Stormy's Thunder: Satan's Devils MC Utah

by Manda Mellett

  “Gave?” he chuckles. “Admiral Hillier gave me your name. My boys did the rest.”

  “You have my military record?” I’m incensed. Hanging by my sides, my hands clench.

  “I… obtained it… yes. I like to know who I’m bringing into my team.”

  There’s a security breach somewhere, but now’s not the time to assess what it means for my future, nor what I can do to prevent it happening again, though you can bet I’ll be looking into that later. I concentrate on what Hound’s just said instead. “Team?” I scoff. “Your criminal crew, you mean.”

  “Will you sit the fuck down?” Snatcher suddenly thunders, clearly losing patience. “Listen and learn, asshole.”

  So I’m an asshole, am I? Talk about how to get a man on your side. I’m not impressed. If it wasn’t for that gun facing me, I’d already be out the door.

  “What have you got to lose?” Hound asks in a more reasonable tone. “I can’t force you to join the MC, but give me a few moments of your time, and you might find I’ve got something you need.”

  I very much doubt it. But we’re at an impasse. They don’t intend to let me go without me hearing what they have to say. Will they let me go at all if I say no? Again, I eye the door, the VP has positioned himself in the way, but even if I take him down, what would I find were I to escape? A bunch of other thugs waiting for me?

  “If I’m not interested, I’ll be free to leave?”

  “Sure.”

  Since Pooh died and my discharge, I haven’t had much to live for. I consider my chances and believe them to be good. I could probably take the VP, get his gun, shoot Hound—assuming he too isn’t armed—and make my escape. If the rest of the outlaw club were waiting for me, well, I’d go down in a blaze of glory. At least I wouldn’t have nightmares about Pooh anymore. Maybe I’d end up sharing a beer with him in the afterlife. Not that I believed in such things, and if I did, I’d probably be headed in a different direction. Pooh was a good man, far better than me.

  A few more seconds tick by, then, I do sit, folding my arms across my chest.

  Hound slides a file my way, keeping his hand on top for a few seconds. When he pushes it the final inch and moves his fingers away, I wonder whether I’ll find an inventory of guns, or details of the movement of drugs inside. If I do, once I’m out of here, if I’m still alive, I’ll make sure I get the information into the right hands.

  Opening the file, however, I find it doesn’t hold what I expect. Instead, the first page is press cuttings of a case that was in the news—the kidnapping of the daughter of a CEO of a major company. I remembered hearing about it on the news. She’d been returned, unharmed, extracted by the feds I’d assumed.

  Why have they shown it to me? There’s only one answer that occurs to me. “You want me to kidnap her again?”

  Snatcher snorts. “It was fuckin’ hard enough for us to get her back the first time.”

  My brow creases. “You’re trying to get me to believe you rescued her?”

  Neither man agrees nor disagrees. I start flicking through the file. One by one, kidnap and extortion cases emerge. A few where the kidnap was thwarted, some, like the first case, where the kidnappee was returned unharmed.

  When I reach the end, Hound starts, “I run this MC. We ride motorcycles and live life free, just like the rest of the Satan’s Devils Chapters. We run an auto-shop and fix cars and bikes. We live outside the law, but that doesn’t mean we’re criminals. You join us? You’ll be joining a team. We can give you a place to live and a reason to stay alive.”

  That hasn’t told me a lot, nor why the admiral pointed me their way. Had he thought I was already a lost cause? Perhaps I should tamp down my disquiet for now and find out more. “You want me, why?”

  “Whether I want you or not is to be decided. You’ve got skills I can use, there’s no doubt about that, but we don’t take just anyone in. You don’t walk in and start working with us. First, you have to prove yourself. You’d prospect for two years.”

  Fuck that. I’ve proved myself worthy of wearing the Trident which should be more than enough. I’ve done my time. “Not interested.” I close the file, pushing it back across the table.

  “Afraid of hard work?” Snatcher sneers. “In that case you’re probably right. You wouldn’t be a good fit for us.”

  “No harm no foul.” Hound gives a smile so lacking in warmth I’m hard pushed not to shiver. “We’re offering you a chance to fight these types of crimes, but if it doesn’t interest you, you best be on your way now.”

  Fight crimes? Not commit them? It seems unbelievable, but a strange reluctance has me hesitating to get to my feet. He notices. “I presume you’ve got other options, of course you would—a SEAL like yourself.”

  “I’m not a SEAL,” I spit out through gritted teeth. It’s the truth, but the truth often hurts.

  The man in front of me sighs. “You would be to us. Obviously, not in name, but I can offer you work that uses the skills and training you have.”

  “I can kill a man with my bare hands.” I remind them just what I’m trained for. “Blow up buildings.”

  “And make computer systems jump through hoops. Clearly you’re in high demand.” I don’t know why Hound shakes his head. Is he disappointed?

  The image of me washing cars for a living comes into mind. If I walked out now, that might be all I can find. If I stay here, I might have to clean the member’s bikes, but hell, is there really much difference? I’ve always counted myself as an upright member of society, doing more than most to protect America and her way of life. I loved and served my country.

  What have I got to show for that? Would anyone notice if I continued to walk the right side of the line? Is that a kernel of excitement I feel inside thinking about crossing over to the wild side, just to give it a try?

  “If,” I start. “If I prospected and found I didn’t like it, would I be able to walk away?”

  “Of course,” Snatcher remarks from behind me. “Prospecting works both ways. Obviously you won’t know our inner workings from the start. That way if we part company, you’ve no knowledge to bring us down.”

  “So I wouldn’t know where the bodies are buried?”

  “Exactly.” Hound exchanges an amused grin with his VP.

  Criminal activities aside, I can see the logic in that. I lean forward, resting my head in my hands. I’m homeless, and my job prospects, at least for employment I actually want, are limited to none. Once again Hound seems to read my mind.

  “Board, lodging, and some dollars in your pocket. That’s what we offer. And, something to give you a purpose in life.”

  In truth, the money doesn’t have to be much, just enough to prevent me having to dip into my savings. But a purpose? That’s certainly a good carrot to toss my way.

  “I’ll be straight with you, Stormy. We get results that others can’t. Not saying we always toe the line, and sometimes darn stomp right over it, but it’s always for a good cause, never bad.”

  If I can believe him, it’s tempting. But it doesn’t tally with what I thought I knew about the Satan’s Devils MC.

  “You already ride a bike,” the VP states.

  “Rode up here on my own Harley,” I confirm, not bothering to ask him about how he knows. Nothing, it would seem, is a secret. I raise my eyes to the man seated the other side of the table.

  For a moment, neither he nor his VP speaks, giving me time to work it out in my head. “You have other members who are vets?”

  Hound nods. “The majority.”

  So my first thought about the receptionist had been right. I’ve got doubts, heaps of them, but also there’s a feeling there could be something here for me. I’m still not completely sure what I’m going to say when I at last open my mouth.

  “Mr Hound,” I address him politely. “I’m willing to relocate and give it a try. But two things, first I’m not committing to anything, not until I know what goes on in your club. Second, if there are things I’m uncomfor
table with, then I’ll walk away.”

  “Fair enough. And no need to stand on formality. The name’s Pip, or Prez to you now.” Hound, or more rightly Pip, stands and holds out his hand. “I presume you need to return to San Diego and collect your stuff. We’ll be ready whenever you are.”

  8

  Four years ago

  Stormy…

  Stretching out my long legs, I take the offered beer out of the left hand of Bolt, one of our newer prospects. His right is a prothesis, one of the standard ones, obvious as fuck and limited as to how much it will do. Unbeknownst to him, there have been conversations around the table of sourcing one of the new experimental high-tech versions for him. Pip, who I’ve learned can achieve almost anything, of course knows a man who has a prototype he’d like to have tried out.

  At a cost of course, something like that doesn’t come cheap.

  I’m always cautious when anyone new is around, but Bolt seems to be okay. He’s just completed the first year of his prospecting time, and already he’s a sure bet to be brought to the table in twelve or so months. Soon, he’ll move on from proving himself as a brother in an MC and start to learn what the Utah chapter needs. I reckon he’ll sail through. I should know. I was patched in just a year back.

  Even restricted to being one-handed, Bolt can hold his own, and I’ve seen him use his prosthesis like a club. Of course, it hadn’t been much good after that and needed to be replaced. I wonder whether he’d be more careful with a high-end model. Still, that’s in the future for now. No point investing the dollars until we’re sure he’ll patch into the club.

  Prospecting for Utah is hard and there’s no guarantee anyone will pass it. My time’s not so far in the past that I can’t remember.

  I’d come here full of doubt, emotions festering inside me, dragging me down. I thought life as I knew it was over, but I discovered it hadn’t yet begun. Like Bolt now, during my first year I’d had to prove I was loyal to the club. It was a loyalty that I was able to easily give as it turned out. My doubts and fears that the club was filled with criminals had soon been laid to rest. In fact, it was quite the opposite. It was full of honourable men, either discarded like I had been or disillusioned with trying to set the world to rights in their previous employment. Honor and Duty were ex-cops, many others, were vets like me. The one thing linking us all was a desire to be part of a team, and the knowledge that we were making a difference in people’s lives. Whether it was extracting a kidnaped person, preventing them from being taken in the first place, or helping those abused escape their circumstances and setting them up with a new life, in between missions we earned our daily bread doing other work. I split my time between doing vehicle maintenance and taking my turn in the comms room—a place filled with so much tech even the National Security Agency would be envious.

  Even though I’d had enough hazing when I first joined the Navy, I’d found it hard to plaster a smile on my face when doing every fucking thing I was asked when I first prospected for the Devils, often given meaningless tasks for equally pointless reasons. Grinch had tried the left-handed wrench ploy on me, but I hadn’t fallen for that. The request for Tartan paint had me scratching my head for a while before telling Mystic he was full of shit. But I’d persevered. My second year? Well, that was when I was honed to become the type of member this club required. It was then my commitment to the club began to pay dividends and they started to involve me on their missions. I’ve never looked back.

  I might not have been asked to blow shit up, but I had at last been allowed to put their extensive computer systems to the test. While it irked me to stay back while others walked into danger, I played the support role, providing information to those at the front line so they could do what they did best, more than once, saving their bacon.

  It had taught me not only was I once again part of a team, I was valued. When it came time for the vote, I was patched in.

  Prospecting does indeed work both ways. Not only does the club learn to trust the new recruit, the newbie, in that case me, learned where they fit. It had elevated my lonely existence to being part of something again, something I could be proud of. A member of an elite force which no one knew existed. Just like when I was a SEAL, I took pride in that, uncaring, just as I’d had then, that it would be lacking in public appreciation.

  I watch as Bolt jumps to attention when Pip walks into the room, offering him his favoured whisky immediately. Yeah, that kid is going to do well. I grin. His smile is genuine, and not faked like mine had so often been.

  My phone rings. Taking it out of my pocket, I frown. The caller is Tailor. It’s been a while since I’d heard from him. My old team had eventually taken the hint—that part of my life was behind me—and had ceased the invites to meet up whenever they were on US soil. At first it had been because I hadn’t wanted to be reminded of what I’d lost, then, as my place in the MC had been defined, I’d realised I hadn’t wanted to go back, even if the chance had been there.

  While Pip ran a tight ship, there was always room to manoeuvre. He trusted the calls made by the men on the ground, something I valued. In all the years I’ve been here, I haven’t fucked up, though I had gone against our agreed plans, but never without reason. My judgement was respected, and in return, I respected that of my new team members.

  When I finally answer the call, I soon wish I’d followed my first instinct to reject it.

  “Stormy.”

  “Well I did call your fucking number,” Tailor responds.

  “Hold on a moment. Let me go somewhere quieter.” And private. I don’t speak about my past and don’t want brothers overhearing. Once I’ve taken the stairs two steps at a time and have arrived outside, I speak again, “Long time, Tailor.” It’s been three years.

  “Yeah.” The one word hangs in the air for a moment. “Look, Stormy. I don’t know if I’m doing right contacting you, but intel’s come in and it’s not fuckin’ good.”

  “Tell me.” I glance up at the sky. Clouds are sweeping over, and in front of me a raindrop falls. As I listen to Tailor, my mood becomes darker than the weather.

  Pooh shouldn’t have died, but I’d comforted myself that at least the children he sacrificed himself for had a chance of a good life. Of course I couldn’t know what had happened to them, but when they came into my mind, I imagined them safe and back in the bosom of their family.

  What I could never have imagined was the horrific story that Tailor was telling me. I sink to the pavement, my phone still grasped in my hand, uncaring that my ass is getting wet on the damp ground.

  “A fuckin’ suicide bomber?” I repeat, hoping to fuck I’d misheard.

  According to Tailor, Nazia, one of the girls I’d rescued who’d be what, twenty-one or so now? Well, she’d walked into a busy marketplace frequented by US forces with a bomb strapped around her. That it hadn’t gone off was a matter of chance. Obviously, she’d been arrested.

  “You sure it’s her?”

  “There’s no doubt.”

  “What did the interrogator get out of her?”

  I hear a deep sigh. “That’s why I’m calling you, and why we knew who she was. All she’d say was ‘I did it for Stormy.’ She wouldn’t say another fuckin’ word.” Tailor’s voice sounds cold. “They tried to tell her you weren’t available. I don’t know if they thought about getting in touch but then she was found dead.”

  “So she wanted to die.” It’s just lucky she hadn’t taken US soldiers with her. But why? Why hurt the people who’d saved her life? When that failed, she’d topped herself. And why mention me? Could it be she’d never gotten over that night?

  “How was she radicalised?”

  “She might have always been, Stormy.”

  “Back then she wouldn’t have volunteered to have been blown up. I fuckin’ knew it, Tail. She was fuckin’ terrified. She’d tried to stay hidden.” Christ. Pooh sacrificed his life so other soldiers could die. What in the meantime had changed her mind? I’d have expected she’d st
eer clear of explosives forever.

  “Look, Storm.” Tailor breaks into my thoughts. “Whatever you’re thinking, we all understand. Maybe it’s that that’s giving me doubts.”

  “Doubts?” I almost shout. “What fuckin’ doubts could you have? She owed us a debt, yet apparently hated us.”

  “Her death doesn’t make sense.”

  What?

  He fills the silence. “She was useful alive, she still had things to tell us. You know we aren’t fuckin’ careless, we know people we catch are dedicated and promised glory in the fuckin’ afterlife, though perhaps seventy odd virgins wasn’t appropriate in her case. She was watched, man, carefully. Fact is, she was stopped from talking, and I’m not convinced it was by her own hand.”

  “What?” That puts a different complexion on it. “But she was going to blow herself up. That’s a death wish for certain.”

  “I don’t know, man. I’ve seen the footage from when she was arrested. She was shocked, but when I replayed it, I thought I saw relief. You know how it is, women are forced into this position. We can’t discount that’s what happened to her. Nor that someone got to her.”

  “She must have been guarded by US military,” I state.

  This time he lets the pause hang out before replying, “Exactly. She was.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I won’t kid you, Stormy, but I don’t either. But there’s a coincidence I don’t like. She mentioned your name, that’s how we knew her identity. Who she is, is the fuckin’ talk of the town, and you know who’s over here putting in an appearance?” I don’t, so I stay quiet. “Fuckin’ Commander Smythe. Of course he got his promotion as a desk jockey but that doesn’t stop him from throwing his weight around.”

  “He connected the dots?”

  “Oh yeah. Your name and Pooh’s is everywhere. And he’s getting mileage from saying the kids should have been left to die the first time.”