“About twelve hours, give or take a fuel stop.” Myron had another screen open on the laptop, an overhead view of metal buildings grouped behind a fence. “I got live eyes on them. I can hold this for fifteen hours before swapping birds. I’ve also got some alerts built into my system, so I’ll watch for the tags on the van as they get closer to arrival.”
“And Bassil is, what, like six hours out, max?”
“Something like that.”
“Fuck.” He raked his thick thumbnail across the rough edges of the wood where the baseball bat had scarred deeply, the tick-tick-tick sound barely audible in the silence around the room. “They coulda killed him at any point up to now. Man likely won’t be dead when we get there.”
“Lots worse things than dyin’, when family’s right there in it with ya.” Mason’s low response had every man around the room sucking in air, making Justine believe they’d all lived at least some part of a nightmare of their own. She knew Davy’s regrets where it came to his wife, Willa, and genuinely understood them. He’d been hours late to keep her from being savaged by his and Justine’s blood kin, a wound that lived on in their family to this day. No matter Willa might claim it had healed over, Justine knew Davy still wrestled with it at times.
Wildman nodded. “Yeah, I get that. And IMC has brothers we can roll from the Big Bend Country. They’ll split the time it’ll take us, but it’s not like being there and putting hands on him myself.”
“I got a friend who has a friend.” Mason held up a finger and pointed to the door. “If I could have my phone?”
“Get him the goddamned phone.” Silence in the room, and Wildman groaned. “Oh, Lord, give me strength in these moments of strife.” Wildman gestured to the South Coast Devils officer again, and the man shook his head as he stood off a stool, which had appeared at some point, and opened the door.
She heard a muffled, “Man wants a phone in here. RWMC bucket, prospect.”
An empty-handed prospect appeared and, at Wildman’s dark scowl, quickly retreated, returning with a stack of buckets under his arm. He strained, pulling until he was out of breath. “RWMC is here, in the middle.” It took four men, finally, to separate the buckets of phones.
“Just pass ’em all fuckin’ out. Jesus. Comedy of errors right here.” Wildman’s frame shook under her, and it took a quick glance at his face to realize he was laughing silently. “Fuck if I know what to do, Twisted.”
His muttered comment didn’t go unheard, because Po’Boy leaned close, licked a broad stripe up Wildman’s cheek, and stage-whispered, “Yeah, you fuckin’ do, brother.”
Wildman’s backhand of Po’Boy was casual, without sting or heat, and left the man standing tall behind Wrench and grinning ear to ear. “Mason, gonna give us a clue what you’re pullin’ together?”
“Yeah, got a guy who owes me for life, and I collect every fuckin’ chance I get.” Mason lifted the phone to his ear, the tinny and distant ringing ending with a buzz. “Daniel, good to talk to you, man. Hey, I need a jet. You know anyone who might have one?” He paused, and there was more buzzing in the background. “Oh, no shit? Sold it? Well, fuck.” More pausing, and Mason grinned, flipping a wink Justine’s way as he listened. “So like a timeshare. Anywhere in North America? Well, how about New Orleans? Yeah, NOLA to Miami.” He sighed and rolled his eyes. “NOLA. New Orleans, Louisiana. No, not like yolo. Fomo? What the fuck is fomo? Know what? I don’t care. What I do care about is you havin’ this timeshare-like arrangement. How long does it take to spin up?” Pulling the phone away, he said, “Hold on, I’ll put you on speaker. Myron’s here. He can do whatever needs doin’. Thank you”—he laid the phone on the table—“my friend. I owe you one again.”
Deep and smooth as dark chocolate, a man’s voice rolled through the phone’s speaker. “No talk of owing between friends, Mason. You know how I feel about that shit. Myron, what do you need from me? I’ve got an agency number and a membership number, and I think you’ll need both of those. I can text you if that’ll work?”
“Text Mason. His phone’s right here, and I can get what I need.” Myron stared at the phone until it vibrated, then he flicked up and down on the screen, isolating the information in view before turning back to the computer. “Okay, found the agency. Now for bookings.” He tapped for a minute. “We can have one leaving in just over an hour. Means we gotta haul ass to get to the airport like now.” He looked at Wildman. “No time for a hospital stop.”
Wildman’s hand patted Justine’s ass, and she stood, stepping to the side as he rose behind her. “Gonna call Twisted. Get and give some updates, so he’s in the know.” He bent, put his mouth to her ear as he steered her behind the chair. “You can stand here or sit out behind the bar, but you do not place your ass in any seat at this table, you understand?” She nodded, and he pulled back, staring into her eyes. Whatever he saw there reassured him, and the somber aspect of his expression eased. “Fuckin’ made for me. My wild woman. You get it, because you just fuckin’ know.”
Justine placed a hand on his shoulder and rose on her toes, pressing her lips to his. “Go, call your brother. Make sure all is well in Twisted Land.” She smacked her lips against his again. “I’ll be here, and I know protocol. I won’t fuck up, Wild. Swear.”
“I believe you, baby girl.” As he loomed over her like this, his hair hung down on either side of his face, framing his features for her eyes alone. The expression he had just for her was patient, and the look in his dark, bright gaze was love.
Chapter Nineteen
Wildman
Phone to his ear, Wildman leaned his forearm against the doorframe leading to the smaller office off the kitchen. Normally used by old ladies organizing charity runs and other clubhouse duties, it seemed the only place in the whole clubhouse that wasn’t currently neck-deep in people. He listened to the ringing, already preparing himself for the voicemail he’d need to leave when the call connected.
The high, thin wail of a newborn babe greeted him, followed by Penny’s grumbled, “If you’d just give him back to his momma, I could help out, Bell.”
Wildman allowed himself a smile, and the instant it broke the scowl he’d had on his face, a hand clapped his shoulder, and he looked up to find himself fucking surrounded by men. Wrench was right there, eyes bright, question in his lifted brows that he wasn’t willing to put to words.
Twisted still hadn’t spoken, the only sounds through the phone right now a stumbling tune followed by tiny snuffles. “Lemme put you on speaker, brother. I got an audience.” Wildman put action to the words, balancing the phone on one palm as he said, “We got you, brother. All’s good, yeah?”
Thick, maybe thicker than Wildman had ever heard his voice, except for the day Penny had laid her hand in his while saying her vows, Twisted responded, “Yeah, it’s fuckin’ good, brother. Our boy is strong, so fuckin’ strong. Penny’s a champ, too. This boy wasn’t waitin’ on his daddy, oh, no you were not, were you, little one? You had your own timeline, and my wishes didn’t matter a speck. Got here just in time, brother. Just in time.”
“Tell Wrench I need gumbo.” Penny’s complaint came through loud and clear, and the men around Wildman laughed. “Twisted, tell him. Hear me? They don’t have any good food here.”
“Tell her we get the message, brother.” Wrench was pounding his fist against Po’Boy’s shoulder, none too gently if the tiny flinches and winces from Po’Boy were real. “Loud and clear. Glad to hear they’re both hale and hearty.”
“Double that, Twisted. Congrats from the whole of the RWMC, and especially from me. Not an event you want to miss, and I’m glad you didn’t.” Mason’s hand came to rest on Wildman’s back, and he tensed up before he realized it wasn’t anywhere close to his patch but lying a respectful distance away. “Be there with them, soak this up, man. These are precious times.”
There was a brusque noise, and Wildman looked up in time to see Hoss step backwards, the expression on his face broken and tired as he turned to walk aw
ay without a word. Retro flashed his palm at the men around Wildman and retreated with him, angling his blood brother towards the back door and out into the lot beyond.
Po’Boy reached out and steadied Wildman’s hand where he held the phone. “Twisted, brother, we’ve got a handle on everything here. You worry about your woman and your babe, and we’ll catch you up when we get back, yeah?” Po’Boy’s lips pulled sideways in a grin. “Your man’s doin’ a damn fine job with the shit you slung at him, so good job on that.”
“What’s the boy’s name?” Wrench leaned closer, turning his head to look up at Wildman. “Wild, man. You couldn’t have fuckin’ video called? Shit. Twisted,” he called out louder. “Hey, man, Twisted, we need some pics, yeah?”
“The fuck you boys goin’?” Cold, dark, and hard, Twisted’s words came through the phone slowly. “Here, pretty momma, take our boy a minute.” Wildman looked at Po’Boy, shocked to see he was still grinning, as was Wrench. There was a slight commotion in the background, murmuring between the couple followed by another tiny cry quickly soothed. “Okay, that’s sorted. Tell me what the fuck’s been goin’ on. Baby,” his tone changed, softening, “I’m just goin’ out in the hall for a minute. I’m right here, you call me I’m with you. Back in two shakes, Penny.”
“Tell Yousa we love her,” Po’Boy yelled, and the chuffed laugh from Twisted was audible.
“Asshats say they all love you and wish you and our boy every blessing.” There was a pause, then Twisted said, “Hold on, pretty momma. Wrench was askin’ for a pic. Lemme get one of just you and our boy for that motherfucker.” Wildman’s phone buzzed in his hand with an incoming message, but he saw the other four men standing around had their phones out immediately, so it must have been a group text.
Wildman leaned to look over Po’Boy’s shoulder at a picture of Penny’s smiling face, red hair caught in a braid along one shoulder, a miniature bundle of blue cradled to her chest. Curls of dark hair peeked around the knit cap covering the boy’s head, and Penny’s pinky had been captured in a tight grip by tiny fingers. “There, that should soothe the masses for a minute at least. Back soon, baby.”
The sound of a kiss implied an intimate moment between the new parents, complete with the close-by coo of the baby, and Wildman had to swallow hard. Wish Justine was here for this. This was the kind of thing that tied clubs together tighter than blood ever could. Shared life changes, shared challenges, full support from friends and family—this was what he’d wanted in a club. Exactly this.
“Now, I’m away from my old lady, who is bound and determined to go home today yet, fuck my life, and I want to know what the fuck is going on. Where are you headed, brothers? Tell me. Share a little, so I got a good feelin’ about what’s goin’ down.”
“Found Retro’s man.” Wildman was glad Mason didn’t insult Twisted by asking if he was safe to talk, knowing Twisted wouldn’t have asked for the update if it wasn’t a secure line and location. “They’re in Florida. Might have his family with them, and if they do, it don’t look good, man. Name’s Curtis Bassil, who is a fucked-up bounce-around through a few clubs, all of which we know the goddamned names of, but most telling is MDMC out east, where Retro’s man came from originally. That, with the ties to the south Florida club Bassil was in with Wildman and his brother, tells us he’s headed to familiar territory, but with some kind of leverage. Don’t know yet what he thinks Einstein will earn him in that arena, but none of us are willing to let it play out. They’ve got a couple hours yet before they get to the old Diamante compound we think they’re headed for, and I’ve got a line on a plane that’ll get us there nearly the same time. Myron’s working his magic with transport on the other end, and then we’re headed to the airport, where we’ll park on the fuckin’ tarmac if needful.” Mason swung his gaze around the small group, taking each man’s face. “That about cover it?” Nods all around had him looking back down at the phone. “Telling you now, I second Po’Boy’s words about your man here. Steady and smart, and yet, I still don’t fuckin’ like him.”
“Your sister—”
“Oh yeah. I get why I don’t like him. Do not feel you need to spell it fuckin’ out, man. I get it.” Mason aimed a half-grin at Wildman, the smirk fading as he continued speaking. “And I’ll get to where I like him, I’m sure. I’m just not there yet.” Fingers tightened on Wildman’s shoulder, and he realized Mason still was propped against him, keeping him close. “You got any questions for us, brother? Otherwise, we gotta get in the wind here chop-chop, get our asses movin’.”
“Nope. No questions from me.” A heavy sigh said there might not be questions but there was some regret. “Give ’em hell, boys. Retro don’t deserve to lose another man, and fuck me, but Einstein’s a good one. And his family?” A low growl floated through the air. “Fuckin’ deal with them, Wild. You hear me, brother? You’re my voice and hands on this, and you’ve the full backing of the IMC. You are IMC, and we are you, and we’ve got your goddamned back.”
“I hear you, Prez.” Wildman angled his head down to stare at the Enforcer plate still in place on his vest. “I got this.”
“We all got this.” Po’Boy leaned close. “Twisted, get back in there and build memories with your woman. You fought hard and long for her. Now show her you’re gonna spend your fuckin’ life with her. Build that with her, brother, then keep buildin’ it day by day. Proud as fuck of you, man. Straight up, Jimbo would be fuckin’ proud too. That old man would be on his knees praising God you’d not only found a good woman, but you had a family to grow. So suck in all the goodness Penny’s got in there for you, and we’ll see you on the other side.”
“George Tyler Lewis Bell. Boy’s got a hell of a life ahead of him, livin’ up to you motherfuckers. I wanted to throw Jimbo in there, and Penny got testy, so I gave it up as a bad idea for this one.” The low chuckle revealed the depths of Twisted’s pleasure, as did his voice when he continued. “Next one, all bets are off. She gets happy with that gas they gave her. If I’d known and waited, I think I could have negotiated pretty much anything I wanted. Anyway, that’s the boy’s name. George Tyler Lewis Bell.”
Myron appeared next to Mason, the backpack zipped and strapped, slung by one strap over his shoulder. “We gotta go if we’re gonna make the filed plan.”
Wildman glanced around the circle one last time, tapped the phone to put it back on the normal speaker, and lifted it to his ear. “Prez, brother.” He turned away from them, stepping farther into the little office and kicking the door closed behind him. “Bassil, there ain’t no comin’ back from this, brother. I just want to make sure there’s no misunderstandings.”
“What the fuck do you think I’d do if I was standin’ next to you, him on the floor and my boot on his spine?” Twisted’s words weren’t impatient. No matter the makeup of phrasing, his tone held a note of patience. “You think I’d let a family-killer walk away, give him a potential target with my patch on it?”
“No, but—”
“Wild, brother. You’ve been the arm of my vengeance before, never questioned it.”
“Yeah, because I’m the Enforcer. It’s my fuckin’ job.”
“Yeah, it is, brother. And now you’ve got a harder one. I won’t be takin’ back the chapter. Mother’s yours from here out. We’ll confirm with an officer vote, but this is your gig now. You think the president don’t make hard calls? Fuck, man, we don’t have certain offices for every chapter, because I like to keep some power closer to hand. Enforcer is one, and so is shot caller, who typically is me. In this, you need me to be, I’m callin’ it. But what I’m tryin’ to get you to fuckin’ understand is I trust you. I fuckin’ trust you, much as I ever did Po’Boy. I know you got the grit, and I know you got the bone under the muscle to stand whatever the fuck comes to the club’s doorstep. So I’m callin’ it, and what I’m callin’ is you got this, brother. You got this, man.” Twisted’s voice receded, and Wildman’s phone vibrated. He pulled it away from his head to see a different gro
up text. “Want to sew it on your fuckin’ vest before you get on the plane, you need to get a move on it, brother. Busk’ll have your plate, hear me? Unass yourself if it matters to you. But to me? That plate don’t matter for today. What we’re doing right now will be woven into the lore and history of the club. The day the enforcer stepped up and took on a different burden, and then executed masterfully.”
“Brother.” Wildman swallowed hard. “I got this.”
“Fuck yeah, you do, man. And now, I need to get back in there and put my arms around the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met and hold her while we get to know our boy a little more.” Twisted’s tone turned businesslike, his words quick and final. “Don’t text me updates. Text me over-withs.”
The line disconnected, and Wildman thumbed the text message open to see Twisted’s words: Get the motherfucker the right goddamned officer patch, fuckers
He snorted a laugh and opened the door, headed back out into the main room. Walking up to Busk, who dangled a piece of fabric between his fingers, he shook his head as he took it and tucked it into the man’s vest pocket. “Keep it safe for me. Don’t got no sewing kit and less time, brother. Now, did we get a count of how many we can take? Any ideas if all clubs are interested, or are we just takin’ our main allies?” And just that easily, he swung back into the final planning stages of what he hoped would be another bloodless coup.
Please, God.
Ten minutes later, he had Justine pinned against the wall, leaning on an arm propped next to her head. Staring down into her stormy grey eyes, he shook his head for the second time. “No, Jussie. This ain’t something you get to ride along with.”
“You need me. Myron’s already said he could use my information. How it’ll make things easier.” She lifted her chin, glaring up at him. “The access comes with a caveat, which is me in the flesh on the op.”
“It’s not a fuckin’ op.”
“Doesn’t matter what you call it, I’ve been on and running these kinds of missions for years, Wildman. All I need is a gun, and I’m good to go.” Arching her back, she put her mouth to the hinge of his jaw, and heat from her mouth burned into him. “I can handle myself.”
Tarnished Lies and Dead Ends Page 25
