gives us the clear, and then we pack up and head down to the highway. Once we’re there, I return the rifle and phones to Fish and climb back into Nic’s car. I’ve started her up and am about to pull away when Duke climbs into the passenger seat and adjusts his dick as he gets comfortable.
“Fucked your sister in this car,” he says with a nod. My stomach roils at the thought.
“That’s great,” I say through gritted teeth. He does this—talks about porking my sister, knowing it irritates the hell out of me—all the fucking time.
“Clubhouse,” he says. “Fucked her there, too.”
I try to ignore the comment about Nic and drive for the clubhouse. On the way, he manages to tell me he’s had Nic in every room of the house and in my bed. Then he says he’s joking. Then he says he’s not. By the time
we pull up to Forsaken Custom Cycle, I’m ready to run us off the road and end my suffering. We’re the first guys back, and the lot is empty beyond the clubhouse gates save for a red-and-black Harley that I don’t recognize. Sitting on a picnic bench near the front door is a tall dude about Duke’s age, with light blond hair that rests on his shoulders. He’s wearing a leather cut that looks like it belongs to us, but I ain’t got a clue who he is.
“Who’s that guy?”
“Guy from Detroit,” Duke says. “He’s looking to transfer. Think his name is Daniel.” There’s a few tense moments between us before he speaks again, this time much more agitated.
“I would really like a fucking update on Bean and Sweets,” Duke says. His leg bounces nervously.
Just moments after we pull up, Ruby’s red Suburban peeks through the opening gates behind us.
“Ian’s back,” Duke says with a shout and hops out of the car. He slams his door behind him as he jogs for the Suburban that parks a few spaces down. Ian had Ruby’s SUV when he and Grady left to work on the clues that Scavo gave about where Holly and Mindy might be. If Ian is back, then I can only hope that means he found the girls.
I cut off the car and step out just as Ian walks around to the passenger side and opens the front passenger door. The first thing I see emerge is a pair of long, jean-clad legs, and then I see it—her pretty blonde hair. Mindy.
“Fuck, Mindy. Are you okay?” I ask as I rush toward her.
Looking up, she blinks, slightly taken aback, but then forces a tired smile to her face. “I’m not sure that’s the right word for it, but I’m unharmed,” she says with frustration clear in her voice. Can’t fucking blame her.
“How’s Holly?” My voice is drops a few decibels, and a gnarly squeak appears halfway through the question. I sound like a fucking kid, but I don’t care right now. I need an answer. If Holly isn’t okay, I fucking give up.
“Again, she’s unharmed.”
Ian gives Duke and me a flat look and nods his head toward Mindy. “Sweets is going to stay at Grady’s house. Mindy will be staying with Duke and Nic.”
“Shit, that motherfucker has got it bad,” Duke says with a laugh. He shakes his head and doesn’t even try to hide the smile on his face. Mindy huffs and looks at the ground beneath her, but I catch the smile on her face as she tips her head down.
“I’m just glad you’re both safe. I get to keep my nut sack for one more day.”
Taking a deep breath, I turn and walk toward the clubhouse for a moment to think by myself. It’s been a mostly shit day, but knowing the girls are safe helps some. Just as I’m entering the clubhouse, the deep, guttural sound of the brothers’ Harleys rumble in the distance, growing ever closer, and I know I won’t get any time alone. I guess I can deal with today’s shit later. Right now I got to put on my prospect face and suck it up.
CHAPTER 5
December
16 months to Mancuso’s downfall
“There’s something here that I’m missing,” I mumble under my breath. Christmas is nearing, and I’ve been working on this for a month now, and this is all I have to show for it—a scattered collection of sticky notes and business cards strewn about the kitchen table. I can’t make sense of anything I’m looking at, and yet there has to be something here.
Over the past several weeks, things have been getting crazy around Fort Bragg. First it was the crazy-hot and crazy-scary Italian guy showing up at my school. Then it was Dad trying to put the moves on Holly, my administrative advocate. Then it was Holly liking Dad putting the moves on her—which was totally cool because he’s way less of a jerk when he’s got someone in his life. He doesn’t think I notice stuff like this because he never used to bring women home, but he’s way obvious. Plus, Grandma has a big freaking mouth and complains about his “nocturnal habits” often enough that I have learned to stomach the idea that Dad isn’t the exception to the Forsaken rule. He likes the company of women. He just doesn’t like them to talk.
I can’t keep letting myself get sidetracked—which is really easy because research so is not my thing, but hey, somebody has to do it. I sat back and let Dad convince me that everything was okay when the Italian guy approached me at school, and I let him tell me it was okay when suddenly Holly was basically living in our house even though she and Dad couldn’t stand hearing the other talk. They so were not dating, but whatever. It wasn’t until Dad got into a screaming match with Grandma—which he lost—about Holly and her cousin Mindy being kidnapped by the aforementioned crazy Italian guy that I knew everything was absolutely, most definitely, no way in hell, totally not okay.
So I’ve been listening in and pretending to be ignorant when my dad and his brothers talk about club business, because if they know I know things are going south in town and with the club, they’ll all clam up tighter than the last time they were under DEA surveillance. Every single one of those guys act like I’m a baby and I can’t handle them being honest with me. I can, but they won’t give me the chance. So I’m going at it alone in my investigation.
I was sidetracked for a few weeks after poor Mindy was raped—not that anybody told me that’s exactly what happened, but again, I listen in. Holly was in her own head for a long while after that. I can’t even imagine having to watch something like that. For days on end she just kept saying the numbers seven and one. I’ve asked Dad about it, and then Aunt Ruby, and then anybody who I could grab ahold of, but they just all keep saying that everything is okay, and that is a huge freaking lie.
So fuck them and their patronizing crap.
I have a few business cards from a guy named Larry Jennings, the dad of a local who’s in the hospital in a coma. He’s been there for several weeks, and the news has all but forgotten about him, but for some reason, his dad’s business cards were in with Dad’s stuff on Mindy’s rape.
I cast a quick look at the clock that hangs just off center above the bay window beside me. Beneath the clock is a string of garland with colorful blinking lights that Holly hung up when Dad wasn’t looking one day. He’s not a fan of Christmas decorations, but he’s putting up with them the best he can to make her happy.
Crap. It’s well after four now, and Dad and Holly will be home any minute. I shove the business cards back in the folder and finger through the various documents inside the manila folder for one last look before I sneak this sucker back into the garage where it belongs. Toward the bottom of the stack, a name catches my attention on one of the papers from the hospital. I do a double take. There are so many papers in the folder that I’d taken it for granted that they were all Holly and Mindy’s records from the attack, but on the paper in question, it says JENNINGS, DARREN under the patient’s name. The paper is crumpled and spotted in dried blood. First his dad’s business cards and now Darren’s medical records?
What could Mindy’s attack possibly have to do with Darren’s? They have to be connected—or Dad thinks they are—otherwise they wouldn’t be in the folder together. I’d never looked this closely at the paperwork. The last time I snuck the file out of its place in Dad’s tool box, I ran into the police report of Holly’s statement. I think I cried for about ten minutes before I gave up on looking at the rest and put the folder back. I couldn’t tell Grandma why I was crying, so I just ran up to my room and told her that boys are stupid. I think she bought it, because she came up to tell me that any boy who makes me cry isn’t worth the time it takes to shed a single tear. I wanted to tell her the truth. I needed to talk to someone about what I read, but she would have snitched on me to my dad.
Why would someone want to hurt Mindy like that?
Why would someone want to hurt anyone like that?
Maybe I’m just stupid, but I didn’t know that stuff like this could happen in my town. Dad always says the club takes care of their own and the town belongs to the club, so that means that we’re safe here and I don’t have to worry about anything. But that’s a lie, because if someone can hurt Mindy Mercer like that for no reason
, then nobody is safe. Not even the daughter of a Forsaken club member.
“Fuck!” Dad shouts, scaring the crap out of me. “I hate that fucking thing. Next time it ho ho ho’s at me, I’m shooting it. Don’t care how much you like it.”
“Don’t blame Santa for recognizing a ho when he sees one,” Holly says with a giggle.
“You’re in for it, woman!” Dad says loudly and with a disgruntled tone.
My eyes widen and my heart skips a beat. His voice is distant and muffled. I scurry to the hallway to find that the front door is shut, and Dad’s head bobs on the other side of the glass pane. His keys jingle as he works the lock.
“Do me a favor and just once act like a gentleman!” Holly says, her voice high and full of irritation.
The door creaks open, and the alarm beeps as he grumbles, “You sure didn’t want me to act like a gentleman when I bent you over the kitchen table last night.”
“Oh, shut up,” she says with a laugh. “Be good and I’ll let you bend me over our bed tonight.”
I back away from the hallway and rush to the breakfast nook and vow to never eat at the table again. My hands reach for the manila envelope, and just as I’m about to grab it and run, I cringe.
“So freaking gross,” I whine as I shuffle the papers into the manila folder as best I can and scoop them up from the defiled kitchen table. “No freaking boundaries. I need to move out like right the hell now.”
Dad’s heavy boots clap against the wooden floor in the hall, growing nearer as I round the living room and run down the side hall to the garage where I slowly turn the knob and slip inside. Across the garage, in a tall red tool chest, is Dad’s stash of folders that have information on cases that are of interest to the club. He doesn’t keep many paper files, not around the house at least, except when he’s in the thick of an investigation. A few years back there was a series of car break-ins around town. Nothing really went missing, and the club didn’t care much, but then Aunt Ruby’s Suburban got hit, and Uncle Jim got the club involved. Dad said either the club was going to figure it out or Aunt Ruby was going to start shooting people who look suspicious. I don’t think they ever did find the people responsible, but while they were looking into it, Dad had about twenty manila folders stashed in various drawers. If there’s one thing Dad hates more than teenage boys, it’s probably unsolved mysteries.
