“It’s an enhancement algorithm that’s illegal in the US right now, because it comes from China via Cuba,” Myron said as he clicked again, then expanded the results of his efforts. “Best I can do.”
The image had gone from being a shades-of-gray thermal rendering to a full-color shot, all the graininess removed, and even the perspective was different, more straight-on than before.
“Holy fuck,” Wildman muttered, waggling his fingers towards the laptop. Myron grinned and shook his head, then slid the image sideways off the screen, where it appeared on the tablet. He picked it up and handed that to Wildman.
“It picks up on reflected imagery in the photo, building out the most viable representation of the subject. It’s also a facial recognition tool in China. They use it to control who comes in and out of various neighborhoods, where there’s an ethnic component.” Myron shook his head. “Doesn’t matter except for the results. Do you know this dude?”
“Yeah, I do.”
Staring at the tablet, Wildman again felt the rolling burn of anger blazing through his blood. The death of Powell, of Shelly, the night it all went down, this man had been there for it all. Every bit of it. The only time he hadn’t been was those two fucking days when the cops were around and Wildman had hoped for support.
“Curtis Bassil.”
Chapter Eighteen
Justine
The name niggled at her brain, and she pulled back from the table, leaning against Wildman’s chest as she followed the tiniest thread of memory down whatever track it seemed locked on. Curtis Bassil. It meant something; she was certain of it.
Eyes closed, she relaxed into the warm cradle created by Wildman’s arms and body, feeling safe and secure, kept from harm. In this way, she sank deep, letting her mind worry at the information behind the name that was on the slim side of recognizable. Bassil wasn’t a common surname, not one she’d encountered often. But I have heard it. She let her head rock to the side, forehead pressed against Wildman’s throat, the steady beat of his heart underneath her cheek.
No one had ever made her feel like this. Protected. Cherished. Loved. Lyle Woolsey was unique in that way, and she tried to tame back her instinct to soak it up, holding onto it for the time in the future when it would be ripped away. He’s not going anywhere. He already knew everything about her that might cause a man to go running for the hills, and he was still here.
Male voices buzzed around her, growing in strength and volume before decreasing again, that cycle unending as they discussed how and where to find this Bassil.
Time bent, and she was eighteen again, one arm holding a bundled-up Chris in a safe cocoon pressed against the edge of the cheap kitchen table.
The tiny apartment had been renovated two decades earlier, when the former four-room place set in the projects, the poorest-of-the-poor housing, had been refactored into the current two-room configuration. A booklet was spread in front of her, and Justine held a short, tooth-marked pencil in one hand, fingers clutched around it awkwardly. Studying for her GED, she read and reread the section on constitutional law, making notes on the back of leaflets that had come through the mail slot in the front door.
Jimmy walked into the apartment, another man at his heels, their angry voices overlapping as they shouted over each other. Jimmy’s words rang loudest as he tried for control over whatever situation he’d brought into their home. Chris writhed in her grip, and she carefully loosened her hold, hoping deeper sleep would again overtake him. No such luck, because the man with Jimmy roared loud enough to rattle the glasses in the cabinets.
“I don’t give a fat fuck who your father-in-law is, you son of a bitch. You owe the chapter here, and you’re gonna fuckin’ pay your goddamned dues to the club.”
Chris wailed, the sound thin and terrified as Justine brought him to her shoulder, her hand moving in a soothing pattern across his swaddled back. He hiccupped, air catching in his throat; then he let loose with another cry, this one stronger and louder.
A face appeared in the doorway, dark skin flushed red, sweat beading along his temples. The smile he flashed her was ugly, sinister, and as filled with danger as anything she’d ever seen.
“Boy sounds hungry, bitch. Whip a tit out and shut him the fuck up, yeah?” Tall and broad, this stranger sauntered into the room where Justine held her crying son, Jimmy’s face showing just over his shoulder. Surrounded by hard men all her life, Justine had learned quickly which ones were to be avoided at all costs. This man, whoever he was, pinged at those same instincts, so she turned sideways, offering him her back as she brought Chris to a protected position low across her chest, rounding her shoulders to keep him from view. Of course it just angered the infant more, and his frightened cries deepened, growing more robust, showing off the strength of his lungs.
“Lemme see him.”
The man shoved her backwards and plucked Chris from her arms, her fingers catching only air as she tried to scrabble for a hold on her son.
“Give me my son.”
“Give me a fuckin’ minute, bitch. Wanna look at the prince.”
Her blood slowed, clogging so much her heart had to beat heavily to push it through her veins. Prince. A word only someone who knew her bloodline would use.
Jimmy spoke over Chris’ screams, one hand out to the man. “Bassil, give my old lady my kid back, asshole. You’re scarin’ him.”
Bassil lifted his head from where he’d been staring down into Chris’ red face, shooting a killing glare at Jimmy. “You owe the fuckin’ chapter. Gonna pay your debts? Ready to ride it off, man? We need you for tonight, and you fuckin’ owe us.”
She realized Jimmy had on a vest, something he hadn’t worn since California, and her heart sank. Then he turned to the sink, and she saw the same emblem she’d known her whole life. The same mark she’d tried so hard to put in her past. The rocker might indicate a different region, the town of Cynthiana, only a few miles away—but the patch was evil incarnate, something that had cast a destructive shadow on everything it touched.
“There was a Bassil in the Cynthiana chapter of the Outriders. Long time ago. He came to the apartment with Jimmy once. We’re talking decades ago, but I think he’d be the right age now for the guy in the footage. I don’t remember much about him other than he was terrible.” Arms tightened around her, and a hand gripped her thigh, turning her in Wild’s lap, so she leaned closer, draped across his legs. “I don’t know if that’s any help, but I remember the one time I met him. He was as scary as my daddy ever hoped to be.”
“Sounds like the same guy.” The words rumbled through Wildman’s chest and into her, and she snuggled closer, the terror of those long-ago memories not out of her system yet. “Asshole who studied asshole to be a bigger asshole.”
“What was he in the Keys club, Wild?”
Wildman’s thighs turned to steel beneath her ass, and the muscles of his chest trembled as he pulled in a slow, deep breath. “Suck-up, mostly. Fuckup, often. He was my half-brother’s ride or die from middle school.” She angled her eyes up to see Wildman’s expression. It was carved out of stone, not a twitch or movement other than his lips, forming the words. “Some kind of shit you should know about, yeah? Was Powell’s ride or die, until he wasn’t. Backed him until he didn’t. Shoulda seen the look on Powell’s face when that happened. Shock, surprise, pain, disbelief. Ran the gamut. Day I found out my own brother took a paper out on me, paid a dom to assign a bullet to my name, that’s the same day Bassil stepped away, leavin’ Powell to fight his own battles.” His head swung side to side, gaze fixed on the blank wall across the room. “Found out later Bassil had ousted the old president at the end of a blade, put the patch on Powell, then forced him to take me on.” Slowly, as if Wildman couldn’t help the movement, his neck twisted until he stared at Po’Boy, whose own features had bled dry of blood, pale and white, muscles and tendons taut under the skin. “But you already knew a bunch of that, didn’t you, brother.”
Things clicked into place suddenly for
Justine. Mudd’s comment earlier, Wildman’s reaction to it interrupted by Twisted’s pending fatherhood. The instant shift into a seek-and-destroy mission to find Einstein. But this amount of anger was rooted in a feeling of betrayal and something that could tear her man to pieces if she didn’t get out ahead of it.
Arching her back, she reached up to wrap a hand around the back of his neck and shifted, so her mouth was close to his ear as his hand tightened on her hip. “Blow it out, big man. Let all your anger go. If it were malicious, you know Twisted wouldn’t have sanctioned it. If it was intended to be malicious, then they’d have pulled you in here on your knees and taken your patch.” He became impossibly still, the only movement the slow in and out of breath. “Likely it was to confirm what they already knew, which is you are a good and trustworthy man, a brother through-and-through, and worthy of the weight of power. Something Twisted handed your way tonight. Acting chapter president isn’t a small jump, Lyle. That’s not something done in haste either. This is a shift he’s been thinking about for a while, so you blow all your anger and rage out. Let your butthurt emotions go, then take this as credit to who you are as a man. As their brother.”
Settling back into his lap, she waited, unsure if her interruption would be brushed aside. Then his hand landed on her thigh, big fingers giving her a squeeze, thumb riding up between her legs. “Fuck, woman, you set out to talk strategy you need to warn a man. Gets me hot and bothered to know my old lady’s got a fuckin’ brain in her head.” Mason’s snort at her back said he’d overheard. Po’Boy’s expression at her front was controlled, warily skeptical, and she understood it. The venom that had been in Wildman’s words was gone in an instant, derailed by what she prayed had been good advice.
Then Po’Boy stepped up a rung on the ladder of her thoughts of him, attacking the elephant in the room directly, not waiting until later when it could be more private and not backing off. “Twisted knew. Knew I was leavin’. Knew he’d have to shift shit around yet a-fuckin’-gain, because I was not going to be the one to tear down IMC. It coulda, and you and I both know it, brother. Club is club, blood is blood, and brothers are brothers—but when things get tangled, sometimes there ain’t no easy solution. I can’t wave a magic wand and fix anything, but I will tell you the desire to know more about you was my fault, if not instigated by me. Because Twisted needed—needs brothers he can trust. And he’d thought he could trust me, yet here I am wearin’ another patch proudly. Man may never say it, but the idea I could leave still wears at him. We’re findin’ our way, friends for life, and fuck me, but I’m still his ride or die, and him and me both know it. But club is club, and I ain’t his anymore. So he set out to make sure he had others around him, just like you. And you’re his, Wildman. No fuckin’ joke there, brother. You’re IMC to the core, because you’ve been around the bend and back again, and you fuckin’ know this is your spot on the old earth ball. I’ve always been here, but my spot is a little farther down that bend than it used to be. Close, but not inside, not anymore.”
He bent slightly, resting his hands on Wrench’s shoulders, fingers digging deep, thumbs tucked underneath the black leather vest the CoBos president wore. “This right here is my inside circle now. And thank fuck I didn’t have to pass no kind of background check, or I wouldn’t have made it in. You, though, you’ve only ever been looking for brothers worth your loyalty, and you’ve got it with the IMC. So you gonna be pissed, be pissed at me. It was my moves what caused him to reach out and touch someone to find out a little bit about the man he intended to hand Mother to.” Po’Boy shrugged as Wrench tipped his head back, staring up at Po’Boy’s face with features pulled tight with regret. So much pain here in this little room. “Which, in case you fuckin’ missed the goddamned memo, is you, motherfucker. So quack fuckin’ quack, brother. You’re the big man in the room right now, and fuck me, but I’m proud as any big momma quacker to see it.”
Wildman’s head dropped forwards, so his cheek rested against Justine’s. She heard and felt slow, even gusting of his breaths over the shell of her ear, then heat from a dry, soft press of lips against the side of her head. “Fuck me, woman. You are something else, Jussie.” He lifted his head, and she met his gaze, steady and hot, drilling into her as they stared without blinking. “Fuckin’ mine, you hear me? You don’t get to give this to me and then try and ever fuckin’ take it back. Been lookin’ for you all my goddamned life, and I’m—fuck, woman, you’re mine.”
“I am,” she confirmed, not wanting any misunderstandings between them. “Here, at home, anywhere, Lyle.”
“Lyle?” Wildman scrunched up his face at the shrill question from behind him. “Fuckin’ Lyle? That’s your goddamned name? Jesus, and you were my prospect. Fuck, man, shoulda told me that one a while ago. Gonna take a bit for the sting to go away. You shoulda been named Rocky, or fuck, I don’t know, some kind of strong-ass name. Fuckin’ Lyle? Jeeze.”
Wildman straightened and twisted, turning to look at Po’Boy. Beyond that man was Wrench, who was wrestling with Po’Boy, one hand half over his mouth as they both laughed. “Shut up, asshole.” Wildman leaned in closer, then hissed, “Ralphie.” He snorted. “Ralph Lewis.”
“What the fuck about it, Lyle?” Po’Boy straightened, hands on his hips. “And there ain’t a damn thing wrong with Ralph as a first name.”
“Sure, not if you don’t mind being confused with a drunken spew session, man. I get it.” Wildman leaned back in his chair, one elbow going up to the back, his other arm slung securely around Justine’s waist. “I totally get it. Not everyone can have an awesome moniker, brother. I feel ya.”
“Lyle what? What’s the rest of it, you bastard?”
“Lyle Woolsey, right here in front of you. Read my lips and weep, Ralphie.”
“As amusing as this is, I may have found something we should pay closer attention to.” Myron’s soft words snapped everyone’s focus back to him, Wildman jostling Justine, so she straddled his leg again instead of sitting on his lap. “There’s an old Diamante clubhouse by Timber Hill, on the Gulf Coast. I think that’s where they’re going. Sat imagery shows movement in and around the compound, which had been sealed by federal warrant about two years ago. Shouldn’t be anything there now, at least nothing larger than the furry kind of rats. But I see four vans that look a lot like the one Bassil has, which makes me think he’s got help.”
“Why would Bassil have picked Einstein? He wouldn’t have had any trade with the Outriders. That club stayed strictly off the East Coast boys’ radar, best of my knowledge.” Wildman looked at Retro, then Mason, then down into Justine’s face. “Something doesn’t make sense.”
“Agreed, man. Who would this asshole be tied to that’d want to rile the Bastards? Retro, you got anything else in your big ole bag o’ tricks, man?” Wrench shook his head. “We all agree it don’t taste organized, right?” Grumblings around the table said his statement was true. “Which means it’s club. Didn’t you deal with the asshole who cost you a member not long ago? That Florida rally?”
She angled her head to see Retro considering the tabletop, eyes moving in aimless patterns as he paused. His memories were signaled first by the firming of his lips, dropping them into a bloodless flat line slashing across his face. Then a muscle ticked in his cheek, his top lip curling upwards into a snarl. “Yeah, man.” Elbows to the table, he rubbed his face between his palms, curling one hand over the back of his head, fingers tangled in the long hair draped down his back. “Mason’s play, but my gain. Yeah, that shit was found and dealt with not eight months ago, right, Mudd?” Soundless movement behind Retro was Mudd’s nod. “You thinkin’ this has something to do with that and less to do with Einstein’s shit-for-brains former club president reaching out? You against serendipity?”
“I know the saying about zebras and horses, but this goes back, brother.” Wildman leaned forwards, and Justine went with the change in position, keeping her hands along the scarred tabletop, places smoothed like silk from the passage of
other hands, other palms. “Bassil is tied to it all, and from what I know about the man personally, he’s not above starting a war that would benefit only himself. Talk and talk, rile folks up, then stand back and watch it burn. Fuckin’ psychopath.”
“What if Bassil is looking to raise another patch for his own back? The club you left in tatters never recovered, man. They died a quick death when you refused the president patch.” Justine saw Wildman’s pupils react to Retro’s words, larger in a flash, then dialed down after a long blink. “There’s a lot you don’t yet know, brother. Nothing bad, but I’ve been watching over you for a long time, man. I’ve got your back in anything, you hear me? Even before I realized who you were, I had your back.” At Wildman’s terse nod, Retro cleared his throat. “What we know of this Curtis Bassil could fit in a thimble, but Myron sent out a message to my network on my behalf, back while y’all were still huffin’ and puffin’ around shit, and we’ve already got some info in the hopper. Your little Keys club wasn’t the first one he’d been in. Outriders was. Right there in Cynthiana as Justine recalled. We’ve got his every move tagged and categorized. After Kentucky, he wavered his way east to throw his lot in with the Monster Devils, then finally broke with them to move away from the harsher climate. He’d gotten into the heat, politically speaking. That’s when he settled back into home territory. I bet you either weren’t aware of his time away from your neighborhood, or he played it off as something else. Every time he wound up a failure, though, which has to sting. Only way for a man who can’t be voted into an office to get his hands on a particular patch is to raise his own, you feel me?”
“Oh, yeah, brother. I feel ya,” Wildman muttered. His hand curled around the top of Justine’s thigh, his grip relaxing and renewing until she threaded her fingers between his. Then he lifted their joined grip to pull against her belly, sliding her more securely against his body. “Miles to that clubhouse, Myron?”
Tarnished Lies and Dead Ends Page 24
