Ink's Devil: Satan's Devils MC Colorado Chapter #5

by Manda Mellett

  When I remove the man’s sock, I could puke, and wish I’d started with his hands. But trying to breathe through my mouth and not my nose, I take a strong hold of his ankle. As I’d hoped, his personal hygiene isn’t good, and he’s neglected to trim his toenails for some time and gives me something to get hold of. Yes, I might have done this a time or two before.

  “What the fuck you doing?”

  “Where’s Connor Foster? Who are you working for?” Beef’s barking questions at him. “Start talking and we’ll stop this now.”

  “I don’t know anything,” the man protests.

  Glancing at his face, I see his eyes widening as the pliers approach his smallest toe. “You can hurt me all you like. I can’t tell you what I don’t know.”

  I’ve heard similar words before, from Skull. Then, they were true. I hesitate only a moment. As things had turned out, if I could go back, I’d do it all over again, and this time, I’d kill him. Save one hell of a lot of pain that was to come. My remorse at what I’d done has gone. There is no such thing as an innocent man.

  I attach the pliers firmly, then with a practised upward pull and a twist of my wrist, the yellowed nail comes away from the nail bed. Blood floods the area immediately.

  The man lets out an unholy scream, and tries, unsuccessfully, to pull his restrained leg up toward his body. It will burn, sting, and then throb. Even stubbing your toe hard seems to cause a disproportionate amount of pain.

  “Where’s Connor?”

  “I don’t fucking know who Connor is,” the man wails.

  “Who owns this warehouse? Who’s your boss?”

  Silence. Right. Toe number two it is.

  The man is crying with pain. It’s only when I have worked my way along to his big toe that he screams out, “Alder. It’s Alder. We’re working for Alder.”

  “Beef? Mace? You need to see this.” Ro appears in the doorway. The expression on his face is grim.

  “Thunder. Hell. Stay here,” Beef orders.

  I follow Ro. He leads us across the main floor and into a maze of passages and storerooms beyond. There in the last is a pile of bloody rags on the floor. Next to that, lying prone, is my brother.

  “Liz?” I start forward, filled with concern.

  “Never mind him,” Ro says, tersely. “He saw blood dripping from his hand. He’ll be fine. It’s him.”

  The light in here is dim, so I switch my flashlight on. Shit. The bundle on the floor has a head. A very, bloody, unrecognisable head.

  “Is he dead?” I’m making the presumption he’s a man. It’s hard to tell from here.

  “Not quite,” says Ro.

  The body groans as if to confirm it.

  “Is it Connor?”

  “Man,” Ro’s face twists, “I can’t tell.”

  Christ, it is impossible to identify him, I realise, stepping closer. Even hair colour is difficult to determine as it’s all a combination of bright and dark red, some fresh blood, some dried.

  “Pal, get here fast. Need to take someone to the hospital.” Beef is already on the phone.

  “No… no…”

  “Hey. You’re Connor, right?” Making the assumption, I sink down to my haunches, wary of even touching him. There doesn’t seem any part of him that’s not hurt. We need to fix him to the point he’s capable of talking. Beef’s made the correct call, if he’s going to live, which at the moment seems doubtful, only an expert could help.

  “Ye…” I take it he’s trying to say yes.

  “Looks like he was telling the truth,” Beef says dourly. “If we want questions answered, we need him alive.”

  “No hosp… No…”

  I realise he’s passed out. Or possibly, dead.

  “What are we going to do with him?” I ask. “He didn’t want a hospital.”

  Beef looks at Pyro. “We got a doc on speed dial?”

  “Yeah. Rusty’s our medic, but this is beyond what he can handle. I know a man who’s dug a bullet or two out for us before now. Decent doc, but expensive.”

  “If he’s got info that could free Ink, don’t care about the cost, Brother.”

  “We’re taking him back to the clubhouse?” Staring down at the unmoving bundle at my feet, I doubt if he’ll still be alive when we get there. I wouldn’t be surprised if he hadn’t already taken his last breath. “I still say we drop him at a hospital.”

  Beef turns stern eyes on me. “Then what? State he’s in, the cops will get called, and we lose our chance to talk to him. Taking him back, fixing him up—if possible—means we get the info that he’s got for ourselves. You get to do your job, Mace.”

  Fix him up so I can hurt him. From the state of him, there’s not much more I can do that someone else hasn’t already done. Seems I’ll have to get inventive. The reference to my skills reminds me we’ve got another problem. Well, two of them.

  “What about the men tied up back in that room?”

  “Pyro, Wills, go and get the main entrance open so Pal can drive straight in. Mace, you come with me.” He pauses and looks around to where Judge is kneeling beside Lizard. “He okay?”

  “I’m okay,” Liz answers for himself with a hand to his head. I take it he must have knocked it when he went down.

  “I’ve bound his hand again,” Judge says, shaking his head. “I’m worried about him being able to ride.”

  “Of course I can fuckin’ ride,” Liz objects.

  “You’re not riding. In fact, you’re staying sitting down until Pal arrives. Not risking you keeling over again. We’ll load up your bike. Look at it this way, Pal’s driving. Need someone to keep an eye on him.” Beef points to the bloody heap on the ground.

  It’s not a moment for mirth, but the thought of how sheepish Liz must be feeling makes me suppress a grin. It’s far from the first time Liz has been struck down because he’s injured himself, but Beef has made a good observation. Pal will need to concentrate on the road and can’t doctor his passenger at the same time. The thought he might be pulled over with a dead or dying body in the rear seat, well, it wouldn’t just be Ink who’s looking at life on the inside.

  “Look for something you can use as a stretcher,” Beef instructs Judge.

  “I don’t need—”

  “Not for you, asshole.” Beef sounds exasperated. “For Connor.”

  Already on board with his allotted task, Judge looks around, his eyes narrowed. I’m sure they’ll find a plank or something. Getting the unconscious man onto it shouldn’t be hard. Getting Lizard out to the truck without him looking at his hand, more difficult. I only hope the second bandana Judge has wrapped around his wound will do the job.

  I follow Beef back into the room with the table and cards. One man is crying in pain, the other is looking distressed.

  As soon as we walk in, both look up, both scared for their lives. As they should be.

  Again, Beef takes the lead. “We found Connor. He’s dead.”

  Well, will you look at that? If I thought the men seemed scared before, they’re petrified now.

  “No,” cries out the Hispanic. “He’s not. He can’t be. Only gave him a few taps to soften him up.”

  A few taps? They’d used him as a punching bag then gave him a good kicking as well, if I’m any judge. And I’d be surprised if some of his blood hadn’t come from stab wounds.

  “He bled out.” Beef shrugs as if a man’s death is of no importance to him.

  The look that goes between them is interesting to say the least. So are the Hispanic’s words. “We’re in trouble now,” he tells his friend whose injured foot doesn’t seem to be bothering him as much as the words he’s just heard.

  “We’re dead,” his friend replies.

  So, they weren’t supposed to let Connor die? Just torture him so he’d call Beth and then keep him here alive. Trouble is, they got carried away. Enough so, it’s not too hard for them to believe Connor isn’t dead.

  “This Alder want him alive?” Beef asks.

  The look on the
ir faces suggests that he does. But without encouragement, they’re not going to elucidate.

  It’s at that point when my ex-prez jerks his head toward me and raises his eyebrow at the VP. Beef nods, then says tiredly, “Do your stuff, Mace.”

  I do. Conscious we haven’t got much time if we want a chance to keep Connor in the land of the living, I go as fast as I can, figuring out weak points, their greatest fears, and concentrating on those areas which cause maximum pain while leaving them still able to talk.

  Their pleas for mercy quickly change until, with their pants around their ankles and their dicks exposed, they’re giving us more information than I’ve asked for. I think at this point they’d give me their bank account numbers and PINs were I to ask.

  We learn little about Alder, they don’t know much. They’re foot soldiers, left here to make sure Connor didn’t escape. Alder wanted him alive, but for what, they don’t know. But they’d been the ones getting their hands dirty when Connor was forced to ring Beth.

  They’d had ‘fun’ with Connor after Alder had left. We have a description to go with the name, man in his fifties, grey hair almost white, neatly trimmed beard and a slight paunch suggesting he overindulges. Whether Alder’s the first or last name, they don’t know. Or, apart from the obvious drugs, what business he’s in, or who, if he has them, are his partners. I’m satisfied they’ve told me all they know and haven’t held anything back.

  “Finish them off?” Hell suggests, when Judge puts his head around the door saying we’re loaded and ready to go.

  “Nah.” Beef’s eyes land on the pair, and he shakes his head. “Connor’s dead. Reckon Alder will kill them himself once he knows, may as well leave it to him to dispose of what’s left.” He then addresses our captives directly, “We’re taking Connor’s body. Reckon his sister will appreciate having something to bury.”

  Yeah, we’ll leave them alive to get that message across, and hopefully the heat will be taken off looking for a man who no longer exists in this world.

  As we leave the room, I overhear two men speaking in pain filled voices behind us.

  “I told you not to fucking kick him in the head,” says the Hispanic who we now know is called Al.

  Diego—fuck me, when I’d heard I’d laughed thinking it would be more apt were the names the other way around—replies, “It was probably your kick to his fucking balls.”

  I wince on Connor’s behalf.

  When they realised we were leaving, their cries to at least pull up their pants went unheeded. Why cover a target that Alder could aim for? Mind you, as we’ve turned off their heater, there probably won’t be much exposed when he turns up to check on his prisoner.

  We pile back into the truck to go the short journey to get our bikes. Back at the parking lot, Lizard’s ride is soon in the back. We’re practised at loading up a bike and tying it down, and then Pal drives off. We let him go alone, a smoke for me giving him enough time to get clear. An unescorted truck obeying the rules of the road, less likely to be stopped than one surrounded by bikes in the middle of the night.

  Pyro hadn’t wasted time making his call. Two hours later when we draw up at the compound several minutes after Pal, there’s already a man in the back of the truck. It’s Dr Ironside who I’ve met a time or two before. Not for treatment, thank fuck. But there was a time Buzz caught a bullet which had lodged somewhere beyond Rusty’s abilities to pull out.

  Pal is standing by the side of the truck. “Want us to get him out, doc?”

  “Not until I’ve seen what I’m dealing with,” Ironside snaps. “Christ, this man’s more dead than alive. You do this?”

  “No,” Pal replies, sharply.

  No, but if doc can patch him up, it might only be to hurt him again. Depends on what Connor says. But I do admit there are signs that I’d been wrong. Beth had been right to believe her brother was being tortured and could have been killed. May still be the result, if the doc can’t fix him up.

  “Go get some rest, Mace.” Demon’s hand lands on my shoulder. “You too, Hell, Beef. I’ve got this.”

  I don’t take much persuading. Christ, it’s dawn on Monday morning. Been times I thought the weekend would never end. Almost forty-eight hours after I last left it, I’m finally crawling between my sheets and lying my head on the pillow. My eyes immediately close.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Beth

  The cops had let me go, but I’d be a fool to think that was the last of it.

  When I got home, Mom was pacing the room, her eyes widening with relief as she changed direction and ran over to hug me as soon as I entered the door. By the time I’ve completed my second interrogation that afternoon, I’m brain dead.

  I’d had some questions of my own. After the cops had finished searching the house, they’d questioned Mom about where I’d been the night before, clearly taking the opportunity of asking before we’d had a chance to collude and get our stories straight.

  As I’d hoped, she’d told them precisely what I’d said, and what she had known at the time. That I’d been tired, took a book and went off to bed and hadn’t gone out. My alibi, such as it is, stands.

  I may only have been gone for a few hours, but much had happened in that time. After the police had left, Mom had received another visitor who’d ignored the front door and strangely come in over the back fence. It had been one of the prospects from Ink’s club. Under his watchful eye, she’d placed a call to a number he’d given her, telling the person who’d answered that she had a blocked sink. The prospect had disappeared as quietly as he’d arrived.

  Shortly after, Dirt, an apparently qualified plumber, and his assistant Nails, had drawn up in his van to fix said fictional block. A couple of hours later, Nails had driven the van off, but Dirt had stayed. It turns out one or the other will be keeping us company in the house while the club tries to find out who the drugs belonged to, and whether they’d be back.

  As hangarounds, Dirt explained, neither currently have a known connection with the club.

  To complete the cover story, the kitchen floor is now covered with bits of pipe from the sink, as if waiting for a workman to return. It means Dirt could look busy should the police reappear.

  Dirt seems pleasant enough, but I wasn’t keen on having a stranger in the house. I remember him from the party as one of the men Ink had spoken to briefly. My concern then returns to me now. How do they know who they can trust? I know only too well how even the Devils can be deceived.

  “Be careful Mom,” I whisper quietly, out of his hearing. “You remember Skull?” She’d met him when he’d come to one of our barbeques with Mel. When she nods, I continue, “You also know he turned out to be an undercover cop.”

  “For heaven’s sake, Bethany. Now you don’t know who to trust?” Her eyes go to the ceiling and come back down. “Seems you should have been more cautious yesterday. I, for one, am just glad there’s someone here, and that Demon’s thoughtful enough to spare him to help us. Don’t forget, someone out there thinks we’ve still got a king’s ransom in heroin in this house. Your brother for certain, and maybe someone else.”

  I’m tired, worried about Ink, and feeling irritable. I’m not going to give up easily. “What’s one man going to do, Mom? Dirt’s okay, but even I could take on Nails.” Not quite fair, but as he’s around five foot ten, I tower above him.

  Mom’s sighs. “They’re not going to be taking them on. They’ll get in touch with Demon if anyone turns up.”

  “And the club will, what? Send reinforcements? How’s that hiding our involvement with the Devils if a dozen motorcycles turn up outside?”

  Mom places her hands on her hips. “So what do you suggest, Bethany? I send them away? Would you prefer we were here on our own?”

  “I don’t know,” I cry out. And then to my horror, tears start leaking out of my eyes. I had no sleep last night, had to keep my wits about me during my visit to the police station. Have learned the man I was starting to love, now, quite rightl
y, hates me. As for my brother, he could be dead or dying, or free when it should be him who’s locked up. And I should be allowed to tell the truth, but nobody wants me to. No wonder I’m not thinking straight.

  Mom’s arms are fast around me. “Oh, Bethany, honey, come here. The last twenty-four hours have been hell on you. Come on, cry it out.”

  She pulls me to the sofa where it’s easier for her to hold me, and I lean my head against her chest and just sob. From the moment Connor called me to when the police took my statement, it seems I’ve been existing on adrenaline, reacting rather than doing anything with any rhyme or reason. I’m running on empty now. I cry in the arms of my mother until I’ve no tears left to fall.

  When I finish, my throat feels dry and raw, my eyes are swollen, and my face is red and blotchy. She tries to get me to eat something, but neither of us have any appetite at all. The stress and the long hours during which I’ve been awake have me yawning widely, so when she suggests an early night, I don’t argue.

  But in bed I can’t get my brain to switch off. Instead I keep wondering how Ink is now, trying to accept even if by some miracle he walks free, I’ll have lost my chance with him. Then, when I try to stop thinking of what he and I have lost, my thoughts turn to my brother, see-sawing between hoping he’s alright, to wishing he’s hurting if everything he’d said to me had been a lie.

  He’d set me up. My fingerprints showed I had my hand on the bag if not the drugs themselves. Though Ink’s brothers want me to stay in the clear to make what Ink did worthwhile, all that might fall apart. I thought I’d been careful wearing gloves, I hadn’t. I’d not given a thought to the bag. Huffing, I realise I’m not cut out for a life of crime.

  Eventually, I drop into an uneasy sleep and doze; my dreams are haunted by Ink appearing and taking that bag from me over and over again. I try to run as though through molasses to stop him and take it back, but he gets further and further away, and I can’t catch up to him.