Snake (Twisted Devils MC Book 6)

by Zahra Girard

  “This has ‘trap’ written all over it,” Rusty says. “Should we postpone the delivery? Call our contact?”

  Stone thinks for a moment, then shakes his head.

  “I’ll tell him to keep his eyes out, tell him we’ve heard some vague rumors about threats. But I’m sure as hell not putting the word out there that we have the FBI riding our ass. Especially when we’re not sure. A rumor like that could screw our business seven ways from Sunday.”

  A loud curse and the clattering sound of a wrench hitting the concrete floor draws all four of us to turn and glare at Goldie, who’s shaking his right hand like it’s in pain and staring in consternation at a part of the truck’s undercarriage.

  Stone leans in toward us to whisper. “I think the prospect’s getting a little too comfortable.”

  “A distraction could be fun,” Rusty says.

  “You know, I don’t like the look of that beater of a Civic out front. It brings down the curb appeal of the whole fucking neighborhood, if you ask me,” Mack says.

  “Maybe we should ask Goldie there to move it,” I say.

  “If we’re going to do that, he needs to take his pants off,” Rusty says.

  “Are we talking about different things here, Rusty?” Stone says. “Is ‘pushing a car’ code for something I don’t want to know about? I really don’t fucking understand your generation sometimes.”

  “Stone, no,” Rusty says. “But, if Razor and I had to push your bike through town without wearing any pants, the least we can expect of Goldie is to do the same while pushing that car a couple blocks.”

  “You seem determined to get Goldie out of his pants, Officer Rusty,” Mack says.

  “Don’t call me that, Mack. I did what I had to do to get Chief Barnes off our back.”

  “Enough. Goldie’s moving the car but, Rusty, you’re not getting your wish — the prospect is keeping his pants on. I’ve had enough go wrong today, I don’t need to compound it with Goldie’s junk,” Stone says. Then he raises his voice to shout to Goldie, “Kid, stop ruining my truck. There’s a car parked out front — that busted Honda Civic. You will push it out of the neighborhood and a quarter-mile down the road. Leave it somewhere that the county roads department will see it and tow it out of here. Got it?”

  Goldie’s out from under the trunk and running to the front of the warehouse before Stone’s finished talking.

  “Yes, Stone,” he says as he runs past.

  “The kid’s got enthusiasm,” Mack says. “Is that why you’re so attracted to him, Rusty?”

  Rusty opens his mouth to answer, but whatever he is going to say is cut out by a warning scream from out front.

  A scream that dies quickly and is drowned by a concussive blast that shakes the entire warehouse to its foundations and sends my heart flashing back to bone-chilling and bloody memories of my service in Afghanistan.

  It’s a bomb.

  Chapter Three

  Adella

  “I need you to make sure the tables are set. The boys will be here soon and I’m too busy with these steaks,” my mom calls from the kitchen, her words intermingled with the sound of six steaks sizzling.

  It’s tradition in the club to have a big communal dinner the night before a ride, especially a ride that’s as important as the one that’s happening tomorrow; I may not know much about the club’s business, but I can tell when my dad is preparing for something big — I can see the way his jaw seems to set tighter, and the way he carries more stress in his shoulders — whatever is happening tomorrow, it is sure to be big for the club.

  Well, I have the fact that it’s enough to keep me from even going to Santa Monica to tell me that, too.

  I’ve been raised in the MC, kept close enough for protection — or overprotection, which is how it feels sometimes — but not close enough to know what’s really going on. That kind of knowledge is kept strictly to the men who wear the club’s patch.

  Me? I’m just an observer. A highly protected observer.

  Maybe that’s why I gravitated to photography; see, document, observe without being noticed.

  “Sure, mom,” I answer, and start taking out enough plates and silverware to feed an army, which is essentially what we’re doing.

  We’re alone in the clubhouse right now. All the men are either off helping my dad get ready for tomorrow, or they at my dad’s auto repair shop. All the old ladies are back at their lives — Samantha’s at the hospital, Sophia’s back at Twisted Tattoos, the new tattoo parlor she opened not too long ago, and Violet’s out behind the clubhouse, seeing to the distillery. For a moment, I can’t fight back the jealousy.

  “And check the keg lines, too. Make sure they’re clean. I ordered a keg of something special for tonight and I don’t want a dirty line making it all funky. It was expensive, too. All those years running this bar and it still blows my mind how much good beer costs.”

  “I checked the lines just ten minutes ago. Relax, mom,” I call back as I pull a stack of plates down from a cupboard. “Just focus on those steaks. They smell great, by the way. I’m sure dad will love them. Oh, and what time is the keg supposed to arrive?”

  “Delivery guy texted me a bit ago, said it should be here any time now.”

  And, just like that, the front door opens and two men come inside.

  They look similar, but different; both are tall — they’ve each got at least a foot on me — and one is broad-shouldered, thickly muscled, has tattoos running up and down his arms, and his dark hair shaved close to his head on the sides and longer in the middle, like a faux hawk. The other is slender, also tattooed, he looks wiry, and has a smile that’s both bright and chilling, like a cunning predator. On his right arm, there’s a single tattoo — the logo of the Marine corps. But, though they have different builds, there are enough similarities in their faces that I can tell they’re related.

  “You two are right on time,” I say as I take a handful of silverware out of a drawer. “You can bring the keg right in. I’ll sign for it and I can hook it up myself.”

  They trade a look, then keep coming forward and pull up two stools to the bar and take a seat right across from me.

  “Sorry, beautiful. We aren’t here to deliver a keg,” the broad-shouldered one says.

  “We came here to talk,” the other one says. “Your father around, Adella?”

  My heart freezes.

  Both men are still smiling, but there’s nothing friendly about them.

  Still, I’ve learned enough not to show any outward fear. My father raised me right, and if it comes down to it, I won’t go down without a fight. They might take me, hurt me, or whatever, but I’ll give them hell first.

  I slide my hand slowly under the counter and wrap my fingers around the handle of a steak knife. While I do so, I put a friendly smile on my face. It’s a smile that disarms most men. Hopefully, it has the same effect on them.

  Show no fear, I remind myself. And strike hard if you have to.

  If It comes down to it, I’m going for their throats.

  “Not at the moment, but he’ll be back any second. You two know what bar you’re in, right?”

  And the hell my father will put you through if he finds out you even looked at me or my mom the wrong way.

  “Listen, Adella — or can I call you Addie? — we’re not here to cause any trouble, so you can put that knife down,” the wiry one says, holding out his hands in a placating gesture.

  How the hell does he know to call me Addie?

  I keep my grip on the knife.

  “What do you want?” I say. I keep my voice steady. Show no fear.

  “A meeting,” the wiry one answers. “But what am I doing forgetting my manners? My name is Slade Cooper. This is my brother Silas. We’re here to peacefully pass on a message and set up a meeting between your father and our uncle. He’s got some business to arrange with your daddy and it concerns those FBI agents who were in here earlier. They are after more than just a fugitive, as I’m sure you’ve fi
gured out. And not handling them could mean a lot of harm comes to your club.”

  “I think you two should go.”

  The bulky one lifts the bottom hem of his tight-fitting black t-shirt, revealing eight-pack abs covered in a murky array of dark, threatening tattoos — skulls, blood, gore, some of it looks like prison work — and a pistol shoved into the waistband of his jeans.

  “We’re not leaving until you agree to pass on our message. Now, my brother wants to do it the polite way but me, well, I’m hoping you put up a little fight. I’d love to see your sweet body shake when I take you into that back room. You would look so good underneath me. So, it’s up to you, beautiful,” Silas says, looking me up and down like I’m a piece of meat. “You get us and our uncle a little face time with your daddy, or you spend some time alone with me.”

  A double-clicking metallic pump — the sound of a shotgun getting ready to fire — sounds from the right. In the doorway to the kitchen, with a gun held in her arms and pointed right at Silas and Slade, is my mother.

  She’s got an icy look on her face, like she’s ready to kill.

  “Get the hell away from my daughter.”

  Silas reaches toward the gun at his waist, but I’m quicker, pulling the knife from beneath the counter and holding it ready.

  “Don’t move. I know how to throw this. This close, I’m sure I could hit your throat. And if that doesn’t kill you, my mother will.”

  “Fucking bitch,” Slade growls, but his hand doesn’t move another inch. Even though in his eyes, I can see that he’s thinking about it. This man wants nothing more than to take his chances; he might die, or he might get what he wants — me and my mother, both at his mercy.

  Slade reaches over and puts a hand on Silas’ arm.

  “We’ll go,” he says. “Put your weapons down.”

  Silas looks up at his brother, anger still burning in his eyes.

  “Just say the word, brother…”

  “No, Silas. You remember his instructions. Do you want to be the one to tell him you decided not to listen?”

  Silas flinches. It’s quick, subtle, and I doubt anyone but me caught it.

  Still, his hand drifts a little lower, toward the gun in his waistband.

  Behind me, I hear my mom take a quick breath, the kind I’ve heard at the shooting range many times before.

  I can’t let either of them pull the trigger.

  One wrong move and this room will be decorated with blood.

  I know my mom’s an excellent shot, but am I willing to risk her — or me — going up against two intimidating creeps like Silas and Slade?

  Carefully, I take two steps to my right, putting myself directly between her and Silas.

  “Addie, what are you doing?” She hisses.

  I don’t look at her.

  I look directly into Slade’s eyes.

  “You two were going, right?” I say, coolly.

  He smiles. “Right, we are. Come on, Silas.”

  He pats his brother’s back, and the touch seems to shake his brother out of whatever murderous fog was clouding his vision.

  Then Silas slowly reaches into his pocket and draws out a plain white card and a pen. He scrawls a number on it and slaps the card down on the bar.

  “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll have your husband call that number and make a deal. And soon. Our uncle is not a patient man. If you delay, there’s no telling what we might do. Maybe we’ll even pay you a visit, beautiful.”

  Chapter Four

  Snake

  We run to the front of the warehouse, every one of us screaming out Goldie’s name.

  My heart pumps adrenaline through my body in a thudding roar, behind my eyelids burn the memories of my time in the service — of roadside bombs, burnt-out humvees, and bodies stacked in ditches; horror that’s haunted me for years and left a stain on my heart.

  Out front, we find him flat on his back on the concrete, blood dripping from the back of his head, his face covered in soot and burns.

  But his eyes are open, and he’s already stirring.

  The car — now nothing more than a burning heap spewing a thick column of smoke up into the sky — smolders a good thirty feet away from where Goldie lies prone on the ground.

  “Well fuck, it’s like the Troubles all over again,” Mack shouts.

  Stone is the first to reach Goldie’s side, and he starts checking him over.

  “He’ll live, but he will have one god damned monster of a concussion,” Stone says. “Snake, I want you to check out that car, see if you can find any evidence of who the fuck set that bomb. Mack, Rusty, go inside and grab every goddamned fire extinguisher and bucket you can find. We need to put that fire out before the fire department gets here.”

  Mack and Rusty race to get the fire under control and I advance on the car, my eyes peeled for anything even approaching a clue. Though I’m not optimistic — fires and bombs incinerate most any evidence, unless you’ve got some top quality CSI type shit on your team. Still, I keep my eyes open and scout around.

  And it only takes me a minute to spot something.

  Stuck flush to the ground, not fifteen feet from the car, there’s a small black device about the size of a quarter and, as I get closer to it, I see the faintest flicker of a laser beam. It’s a motion-trigger.

  Bending down, I stick it in my pocket, and then do a quick and careful loop around the burning car and find no further clues.

  I head back to Stone, who’s now helping Goldie into a seated position. I hold out the device to him.

  “The hell is this?” He says, taking it from me.

  “It’s a motion trigger. It was set about twenty feet away from the car. Whoever put this there wanted it to detonate the bomb when someone was close enough to get the shit knocked out of them, but not so close that they would die.”

  “So it’s a warning?”

  “Can’t be nothing else. Whoever set it could have easily made it so it went off when Goldie was much closer. This was fucking deliberate. And done with skill.”

  “Whoever set it can go fuck themselves,” Goldie says, holding his bleeding head in his hands. “Oh my god, I feel like every metal concert in the world just took place inside my head at the same time.”

  “Oh, they’re fucked all right,” Stone says.

  He looks about to say more, but stops.

  Mack is standing in the entryway to the warehouse, a fire extinguisher in one hand and his cell phone in the other, pressed to his ear. There’s a dire look on his face.

  “What is it, Mack?” Stone says.

  “It’s Tricia,” he says.

  “Tell her we are gonna be late taking care of this shit here.”

  “Stone, some guys came by the clubhouse while she and Addie were alone,” he says.

  Stone is already on his feet before the words leave Mack’s mouth, and he snatches the phone out of his hands.

  “Trish, what is it?”

  A few seconds pass, his face gets even darker.

  There’s no one around, but I can’t help but reach for my gun. The same feeling I got before every mission, every patrol, the feeling that shit is just one moment away from going very, very wrong settles over me.

  Breathing becomes hard, I feel like I’m suffocating, and all I can think about is killing the first enemy I come across so I can feel like the danger’s eased just a little, just enough for me to breathe again. It’s a fucked-up feeling I’ve carried with me ever since my second tour in Afghanistan, and it’s one that comes back every time that pre-combat surge of adrenaline hits my body.

  Certain sounds, certain actions, sometimes even crowds trigger this response in me.

  And there’s nothing I can do to fight it; it’s like trying to hold back the ocean.

  “I’ll be right there, Trish,” Stone says, hanging up. He looks from me, to Mack, to Rusty, anger and determination creasing his face. “Put that fire out, now. Lock this warehouse up. We have to get back to the clubh
ouse. Now.”

  The four of us handle shit and get the fire under control and the warehouse locked up.

  I haul Goldie onto the back of my bike and the whole ride back to the clubhouse I feel like I’m back on deployment; in flashes, the desertscape of California gives way to the rugged mountains of Afghanistan, my blood pounds with the need for combat, for bloodshed, and the stomach-turning fear that comes along with those needs — the realization that I’m entering a kill-or-be-killed scenario and just how fucked up that scenario is.

  We pull into the clubhouse parking lot around the same time the rest of the club is arriving. Stitch is barely off his damn bike before I’m waving him over.

  His usual glower deepens as soon as he catches sight of Goldie.

  “What the fuck did you do to the prospect?” He says. “Don’t you know how fragile these little bitches are?”

  “Someone planted a proximity-detonated car bomb outside the warehouse. Goldie was the unlucky son of a bitch who got too close.”

  “A fucking bomb? Fucking Saint Mary with a dildo up her ass, what the fuck is this world coming to?”

  “Oh, it gets better — they were doing this to grab our attention. That bomb was set to go off just far enough away that it wouldn’t be lethal.”

  “My ass. Maybe that’s true, but if those sons of bitches knew how dumb Goldie was to begin with, they wouldn’t be giving him more fucking brain damage. Kid will be eating through a straw soon enough.”

  “Hey, I’m right fucking here, Stitch,” Goldie says.

  “Don’t care where you are, kid. You ain’t got brain cells to spare and that’s the truth.”

  I heft Goldie off my bike and Stitch gives me a hand with him, slipping his arm around his shoulders.

  “So, do you have any fucking clue what’s going on?” Stitch says. “How many more of you am I going to be stitching up before this is through?”

  “No clue. Feds came by the clubhouse earlier, we went to go warn Stone about it, that’s when the bomb went off. Tricia called Stone, said that some other men — guys who definitely weren’t feds — were in the clubhouse harassing her and Adella,” I grit my teeth at that last part. Thinking of some bastard threatening that young woman puts me even more on edge than the bomb.