Blood Revealed (Brimstone Lords MC Book 6)

by Sarah Zolton Arthur

  “We’ll get you cleaned up,” Nicola offers. “We have supplies to clean and bandage your feet.” She walks through the kitchen and disappears for a moment from my view. When she pops back into sight, she’s carrying two mop buckets, which she stops at the sink to fill with water. Heavier now, she lumbers to carry one out—the red one—which she carries two-handed, water sloshing over the sides, to set down in front of Celeste. Then she goes back for the blue bucket, water sloshing over the sides the same as the other. “Bring me the vinegar, please,” she calls to Carmen. “It’s in the cupboard next to the refrigerator.”

  Carmen reaches up into the cupboard and pulls out an almost-full, plastic gallon jug of white vinegar that she lugs back into the sitting room over to us, handing the large container over to Nicola, who pops the top and pours probably a cup of vinegar into each of our buckets.

  “Now put your feet in the bucket to soak,” she orders.

  I wince and gasp as the hot vinegar water touches the shredded pads of my feet. The pain becomes so intense that I’m forced to grip the cushion of the chair I’m sitting in and squeeze my eyes shut in order not to pass out or something equally embarrassing.

  Although it sounds cruel and I really don’t wish this pain on—almost—anyone, I’m comforted to see Celeste have the same reaction. Now I don’t feel like such a wimp.

  “I have to check on the other girls,” Nicola says, pushing up from the squat she’s been in while helping us out.

  “You’re going to make yourself sick,” I argue. “You need to rest, too.”

  “I’ll rest when the others are good. Make sure they find the water.”

  “I’ll come,” Carmen offers. “Get it done faster with more hands.”

  She’s right and I could kick myself for being this incredibly useless when they need the help. As the pain eases, the warmth of the water begins to lull me under until Celeste breaks the solace of the moment to speak. “I don’t know what to do now that I’m free,” she says.

  “What do you mean?”

  “They kidnapped me and my mama when I was ten. Sold my mama before they even got her to the mansion. El maestro had his people out looking for a younger woman with long, brown hair, brown eyes, and delicate features. These men, it’s like they submit a shopping list of traits they want a particular woman to have and he sends people out to find them. My mom was only fifteen when she had me, came from a bad home. When I was ten, she was only twenty-five years old.”

  “How old are you now?” I ask, a thought beginning to form in my head.

  “Nineteen,” she answers. “They were gonna sell me to a pedo who loved to play with little girls. It was practically a done deal until el maestro saw me in person for the first time and decided I’d grow up pretty enough to join his personal stable. Not that he’s much better than that pedo. Once I had hips and tits, he bedded me.”

  I don’t know what to say because I spent my formative years trying to avoid that exact scenario. But then it hits me. She’s nineteen. Went in at ten. She might have crossed paths with Cassandra. “Did you ever meet a woman named Cassandra?” I whisper in my ugly, raspy voice. It hurts to speak, but I need to know.

  “Long, brown-almost-black hair?”

  “Yes,” I answer excitedly.

  “She took me under her wing—tried to protect me the best she could since my own mama was gone. I cried for days when she died.”

  “My mom.” The tears prick at the backs of my eyes, just like they always do when I talk about Cassandra.

  “You’re that Hannah?”

  “She talked about me?” I ask.

  “Every day. You and your sister—”

  “Brinley,” I say. We fall quiet after that. That was Cassandra. The woman had a heart bigger than the sun. Now I hope Escalante is lying dead in a pool of his own blood from that head injury up in his bedroom. “I need a phone.”

  I must have dozed off because I’m shocked awake by the feel of a plastic bottle rim and cool water touching my lips. I lick at the moisture, grabbing the bottle from Carmen, and suck down the liquid. It goes down rough when I drink too much at one time. Instead of soothing my throat, it burns.

  “Slow,” Carmen orders. I try to comply, I really do, but once the water breaches my lips, it’s like flood waters breaching a levy. There’s no stopping until I’ve tipped the last of it into my mouth, leaving an empty bottle.

  For the next two days, Nicola and Carmen play prison wardens, not allowing me out of the trailer in order to let my feet heal. Celeste stays in lockdown along with me. The other women come in and out of the trailers as they please. Most of them spend their time in the outside oasis of the courtyard. It allows them a sense of freedom denied them for so long, yet it keeps them out of sight.

  Now that my feet appear more like feet rather than processed meat product, I have to get to the town. I need to find a phone. I get it, why the women insisted I stay put. We have no idea if Escalante and his men are out looking for us and if they still are, the way my feet slowed me down, I’d never have outrun them. The fear isn’t only recapturing, but that they might torture me enough to give up the location of the safehouse.

  Nicola outfits me in actual undergarments. Simple, comfortable, breathable cotton. Pink cotton shorts, a paler pink, snuggly fit T-shirt with a Kawaii strawberry figure on the front that reads: Delicious! Along with the white ankle socks and running shoes, I look like I should be headed for cheer camp or something.

  There are two usable bikes on the property, as in the pedal kind, not the rumbling engine variety. Nicola sends Carmen with me up to town with a list of things to pick up at the one little store in town, along with funds from the petty cash box to pay for them. What they say about ‘it’s like riding a bike’—yeah, they don’t know what they’re talking about. It’s been years since either of us has ridden a bike and the wobbly front tire and the having to stop every two rotations of the chain to put one of our feet down after losing balance proves that point.

  I think at one point or another, both of us would have given up if not for the necessity of supplies for the other women, that, and I have a husband, a family out looking for me. I’m sure most of these other women do too; they just aren’t lucky enough to have the family looking for them be the Lords.

  Eventually, we get the hang of things and the rest of the ride is, I wouldn’t say smoother, but less rocky. Halfway has one stop at a four-way intersection with the gas station/church on one corner, the grocers across the street, and then there’s a post office and finally a bar because where else does one go after experiencing the holiness of a gas station/church, but the bar?

  Our first stop, the aptly named Halfway Market, actually has cheap, disposable cell phones behind the counter along with minutes to buy. I could cry, I’m so happy. Carmen takes the shopping list while I purchase a little flip phone, using the store’s Wi-Fi—yes, the Halfway Market has actual Wi-Fi—to set up my account.

  “Are there any biker clubs close by?” I ask the cashier, a little old lady with tight pin curls of silver-white hair, varicose veins protruding through her paper-thin skin, and coke-bottle glasses.

  “Why would a nice girl like you want to know about those kinds of men?” she asks me instead of answering.

  “I have my reasons.”

  “Well, you might try the bar across the street. They might be able to help. I’m afraid I don’t pay much attention to the likes of that.”

  “Thanks,” I say, running to find Carmen in the small store. She’s deciding between a couple brands of feminine products when I walk up on her. “Okay. Here’s the deal. I’m running across the street to the bar. I need to find out about any bike clubs close by. I need to know if they’re friends of the Lords or not.”

  “Right,” she replies. “Let me get these and—”

  “No.” I grip her shoulder to get her to not only look at me, but get me. “I need you to stay here in the store with the cashier. She might look old, but I noticed a big ass sho
tgun under the counter. I’ll come collect you when I’m finished.”

  It sucks being the person left behind when we all want out of this hell, but even though she’s brave, she hasn’t lived the life. One thing I know about bars and bikers is it takes an experienced hand to deal with them and not get taken.

  Leaving her in the aisle, I jog from the store kitty-corner across the street to a bar they call Halfway to Hell. Cigarette smoke billows out through the door when I open it. Apparently, these Marlboro Men haven’t gotten the memo that smoking is bad. There are probably twelve heads inside the dark space lit only by the orangish ambient ceiling lights and the neon signs hung around the room on every wall. All twelve of those heads, including the bartender, look to me when I walk inside.

  I order a soda. The rugged barkeep seriously has the biggest Texas hair I’ve seen in my life and a tank top stretching across her ample bosom with Halfway to Hell scrawled in a macho script. I’ve always thought my tits are big. She has me beat by at least a cup and a half. As she uses the hose to spray my coke into the glass of ice, I lean in to ask, “Any info on biker clubs in this area?”

  She raises an eyebrow at me because in this outfit, I seriously don’t look like a woman who associates with bikers. I rephrase the question. “Are we close to the Devil’s Outcasts or Rogue Players?” The Players aren’t as close to the Lords as the Outcasts, but they could get in contact.

  “Why you lookin’ for the Outcasts, little lady?” This cowboy in a big brimmed hat and snakeskin cowboy boots saunters up to the bar to rest next to me. He postures himself one foot up on the rail of the barstool and he leans heavily on his bent knee.

  “I need to find them,” I answer. “My business is my own.”

  “Whelp.” He pushes up on the brim of his hat. “It’s funny you should mention them.”

  “Why’s that?” I ask, pulling a breath in through my nose as I’m starting to get irritated by this guy. My throat hurts. They can’t pretend they don’t see the bruising all over my neck. My voice still sounds like I smoke three packs a day.

  “Got me a ranch,” he says. “About twenty miles out. Been seein’ a lot of those boys swarmin’ the area. Pretty much any Texan knows the Outcasts. Though they ain’t been alone.”

  “No?” I lean in, my interest piqued.

  He shakes his head. “They been ridin’ with other guys. Flamin’ devil head on the back of their jackets. Red letters. What’d the patch say?” He scratches his chin.

  I mentally cross my fingers and ask, “Brimstone Lords, by any chance?”

  The cowboy snaps his fingers and points at me. “That’s it. Brimstone Lords. Been seein’ them around.”

  This feels impossible. I almost break down in a mess of happy tears right there. Instead, I punch in Raif’s number, happy and thankful that he’s had the same number for years and that I’ve managed to remember it.

  The phone rings two times when the most beautiful voice in the world fills my ears. “Who’s this?” he barks into the line.

  “Raif?” I whisper, choking back more tears wanting to spill.

  “Baby?” he sort of whisper-shouts. It’s a thing. “Where the fuck are you? You okay? How’d you get away? Why does your voice sound fucked up? Fuck,” he finishes.

  “I’m in Halfway—”

  “Get us to Halfway,” he shouts at someone.

  “No!”

  “What do you mean no? Baby, you better start making sense.”

  I walk to the far corner of the bar in order not to be heard. “There’s a safehouse close by,” I whisper. “We can’t have the Lords rolling into town. It could compromise the location of these other women.”

  “How many women we talking about?” he asks.

  “Including me, twenty-eight.”

  That’s when I hear a low whistle and know he gets it, the magnitude of what we’re dealing with. “We need to arrange a meeting spot.”

  Raif and I both grow quiet as we think about the best way to approach the situation. At least I’m thinking about the best way to approach it. I can’t be one hundred percent sure about him. I chew on the inside of my lip a bit longer until an idea hits. “There’s a cowboy here. He’s got a ranch twenty miles outside of Halfway. Maybe—”

  “Put him on the phone, baby.”

  Puffing my chest out, I leave my little corner to walk over to the cowboy. “Here,” I say. “I got ahold of my people. Talk.”

  I don’t want to tell the cowboy that the guy he’s talking to is my husband because he clearly sauntered over to try to pick me up. He might not be willing to help if he knows I’m off the market. I want to think he’ll help simply because it’s the right thing to do, but in my experience, there’re far less men with solid moral compasses in the world than ones with. I cross my fingers this guy’s compass is solid.

  After a few excruciatingly long minutes of talking, the man holds the phone out to me. “Here. he wants to talk with you.”

  “Thanks,” I say with a smile. Then to Raif, “What’s happening?”

  “Okay. Guy seems on the up and up. Obviously without being vetted, I can’t know for sure. We’re making the initial meet at his place tomorrow at noon. Can you get there?” Raif gives me the name of the ranch and any crossroads since my little flip phone doesn’t have GPS.

  “I can get there.”

  “You safe, baby? I’m going out of my fucking mind here.”

  “Yeah. I’ll be okay. Just, Raif”—I take in a breath—“don’t be late, okay?”

  “Promise, baby.”

  We hang up because I only have so many minutes right now and since I called his cell, this number, even though it’s a burner can ping off the closest towers giving a location to anyone who might be looking.

  Before I leave, I suck back the Coke I paid for and smile at the cowboy. “Thanks,” I say with total sincerity. “Tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow,” he replies, tipping his hat again.

  From there, I run back across the street to grab Carmen. We wait a bit longer, sharing a small box of Hostess cupcakes that we purchased extra. We each buy a water, too and take an extra ten minutes to make sure we won’t be followed—you can’t be too safe. Any one of those men inside the bar could be connected to the flesh trade.

  Carmen and I take our couple of grocery bags, set them in the baskets of our bikes, and ride off opposite direction from where we need to head in the small chance that someone from the bar is watching. We double back around, riding over the flat, dusty soil behind the bar, keeping off the road until we’re far enough away to not be seen.

  Good thing we bought those waters. We need them. Nicola’s out front of the trailer we’ve been staying in, wearing a groove in the dirt with her pacing. “Where the hell have you been?” she shouts at us like a mother who lost track of her kids.

  “You know what we were doing,” Carmen says.

  “Had to make sure we weren’t followed,” I explain more. “Had to talk to a few people in town. We left town riding away from here and doubled back.” I get her fear. Totally get it. We need to get a van and more cash to buy gas, food, and sundries here at the safehouse. Raif and the boys’ll need to pony up the money.

  The rest of the day goes by without anything weird or out of the ordinary happening, and I know, because I keep an eye out for any sign—an off shadow or sound—until I crash for the night.

  The next day I’m dressed and ready to go by 9:30 because I don’t know how long it’ll take me to pedal out to Buckin’ Bronc Ranch, the cowboy’s ranch that he agreed to let us use as the meet spot yesterday.

  “Let me go with,” Carmen begs, but I can’t give her this.

  “We don’t know if it’s safe and I can’t risk you. Raif and I make the meet, we’ll come for you and the other women. Move you out under Lords’ protection to get you guys home.”

  “But—” she begins to protest. I press my hand over her mouth to stop her, then give out my hugs in case the tides don’t turn in my favor.

>   I turn to the group before I leave. “We’re away from Escalante, but we aren’t that far away. Who do we trust?” I ask. “You think the Sheriff in these parts is just clueless to the type of trade going on in his neck of the woods? What about any of the guys in that bar? Do we know for sure they’re all good guys? We have to assume every man we see in on Escalante’s payroll. I don’t even know about the cowboy, but I’m willing to take the chance because there are men I do trust. Men that would give their lives for me or any of us.”

  Some of the women wear hope, some fear. I leave those as my parting words, running out the front door to keep them from seeing the tears falling from my eyes.

  I’m surer of balance on the bike this morning. The sun’s already shining, heating up the western landscape. As this area lacks the traffic of most areas of the country, the ride goes relatively smooth. I make it to the outskirts of the ranch in two hours and hang back in the shadows to check it out.

  There are several cowboys loading hay bales from truck beds inside barns and doing other such cowboy activities that appear to keep the ranch running. It appears safe and I’m about to make my approach when one guy catches my eye. I drop the bike and drop down to hide in the tall grass. He leans against the side of one of the big red barns, lighting a cigarette. And maybe he’s just on a break, but there’s a glint off the toe guard on his boots that reflects the sun. A glint that none of the other working men have coming off their boots covered in dust and dirt.

  With so many men doing chores, he keeps just out of range of the working men. My gut wrenches as my brain screams, Abort, abort, abort.

  Then I pluck the phone from my pocket and dial Raif.

  18.

  Raif

  “Get out of there, baby. Now,” I order her. “Keep low. Fuck.” I run my hand over my scruffy face. My skin itches because I haven’t had the chance to shave in a few days. There’s the commotion of her moving and heavy breaths. “Good looking out, sweetheart. You did great.” And the shit of it is I don’t know if I’m trying to reassure her or me.