Tarnished Lies and Dead Ends

by MariaLisa deMora

  Twisted slicked his hair back with both hands, strands sticking to his temples in the Louisiana heat. “We got ridealongs for all groups. We provisioned breakdown vans for each group too. I personally have warned the lawmen in every area to lay low for the day, because they do not want to get in my motherfuckin’ way. We are gonna take back what’s ours, clean up the coast, and give the fuckin’ cartel a goddamned heart attack at the losses they are gonna hafta swallow, because there’s no comin’ back from this. I’m drawing a damned line in the motherfuckin’ sand.” He put truth to the words, dragging a booted toe side to side, and then stepped over it. “Here and now, shit changes, and we’re doin’ the work we need to do. Whatever it takes.” Twisted pounded a clenched fist against his chest as he looked around the group. He took his time, and Wildman felt the weight of Twisted’s gaze as it landed on him. “As our founders did before us, it’s time to put on the colors and ride, brothers. Don’t matter what patch you wear today, you’re under my protection, and I do not take your presence here lightly.”

  Wrench lifted a closed fist, followed by Po’Boy, Wildman, Ruger, and dozens of other men. As one, they lifted their faces and shouted their club’s oath, the cacophony of noises rendering understanding of individual words impossible, but it didn’t matter. Anyone watching would recognize these were warriors on the cusp of battle.

  Wildman grinned, teeth bared as he shouted, “IMC is me, and I am IMC.”

  ***

  Justine

  She crouched on the balls of her feet and ran a trembling hand down the arm of the woman in front of her. “Shhhh.”

  Bruised, with blood oozing from a split in the corner of her mouth, the woman stared up at her with an awed expression. “Thank you.”

  “Don’t thank me. The son of a bitch still hit you.” Ignoring the throbbing of the bruises on her own body, Justine leaned in and cupped the woman’s cheek in her hand. “I promise you, we’re going to get out of this.”

  Glancing around at the milling crowd of women and children jammed into the small space, Justine shook her head. I just don’t know how.

  Chapter Six

  Wildman

  Hands grappled for a hold on his arms, strong fingers digging in, blunt nails leaving furrows of red behind. Wildman dropped to a knee and countered, willing to risk a bite as he shoved his fingers into a gaping mouth and yanked hard on the jaw of the man in front of him. He pulled and twisted, dislocating the joints with a sickening snap and leaving the jaw grotesquely wobbling in the wake of the man’s screams. A figure approached from the side, and Wildman burst from his low crouch and used the top of his head to blast that assailant’s nose flat on one cheek, the instantly flowing blood black in the shadows.

  Another one came at Wildman from the side, and he met them halfway. Tucking his shoulder low, he got underneath them and hefted the body high into the air before he wove his fingers into the clothing and yanked the man down across his lifted knee. The crunch of bone resonated through Wildman, and he caught the falling body to twist the man’s head around until his neck popped and bulged obscenely. Dropping the still-twitching body to the shell-and-gravel driveway, Wildman fell back into his ready crouch. When there were no immediate threats, he took a moment to glance around, huffed breaths clouding in the chill air.

  Po’Boy was in the middle of three men, but instead of fighting them off, Po’Boy was the one holding the men there. The wild grin splitting his face told Wildman Po’Boy was not only doing fine but was also likely enjoying himself.

  Off to the side, Twisted straddled a man who was sprawled loosely on the ground, the president’s fists pounding the face to an unrecognizable mass of flesh and bone. Get him, man.

  All around him, Wildman counted four more individual skirmishes. A quick review of each showed they equaled four more wins for his brothers and friends.

  A sound from behind him had him spinning around in a crouch, scanning the area close to him. They were in a trucking company’s compound outside Biloxi, and until the first gunshots had ripped through the air not five minutes ago, the night had been riddled with bullfrog cries ahead of an approaching storm. Lightning played along the edges of the rolling clouds overhead, occasional bright flashes bringing everything into a stark focus.

  It was one of those bursts of light that gave him his first glimpse of her.

  The vent in the rear door of a nearby trailer had been forced wide and then wired that way so it would take a fuckton of intent to close it. That ain’t right. The sounds of the fight faded to the background as thunder crashed, the accompanying flash highlighting a woman’s face behind the mesh. The single eye he could see was wide and frightened—and staring straight at him.

  The next lightning flash showed an empty hole.

  He shook his head in disbelief, not trusting his own eyes, especially given the situation. He knew logically there was more than one reason for a person to be stowed away inside a truck trailer, whether parked on a lot or being dragged down the interstate. Innocent reasons, such as a haven from the storm. Malicious reasons, like bottling up warriors inside a current-day Trojan horse. However, given the owners of this company were the dirtbags currently breathing their last in the haze of dust floating through the air around him, Wildman was confident that whatever this woman was, the one thing she wasn’t was a terrorist.

  No matter how hard he stared, the vision of the woman’s face didn’t reappear. He trusted himself enough to believe, though, which meant it needed to be checked out.

  Wildman ducked low and ran to the side of the trailer, dragging his piece from where it dug into his waist. Closer to the vent, an odor of unwashed bodies hit him, sweat and shit, and so much goddamned fear. The air reeked of terror, something he was far too familiar with. Nope, not a foreign terrorist or one of the mules the cartel uses. Whoever she is, she’s here involuntarily. The faintest murmur of conversation from inside cut off in midphrase, echoes quickly silenced. And she’s not alone. At the back of the trailer, he scanned the lot again, now seeing only friendly members still on their feet. All the bad guys were down and looking to stay that way. Win for us, hell yeah. There were clusters of folks here and there, but he couldn’t spare any time to wonder what they were looking at, either opponents or good guys. If whoever is inside poses a threat, we’ve got to know now. It would be better to fight any remaining battles while still hyped up on adrenaline and the rush of winning than to be blindsided after they’d let their guard down.

  Now’s as good a time as any.

  Lifting a hand overhead, Wildman waggled his pistol side to side as he gave off a soft whistle similar to a dove, gratified when Po’Boy’s head immediately lifted and turned his way. With a single powerful blow, the man finished off the enemy he’d been holding upright with a fist around his throat. Then Po’Boy gave his own whistle and came in Wildman’s direction, bringing three additional men with him.

  Wildman met him at the doors, hand already on the latch. Under his breath, he shared what he knew. “At least one woman, but I heard other voices. From the stench comin’ out of their hidey-hole, they’re most likely unwilling guests of our friends.”

  Po’Boy stepped back, bringing out his gun while the rest of the men moved so they formed a deadly arc of iron and bone. My brothers. Same patch or not, he held the same emotions for every man here. IMC stands with CoBos, and my brothers stand with me. With a brusque nod, Wildman turned back to the trailer, shoving his gun into his belt at the back of his jeans.

  The shoulder-high latches moved quietly under his hands, and he pulled in a hard breath, holding the air deep within his lungs as he lifted and pulled in the same movement, throwing both doors wide. Silence greeted him, thick shadows nearly fifty feet away at the front of the trailer holding their secrets. The lot’s single functioning security light illuminated clothing and blankets scattered across the floor. A large rat sat on its haunches and stared at him with black eyes before scampering towards a drain hole along the side of the trailer. />
  Stepping back a half stride, Wildman surged forwards and jumped, feet climbing the safety bar to land on the edge of the door as he pushed upright. The sense of exposure was strong, and Wildman was entirely aware he’d made himself an easy target. The memory of that woman’s face drove him forwards, though, his own safety less important than it should have been.

  Lightning flashed through the open sky behind him and eliminated the shadows for an instant. There was a cluster of milling bodies where only darkness had been. The feminine faces turned towards him, showing a mix of emotions running the gamut from angry to terrified.

  As he strode forwards, thunder and lightning picked up the pace, blasting them with a series of strobing flashes and bone-rattling booms. He watched, mesmerized, as one body broke away from the cluster of what could only be captives. Women, most appearing worn and exhausted, wore ill-fitting clothing that was tattered and stained, with rips and dirty hems.

  A woman walked towards him, hips swaying side to side with deliberate movements. As she neared him, her arms lifted from her sides, so they were outstretched, as if she intended to herd him from the trailer. Not happenin’, darlin’. Every twist of muscle seemed planned, choreographed into a dance of deflection, seduction, and her attempted use of her beauty to protect the other women threatened to take his legs out from under him as he imagined what she might have been subjected to.

  Hers was the face he’d seen through the vent, the Siren call that had pulled him in here. Unlike the disheveled captives standing behind her, this woman had tamed her hair into a long braid that hung down her back. She was dirty and bruised, and flashes of lightning exposed dark circles on her neck mapping out the latest abuse she must have suffered.

  Chin lifted defiantly, she glared at him, and another burst of light exposed her piercing grey eyes. Under the dirt, behind the blood pooled in marks under her skin, she held a beauty like nothing he’d ever seen. The symmetry of her features was poetry; her mouth, even twisted in anger, was a perfect mix of arches and curves. Her body was lush, breasts straining at the tight men’s undershirt she wore, hips flaring from a waist he could easily span with both hands.

  Jesus, what the fuck is she doing here? Why?

  “You speak English?” The women were all Caucasian, but that didn’t mean American. Wildman stepped closer, proud of how she held her ground as he looked past her. The clacking of teeth brought his attention back to the brunette, where the bared-teeth grimace backed up the threat she’d given. He leaned closer, focused on her eyes, the way her muscles moved. Sure, she could be crazy, and then he’d wear a scar for the rest of his life, but the intelligence in her gaze told him this was a deliberate ploy to keep him away from the other occupants of the trailer. “What the fuck, woman? Knock it off. I’m not the enemy here.” She stared at him, lips pressed into a tight and silent line, those damn eyes considering and evaluating him, and he noted the instant she decided not to press her attack. In a low voice, aiming for reassuring, he asked, “Do you speak English? Any of you?”

  Where they’d come together was in the center of the space, well away from the sides and the group of people at the nose of the trailer. The woman blinked slowly, muscles visibly tensing, and Wildman stared in confusion as she wordlessly folded to her knees. A supplicant’s position—all grace and poise as she lowered herself to the floor. Here, in this filthy prison, this charismatic woman pulled off a pose change with an allure he’d seldom seen in clubs with padded floors. What the actual fuck?

  Her lips parted, pink tongue darting into view for an instant before she said, “Yes, we all speak English.”

  And, God, what he’d give to have that tongue wrapped around the head of his cock. Her low and melodic voice carried a slight accent that wasn’t local, but the roundness of the sounds reassured him English was her native language, and he nodded. At least the clubs wouldn’t have to try and figure out how to repatriate foreigners. Cartel’s reach being as far and wide as it was, and with the number of scattered connections the bad guys boasted, these women could have been from anywhere, brought here as slaves or sex workers.

  With her still on her knees, Wildman had another flash of what would never be, seeing the broad head of his cock slipping past her lips, resting heavily on her tongue with her expression avid and hungry.

  Fuck off and focus, dickhead.

  As if she read his mind, her pretty lips pursed faintly, and she reached for him. He gritted his teeth, because damn if his cock wasn’t waking up to say hello, not giving a shit if what she offered was coerced or not. If she wanted to suck him off with an audience in the middle of a growing thunderstorm, his dick would be entirely on board with the program. Fuck, man, that ain’t like me. He might not mind hitting club pussy at a party or scening at the club intended for such activities, but that was an intentional public display. For moments of true intimacy, he’d always gone private, getting lost inside the act for however long his partner would let him.

  “Wild.” The single word from Po’Boy yanked him out of the fantasy and into the world, splashed red by their enemies’ blood.

  Wildman quickly gave up the space he’d closed to her position, taking a long step backwards, moving away as quickly as he could from her clever fingers. That ain’t who I am, lady. She stared up at him, and the anger in her gaze raised a chill up his spine.

  Softly, she said, “I’m offering. You don’t have to take from them. Mercy, please. They’ve been through enough.” She swallowed hard, the muscles in her neck moving, and he focused on the bruises there. Fingertips had made those oval marks, which meant someone had choked her hard. He looked closer and marked the healing splits in her lips, the dark smears of old blood on her temple. “I won’t fight,” she promised quietly. Then, blinking fast, she struggled for a minute and finally got out, “Unless that’s what you want.”

  “Jesus.” Wildman shook his head, one hand held low to keep the distance between them when she looked like she’d start crawling. “No, no. That’s not why I’m here. You speak English, that’s good, because my Russian is the suck. Da and nyet about the extent. English is much better.” He gestured behind him without turning around. “I guess we’re rescuing you.” It didn’t matter what she thought she needed to give him; as far as he was concerned, she was an innocent in their war against the cartel. Innocents should always be protected. He had an instant flashback of his wife dead in their bed and clenched his teeth to drive back the dark memories. “You don’t have to do nothin’, darlin’. Come on, get up.”

  “You’re not part of them?” He had no doubt the “them” she referred to were the cartel. Her gaze flicked down to his nameplate, then back to his face. “Not part of the bad guys?”

  Well, now, that’s a little more vague. He wondered how much she might know about MCs and the company they ran with. Time to set her mind at ease. Glancing around the trailer, he huffed out a frustrated breath. Not much point in dealin’ with this bullshit. Not when we’ve still got cleanup outside to deal with. The group behind her shifted, and a much younger face peered out from between two adults. There’s always enough time to help the kids. If they have one memory of this time, let it be me. Shoving his shoulders back, he shook his head in a delayed reaction to her question. “Not even a bit of it. They’re assholes, and from the looks of things, I think you’d agree with me they serve their best purpose as worm food.” A cough behind him had him backtracking. “So, yeah. We’ve cleared them out. You’re all free, I guess. You got places to go?”

  “We all have families, and names.” She stared at him hard enough he felt the disbelief in her gaze. The expression on her face shifted from distrusting to something shading further towards wonderment. “You’re just…letting us go?”

  “Yeah.” He stepped closer and reached down slowly, gratified when she didn’t flinch away. Curling his fingers in invitation, he paused, then offered her a tiny smile, there and gone, the most he could give in this situation. Lighter, pushing a sense of teasing into his
words, he cautioned her, “Don’t bite me.”

  Wildman helped her to her feet and then steered her a step towards the side of the trailer when it shifted under their feet. The mass of women behind her stirred restlessly, and he glanced around to see both Po’Boy and Twisted standing in the opening. Lightning flashed, outlining their dark shapes in brilliant light, any stains of blood and dirt obscured by the contrast, and he looked back to see the women were all staring at the new men.

  Except the one who still had hold of his hand, standing in front of him and now so close he could feel the heat from her body. That woman, the one he’d lifted from her knees, had eyes only for him.

  ***

  Justine

  With the storm threatening, the man—Wildman by the nameplate on his vest—recommended they stay in the shelter of the trailer for a few minutes as the group of bikers arranged transport. To where, Justine had not the faintest clue. The men had been very careful to keep any tactical conversations well out of earshot of her and the other women.

  Wildman. What a conundrum of a man, who so far didn’t appear to live up to his road name in any way, shape, or form.

  When the sounds had come from around the trailer doors, and Justine realized the uncertain sanctuary of the trailer was about to be breached, she hadn’t known what to expect. Without being able to watch the final moments of the battle outside, she’d had no way of knowing which group had been the eventual victor. Anyone entering the trailer would have been suspect—either remnants of cartel come to celebrate their win, or the unknown victors, who could be capable of anything, including killing witnesses to their triumph.

  She knew it happened. Had personal knowledge in too many ways, from her childhood growing up with her father’s club in California, the Outriders, to her brother’s club, the Rebel Wayfarers, to her federal assignment sorting out the piece of work that was the Diamante. She knew regional clubs from coast to coast and definitely had heard of Incoherent. What had surprised her was seeing back patches of not just Wildman’s club but also the Caddo Hobos, and she’d need to try and get a second look, but was fairly certain she’d caught sight of a Bama Bastards patch too. What kind of shit is going down that involves so many clubs working in conjunction? Justine blew out a breath, wincing when the muscles of her back protested.