Retaliation: A Twisted Mayhem MC Novel

by Cat Mason

  “Put your gun away and go get what we need from Al’s office. I’ll take Ro up to pack some of her shit,” Jensen says, shaking his head. Moving us inside, he releases his hold on me to close the door.

  While Schrader disappears down the hall toward my father’s study and office, I move up the staircase with Jensen glued to my side like a shadow. His eyes move through the house as we walk, his entire body seeming to be on high alert. As if, at any moment, he expects someone to jump out from behind a painting on the wall like a ninja assassin from a movie. I laugh, unable to hide my amusement. “I’m pretty sure we’re safe here,” I mutter, rolling my eyes as I step into my bedroom.

  “Believing you’re safe, anywhere, is your first mistake,” he replies coolly. Moving around me, he checks the room over again, even though I know Schrader did this moments ago. Once he is satisfied, he drops down into the large white, wing back chair in the corner, giving himself a clear view of all the doors and the large bay windows. “Safety is a feeling of ignorance. Just because you don’t see danger, doesn’t mean it’s not there.”

  “You make it sound like I’m Little Red Riding Hood and the entire world is full of Big Bad Wolves waiting to catch me off guard,” I huff, yanking a bag from the closet and tossing it to the bed. Blindly grabbing things, I begin packing, silently hoping that I get at least some of what I will need. “Save your fairy tales, Jensen. I think I’d know if someone that malicious were standing right in front of me.”

  Pushing to his feet, Jensen grabs my wrist. Meeting my eyes, he yanks me close, his jaw ticking angrily. “Wolves don’t use explosives, Roanne. These people are much worse. Believe me, the bigger the smile, the more shit a person’s workin’ to hide. Whoever’s behind this has been close enough to your dad, to you, to have been able to pull the trigger a thousand times.”

  “Are you trying to scare me?” I ask, jerking my hand from his grasp.

  “No.” He shakes his head. “Fear only feeds stupidity. Stupid people die.”

  “But you are expecting me to trust you and your club?” I ask, my words dripping in sarcasm. “To believe that everything you say is true, and then what? Hope I don’t die? Why in the hell should I believe that you’re any better than the bastards who killed my father?”

  “I’m not,” he replies, gripping my upper arms. “That evil you pretend doesn’t exist, it lives in me too. I’ve done things your pretty little mind couldn’t comprehend. When you’re a child, you fear the monsters your imagination tells you are hiding under the bed or in the closet. The real monsters don’t hide, Roanne. They’re sitting beside you in a coffee shop after selling blow at the local high school. They’re the people who smile at you on the street, but secretly plan to follow you home and slit your throat in the middle of the night because they want what you have.” Tightening his grip on my arms, he shakes me. “I’m not trying to scare you, Ro. I’m trying to wake you the fuck up.”

  “Laptop’s gone,” Schrader announces, stepping through the doorway he arches a brow at Jensen, a smirk spreading across his face before moving his eyes to me. “Did your dad take it with him?” Releasing his hold on me, Jensen exhales roughly and takes a step back.

  “Um.” Swallowing hard, I think back to this morning and shake my head. “No. Did you check the study or his bedroom?”

  “Study and office have been ripped apart,” Schrader replies. “Guaranteed the house is being watched. If Alfred didn’t have it with him, and it wasn’t blown to shit, they have it. Knowin’ that they didn’t trash the entire house, it’s a safe bet that they got what they came for.”

  “Exactly,” Jensen agrees. Walking over, he zips my bag and hauls it over his shoulder. “We’re leaving. Now.”

  “I haven’t finished packing,” I argue, realizing that I haven’t even went into the bathroom yet.

  “Make a damn list,” Jensen says, yanking me into his side and pulling me toward the door. “If it can’t be bought, I’ll send the fuckin’ prospect back for it.”

  Coming down the steps, we meet Huckleberry as he storms through the front door, gun in his hand. “Got company,” he says, jerking his chin toward the street.

  “How many?” Schrader and Jensen ask in unison. While Jensen appears completely calm, Schrader seems almost giddy.

  “Two. Maybe three,” he replies, looking at Jensen. “Car parked on the street, down a little on the left.” His eyes harden. “Willin’ to bet no one in this neighborhood drives a piece of shit junker.”

  “That’s the best news I’ve heard all day, Huck.” Moving toward the window, Schrader uses the barrel of his gun to open the curtain enough to look out. “Looks like Christmas came early this year.”

  “What are we going to do?” I ask nervously.

  “Huck, stay here with Ro. If shit looks bad, get her the fuck out of here,” Jensen says through gritted teeth. “Schrader, go out the back and circle around. Follow my lead.” Releasing his hold on me, he meets my eyes. “Keep your head down, stay quiet, and don’t give the old man any shit.”

  “Blood and bullets, motherfuckers!” Schrader shouts, heading toward the back of the house.

  Jensen shifts my bag on his shoulder then heads out the front door. Tucking me into his side, Huck moves out onto the porch and secures me behind one of the large stone pillars. Keeping his arm around me, his eyes stay locked on Jensen as he makes his way down to the driveway. Completely calm, Jensen stops beside his bike. Dropping my bag to the ground, he glances in the direction of the car and smiles. His chest rises and falls evenly, everything about him appearing absolutely calm and unaffected.

  Then his entire face changes.

  Without warning, Jensen steps into the street, striding toward the rusted out, black car. Drawing his weapon, he fires two shots, taking out the two front tires before shooting one into the windshield. The doors fly open, the men leap out and charge forward, aiming guns right back at him. “Oh my God!” I gasp, covering my eyes with both hands.

  “Wait for it,” Huck chuckles, patting me on the back.

  Peeking through my fingers, the breath lodges in my chest and my heart races. Jensen fires again, hitting the driver in the shoulder. Screaming, the man drops to his knees, the gun falling to the concrete. Two more shots are fired, coming from the far side of the house. One of the passengers takes a bullet to the head; the other collapses to the ground, wailing in agony as he clutches his blown-out knee. Stepping out from the bushes, Schrader presses his lips to the barrel of his gun before aiming it at the man again. Stepping closer, he kicks the man in the face with his boot. Taking my hand, Huckleberry leads me down the steps, laughing so hard he nearly hacks up a lung.

  “Didn’t do your homework on Rich Bitch Avenue before you brought your shit wagon to canvas the place, did you genius?” Schrader asks with a laugh. “You stick out like a junkyard dog at the country club.”

  “Suck my cock,” the man spits, blood pouring from his mouth and nose.

  “Your what?” Jensen asks with a sinister laugh. Looking up at Schrader, he shakes his head in amusement as he makes his way over to them. Grabbing the man by his hair, Jensen jams the barrel into his mouth. “I’ll give you something to suck on, motherfucker.” Squeezing the trigger, he fires, letting his lifeless body fall to the concrete.

  Jensen says something quietly to Schrader before grabbing the driver and hauling him to his feet. Pressing the gun to his back, he leads him over and forces him into the trunk while Schrader grabs one of the bodies by the legs and begins dragging it toward the car. “Gonna need clean up,” Jensen says as Huck and I make our way down to the street. “Bring the fucker back to the clubhouse so we can see what he knows. Get Doc and Hoss to handle the rest.”

  “Have the prospect help Doc clean house?” Huck asks, arching a brow quizzically.

  “Busy day, Brother,” Jensen replies, clapping him on the back. “Need all hands in.”

  “What are you going to do with him?” I ask, still trying to process the fact that I have j
ust watched two of the three men get shot to death on the same street where Jensen and I used to wait on the curb for the ice cream truck to pass by.

  Moving my way, Jensen holsters his gun. “It’s nothing for you to worry about.” Giving me a reassuring smile, he brushes the tips of his fingers over my cheek. “Let’s get you back to the clubhouse.”

  The guy who, moments ago, gunned down a car full of armed men like it was nothing, stares down at me with soft eyes. The warm hazels take me back to when we were kids playing together in my backyard. “O-okay,” I stammer, nodding my head.

  “Good girl,” he replies, a smile tugging at his lips.

  Everything about this entire day has my head spinning like an out of control merry-go-round. I have yet to process anything, but even if I tried, I highly doubt I would be able to make sense of any of it. I am completely out of my element. I think I am in some deep level of shock that is finally beginning to wear off, as the reality of how serious this situation is sets in. I have a million things that I should be doing; friends, family, and others that I should be contacting, but no idea where to start. And, according to Jensen, whoever is responsible for killing my father and setting everything that is happening into motion, is more than likely someone we know and undoubtedly have trusted.

  That thought scares the shit out of me.

  I like to think that I have good judgment. I learned how to read people from my father. He was a terrific judge of good character and kept his circle small and damn near impenetrable.

  Or so I thought.

  His death, along with everything Detective Ashmead and Jensen have said now leave me questioning everything I thought I knew about him. What on earth was my father involved in that would lead to some mob style execution like you see on television? What could he have done that ultimately cost him his life? I find it hard to believe that he was reckless enough to let someone into his inner circle who is capable of this kind of thing.

  However, that doesn’t change the fact that I will be planning his funeral in the coming days, does it?

  By the time we pull up beside the clubhouse again, there are a couple of guys standing outside surrounded by ladies in either thigh-high leather boots or insanely tall heels paired with halter tops and tight skirts that cover little more than bikinis. Their overly made up faces land on Jensen and I, as I climb off his bike. A bleach blonde, in all black, sticks out her chest and puffs her bright red bottom lip as she struts our way. “Stone,” she purrs, running her blood red nails over his bicep. “Is it my turn for a ride?”

  Standing, Jensen shakes his head. “Sorry, Miracle.” Pushing her hands away, he grabs my things from his saddle bag and wraps his fingers around my wrist. “Got business to handle.”

  Stepping into the clubhouse, he drags me toward the stairs. Walking in behind us, Miracle eyes me, arching her perfectly manicured brow as she sizes me up. “Bitch,” she mouths, fluffing her hair as she makes her way across the room to the bar.

  My blood boils. I didn’t ask for this shit from her or anyone. Balling my fists, I jerk my arm, trying to free myself from Jensen’s grasp. Tossing a confused look over his shoulder, he stops. “What?” he asks from his spot on the steps.

  “Let me go,” I ground out angrily. “I’m not a child, Jensen, nor am I business you need to handle.”

  His brow arches. “Is this about Miracle?” he asks, studying me.

  “This isn’t about her,” I bite out defensively. “This is about me wanting to be left the hell alone. I lost my dad today. If anyone, I’d think that you’d be able to sympathize.”

  My low blow lands just as I expected. Jensen releases his hold on me as if I burned him, hurt flashing in his eyes. Masking it quickly, his entire face hardens, his jaw ticking angrily. Grabbing my arm, he steers me down the steps in front of him. “You want alone time, Duchess?” Flinging open his bedroom door, he shoves me inside and tosses my bag to the bed. “You got it.”

  Before I can turn to face him, or say a word, the door slams so hard an empty beer bottle drops from the dresser onto the carpet. Picking it up, I hurl it at the wall as hard as I can. “Dammit!” I scream, throwing myself onto the bed.

  Drawing my knees into my chest, I let my emotions erupt like a volcano. As it truly sinks in how alone I have really become, in Jensen’s bedroom, I grieve for my father and cry myself to sleep.

  Chapter Four

  Stone

  Pressing my back against the wall, I close my eyes tightly and listen as Roanne sobs loudly. I can honestly say that I am surprised, and impressed, that she has held on this long before breaking down. Memories flood back from the day I lost my parents, the dull ache beginning to spread through my chest only pisses me off.

  Roanne’s cries begin to slow after a few minutes, sounding more like desperate whimpers. Locking the door, I quickly head upstairs before I do something monumentally stupid, like go back in there and comfort her. Or storm into the room, shove her to her knees, and fuck her smart mouth.

  My cock stirs at the idea of her plump lips wrapped around me as I fist her dark curls in my hands. That attitude of hers has always been a huge trigger for me. But now is not the time to act on it.

  Ignoring Miracle’s attempt to get my attention, I wave her off and head out the doors. Tonight, the release of my pent-up frustration and tension won’t come from nailing some piece of hang around pussy. It will come from blood.

  Walking across the parking lot to the club’s auto parts store, I unlock the doors and make my way inside. Moving down the hall, I walk through the storage rooms and into the back. Switching on the lights, I prepare everything I will need while waiting for Schrader and Huck to get here with the driver of the car.

  My mood increases significantly the moment the steel bay door begins to rise. Closing my eyes, I breathe deep, preparing myself for what has to be done. Opening my eyes, I square my shoulders and turn around to face them.

  Game on.

  “Name on his license is Brandon Wright,” Schrader says as he and Huck haul the man into the room. “He’s not been very talkative.”

  “Unless you count hollow threats,” Huck says, elbowing Brandon in the ribs. “Fucker’s full of those.”

  “He’ll talk.” Grabbing the large knife from the table, I smile and run the edge of the blade over my thumb. “Have a seat, Brandon. Get comfortable.”

  Dragging him over to the chair, Huck and Schrader quickly begin securing Brandon’s wrists and ankles to the heavy wooden chair beside the table. “You shoulda killed me on the street,” he spits, fighting to get free. “I’m not tellin’ you shit.”

  “We’ll see about that.” Shoving the blade into my back pocket, I pick up one of the ice picks and step closer, while Huck works on closing the door. Pressing the point to his chest, I meet his eyes. Balling his fists, he shifts his body weight, trying to move, but fails miserably. “Go ahead and fight,” I encourage him, my smile widening. “The harder you make this for me, Brandon, the more I’ll enjoy it. Tell me who sent you and, maybe, I won’t kill you.”

  “Fuck you,” he growls. “War is comin’,” he rants, fighting hard against the restraints. “It won’t end until the streets are flooded with the blood of every Mayhem member and that pretty little piece of ass.”

  “Piece of shit,” Schrader says, punching Brandon in his wounded shoulder.

  “Ah!” Brandon screams in agony, his chest heaving with his labored breathing. “Go to hell.”

  “Give me a name,” I bite out, wanting to rip his heart out of his chest and feed it to him.

  “Fuck you,” he spits, glaring at me.

  I laugh. “Have it your way.” Taking the ice pick, I ram it down through his thigh, feeling it lodge into the wooden seat. Brandon wails louder this time, his head droops. Pulling the knife from my pocket, I grip a fist full of his black, greasy hair, forcing him to meet my eyes, then press the blade to his throat. “Tell me who’s callin’ the shots, or you’ll be beggin’ me to kill you.”


  “Do what you want to me,” Brandon bites out, baring his teeth. “I’m not givin’ you shit.”

  “I see.” Releasing my hold on his hair, I walk over and toss the blade back onto the table. “How about this? Starting at your feet, and moving upward, I’m gonna shoot you, every hour on the hour. Then, I’ll take a knife and carve out every single bullet from your worthless flesh and feed them to you.”

  The color drains from Brandon’s face. “Do it,” he challenges, attempting to call my bluff.

  Yanking my gun free of its holster, I fire a round into each of his feet. His screams echo off the walls of the room as blood begins to ooze onto the concrete floor. “I don’t bluff,” I inform him, trading my gun for a serrated knife from the table. Taking a knee, I meet his now bloodshot eyes. Holding up the blade for him to see, I smirk. “It’s going to be a long night.”

  Chapter Five

  Roanne

  Rolling over, I cover my face with my hands, groaning at how puffy and swollen it feels from crying most of the night. Sitting up in bed, I open my eyes and spot Jensen sleeping in the chair in the corner, wearing nothing but a pair of blue cotton boxers. Taking advantage of the moment, I study him.

  Even in his sleep he looks so tense and conflicted.

  How did the boy who slayed dragons in my backyard, and protected me from the wasps who built nests in my treehouse, change so much? The small glimpses of who he was are nearly lost to a sea of turmoil and rage brewing within the man he has now become. Jensen sees life, and everyone around him, completely different than I do. Has that much changed since we were kids? Blowing out a breath, I shake my head.

  I guess it has…

  Throwing the blankets off my legs, I climb from the bed and head into the bathroom, quickly noticing the glass has been cleaned up from the bottle I broke. Not wanting to deal with Jensen yet, or what I am sure will be another argument, I quietly close the door and flip on the light. Quickly using the restroom, I wash my hands and face, wincing when I see the puffy red patches under my eyes. Bracing my hands on the sink, I close my eyes and breathe deeply. My head is so scattered right now; what I need most is some clarity and, hopefully, lots of coffee.