Fury (Rebel Wayfarers MC Book 11)

by MariaLisa deMora

  “Didn’t mean no disrespect, Fury.” Painter, an officer in the Cynthania chapter of Outriders, backpedaled quickly. “Not intendin’ no offense.”

  “Not sure what business it is of Outriders if I did decide to work up a charter. Not like y’all got shit all to do with anything in Fort Wayne.” Fury bent double in his chair, leaning deep to pick up his coffee mug from the floor. Lifting it to his lips, he cautiously sipped at the hot liquid. “Not like y’all got shit all to say about Diamante, period.”

  “Not true, man. You know it. We got a princess in town still. We’ll always keep tabs on Morgan’s girl.”

  “She’s shacked up with a Rebel. Y’all lookin’ to poke that Bear? Everybody knows Mason’s got a hella hard-on for Outriders. If y’all are keepin’ track of what he now considers his, that won’t go over well with him. You and I both know it.” Fury shook his head and rolled his eyes, finding it hard to believe Morgan had gone that far.

  “Still, she’s ours.” The words were said firmly, and Fury dropped his argument. No skin off my nose.

  “Heard there’s a professional guy in the area.” Not a question, but he laid the statement out, knowing Painter wouldn’t be able to ignore it if he knew anything.

  “Yeah, bastard is something else.” Painter laughed, the sound dark and fearful. “Woolfe is one scary motherfucker.” Silence then Painter offered, “They pulled him in because there’s something big going on up in Utah. Time and dime being spent up there like a bitch, and Shooter didn’t have anyone to spare to deal with that shit in the Fort.”

  “What’s going in Utah?” Eyes up, he stared at the ceiling, tracking a crack across the stained paint. “I could give a hot shit about Shooter, but Utah’s interesting territory to be claiming.”

  “Got some plans for a compound or something. They needed a show of force. Heard your boy hit the area with a hard splash, had to be expelled.” Painter chuckled, the sound grating on Fury’s nerves. “Sent him out of there like a snot rocket.”

  “My boy?” With his ties to both clubs, Fury had no idea what Painter was talking about. Gator was the only one he really claimed as a friend and brother, and he was here in Fort Wayne. At my side, like he should be. “Whachu talkin’ about?”

  “Lalo.”

  Fury didn’t try to stop the growl clawing up his throat, hearing the insane voice in a dark alley shouting, “Again!” like beating him was a thrill ride on a county fair midway.

  “Yeah, figured you’d have that response. He’s headed back Florida way, I understand.” Silence for a moment, then Painter tried to get them back on track, obviously wanting the call to end. “Like I was sayin’, Woolfe is one scary fucker.”

  Fury leaned back in his chair, taking another drink from his mug. “Any idea what he’s doin’ in the Fort?”

  “Not a fuckin’ clue. Man’s a private contractor, so you know he’s got a job or he wouldn’t be in town. My advice? Keep your eyes open.”

  Draining the mug, Fury set it on the floor and stood, pushing the chair back and out of the way, giving himself a clear view of the man handcuffed to a set of rings in the wall. “No doubt. You hear anything else I need to know, shit like what’s going down in Utah, bring it to me, yeah?” The call disconnected, and he tipped his head to the side, considering his captive. “You don’t look so fuckin’ scary to me.”

  Fury walked towards Woolfe and stopped out of reach. “You know how badly you’ve fucked up tonight? Just how fuckin’ bad you screwed up?” He paused for a breath, then blew it out slowly. “You’ve screwed the pooch, man. There are a hundred men combing Fort Wayne looking for the man in the room up the hall. Lookin’ for his woman, too. You don’t know who you took, do you?” Using the toe of his boot, he prodded the sole of the man’s foot. “Not a fuckin’ clue.”

  “My boss is the same as your boss. We do what we’re told.” Woolfe shrugged as nonchalantly as he could be with both hands anchored over his head. “Pays the bills.”

  “Bought yourself a world of pain, man. That’s Gunny. He’s an insider. A confidant to the national president of the Rebel Wayfarers. You took him from his own home.” Fury leaned down, letting his lips pull back in a feral snarl. “Brought him to my property. But that wasn’t enough. Oh, no, not for you.” He shook his head. “You had to bring his woman, too. And not only is she his woman, but she's also the sister of a friend of that same club. A friend who happens to be wooing the former president’s old lady.” Leaning in again, he clipped, “Fucked in the ass.” Straightening, he stepped back. “You’re right, though. Your boss is the national president of this club.” Fury hooked a thumb at the back of his vest. “Means I needa do what I gotta do to haul your ass outta the fire before Shooter or Morgan get wind of just had badly you fucked up on my territory.”

  At the door Fury paused and turned back, staring into the Woolfe’s eyes. “I guarantee you’re a dead man. Gunny’s insane enough to not let this go.”

  “Gunny and I go way back,” Woolfe said cockily. “He ain’t gonna do shit to me.”

  Pulling the door shut behind him, remembering the rage he’d seen in Gunny’s face as he paced in the cell Woolfe had locked him in, Fury told the empty hallway the truth as he saw it. “You’re wrong.”

  Taken

  Bethany, six months later

  Bethy yelled, lifting her voice so it echoed through the apartment as she reached down to pull her shoe on over her thick sock, “I gotta go to work. Heading to the studio, I’ll be back later.” Ty called something, the words lost in the closing of the door. Bethy was laughing as she walked out because, after almost sixteen years of living with him, she could safely assume it was a request for food. Pushing the button on her key fob, she climbed into her car and made her way through the streets of the neighborhood and out to the main road. Twenty minutes brought her to the darkened parking lot across the street from the studio.

  She was already across the street and beside the door to the studio, reaching out to unlock it before she realized she hadn’t heard the alarm on her car beep. Turning, she saw the driver door was open by a few inches, the dome light shining. “Dang it.” Back at the car, she untwisted a kink in the seatbelt, letting it ratchet back into the frame of the car. Beeping her locks, she grinned and headed back into the building, locking the door behind her.

  Cans on her ears, she was working at the mixing board when the lights went out. No flicker, no warning, just a hard cut of the electricity. Groaning as she pulled the headset off, she laid it on the console, working by feel to find the door, knowing there would be emergency lighting in the hallway. “Jesus, that was a good track, too.” She hadn’t saved her work yet, which meant everything she’d laid down was lost. “Gonna have to invest in a backup system. I can’t afford to lose work like this.”

  She didn’t hear anything except the sound of her own voice. The building was eerily quiet without even the noise of the climate control system. No fans blowing, no equipment buzzing, just silent. Pair that with her being unable to see, and she felt strangely exposed, like someone was watching her. The hair on the back of her neck stood on end, and she swung around, turning in place, drawing in breath to scream when her hand hit something unexpected. Something big, and solid, and warm. The scream never left her lungs, silenced when darkness descended.

  ***

  Terror had become a state of being. The only difference from day to day, or sometimes minute to minute, was the intensity of that emotion. She tried to keep it locked down, pushed far away. But sometimes it crept in on her.

  Bethy sat on the floor opposite the locked door, eyes closed, belly quivering with dread. She’d found if she didn’t look at him when he brought her food, she could hold onto her control a little. Even a little mattered, because he didn’t like tears. Once she looked at him, as soon as she saw his eyes, the fear would wake, curling around her throat and chest. Bethy would start to hyperventilate and would feel her heart beat in her ears. His eyes, flat and grey, as lifeless as if he were a
mannequin, but somehow familiar. Nothing else about him seemed to pick at her memories, nothing except his eyes.

  Creepy Guy, she called him in her head, having learned the first day that it didn’t pay to say anything aloud.

  She knew she wasn’t the only captive. He was holding another woman, brought in five days after he’d put Bethany into this narrow cell. The room was just wide enough for the cot and a bucket, the metal door had a window in it, meaning she could watch him through it if she wanted. Most days, she didn’t want to. Seeing him meant trying to figure out why she was here, and that led her down dark paths. Paths filled with visions of her father, and Taylor. Of Uncle Ezra, and every terror-filled night of her childhood. Plus, if she could see him, the creepy guy, it meant he might see her. He left her alone most of the time, and as terrifying as the between times were, she was certain she didn’t want him thinking about her too much.

  Bethy had heard the other woman screaming at him more than once, yelling unintelligible words with an angry, strident voice, usually after he’d been gone for a couple of days in a row. There didn’t seem to be any kind of schedule for his comings and goings. No rhyme or reason, each interval seemed erratic. He’d be here for two or three days in a row, then gone for two, then back here for a week solid.

  The first time he brought in a grocery bag of food Bethany hadn’t known to ask for water. Hadn’t understood the why, because she didn’t have enough data to know this action prefaced him leaving for an extended period. He hadn’t put any water in the bag, so all she had was the one he’d given her for lunch that day. By the time he got back two days later, she was so thirsty and dehydrated she couldn’t stand. He’d opened a bottle and poured it down her throat, uncaring when she’d choked on the unrelenting stream.

  After that, when he brought in a bag, she would ask. Polite, eyes to the floor, feeling like the kid in an old English play, asking for more. Her only objective staying alive. She forced herself to picture Michael’s face, imagine his voice telling her to stay strong, keeping him as her goal, a lodestone to lead her forwards. When I get out of here, I’m going to tell him how much I love him. Words she’d held back, never voicing them, because while he might suspect from her actions, she didn’t want him to be conflicted in any way. The Marshalls have given him a good home, and a good life. I’m so blessed they let me be part of it.

  When the man brought in a third woman, Bethy had scrambled to the window as soon as she heard the voices. Every time it happened, she was hopeful of rescue. And every time, she was also fearful he would bring his own brand of friends back with him.

  He stood the woman in the middle of the room for a long time, not letting her move. Every time the woman would lift her bound hands to try and take the bag off her head, he screamed at her, hitting himself in the face. Shouting, he’d walked the perimeter of the large space, alternately talking to the woman and ranting at no one. Aggressively attacking things in the room like the desk, he’d overturned it with a crash, and then came rattling and hammering on Bethy’s cell door while he screamed at her to get up and watch. Eventually, he seemed to exhaust the well of rage inside him and put the woman into the cell next to Bethy. The difference in sounds told her that the shouting woman was farther away, which meant he had at least three of these rooms.

  When the lights went out, she crawled onto her cot and pulled the covers to her shoulders, curling into as small a ball as she could manage. So far, she couldn’t see any way out, and without knowing why he had kidnapped her, she couldn’t figure out if she had leverage at all. Not enough data. “Tomorrow.” She whispered the single word, her voice rasping with disuse. I love you, baby boy. “Tomorrow.”

  ***

  The screaming woke her.

  It had been seven days since the third woman was brought in, and the man had been uncharacteristically quiet most of that time. He would move a stool behind the desk and sit for hours, watching. Bethy had become adept at peering through a corner of her window with a single eye, keeping him in sight while feeling hidden. She knew it wasn’t true, but as long as he didn’t glance her way, she could pretend, at least.

  Creepy Guy was the only person she’d seen in forever, and sometimes Bethy wondered if this was real. Hungry and thirsty, because he never left enough of anything for her, she felt faint a lot of the time. Maybe that’s why it all seemed surreal. The whole thing. From being in her studio one minute, to shoved into a tiny cell the next. Can this really be happening to me? People didn’t get kidnapped. That was a TV thing, done for drama, highlighted by eerie music. Here, other than the screaming woman, there were only limited noises and no music at all. Music, something she’d lived for since starting at the radio station the first day, was entirely absent. Now, yanked out of the lost space in her head, she lay on the thin mattress and listened, suddenly realizing all sound had stopped.

  Bethy climbed out of bed, barely saving herself from falling headlong over the blanket in her rush to get to the window. Cheek pressed to the cold surface of the door, she strained to see something, anything. Moving in jerks and stumbles, the grey-eyed man came into view carrying something wrapped in rags, red liquid dripping in a stuttering stream to the floor. He was coming from the direction of the farthest room. The screaming woman’s room. The screaming woman who was quiet now, silent as the…Bethy shook her head, not willing to finish the thought.

  ***

  Hands over her ears, Bethy sat with her back against the door, trying to hide from the window as best she could. Not that she expected the grey-eyed man to come for her. Not after what she’d heard.

  He’d done something unexpected today.

  Bethy had been seated against the back wall when her doorknob rattled. Then she heard the latch make a clicking sound. That snick of metal sliding against metal terrifying because she never knew what it preceded. Would it be food and water? The hook on a stick to carry her waste bucket out? The dismembered hand she’d watched him toying with for most of a day? Death on two legs? Lowering her chin, she’d closed her eyes and waited for the sounds that normally accompanied him opening the door. Waiting. Maybe today would be when he came for her, like he had the screaming woman.

  But, nothing happened. For minutes she’d sat there waiting, and nothing happened.

  Eyes flicking open, her gaze had landed on the door that stood slightly ajar. Traced up and down the narrowest sliver of light that eased in around the edges. Waited for something to happen. This isn’t right. Her door had always been locked from the outside. Always. Unless he was standing in the doorway with a bottle of water to throw at her, or shoving in a box of tasteless food. Always.

  Noises had filtered in, tentative footsteps. No voices. The silence had been nearly suffocating.

  When Bethy had stepped through the open door for the first time in nearly a month, she had seen two women. He’d come back a day ago with a fourth woman, locking her in the cell on the other side of Bethy’s. And now, it had looked as if they were being released. That didn’t make sense. Her mind had screamed at her, warning of a trick and she’d looked around, finally finding him perched on his stool in the shadows. Then the third woman had shocked her by knowing her name. “Bethy,” she’d whispered, and Bethy had nearly given herself whiplash turning to stare at her. Then the woman told her an impossible truth, something the woman had clearly believed, and fit the few facts Bethy had put together, that this had to be tied to Davy somehow.

  “I’m Willa, Mason’s girlfriend. You’re his sister, Bethany.”

  Jesus. Just remembering it gave her chills.

  Things had happened fast, after that. He’d come close, talking to Willa like he knew her, and Bethy believed he did, because Willa had accused him of kidnapping her, comparing it to something in the past. She’d named the man, Luke Judge, and had put herself between where Bethy and the other woman stood and him as he approached. Protecting them. Davy’s girlfriend.

  Then Judge had gone crazy. Crazier, she thought, pressing her palms tighter to
the sides of her head. He’d ordered her and the other woman back into their cells. For a moment, Bethy had thought about rushing him. Then he had his hand on Willa’s throat, had lifted her to her toes, choking her. He’d have killed her. In the few seconds of indecision, Willa’s struggling had already gotten weaker, her hands gripping his wrists instead of fighting him. So, Bethy had stared at the other woman. Then they had both backed through the open doors, pushing them closed.

  But he didn’t stop choking Willa, hadn’t stopped. Bethy thought he was going to kill her, no matter they’d all complied with his demands. Yelling, screaming like she hadn’t done since the first few days in her cell, Bethy had pounded on the glass. Little smears of blood attested to how hard she’d pounded, hoping to get his attention, hoping to make him stop. I tried to save her, Davy.

  Then he took Willa into her cell, and it wasn’t long before the other noises started. The ones that had driven Bethy to cover her ears. She’d been sitting like this for hours. A lifetime.

  The sound of a gunshot ripped through the air and Bethy screamed, crossing her arms over her head. “Oh, my God. She’s dead.” Bethy didn’t recognize her own voice. “She’s dead.” Holding her breath, she swallowed a scream, her head repeating the words she wouldn’t allow from her mouth. She’s dead. She’s dead. Davy’s girlfriend. She’s dead.

  Nothing happened for a long time, minutes ticking past while she waited for Judge to come for her. He had already killed the second woman, Bethy believed that because the woman had never been quiet, not for this long at least. He’s coming for me. She’s dead, and he’s coming for me. She swallowed. I love you, Davy. Love you, Ty. She swallowed again, tears wet on her cheeks. I love you, Michael. My son. Please know I love you.

  Shouting, yelling and screaming, her relief at recognizing Willa’s voice countered by Judge’s angry shouts which were so loud they sounded like he was right on top of her, and Bethy cowered on the floor. Then another gunshot. Hands pressed against her mouth, Bethy kept herself from screaming, repeating her litany of love. Davy, Ty, Michael, I love you. A noise, and for a moment she thought she’d blacked out. Derek, I love you. The door behind her pushed open, and she sprawled on her side, hands lifted to fend off the bullet she knew was coming.