“Shit,” Ironside muttered. “How the fuck do they know?”
Whiteshirt shook his head. “Don’t know, brother. Don’t know.”
“I’m going to give it another thirty minutes, then call it.”
“Yeah, same here. If we don’t see anyone by the time we get to the clubhouse I think we can say this was a bust.”
“Yeah,” Ironside growled. “Let me know when you reach the clubhouse. That’s when we’ll pull the plug.”
“You got it,” Whiteshirt said then hung up and looked at Skids. “It was worth a try, but I figured this wouldn’t—you missed the on ramp,” he said dryly as the entrance to I-90 passed. “You want me to drive?”
“Damnit,” Skids muttered slamming on the brakes. “Why can’t they put up a sign?” He started to backup, but a truck was approaching so he put the van back into gear. “I’ll go around the block.”
Whiteshirt chuckled, but Skids was right. A sign would be helpful. They toddled down Rockefeller, Whip ridding up beside Skids and making comic hand gestures about missing the ramp until Skids gave him the finger, causing Whitehirt to chuckle. They made a hard left onto Independence, the truck turning with them.
“That truck is still on us,” Skids said, watching in the rearview.
“Maybe he’s lost, too.” Whiteshirt suggested with a grin.
“Ha, ha, fuck you,” Skids growled, as he turned right, jostling across some tracks into a large parking lot.
“What are you doing?”
“Checking.”
Whiteshirt watched the Bronze colored Dodge turn behind them. “Okay, now it has my attention. Keep going. See if there’s another way out of here.”
“Go!” Whiteshirt barked as the truck surged forward, brothers scattering to prevent themselves from being run down as the truck rapidly closed.
Skids floored the van, but it was far slower than the Dodge and the truck was on them in a moment. The two vehicles raced across the broken pavement of the parking lot, Skids continuing on when the pavement ended, the two vehicles bucking and jittering hard as they sprinted down a narrow gravel path that paralleled the railroad tracks.
“There! There,” Whiteshirt pointed frantically to the right, back across the tracks as the road arced toward the rails. “No! Left, left, left!” he cried, spotting the heavy bar blocking the entrance to the tracks on the other side.
Skids blasted through the narrow opening, the van lurching hard as they hit something large and unseen in the thick overgrown grass. The van slew around out of control before crashing into a thick hedge of vines and small trees. They were still shaking off the crash when the van lurched again as the truck crashed into the side. Skids floored the throttle, the van howling as it dragged itself along the front of the truck before breaking free.
They raced through a coal dump then down a narrow gravel road, the Dodge close on their heels. They had nowhere to run except straight ahead, with the Cuyahoga on their left and a thick row of hedges and trees on their right, with railroad tracks on the other side.
“Get us out of here, Skids!” Whiteshirt muttered as they plunged into an area filled with huge piles of sand and gravel.
“Working on it!”
“There!” Whiteshirt called, pointing. Up ahead was pavement, and that probably meant a way out.
Skids nodded, but the much faster Dodge raced up beside them and shouldered into the rear of the van. The van began to spin, unable to hold its line in the gravel. Skids might have saved it had they not hit the hedge row, the van whipping around like a carnival ride, bouncing on its springs as it spun to a stop in a cloud of dust.
Whiteshirt and Skids began to scramble to get out of the van as the two men in the truck ran toward them, their pistols out. They could hear the sharp reports of gunshots in the distance, but of more concern was the two right in front of them. They ducked behind the dash as the men opened fire, glass from the ruined windshield falling on them, the bullets pinging and popping against the van.
Whiteshirt popped up, intending to fire back through the windshield to try to drive the men back, but before he could, his door was yanked open. He fired blindly and the man fell back just as Skid’s weapon roared, two, three, four, five shots in quick succession as he fired through the door, and he saw the man fall.
“You okay?” Whiteshirt asked.
“Yeah, I think.”
Whiteshirt stepped out of the van. His man wasn’t dead, but he solved that with a single shot to the head then wiped the glass off himself.
The two men looked the van over. It was a mess. Both sides were caved in, the front not only smashed, but shot all to hell as well, and the windshield crashed and full of holes.
“Jesus! Good thing you bought the extra insurance!” Skids muttered.
Whiteshirt began to chuckle, then heard the roar of approaching Harleys. He and Skids moved to put the bulk of van between them and the approaching riders, but relaxed when they recognized the Knights.
“Where you guys been?” Whiteshirt asked as the Knights pulled to a stop.
“Your friends here had help.”
“Where’s Club and Nickel?”
“Nickel’s down. Club is staying with him,” Hammer explained.
“What a cluster-fuck,” Whiteshirt snarled. “Anyone else hurt?”
“Just Nickel. He took it in the knee.” Hammer shook his head. “It’s bad. He may never walk again.”
“Goddamnit,” Whiteshirt muttered. They’d found their mole, but at the cost of another brother. “Let’s start getting this shit cleaned up! Skids, see if this fucker will run. We might as well use it if it will.”
***
“It’s Honey,” Whiteshirt growled from the phone. “Honey, or someone she talked to.”
Ironside felt a chill. “Were you hit?”
“Yeah. Nickel’s down, shot in the knee. Three Saracens dead, at least one more wounded. We’re performing the cleanup now.”
“Knights!” Ironside called to bring his men out of hiding, then turned his attention back to the phone. “We’ll deal with her when we get back to the clubhouse.”
“No! I’ll deal with her,” Whiteshirt snarled.
“You got it, brother.” He knew how Whiteshirt felt. If the Saracens had shown up here, he would personally fuck Peyton up for her betrayal.
“I’m sorry. I was wrong about Peyton.”
“Yes you were, but you might have been right. There was no way to know.”
“We’re good?”
Ironside grinned even though Whiteshirt couldn’t see him. “Yeah, brother. We’re tight.”
“I’ll meet you back at the clubhouse as soon as we deliver some cargo to Ellison.”
“Hang tough, brother,” Ironside encouraged, hearing the disheartenment in his friend’s voice. I’m sorry about Nickel, but it wasn’t your fault.”
“Yeah. I’ll tell Sloane that,” he said before ending the call.
“They were hit?” Jinx asked.
“Yeah. We’re going back to the clubhouse while they perform cleanup. When we get there, find Honey and sit on her until Whiteshirt arrives.”
“She’s the mole?”
“She is, or someone she talked to. Either way, we start with her.”
***
“Fuck!” Ironside snarled, rushing into the Knight’s clubhouse and kneeling over Tinker as the rest of the Knights pulled weapons and fanned out through the building. Tinker was lying in a pool of his own blood and was obviously dead. He rolled him over, grimacing at the two bullet holes in his chest.
“It’s empty!” Lolly called as the men began to return to the main room.
“Those fucking Saracens!” Ironside snarled. While the Knights had been setting the Saracens up, the Saracens had taken advantage of the trap to spring one of their own. The Knights didn’t kill women, but for this, he was going to make an exception. Honey, or whoever the mole ultimately turned out to be, was going to die.
CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT
The women were herded out of the vans and marched into the courtyard of a motel. It wasn’t the Ritz-Carlton, but it wasn’t as big a shithole as the motel they rescued Melissa from. The motel was built in a square so there was a set of rooms surrounding and overlooked a large grassy area with a pool in the center.
“What did he mean when he said he was going to initiate us?” Ava asked.
“It means we’re going to be raped,” Peyton replied. Ava went pale. “You remember those women we brought in? That’s what we have to look forward to.”
“I’m going to kill that fucking Honey,” Ava sneered. “She was the mole the whole time she was accusing you, the fucking bitch.”
“You’re going to have to wait your turn behind me.”
The women were clustered together and Andrew turned, Honey sauntering up to his side. “Welcome to your new home,” he began with a big smile. With so much fresh pussy to initiate, he was almost giddy with excitement. “We’ve cleared the motel, so there’s no help here. Feel free to scream all you want. In fact, please do.” He paused, enjoying the fear he saw in their eyes, even Peyton’s. He was especially looking forward to initiating her. “Over the next few days we’re going to show you what we do people who try to fuck us. You’re going to replace the women the Knights took from us, but to make sure you understand your place in life, we’re going to initiate you into the Saracens first.”
“Rape us, you mean,” Peyton shouted. “Rape us like the limp-dicked fuckers you are! It’s the only way you can get laid!”
Andrew smiled. “Ah, Peyton. It’s because of Peyton you’re all here.”
“Fuck you!” Ava snarled. “It’s because of Honey we’re all here. Watch your back, bitch.”
“Start with Peyton,” Honey suggested. “Peyton and Ava.”
“Which one is Ava?”
“The one who threatened me.”
He smiled. “Ava will do, but I want Peyton to watch first. I want her to watch and know she’s the one who caused all this when she talked the Knights into taking out girls. Ava’s one. Who next, Peyton? I told you that you had to choose.”
“I told you. Honey.”
Andrew smiled. “You won’t choose?” He looked to Honey. “Who’s her best friend?”
Honey smiled. “Sloane or Blaire.”
“Which one?” Peyton refused to say anything and Andrew sighed dramatically. “Alphabetical it is then. Ava then Blaire.” He smiled. “In fact I like that idea,” he said, turning to Honey. “Write everyone’s names down in alphabetical order. That way everyone will know when it’s their turn.”
Honey smiled, reveling in the power she felt. “Don’t start without me,” she purred before giving him a long, lusty, kiss then hurried away to find paper and pen.
“You better answer that,” Peyton sneered when Andrew’s phone began to ring. “You’ll probably want to find out how many men you lost.”
Andrew glared at her, but pulled his phone out. “Moore. Go.”
Peyton smiled as Andrew’s face clouded over. “Get to the motel,” he snarled then dropped his phone back into his pocket.
“How many?” Peyton smiled.
“None of your fucking business!”
“That many, huh? Didn’t get the guns either, did you?” She tsk-ed. “And to think, I warned you but you didn’t listen.”
Andrew took three steps toward Peyton and slapped her hard across the face. “You fucking bitch. I should kill you right now,” he snarled, grabbing her hair and jerking her head back.
“Go ahead,” she hissed, stoking her anger so she wouldn’t cry. “At least then I wouldn’t have to feel you touching me again.”
Andrew gave her head a jerk then threw her to the side. “I’m going to fucking break you. Five men? You’d probably enjoy being fucked by five men. Everyone is going to have a turn with you, Peyton. Everyone…and we’re not going to be gentle. We’ll see how much sass you have after that.”
She forced herself to smile, her facing aching with the burn from his slap. “I’m going to castrate you myself, you fucker.”
He smiled, his cock throbbing in excitement. He pulled his knife sheath off his belt and tossed it to the ground at her feet. “There’s your chance. Pick it up.”
She thought about going for it but knew she would be cut down on a hail of gunfire before she could even clear the knife. She kicked the knife back to him. “Offer again, when we’re alone.”
Honey returned and compared her list to the women in front of her to make sure she didn’t miss anyone, then handed it to Andrew. He snatched the paper from her. “What’s wrong, Babe?”
“There were no fucking guns! We lost three brothers, and there were no fucking guns!”
“But Whiteshirt said—”
“I don’t give a flying fuck what Whiteshirt said! After we got them stopped, Juice saw them open the van and it was fucking empty! Do you understand what I’m saying. Empty! You were played!”
Honey looked at the women standing in front of them and swallowed hard as Peyton smiled and slowly gave her the finger.
“Whiteshirt, send everyone you can spare to the clubhouse right now,” Ironside said softly.
“What’s happened?” Whiteshirt asked, detecting the stress in his friend’s voice.
“The Saracens have been here. They killed Tinker and, I’m guessing, took the women.”
“What?” he cried. “The place is empty?”
“As a dead man’s eyes.”
Ironside listened as Whiteshirt shouted orders. “Everyone will be there in twenty minutes except Snap, Nickel and Club.”
“Make it sooner if you can.” Next he dialed Peyton’s number. He knew it was a long shot, but he had to try. After it rang several times he heard her phone and followed the sound to his desk, the place she often left her purse when she was in the clubhouse.
He ended the call without a word. “Jinx! Come with me.”
He and Jinx sat down at the computer that recorded all the closed circuit television cameras mounted around the Knights compound. They watched the feeds from the various cameras, gritting their teeth as three vans rolled up to the compound gate forty minutes after they left. The driver of the first van typed on the keypad then moved forward, the other two vans following close behind.
They switched to a longer view and watched the vans pull to a stop in front of the clubhouse door. A moment later Andrew swaggered into the clubhouse and they watched as Tinker was gunned down.
“Those fuckers,” Jinx growled. “Tinker never had a chance.”
“Back that up,” Ironside said, pointing to Honey. Jinx backed the video then ran it again. “That bitch.”
After Tinker had been shot, all the women, save Honey, were clustered together, Honey standing just enough apart from the group to not be in the direct line of fire. They ran it back again, farther this time, and watched Honey. She sauntered into the main room, and though it was hard to tell from the video, the way she moved made is seem she was very pleased with herself. They let the tape run and as the Saracens entered the clubhouse, everyone except Honey seemed surprised.
“It’s Honey,” Jinx said softly.
“Yeah,” Ironside agreed as Tinker went down again. They let the tape play. There was no audio so they couldn’t hear was being said, but they could tell from the body language Andrew was feeling good about himself and everyone else, with the exception of Honey and the other Saracens, was nervous and afraid. They let the feed play until Andrew looked at the camera then pointed, the picture going dark a moment after a Saracen pointed his gun at the camera.
They switched back to the external view of the front of the clubhouse. It took several minutes, but they finally saw the women being hustled out and loaded into the vans, Honey included. Seeing Honey being put into the van like all other women gave him pause, but Ironside remembered how relaxed she appeared as the Saracens came in. No, she was their mole, but the Saracens didn’t want the women to know, perhaps wanting to see what o
ther information she could glean or to have her keep an eye on the rest of the women.
***
By the time the rest of the Saracens arrived at the motel, Andrew was in a towering rage. He’d gotten his pound of flesh in the girls, but it wasn’t enough. The fucking Knights had fucked them at every turn. The only thing that had gone right for them was hitting their fuck studio, and even that had only worked two out of three times. The cartel was crawling up his ass over payment, and every time he thought he had Ironside’s cock in a vise, he somehow managed to turn it against him and squeeze his dick instead.
CRASH: The Rogue Sinners MC Page 48
