Road Tripped: Satan's Devils MC Utah #1

by Manda Mellett

  I notice the front door is wide open. I start to approach when Snatcher pulls me back. “There could be booby traps. We go in carefully. And wear these.” He hands me a pair of latex gloves.

  My eyes go wide as I turn to him, sliding the gloves over my hands. “What are we doing here, Snatcher? Is this another kidnapping? Whose house is this?”

  “You don’t fuckin’ know?” His eyes are wide.

  Sheepishly I tell him, “Not a clue, man. I got to the meeting late.”

  “Fuck.” His lips narrow. “It’s Swift’s house. Her security system’s gone dead.”

  “Swift?” I feel frozen to the spot. “She’s in there?”

  “Hopefully we’ll find her fast asleep in bed with not a clue anything’s wrong.” But from Snatcher’s face, he doubts it.

  I try to push past him, and he holds me back. “Careful,” he growls. “Keep your fuckin’ eyes open. We don’t know what’s happened here. Could be a home invasion.”

  And Swift wouldn’t have heard a fucking thing, not with her security system taken out.

  My hangover now pushed far back in my mind, holding my gun in front of me, I swing right and left, searching for any fucking thing. Snatcher waves me to the kitchen area, but there’s nothing there, and no sign of Swift. Having cleared the main room, even checking behind curtains, making sure no one’s hanging around, I follow the direction where Snatcher had gone. This hallway leads to a bathroom and two bedrooms. The door is open to one. It’s obviously a guest room, minimal furniture in here. Snatcher’s in the next. He holds out his hand to prevent me entering, but looking around his head, all I can see is an empty bed. For a brief second, I’m relieved not to see Swift’s dead body lying there.

  “Looks like a struggle.” Snatcher points to the sheets tangled on the floor. “And she’s fuckin’ gone.”

  Gone? Swift? How the fuck? And how could anyone get the better of her? “She’s a fuckin’ expert in self-defence. She wrote the fuckin’ book. No one could get the drop on her.”

  “They could,” he answers, while smoothing his hand around the doorframe. “She’s deaf, remember?”

  “Not with her hearing aids.” But she takes them out at night, I remember, and easing to stand alongside him, I notice them on the bedside table. Shit and double shit. But still, I can’t see how anyone could get the drop on her. “Her room at the clubhouse, she told me that was all set up with warnings which vibrate or lights which flash.” But she wasn’t in the clubhouse. A chilling thought occurs to me. “You let her live off compound in a home that was unprotected?”

  Snatcher’s face is dark as he abandons his check on the door and rounds on me. “Did you not hear a word Pip had said? What do you fuckin’ take us for? Swift had every piece of equipment it was possible to procure and install to keep her safe.” He flicks the switch beside the door, and points to the overhead light which remained dead. “Every electronic fuckin’ device.”

  Comprehension dawns on me. “The electricity was cut off.”

  “We’d catered for that too. Whoever did this, knew not only how to get to the mains, but to cripple her backup generator as well.”

  “But why take Swift?” I try to focus on that, not to think of the woman who, expert she might be at defending herself, is terrified and vulnerable when her ability to remain alert is taken away. I try not to imagine how scared she must have been when intruders broke in and stole her away. I hit on a better solution. “Maybe something happened, and she’s gone somewhere.”

  “I would love to think that, Road. But someone knew how to take her electronics out. They knew what they were doing.” He puts his hand to his ear and shakes his head. “Her jeep and bike are in the garage. She wouldn’t have walked anywhere, not this time of night. And not without taking those.” He points to the hearing aids I noticed before.

  “Who?” My question is terse. This is too much for me to process. That Swift, so strong and self-reliant, has been taken seems unbelievable. The thought I might never see her again, unbearable.

  “That’s what Pip and the others are trying to find out. Come on, let’s look for clues. But tread carefully. This place could be a fuckin’ death trap.”

  “You think someone wants to take us out?” I glance around. My eyes, while not trained in the same way as the others, are still perfectly capable of looking for trip wires. I inch forward, my feet gingerly touching the floorboards, checking in case one might be loose.

  “Could be.” Snatcher’s proceeding with equal care. “They know we’ll come to the scene of the crime, so yeah, if they wanted to take a bunch of us out, this place could be primed to blow.”

  “Have you been here before?” I wonder if he knows the layout.

  “Yeah. When we installed the equipment.”

  “You think it’s anything to do with a case?”

  For a reply, Snatcher makes the motion of zipping his mouth.

  I take the hint. As well as taking Swift, whoever’s got her may have left something behind—a camera or a bug.

  Slowly, too fucking slowly, we search the room where Swift sleeps. My eyes keep being drawn to Swift’s hearing aids left by the side of the bed. Christ. I’m not sure why, but seeing Snatcher is ignoring them, I pocket the small devices and put them into the pocket of my jeans. I’m determined we’ll find her, and when we do, they’ll be the first things she’ll want. She’s strong, capable of resisting the most severe torture methods, but even so, it must be terrifying not to be able to hear. It’s her literal nightmare come true.

  Why did I get so drunk last night? As I watch Snatcher expertly searching for any small clue, I feel guilt settle on me that maybe I had chased her from the clubhouse last night. I vaguely recall people making comments about my idiotic approaches to her. Had she removed herself from the situation, rather than disabling me? Had I not come on to her, she might have stayed surrounded by people who’d keep her safe.

  Something on the floor catches my eye. “I got blood.” Once again, I feel chilled.

  “Yeah, man, you on your way? We got blood.” Snatcher’s touching his ear again and speaking to someone who’s not in the room.

  “More here.” I notice what looks like a bloody smear on the door.

  “Two samples. Yeah. See you soon.”

  He sees my raised eyebrow and explains, “Honor’s on his way. He can collect blood samples and dust for prints.”

  “He can?”

  “Yeah, he’s an ex-cop. Both he and Duty got out a few years back. Got fed up with all the crap they saw going on. You didn’t know that?”

  I shake my head. “Why isn’t one of them here now?” It seems like we’re wasting time.

  “Honor went back to collect his shit. He’ll be here soon, and Duty’s best used behind a computer. Whoever did this, it was carefully planned, and may have left some kind of digital footprint. We’re here to look for any message left—something to give us a clue who they could be or why they’ve taken her.”

  There’s clearly so much I don’t know about how they do things. I glance around again, looking for anything obvious or not that might help us find Swift. There’s nothing that jumps out. I turn around, trying to see if I’ve missed something, but notice Snatcher looking equally puzzled.

  “Would you expect to find something?” I query, feeling out of my depth. Knowing part of my helplessness is that this isn’t some stranger whose disappearance we’re investigating, this is Swift. A woman who seems to mean more to me than I care to admit, and which I hadn’t allowed myself to acknowledge until she went missing.

  He shakes his head. “No, but the fact we haven’t suggests this was planned and carried out by people who know what they’re doing. All we’ve got are those splotches of blood, and they could have come from Swift herself.”

  That’s what’s worrying me. Is she hurt? I’m assuming she is, so the real question should be, how bad? Is she even alive? My heart speeds up, then I tell myself, If they’ve killed her, why take her body? Surely if
that’s their purpose, they’d have left her here for us to find. Next, I wonder whether the people who’ve taken her know who she is. If they don’t, then it’s them I should be worrying about.

  “If she’s not incapacitated, they won’t know what’s hit them,” I tell him, a little more confidently than I feel.

  His sharp eyes find mine. “You like her, Road? I mean, really like her? Last night you were coming on to her strong.”

  “I was drunk.” But I’m not going to deny it. “But hey, drunk or sober, she’s a fuckin’ attractive woman. Strong as steel on the outside, but with a soft core.”

  His eyebrows rise. “Nothing about Swift is soft. She’d bust your balls.”

  But I’m not so certain. Though one thing I am sure of, I’ll be doing her no favours when she returns for her to have become the victim of jokes about me mooning over her. “You know her better than I. But hey, last night I was drunk. Sober, I’d steer clear as I value my junk too much. I’ll use a hangaround if I want to get my dick wet.” Speaking of which… “Any problem if I use her bathroom?”

  “Nah, I checked it out.”

  I take a long much-needed piss, immediately feeling infinitely better, then wash my hands. While I’m certain Snatcher will have already searched, I open the cabinet above the sink, noting its contents. There’s a box of condoms, which under the circumstances I should ignore, but instead my dick perks up as I think of sinking into her depths. I bang the heel of my hand against my head. Focus. It was unlikely before that I’d ever fuck her, but now she’s gone, I might never see her again. That thought is far more painful than I expect.

  Resting my hands on the edge of the sink, I bow my head for a moment, vowing silently that while I don’t have a clue about how I’m going to do it, I’ll do my part to bring her home. Then, maybe, I’ll take my chance with her sober. Christ knows whether she’ll give a grunt like me a second look, but she’s gotten to me in the very short time I’ve known her. I’ve never met anyone like her.

  I take the opportunity of splashing cold water on my face, then putting some toothpaste on my finger, do an inadequate job of cleaning my teeth.

  “You taking a shit or something?”

  “Be right out,” I reply. But before I do, I stare into the mirror, not seeing my face, but hers instead. I’ll move heaven and earth to find you, Swift. Might not have a clue how to do it, will have to be guided by your brothers, but I’ll do my best. Just hold on. We’re coming to get you.

  21

  Swift…

  I’m deaf.

  I’m alone. But I’m not in my home. There’s a cuff around my hand that’s fastened to a chain about six feet in length, and that, in turn, is fixed to an iron ring cemented in the wall. I give it an experimental tug. It holds fast.

  I’ve been taken. But where and by whom or why, I don’t know. I rise to a sitting position, putting my hand to my head. I feel dizzy, my head throbs and I’m nauseous. I can’t remember anything after going to bed and falling asleep.

  I add the few clues together. My physical symptoms suggest I’ve been subjected to chloroform or some drug to render me unconscious, I must have fought as there’s a bruise and graze on my arm, but I can’t remember. How had it happened and why the hell hadn’t my security system worked? The technology I’d put so much faith in hadn’t alerted me that someone had invaded my home. While I wish this was a nightmare, I’m very much awake and aware I’ve been kidnapped.

  My hearing aids? Well, they are the first things I look for, but whoever took me, hadn’t brought them, or if they have, they’ve not left them out for me.

  A wave of panic rises inside me. I can’t hear anything.

  I can see and touch. I taste a sour flavour in my mouth, and smell a stale odour but it’s not enough. I can’t hear voices that might give me clues as to what’s happening, nor footsteps that could warn me of someone’s approach, or even a rattling to show the door’s being opened. I’m helpless.

  No. I can’t think that way. As I feel the onset of a panic attack—the ones that can overtake me ever since I woke up and found my hearing impaired—I consciously try to slow down my breathing, trying to stave off the weakness that would ensue should I give into the urge. I’m Swift. I’d reached the rank of corporal in the army before passing the selection process for the SAS. Part of the training involved kidnap and negotiation training. I know the advice I’d give someone who could potentially be kidnapped, and the words I’d use to negotiate their freedom.

  I just never expected to be on this side of a kidnapping, to be the kidnapee. I’d more likely be the kidnapper. I hadn’t expected to feel so helpless and out of control, which definitely are alien feelings for me. I breathe in through my mouth and out through my nose, then I do it again.

  Think Swift. Use your head. Rule one for someone who’s been kidnapped, keep your eyes and ears open for anything that might help, either to free yourself or to bring the kidnappers to justice once you’re released.

  Is this what it’s like to feel terrified? I don’t think I’ve felt real fear before, apprehension of course, when we were waiting for the order to proceed, but it was the adrenaline as with my comrades we prepared to head into what the intelligence reports had told us of the unknown. Our advances strategically planned, our weapons at the ready, while always knowing that the best laid plans could fall apart in an instant. Reacting to minute details changing in a situation was something I’d learned. But I was always in control, the adrenaline fuelling my actions.

  Now that useless hormone is threatening to overwhelm me as I’ve no one standing in front of me to fight, and the chain prevents me moving very far. It’s a stimulant which I could do without, pumping my body up, preparing it for action without being able to flee or fight.

  I try to push it down, make my heart rate slow, and tell myself there’s no enemy to engage right now. Promising myself when my kidnapper puts in an appearance, he’ll soon wish he’d picked on somebody else.

  Another rule. Don’t antagonise your kidnapper. Hmm. So maybe kicking him in the privates just for the sake of it isn’t the way to go. Not while I’m still chained to the wall and sitting on an iron bed which seems to be bolted to the floor.

  But free me, and all bets are off.

  Forcing myself not to think of everything I can’t hear, I try to think of the positives and use the senses I do still possess, I look around me. There are no windows, the room lit by a single bulb hanging from the ceiling. That musty smell suggests I’m in some kind of cellar or basement. There’s a bed, a bucket, presumably placed conveniently close by should I wish to answer a call of nature, and a single wooden chair.

  Weapons? The bed’s an iron frame. Lifting the thin mattress I see it has springs, but none that look loose or which, without a tool, could be taken out. There’s no handy screwdriver or other implement which would help me. The floor is dirty and dusty, but with cleaner areas which suggest things have been removed. They’ve prepared for me.

  For me? Or for anyone? Was I a deliberate target?

  No one knew I was going home last night. I’d only decided on the spur of the moment so I didn’t give in to my impulse to go with Road. Maybe fucking Road would have been the lesser of two evils. I could still be in his bed...

  Think, I admonish myself.

  My electricity was taken out. Sure, it’s easy enough to cut a power line, but the generator would have kicked in, and that’s set to warn me if the power has failed. That it hadn’t means that was disabled too. To know I had the backup in place means it wasn’t just a random home invasion. It was premeditated and planned for. That my appearance in my house wasn’t on my agenda last night, whoever is responsible for bringing me here had to have staked the place out, waiting for me to make one of my rare visits to my home. Which means I was the target, me. And taking me was important enough to make all the necessary preparations.

  My hands are slick with sweat, my heart’s beating too fast. I feel lightheaded and while I try to put it d
own on whatever sedative was used on me, I know I’m hiding the truth. I’m panicking. Me, Swift. One of the first women to be selected for the SAS, and here I am, shaking and scared.

  I hate this deadly silence. Hate not knowing what’s going on or why. Why does anyone want me?

  I can still fight. Being deaf has only taken my hearing from me.

  But I have to be free to go on the offensive. While I search for something useful within reach, I keep glancing toward the door, only too well aware that someone could creep up on me. I’d never hear a key turn in the lock, nor the door opening. Or someone’s voice.

  I tackle the chain, unable to undo the cuff around my wrist. The chain itself is too sturdy to break. Maybe I can pull the ring out of the wall? But while I’m strong, I don’t have sufficient weight or leverage to loosen it at all. If someone comes too close to me, the chain is a weapon all in itself. My mind goes through options of how it could be used. Options I begin to look forward to.

  I don’t know who’s holding me, how many there are, and whether they also are trained. I don’t know whether they’re expecting me, or a weak helpless female. Is there something in my past that would make someone target me? I can’t think of anything, and my parents, while not poor, couldn’t put much of a ransom together. My activities with the club? Again, unlikely. We keep our heads down low for that very reason, so no one knows who we are or what we do. A random kidnapping? Why go to all that trouble? I know sex traffickers often target people who fit someone’s particular tastes, could that be what’s happened to me? I wouldn’t call myself pretty, or the shape that a typical female would have. I’m hard and muscular, not soft and curvy. Is it possible that’s what someone would like, someone who wants to break me?

  Do they know who I am? Or more importantly, what? I’m less human being than weapon.

  I grin to myself. I’ve got a chance if I’ve been kidnapped because I’m a particular type of woman, who matches someone’s desires. In that instance, they could be unaware of what skills I have.