Retaliation: A Twisted Mayhem MC Novel

by Cat Mason

  Retaliation

  Twisted Mayhem MC , Book One

  Cat Mason

  Contents

  Introduction

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Acknowledgments

  Retaliation Playlist

  About the Author

  Also Available By Cat Mason:

  All Rights Reserved. This work may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, photographic) in part or whole without expressed written consent from Amy Cox a.k.a. Cat Mason.

  This is a work of Fiction. It is meant to entertain and is not meant to be an accurate account of any Motorcycle Club whatsoever. All characters, organizations, brands, and events are either products of the author’s imagination or are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual events, or persons living or deceased is completely coincidental.

  Copyright © Cat Mason Books 2017

  First Publication: March 2017

  Cover Image and Design By: Mel Pahl of IndieVention Designs.

  Editing By: Asli Fratarcangeli

  Because without you so many books and chapters would have been deleted so many times it really isn't funny. I have fallen apart a lot over the last eighteen months. I continually agonize and spend a lot of time overthinking and questioning every decision I make, and you are the glue that has held me together. Without You I'd have lost my mind almost daily. Thank fuck for finding that savage, badass bitch you share a brain with, because I'd be lost as fuck without your ass! Your greedy ass claims all my men, and yes, you earn that shit in spades. So get out your stamp pad and mark those fictional asses, babe.

  Xoxo

  Introduction

  Loading the clip into the gun, dark eyes look my way. “Are you sure you don’t want to be the one to do this?” he asks, jerking his chin in the direction of the man tied to a chair, weeping uncontrollably, across the room. “You have every right to want vengeance for yourself.” Taking a step back, I shake my head. Reaching out, he gives my shoulder a reassuring squeeze and nods. “If you’re sure.”

  “I’m sure.”

  Sitting on a metal folding chair, I can do nothing other than watch the scene as it plays out before me. I expected to feel satisfaction once we had finally gotten our man. I actually counted on it. Much to my surprise, even while George Vaughn pleads for his life, through the gag, I feel absolutely nothing. His words could carry no weight in changing our minds. There is nothing he could say to earn one ounce of compassion or pardon, after his betrayal.

  His fate was sealed long before today.

  “I learned many things from your father. Nothing can be gained without loyalty and trust,” he explains, moving toward George. “Those two qualities are how you build an unbreakable chain. And when you find a weak link, it must be—,” with a click, the safety releases on the gun, “Removed.” Another click follows when the bullet is pushed into the chamber. George’s whimpers and sobs grow louder and louder, echoing off the walls of the soundproof room, as he fights against his restraints.

  "You have disappointed me." The frigid bite in his voice, as he speaks to Vaughn, is one I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy. But, for those who have rightly earned it, it is the last four words they will ever hear.

  The gun discharges, blood and brain matter spray the wall and floor. Vaughn’s cries cease, his body going limp.

  “Clean this up,” the voice booms throughout the room, causing the two men in the corner to nod and immediately jump to attention. “I want this piece of shit out of my sight.”

  Blowing out a shaky breath, I stand to my feet. Squaring my shoulders, I force myself to meet his eyes. “What now?”

  Placing the gun on a small table, he straightens his suit jacket and tie as he steps out of the way of his clean-up crew. "Now,” he replies, a sinister smile spreading across his face, “The real fun begins."

  Chapter One

  Roanne

  Twisting the door knob slowly, I tip toe inside and quickly close it behind me. Scanning the foyer, I head for the staircase, wanting nothing more than a shower and to sleep for the next eight hours.

  “I’ve been expecting you, Roanne.”

  Jolting in surprise, I drop my shoes to the marble tile, the sound echoing off the walls. “Morning, Daddy,” I gasp, spinning on my heel to face him. “You’re up early.”

  “And you’re up late,” he replies, his big form filling the doorway that leads to his study. Scratching his salt and pepper goatee, he shakes his head in disapproval. No doubt, my strapless, little black dress is too short for his liking. “Haven’t you tired of these foolish games? Staying out all night is no way for a twenty-six-year-old woman to carry on.”

  “Actually, that’s how most single women, in their twenties, behave,” I reply, rolling my eyes. Bending at the waist, I pick up my shoes. “I don’t feel much like arguing this morning.”

  “You’re a Frazier,” he replies, straightening his dark blue tie. His thick Irish accent more prominent by his frustration. “With that name comes a level of responsibility. Xander and I built this company, this life, with the intentions of passing it on to our children to run someday. I sent you to that art fundraiser, in Knoxville, expecting you to represent Frazier Stone, not be out all night doing God knows what. Your behavior, as of late, is rather,” he clears his throat, “disappointing."

  The word disappointing shoots from his mouth like an arrow, wounding me just as he intended. My hurt quickly turns to anger as my thoughts quickly move to wanting to return fire. “Who said anything about throwing my life away?” I ask, becoming defensive. “I don’t have a choice in this, do I? I didn’t ask for this name, or this life,” I add in exasperation. “I also never asked for all your hopes and dreams to be forced down my throat at every turn.”

  “It is the hand you’ve been dealt, my only daughter. Be grateful for what you’ve been blessed with, instead of being hell bent on fighting a battle you cannot win. We do not complain about our obligations. We simply do what must be done.” Blowing out a breath, he checks his watch. “We will have to talk more about this later, Ro. I have to go meet with an associate in the city.”

  “Can’t wait,” I deadpan, wishing I hadn’t come home at all.

  “Don’t be sour with me,” he scolds, stepping closer. “The last thing I wanted was to quarrel with you this morning. I only want what’s best for you.”

  “I know.”

  “Gach mo ghrá, Ro,” he whispers, pressing a kiss to my forehead, the prickly hairs of his goatee tickling my face. “All my love, sweet girl.”

  “I love you, too.”

  He smiles apologetically. “Book us somewhere for dinner. Anywhere you want.”

  Releasing his hold, he quickly exits through the front door. Dropping my ass down onto the steps, my heart sinks. I hate fighting with my father, but it seems to happen more and more often, lately. The last few months, he has been bound and det
ermined to begin preparing me to take over the thriving empire he began building with his best friend, Alexander Stone, before I was even born. But, only on his terms. Every waking moment, he is pushing information down my throat, or introducing me to clients and business contacts, in the hopes that it would spark interest.

  It hasn’t, but he refuses to give up.

  And I refuse to go willingly.

  I run my life and won’t be railroaded into living someone else’s dreams.

  Being that I am his daughter, he should expect stubbornness to come along with the territory. It runs in the bloodline. Just because he demanded I attend the same Ivy League college he did, simply for the business connections I would make, instead of the actual degree framed on the wall, doesn’t mean that I don’t have dreams and aspirations of my own. I could never be happy sitting behind a desk, in a corner office. I long for something more, to find my passion in life. Something that will set my soul on fire and fill the void I feel inside me that grows larger every day.

  Maybe, at dinner tonight, I can get him to see reason.

  Just as I push to my feet, a loud blast knocks me off balance, sending me onto my ass. “What the hell was that?” I yelp, wincing as my head and ears begin to throb painfully. The vase of fresh flowers, on the table at the bottom of the steps, crashes to the floor, shattering. Slipping on my shoes, I stand and quickly begin to navigate the broken glass and lilies littering the now wet marble flooring as I head for the door. Stepping out onto the porch, I see several neighbors running down the street toward the gates of our community.

  Black smoke billows into the air as flames lick the sky. I blink again and again, unable to believe my eyes. “No!” I scream, bolting down the walk towards the street. The sight of my father’s fully engulfed Mercedes, just outside the gates, shreds me to the bone.

  Strong arms wrap around my middle, yanking me back. A male voice says something, but I can’t understand the words through the ringing in my ears.

  “No, no, no,” I cry, shaking my head. “Let me go!” Fighting to get free, I shove at the man’s arms, only to lose my footing on my shaky legs. “Dad!” Collapsing to my knees on the street, I clutch my chest, screaming in agony as I watch the fire rage through my tears.

  Though my world feels as if it has stopped, everything around me seems to be running on overdrive. Quickly, I am helped to my feet and moved from the street. Sitting down on the grass, I feel a numbness begin to wash over me. Every move of my hand, each breath, feels controlled and almost robotic.

  Once authorities arrive on the scene, an officer begins asking me questions, as I am escorted to an unmarked police car. While firemen begin working to extinguish the blaze, other uniformed officers begin setting up a perimeter. Our driveway and garage are taped off, along with the charred remains of the car to preserve any possible evidence. News vans begin lining the street, outside the gates, as witnesses are being interviewed by police.

  After they get my father’s remains loaded onto a stretcher, an officer climbs into the front seat of the car I have been sitting in, for what feels like forever. Taking me down to the house, he only allows me inside long enough to get my purse before driving me down to the station so that I can give my statement.

  Pulling around back, he escorts me through a rear entrance, in an effort to avoid the media. Navigating the hallways, we step into an interrogation room where I am offered a cup of coffee, in a cheap Styrofoam cup, and instructed to sit tight before he strides out of the room, closing the door behind him.

  Being left alone in a room with nothing but the voices running rampant inside my head, is possibly the worst thing that could happen right now. Everything continues to replay on a loop in my head. I can’t stop my stomach from churning. I will be forever haunted with the fact that the last conversation I had with my father was an argument.

  How the hell is that for regret?

  Sometime later, a woman in black slacks and a bright blue shirt enters the room carrying a file and a notepad. She has her strawberry blonde hair pulled into a tight bun and wears a sad smile on her face. “Miss Frazier, I’m Detective Jackie Ashmead. I’ll be taking your statement.” Removing a pen from the front pocket of her shirt, she sits across from me and begins scribbling on the notepad. “How about we start at the beginning? You told officers you arrived home shortly before the explosion. Let’s start with that. At what time did you return home this morning, Miss Frazier?”

  Doing as she asks, I begin going through what happened, starting with when I walked through the front door. Detective Ashmead stops me several times, asking questions while she scribbles furiously on the page. “Let’s go back to when you pulled into the driveway,” she says, interrupting me for the hundredth time. “Do you remember where your father’s car was parked? Was it in the garage?”

  “No,” I reply, shaking my head. “It was in the driveway. I had to pull around it in order to park in the garage. Why? Is that important?” I ask, clueless as to what the hell this has to do with anything.

  Sitting down the pen, Detective Ashmead meets my eyes. “We found the remains of an explosive device attached to your father’s car. Do you know anyone who would want to hurt him?”

  “Like a bomb?” I ask in disbelief.

  “Has anyone ever threatened you or your father directly?” Flipping open the file, she begins to scan the page. “We will need you to make a list of anyone who would benefit from your father’s death.”

  “No one,” I choke out, covering my mouth with my hand. “He was a good man.”

  “Financially, Miss. Frazier,” she clarifies, exhaling roughly. “Business partners? A disgruntled employee or former lover? Statistics show that these things always end up being about money.”

  “Money?” I ask, gritting my teeth. “His business partner, Alexander Stone, died years ago. My father felt it would be betraying Alexander’s memory to take another. He had always meant for Alexander’s son and I to take over things. Everyone liked my father. He treated his employees like family.” Burying my face in my hands, I drag air into my lungs. “I’m sorry. This feels like a nightmare that I can’t wake up from.”

  “I understand that this must be very hard for you, Miss Frazier, but standard procedure requires that we eliminate all possibilities.” Looking up again, her blue eyes soften. “Is there someone I can call for you so you’re not doing this alone?”

  “No.” I shake my head again. “I’ll be fine. Although, if it’s all the same to you, Detective, I’d prefer you didn’t pretend you know what this feels like.”

  Shouting outside the room catches my attention, halting our conversation. Detective Ashmead and I both look over in time to see the door fly open, slamming hard against the wall. My eyes widen in surprise, my heart stuttering in my chest. Black boots, faded blue jeans and a white t-shirt beneath a patch covered leather cut all lead up to the face of the last person I expected to see.

  Jensen Stone.

  Concern fills his hazel eyes as he studies me. His dark brown hair curls over his collar and thick scruff lines his chiseled jaw. I shift uncomfortably in my seat and swallow hard.

  What is he doing here?

  “Excuse me,” Detective Ashmead says, narrowing her eyes and pushing to her feet. “Who the hell do you think you are?”

  “Jensen Stone,” he replies, his eyes not leaving mine. “Close family friend.” Rounding the table, he grabs my hand, tugging me to my feet effortlessly. “We’re leaving.” His eyes narrow as they move to the detective. “Chief McKelvy knows where to find me if he has any questions.”

  I want to laugh. Once upon a time, that statement was very true. Our parents were best friends. We were best friends. More than that, I loved him. My father even stepped in to raise Jensen after his parents died. Though he was older than me, we were nearly inseparable. However, that closeness has long since changed. I can probably count on one hand the number of times I have been this close to Jensen in the last few years. At his high school graduat
ion party, Jensen announced to everyone that he was no longer going off to college in the fall, or taking his father’s place at Frazier Stone Holdings. Instead, he was staying in Legion Falls to join the Twisted Mayhem MC. Then he walked away and left everything behind.

  Me included.

  “Well, Jensen Stone, close family friend,” she mocks him. “If you don’t mind, I’ll need to check that with the chief” Crossing her arms over her chest, she storms toward the door. “You two just hang tight.”

  “Knock yourself out, Sweetheart,” Jensen tells her, steering me toward the door. “Let’s get outta here. I hate this fuckin’ place.”

  The moment we round the corner, and step into the front offices, we are met by Chief McKelvy’s hard glare. “Stone!” he bites out angrily. Walking away from a very pissed off looking Detective Ashmead, he presses his lips into a hard line and makes his way over to us. “Goddammit. When civilians storm into my station house and start barking demands, it undermines my authority,” he grounds out low so that only we can hear.

  Jensen doesn’t waiver. Snaking an arm around my shoulders, he smirks at the silver haired old man. “Your lack of authority isn’t my problem, Chief. Maybe you should clean the donut glaze off that badge of yours and remind ‘em who’s boss.” Dropping his chin, he moves his gaze to me. “We’re done here. You have more questions, she’ll be with me.”

  “Since when is Roanne under club protection?” McKelvy asks in a hushed tone, taking the words right out of my mouth.

  Jensen’s grip on me tightens. “All that matters is that she is,” he returns, his tone icy. “Is she free to go, or you gonna hold her on suspicion?”

  Chief McKelvy shakes his head. “Roanne isn’t here because I consider her a suspect.” Moving his gaze to me, his expression becomes soft and sad. “I’m sorry about your dad. Alfred was a good man.”

  “Thank you,” I choke out, blinking back tears. “When will I need to identify his body?” I ask, the words rushing out of me on a shaky breath. The thought of seeing my father like that sends a shudder throughout my entire body.