Unbreakable: Unrequited Part Two (Fallen Aces MC Book 2)

by Max Henry

  FOURTEEN

  King

  “How long is this going to take? I’ve got somewhere to be tonight.” I glance down at my phone, counting the minutes until I need to haul ass to the location Sully texted me.

  “Somewhere more important than this?” Hooch asks.

  “Better believe it.”

  He eyes me curiously, and then starts toward the building with a huff. Asking anybody at the clubhouse about what we wanted to know would have been sure suicide, especially when Apex is itching for a reason to strip me down and send me packing. Next best way to find out why the hell the Fallen Aces didn’t go after blood back in ’97? Ask somebody outside the club who was there.

  “What’s this guy’s name again?” I ask.

  “Devon,” Hooch answers as he looks over the orange brick façade of the downtown bar. “Old man said he’s the only living brother who was there that night, who’s no longer patched.”

  No patch means the guy’s more likely to talk out of turn and unbiased. “And we’re sure he’ll give a bunch of fuckin’ preschoolers a history lesson?” I indicate to our rag-tag pairing, young and baby-faced compared to the likes of this man if he’s anything like Hooch explained on the way over.

  “Won’t give him an option.” Hooch smiles and shrugs. “In you go.”

  Hooch holds the door open and I cross the threshold into the dimly lit, smoky premises. The dull warble of a racing channel filters from the far corner of the establishment, and around a dozen aged and weary faces all stare somberly into their ales. A couple of silver-haired gentlemen watch as we pass by and head down to the booths at the back to a man wearing a Trilby and sharp-collared business shirt. If it weren’t for the tattoos that bleed out from his cuffs and collar, I would have thought we had the wrong guy.

  He lifts his head from the newspaper spread out on the table and tilts his black-rimmed glasses down his nose to get a better look at us. “Finally come to collect, huh, guys? Took a while.”

  I tip my head to the side while Hooch shakes his. “We’re not here to finish you off,” he reassures. “Got some questions you might be able to answer.”

  Devon leans back in his seat, his elbow braced on the low back of the vinyl-covered cushion, and truly looks us over for the first time. “Ah, so you’re some of them.”

  “Who?” I ask as I lower myself onto the edge of the booth seat opposite Devon.

  “Young blood wondering what it is your elders aren’t tellin’ you.”

  Jesus—were we that transparent? “Somethin’ like that,” I say. “Are you goin’ to help us, or should we save ourselves the effort and walk out now?” I lean back and cross my arms over my chest, well aware I’m not coming off as friendly in any way. Good. I don’t have time to fuck around today.

  Devon eyes me with a small smile. He’s pegged me as the one in charge of this crusade given the way he stares deep into my eyes, challenging my bravado. “How about you ask the questions, son, and we’ll see which ones I answer?”

  Hooch makes a move to sit, yet stills when Devon holds a hand up, tsk-ing at him.

  “I bet you’re both thirsty, am I right? I know I could use a refill.”

  I roll my eyes. Hooch grumbles on his way to the bar.

  Devon calmly lifts the sides of his newspaper and folds it neatly along the creases and sets it to one side. My skin itches. My impatience grows by the second as he carefully, and purposefully lays out cardboard coasters for our drinks. His lips are curled on one side the whole time; the asshole takes great pleasure in fucking us around, that’s for sure.

  “Where you in a hurry to get to?” he asks, avoiding eye contact as he fusses to make sure the coasters are in a perfect square. “You’re as jittery as a June bug.”

  “People to see.”

  “Other than me?” he queries. “My, you are busy.”

  “Cut the crap,” I snap. “Why’d you leave the club?” His attitude doesn’t lend to me wanting to trust him. His answer to the most important question will be the only thing that sways me the other way.

  “When your VP shoots your dog because you refuse to come in for a bullshit meeting to promote him to president, and then holds the gun to your daughter’s head next as extra persuasion, a man can become . . . jaded,” he explains as Hooch returns with three beer necks jammed between his fingers.

  “You didn’t agree to his promotion?” I ask.

  “Nobody did.”

  “He’s talkin’ about Apex, right?” Hooch asks, catching up on what he’s missed.

  Devon nods. “I am.”

  “It’s fucked,” I huff out. “I never heard anything but good shit about him when I signed up. I looked up to the asshole once. How do I know you’re not twistin’ history to suit you?”

  Hooch shakes his head and places his bottle back on the table. “You only heard the highlights, King, because that’s what Apex wanted you to hear—only the good stuff. He’s been an asshole for years.”

  “What do you know about this?” Devon asks.

  Hooch turns to face the old guy properly, and Devon slowly nods his understanding. “I see it now. You’re Judas’s boy, right?”

  Hooch tips his chin in acknowledgement.

  “Fuck. You were a chubby little toddler in your mother’s arms when I saw you last.”

  “Time flies, huh?”

  Devon takes a swig of his beer and removes his Trilby. “How can I help you boys then?”

  “Denver, ’97,” I state. “Why didn’t our club retaliate?”

  A slow smile spreads over the old guy’s face. “Good question. I can’t tell you why they chose not to, exactly.”

  Hooch sighs and swipes his drink up in frustration. “Here I was thinkin’ this trip was goin’ to be worth my while.”

  Devon holds up a hand, shushing him. “I never said I didn’t know anythin’ about it, just that I don’t have the definite answer.” He settles his elbows on the table, the tattoos most of the lifers have clear on his right fingers: club, spade, diamond, and heart. “I can, however, give you the rundown on what happened before and after that night, which you may or may not have use for.” He grins. “You boys know much about Apex’s old lady?”

  “Only that we never see her,” I answer.

  Devon lifts his eyebrows as though to say “I know.” “There’s a reason why she’s always at home, never around.” He takes a sip of his drink for dramatic effect. “You boys know that Apex has a son as well?”

  Our jaws hit the table. “Say what?” How did I not know that? Does anybody at the club know?

  “Yeah. Should be about your age by now. Would have been next in line for that gavel your president loves to keep under his pillow at night, but a little ‘argument’ fucked that up for him.”

  The pair of us stare at this relic of our club’s hey-day, waiting on the best part of the story.

  “He met his old lady when he was propsectin’ for the Blood Eagles.”

  All color drains from my body. I swear I can feel the temperature change as the blood sinks to my toes. “He what?”

  “Bet you didn’t know that, huh?” Devon tips his drink at us, and then downs a healthy gulp.

  “He kept that quiet,” Hooch muses. “I don’t even think my old man knows that.”

  “Not many people do,” Devon confirms. “Only me, Hammer, and a couple of the lifers in each club. Your pres pays a pretty penny to keep it that way, too.”

  Explains some of the Aces financial troubles, then. “Why keep it a secret until now, though? Members prospect for different clubs all the time.”

  “That they do. But they don’t start a blood war when they leave.”

  “What you on about?” Callum narrows his gaze on the old guy. “You sayin’ that this shit with the Eagles started before Denver because of Apex? That it never really ended?”

  Devon simply bobs both eyebrows, twice.

  So much makes sense now: the connections between him and the Eagles, his reluctance to let anyone in
on what he’s doing. “Still doesn’t explain why there was no retaliation in ’97.”

  “Because in ’97,” Devon explains, “his old lady was still living with the enemy.”

  Hooch squints and cocks his head to the side as he shakes out a smoke. “Come again?”

  “Apex left. Got kicked out. His old lady? Her daddy was the then VP for the Eagles. Your beloved leader stuck his fuckin’ dick where it wasn’t welcome, and they both paid the price for it.” Devon wiggles his fingers, indicating he’d like a cigarette. “She was promised to the then president’s son. The officers were tryin’ to keep Eagles blood true, ensuring that the kids who grew up to take the place of their parents were pure-bred Scandinavians, just like their moms and dads.”

  “Sounds fucked up to me,” Callum mutters.

  “Nothing short of it,” Devon agrees, taking the light Hooch offers.

  I pull my pack out as well, the urge for something to calm my angered nerves strong. “The clubs split them up, then?”

  Devon nods, the end of his smoke burning bright. “Uh-huh. Sent him packing with the express condition that he never contact her or see her again. When the Eagles found out she was pregnant with his kid, he was exiled from the entire state. If the Aces rode to an inter-club rally that the Eagles were attending, he wasn’t welcome. The Aces knew that, and so he was never made an officer to ensure he had no reason to attend.”

  “But how did he become pres if he was never optioned?” Hooch asks.

  “We were told he was sponsored into a role, and that his loyalty to the club when Denver happened was why he was a shoo-in to make president when his predecessor died,” I fill in.

  “Know how the predecessor died?”

  “Accident. Nothing out of the ordinary.”

  “Wasn’t it?” Devon asks, his eyebrows raised as he takes a long pull of his smoke.

  This shit’s just getting more and more absurd. “So back to Denver,” I prompt, keen not to spin off onto another story that could make this conversation last all night. “Why no comeback?”

  Devon pulls in a deep breath and rolls his shoulders back. “His old lady, right? She’s still living with her daddy at the Eagles compound. That ambush went down, completely condoned by the officer of the club, and stirred things up. Apex catches wind of the Aces decision to hit the Eagles clubhouse at night, and understandably, flips.” He runs the side of his finger along his lips before he continues. “He talked to one of the officers, the road captain, his friend, and managed to spin enough of a fucking Romeo and Juliet sob story that the officers on the trip convened and decided to go in a whole other direction—got his woman out, along with their kid.”

  Fuck. He was me. Apex was me. So why the fuck is he so hell-bent on not helping out?

  “Anyway,” Devon says with a sigh. “Whole thing went pear-shaped. The boys—me included—got busted after we cut through their fence. She was supposed to sneak out with the kid, but she ran at us like a fucking banshee, screamin’ that they had the boy and they wouldn’t give him up. Yeah, we got him out as well, somehow managed to get away without anyone dying, but the Eagles pres had delivered one final blow before they let that kid loose.”

  “A permanent reminder?” Hooch hazards a guess.

  Devon nods. “Kid was walking toward his momma when one of the brothers pulled a steel baseball bat out from behind his leg and swung one hell of a home-run into that boy’s back. Kid never walked again. Spat all hope Apex had of him riding a bike out the window.”

  “Doesn’t stop him being a member, though,” I muse. “So what if he can’t ride?”

  “The kid had surgery eight times over the next two years to fix the splintered bits of bone that were floatin’ around the kid’s spinal cord. One of them had complications. He got an infection in his blood, straight up the spinal cord to his brain.”

  “Fuck,” Hooch utters, pre-empting what we all know Devon’s going to say next.

  “Yeah. Kid’s a vegetable.”

  I push my beer away, my stomach too unsettled to even think of adding to it. “If the Blood Eagles fucked him over so bad, then why the fuck is he tryin’ not to go to war with them now?”

  “You at war again?” Devon asks.

  “Should be,” I answer.

  Devon huffs out a heavy breath, shaking his head as he turns his bottle between his hands. “If he’s anything like he was when I left that fucking bunch of sheep—no disrespect—he’ll be avoiding the chance that somebody else delivers his final blow. That president of yours has a grudge the size of Mexico on his fucking conscience. If somebody fucked up your life, your family that much, what would you want to do?”

  I stare at the guy as he waits on our answer, my thoughts on Carlos, Elena, the hate I have toward that fucking asshole for holding her captive. “I’d want to kill him slowly and with my bare hands.”

  “Exactly.” Devon nods once. “You’d want to be the sole deliverer of that fucker’s final minutes on this God-damned earth, wouldn’t you?”

  Too fucking right I do.

  FIFTEEN

  Elena

  “Don’t forget about the sniper, Elena.”

  I release the catches on the window, giving up on my efforts to make them budge, and cock my head in Carlos’s general direction. “It’s still a better choice than going with you.” He hasn’t moved from the far end of the hallway.

  “I’m tired of this.”

  “And you also still don’t have the balls to step foot in here, so what are you going to do other than wait it out like a good little boy scout?” Last glimpse I got of him, he’d removed his shoes. Either he’s getting himself comfortable, or he’s silently freaking out being here. I’m tending toward thinking the latter.

  “Rage can make people do funny things, and you’re making me very angry.”

  I’m supposed to be scared by his words, but they don’t panic me. Thinking I’ll never get off this damn property alive is what scares me. I haven’t had a chance to live my life yet. I’ve sacrificed and served from when I was a child, helping Mama, looking after Papa, and now bending to Carlos’s will. When do I get a chance to decide how my days are spent, and with what my future will hold?

  I stare out the window at the guard tower and the man whose rifle permanently rests in my direction. There’s little to no cover between the window and the fence; the lawns are vast and wide. I’ve been testing the guard’s tendency to shoot at me for the better part of half an hour now. He doesn’t seem intent on doing much unless I actually get out; only when my hands ret atop the latches does his little red dot find my chest.

  “Don’t you have guests to entertain?” I snap at Carlos. There has to be another option for escape.

  “I’m sure they’re entertaining each other.”

  A shudder ripples through my body at the visual. My hormonal bladder’s fit to burst again, so I make my way through to the bathroom and set about rectifying the issue. Avoiding my less-than-stellar reflection in the mirror, I cast my eyes over the ornate tiles that are speckled in between the plainer, standard white ones. They appear like any other mosaic design, but then again, this is Carlos Redmond’s house, so I could place money on them being worth more than the average weekly wage, each.

  Finished, I stand and shake out my bunched dress. My hands fall limp when I spot something that’s escaped my notice until now. Stepping toward the frosted shower wall, I pull the wide door open, my jaw slack as I stare at the answer.

  A window.

  I didn’t see it last time because of the frosted shower stall, but there above the feature tiles on the longest wall is a wide, short window. I reach up and hook my thumbs under the latches to discover that they aren’t locked. My heart pounds a beat to rival a sprinter’s footfalls, but there’s only one problem.

  Well, two.

  The window is short and narrow, and I’m a full-grown woman with a baby bulge hindering my chances.

  Secondly, the latches pivot outward in an arc, and whilst
they open, the window would never actually come unhinged. I’m going to need tools.

  “I won’t wait forever,” Carlos calls, his voice smaller through the obstruction of the bathroom door.

  My frantic hands pull open the vanity drawers carefully so as not to make much noise, one by one, searching for anything that could be used as a screwdriver or even to apply leverage against the hinges. Predictably, they’re all empty. Think, Elena. Think.

  The picture frames.

  I edge the bathroom door open and come to a grinding halt when I realize that to get to the pictures, I have to cross past the open doors and therefore attract Carlos’s attention.

  “If you can’t be bothered waiting,” I reply to his earlier statement, “then why not send somebody else in to get me?” I use the pause before his answer to check out how he’s positioned.

  “Nobody is allowed in here except me.”

  He’s seated with his back to the wall that runs the length of the hall between his position and mine, his arms hooked over his knees. A sheen covers his pale skin. He’s not coping with this well at all.

  “And yet you can’t bring yourself to move past where you are. Why?” I dash across the doorway while his face is buried in his knees.

  “The memories were good up to that night. Why taint them with who I am now?”

  “You’re no different to who you were then, you realize?” I collect up as many frames as I can hold in my arms, not wanting to risk the need to come back for another.

  “Is it that hard to believe that I was once a loving, adoring husband and father?” He laughs bitterly.

  I set the frames in my right hand down on the bed quietly, and pull open the drawer of the nightstand to check just in case they have something more useful. “Yes, it is. But surely I could be forgiven for that considering our history.”

  There’s a pause before his reply, enough to have my lungs constrict with the idea he might finally be on the move. His husky response drifts to where I am, collecting the frames again after finding the drawer empty. “You’re a lot like her, you know.”