Road Tripped: Satan's Devils MC Utah #1

by Manda Mellett

  She nods, then tilts her head in query. I shake mine, and she turns her hearing aids down, now clearly no longer able to hear me.

  The penny drops. She hadn’t been ignoring me at the traffic lights and I’d thought her rude for ignoring my question. When riding her bike she must turn her aids down then too.

  Swift’s turned her head and is staring past me out of the window, and sympathy floods through me. She’d told me she was deaf, but as she seemed to be able to hear well enough, I didn’t give much thought to how it would affect her life. Someone like her, so in control all the time, must hate to give that up, and being unable to hear, must make her vulnerable. At least here, she’s with people she can trust.

  I tap her gently, then indicate the aisle. She eases back to allow me out of my seat, then moves to take the one by the window I’d just vacated.

  “Here, Road.” Rascal is waving at me, and I go down the narrow walkway to meet him. “Cut.” He holds out his hand. When I slide the leather off my shoulders, he places it carefully on a growing pile. Then he eyes me up. “I think you’re Bolt’s size, here, try this on.”

  I’m no stranger to Kevlar vests, and the one he passes me is certainly large enough to fit me. He eyes me carefully. “You with us, Road?”

  “You got doubts?” I nod, understanding them. “Yeah, I’m with you for this. Whether or not I transfer, I’m along for this ride. You can depend on me.”

  “I hope so. Pip’s usually a good judge of character.” He sighs, as if he hasn’t got the same reading of me that his prez has, then unlocks a cupboard.

  Once again, I’m dumbfounded. There’s an armoury inside—enough weapons to outfit a small army.

  “Handgun or rifle?”

  I point to a Glock, knowing my limitations, and that I’m no sniper. He passes it to me.

  “Knife?”

  I nod. Oh yeah. “Two?” I request optimistically. He hands me the number I’d requested, one in a handy ankle sheath.

  Again armed, I feel more like myself. It’s a sign they’re treating me as part of a team, and not an add-on or someone they’re going to need to carry. But as much as they don’t know what I’m capable of, I’m conscious I haven’t yet got the measure of them.

  Hearing shuffling behind me, I twist to see the others are forming a line, clearly waiting to be assigned their equipment. I turn sideways to squeeze past, making my way down the narrow aisle to the front again where I’m confronted by a sight I didn’t want to see—Preacher drinking a cup of coffee.

  “What the fuck? Who’s flying the plane?”

  Snatcher and Preacher burst out laughing, and it’s the latter who informs me, “Autopilot. Hey, want to come see upfront?”

  I kind of do and don’t. But when will I next get the chance to be in the cockpit of a plane? When Preacher jerks his head, I look past him and take in the array of instrument displays in front of me. Immediately I’m impressed that Preacher knows what any of them do. Thank fuck I’ve only got to contend with a speedometer and rev counter on my bike.

  Preacher stands behind me and starts pointing some of them out, describing what they do. It’s intriguing as fuck seeing it all. I stay with him while he points out the weather radar, the altimeter and navigation system, even the ground proximity warning which seems useful to have. He loses me when he talks about something called TACAS, until he translates that it’s a traffic awareness and collision avoidance system.

  “The club had the plane long?” I ask.

  “For the past ten years, yeah.”

  That coincides with when Pip came along and stepped into Snatcher’s chair.

  Preacher retakes the pilot’s seat and checks some settings. I watch on. It’s a different view from up here. Instead of just seeing out of one side or another, the world stretches out in a panoramic view. It’s almost mesmerizing.

  “How high are we flying?”

  “Seven thousand metres, or about twenty-three thousand feet. That’s near our max cruising height. We’ll be starting our descent shortly.”

  That sounds high. Even a quick calculation of five thousand feet to a mile means we’re over four miles high.

  The warning it won’t be long until we begin coming into land and seeing Preacher start competently flicking switches makes me turn to go back to the cabin. As I reach the seating area, I catch Snatcher’s eye, indicate the empty seat next to him and at his raised chin, sit down.

  I lean forward, clasping my hands between my legs. “Why did you step back as the prez?”

  He offers a half-smile. “Pip thought you would ask. There’s a long story behind it, but it’s not all mine to tell. Let’s just leave it that the club decided to move in a different direction, and Pip was the man for that.”

  “But why not be straight with Drummer?” I narrow my eyes. “Surely he’d accept a club vote?”

  Snatcher’s eyes fill with mirth. “Drummer’s the prez of the mother chapter and would have wanted to have his input.”

  “Pip seems alright,” I comment, not understanding. “You clearly trust him, and from what little I’ve seen, everyone else does. I can’t see anything Drummer would raise objections about. An ex-criminal wouldn’t be disqualified, unless he was dragging the club into things Drummer wouldn’t put his name to.” Suddenly I frown. “He’s not law enforcement, is he?”

  Now the ex-prez barks a loud laugh. “No, he is not. Nah, there’s not much that Drummer would object to, except for one thing.”

  He turns to look out the window. My eyes follow his line of sight, and I notice objects on the ground becoming clearer and guess it won’t be long before we land. As for his last comment, he appears content to leave me hanging.

  “And that one thing is?” I prompt.

  Snatcher shakes his head and chuckles. “Fucker can’t ride a bike, doesn’t own one, and has no inclination in that direction.”

  What the fuck? The prez of an MC, the man who wears our cut, can’t ride? Snatcher’s right. That would definitely disqualify him from being prez, fuck, from being a member at all. It also explains why Snatcher takes back the title whenever Utah rides out to meet the other chapters.

  “Regulations mean he can’t be a Devil.” I almost spit the words out through gritted teeth, feeling it’s a personal insult that Pip wears the Satan’s Devils MC cut.

  Snatcher turns around, his eyes cold. “Don’t like your tone, Road. Man’s due respect even if he doesn’t ride. For reasons you’re yet to discover.”

  “But you must see—”

  “No. You give him a fuckin’ chance. All will become clear in time.”

  Christ. This is explosive information if I get it back to Drummer. Fuck, he’ll disband the Utah chapter altogether for their blatant disrespect of everything we live for. I’ll never transfer now, not when the so-called prez of the chapter isn’t qualified to even prospect for the club.

  I wasn’t allowed to join, despite that I already had a bike, because I didn’t ride one that was American built. I’ve heard whispers around the table that that might come to change, as Heart’s wife, Marcia, had built her own rat bike which beat any of ours—a subject that when mentioned causes steam to come out of our sergeant-at-arms, Peg’s, ears. The ability for speed and manoeuvring might change our priorities on what we want from our rides, but never, ever, has it been discussed that a man could join the club without any bike at all. I can’t put it any plainer, our regulations clearly specify that if someone can’t ride, they don’t have a hope in hell of becoming a Satan’s Devil.

  “Take your seats for landing.” The speaker makes Preacher’s voice sound tinny.

  “Go make sure Swift’s seat belt is fastened.” Snatcher jerks his head toward the woman who’s sitting a couple of rows behind.

  I’ve been given information which I need to process and see if I could ever find a way to accept it. No wonder the options given to me are to throw in my lot with Utah and keep my mouth shut, or never go back to the real MC led by a bike riding prez. I d
o know that if I voice my objections in terms that I want to, I risk landing on the ground a lot sooner than this plane will, and without the aid of a parachute.

  The suggestion that Swift may need my assistance, coupled with the necessity of, for now, keeping my mouth shut, gets me rising. Whether or not to fight a battle is not the only consideration, it’s also important to consider timing.

  I’m armed, but outnumbered.

  11

  Swift…

  A soldier needs to be aware of their situation at any given time. The last thing you needed was insurgents creeping up on you. I had been taught to use my ears, my eyes, and even on occasion, my nose would come in useful to detect a waft of perfume in the air or the approach of an unwashed body.

  To have one of those senses taken away was crippling.

  Bolt had lost his hand, but that had been replaced by a bionic one. While he probably doesn’t sleep in it, he wouldn’t need to take it off during a flight. He’s also got his real one that he can use to scratch any itch if need be.

  Despite the best endeavours of my audiologist, my hearing aids don’t completely restore what I’ve lost. I can hear, but not normally. Sound is converted into a digital signal which is then amplified and directed into each of my ears. Mine are some of the best on the market, small and neat, and work well enough that I’m able to have functioning conversations in most environments, adjusting for ambient noise automatically, or with the aid of my app I have on my smartphone. But even they have limitations due to my type of hearing loss. A constant drone, of an engine particularly, seems to reverberate in my head and I have to turn them down. Once I do that, I lose one of the senses I rely on. I cease to feel normal and become vulnerable.

  No, I don’t, I rebuke myself firmly.

  It had been Pip who’d forced me to become part of the deaf community. As a condition of prospecting, he’d made me reach out to others with the same disability. Yes, it is disabling to be unable to hear properly, but it didn’t lessen the contribution I could make in the world or the enjoyment I, myself, get out of life. Learning to appreciate things differently was all part of the process I had to go through.

  At first I had found the world a frightening place, my hearing aids amplifying not just speech, but ambient sound. Too many people talking at once made it hard to follow a conversation. But switching down or removing my hearing aids left me feeling isolated and excluded. My audiologist had worked with me so we’d found the best match we could, and now, with aids in, a lot of issues had been resolved.

  At first, I’d rebelled against using sign language or trying to lip read as I refused to acknowledge what had happened. Then, when I tried, I felt like a kindergarten kid just starting school, or even a baby learning their first words. Lip reading I haven’t conquered just yet, but sign language I have got under my belt. It helped that signing is a way that soldiers communicate, so to me it was an enhancement, not a step back.

  Pip suggested the brothers learn to sign as well, and to my surprise, some of them had done just that, acknowledging being able to communicate without words would be helpful on missions. They’d also become more circumspect about their contributions in meetings, trying to control themselves so no one talked over the other, or at a signal from Pip, would slow down. Music in the clubhouse is kept to a reasonable volume.

  While I appreciate what those around me do to give me a near-normal life, I hate that they had to make adjustments. I’m Swift, one of the strongest and most badass females in the world. but without my hearing aids, I no longer feel like her anymore.

  I hate the silence that removes me from the world, but Snatcher was right. I’ve had debilitating headaches before, so going quiet, as he put it, on a plane journey was best all around. I need to be in tip-top condition when I re-enter normal life and perform my duties as a soldier once more.

  I didn’t want to read or stare at the clouds out the window, so I’d dozed throughout the journey. Not fully asleep, the pressure in my ears and sinuses signal the change in altitude telling me we’re coming into land. I open my eyes and find Road settling in beside me. He makes some gesture with his hands, miming a plane going down.

  “I can see that.” I grin at him, jerking my head toward the window, but I appreciate his efforts.

  Thor leans over the seat in front of us, and signs, Wheels down in ten.

  I give him a thumbs up.

  Road touches my arm lightly to get my attention on him. He points at my hands, then at himself, his gestures followed by a questioning rise of his eyebrow.

  “You want to learn?”

  He shrugs, then nods.

  Maybe this partner thing might work, if we can communicate even when my aids are off. I start to feel more optimistic about working alongside Road. He could have dismissed me when he discovered my weakness, but instead it appears he wants to find ways around it.

  Ten minutes later, we do indeed touch down, Preacher bringing the plane in smoothly, with only a slight jerk as the wheels meet the ground. As I turn my hearing aids back up, Road’s face fills with visible relief as we taxi along the runway and finally come to a halt in front of a hangar, not much different to the one we’d left only a few hours before.

  “It’s another private airfield,” I tell Road, seeing him looking around curiously.

  “You’ve used it before?”

  While I’m unbuckling my seat belt, I reply, “No, but Duty will have set it all up for us. He’s great at logistics and seems to have contacts everywhere. Finding a discreet airfield for us to use near Santa Barbara would have been easy for him.”

  “You avoid the big airports?”

  I nod. “When we can. We’d rather not draw attention to ourselves.”

  “So, what’s the plan?”

  “Snatch didn’t fill you in?” The question is redundant, I can tell from the look on his face. “Duty will have arranged accommodations for us, and I suspect we’ll head there. Then we wait for more info to come through. Hopefully it will be a clean in and out—we’ll rescue the kid and go home.”

  Road looks disbelieving. “That’s how it works?”

  I shrug. “That’s what we hope for, but often it’s not like that. We’ll plan for every eventuality and be ready to change course based on information those back at base feed us.”

  “You rescue kids a lot?”

  “Kids, men, women,” I confirm. “We do what we can when a call comes in, Road. Look, Pip will explain what you need to know. For now, our focus is the mission on hand.”

  He looks at me, then nods sharply. “What about the kid’s parents? Will we make contact with them?”

  I have to remember Road is completely ignorant of how we work. “The parents have been told not to contact the cops, and they’ve decided to follow those instructions. There’s a risk the kidnappers might have eyes on them, and if so, they’ll be suspicious of any stranger visiting their home. A tradesman, or salesman, for example, entering at this time would be risky. The kidnappers might think it was an undercover cop. We stay well away so nothing looks out of the ordinary. One wrong move, and we could cause the death of a child.”

  That brings the seriousness home to Road. A stare, another of his chin lifts, then he follows my lead as we exit the plane. Road is carrying his stick, some of us hefting the duffel bags Rascal hands out over our shoulders once we’re outside. He’ll have packed them with all the equipment we could need to rescue the little girl. As always, I offer up a plea to whichever deity might be listening that we get to her fast and before she becomes too traumatised, or worse, abused at the hands of the men who’ve taken her. It’s not been unknown for photos to arrive showing things being done to which no parent would ever want their daughter subjected, or a severed finger is used to hurry the payout along. Speed, as always, is of the essence.

  As we’d been told, two SUVs are waiting, and we separate four of us to each. Road is with me, obviously, and Snatcher is driving, while Piston, after laying his burden down carefully beh
ind the rear seats, goes to the front passenger door and sits beside him.

  As we drive, a call comes in. Snatcher answers and puts it on speaker.

  “Duty. Whatcha got?”

  Duty’s voice comes through. “I’ve narrowed it down as best I can. The call came from a residential area where there are a dozen houses or so. I’ve gone through the records, most have been owned for a year or more, some rented out. The newest tenant was six months back. There’s one that’s supposedly vacant at present.”

  “Sounds like it could be our target,” Snatcher replies. “Or the one rented most recently if they’ve been planning this for a while.”

  “You might be able to tell more from an external look.”

  “Any utility usage in the vacant property?” Piston asks.

  There’s a pause, then, “Utilities are connected. Hold on, just getting into the electricity feed… Bingo! Yes, you could be right, Piston. Some electricity being used. Not a lot. Lights at least.”

  “Could be security lighting, to make it look like someone’s home,” Snatcher observes. “But we’ll check it out, Duty. Text the address.”

  The call is ended when it appears Duty’s got no more. Hopefully it’s enough. Piston’s got out his tablet and is calling up Google Earth. “We need to send up the drone,” he tells Snatcher. “Fuckin’ place is surrounded by high fences and trees.”

  Snatcher takes his eyes off the road for a split second to look at the photo Piston’s holding on his lap. “Neighbours?”

  “Houses are spread out, VP,” Piston replies, not sounding particularly happy.

  “Okay. Tell Preacher where we’re headed, and we’ll go straight there. Get the drone in the air and go from there.”

  Piston takes out his phone and puts a call through to the sergeant-at-arms driving the SUV behind.

  “How can you be sure that’s even where they’ve got the girl?” Road breaks his self-imposed silence and speaks. “Surely they’d know their phone call could be traced?”