“Your job—”
“Will be moot in three days, and you should already know. I’m not staying in the agency.” Her steady breaths bore the most precious of promises, and Wildman felt the most immense sense of relief at her words. “Won’t be staying with the government. I’m with you. All in.” Her hands latched onto the lapels of his vest, and she shook the fabric, fists thudding against his chest once, twice. God, woman. She has to understand how important she is to me. “I’m with you, and if you don’t allow a trained asset to take part in this because of gender, then you having me in that room all day is another moot point. No one will take me seriously, no one will trust me, and Wildman, that has an extension of negativity pointing straight to you.”
Shit. Shit, shit. She isn’t wrong.
“I hate it when you make sense.” That feeling of pride in her swelled, and he leaned back, resisting the urge to aim a broad smile at her.
“Get used to it.” Mason’s laughter came from behind him, but Wildman kept his position, staring down at Justine. Mason finished with, “She’s like that.”
“All I need is a Glock or Ruger—”
“I got a Ruger she can—” Mason’s and Wildman’s negative responses stepped on each other, their “No,” and “Fuck no,” eliciting a backpedaling, “No worries, brothers,” from Ruger.
“I got a Glock.” She smiled at Wildman’s words, beaming even more at the unspoken subtext of acquiescence. “What I don’t got is ammo for that caliber. Bummer for you.” The expression of pleasure fled. Gotcha.
“Oh, I got ammo aplenty.” Mason chuckled through his words. “My pleasure.”
The smile that had dropped from her face at Wildman’s statement returned with Mason’s, and Wildman groaned, bending to bury his face against her neck. “It always gonna be like this, Jussie?”
“Probably.” Her arms wound around his neck. “I’ll make it up to you later.”
“And that’s my cue to head out. We got three groups already KSU and en route, be good if we can get the rest of us rolling now.” Mason’s voice moved away. “RWMC, get your asses in your saddles. If you do not have knowledge of the destination, then do not take fuckin’ point. I ain’t followin’ anyone who can’t find their own way.”
Forehead pressed to Justine’s flesh, Wildman breathed her in, filling his lungs with her scent, impressing it on every part of his mind. Cupping her cheek with his hand, he turned her face as he pulled back, gliding his lips across hers in a tender kiss he tried to fill with all the longing and hope he had inside him. “Let’s ride, my wild woman.” He caught at her hand as he moved away, pulling her behind him through the door and outside. At the bike, he handed her the helmet and watched her deft movements as she put it in place securely. “Magnificent.” He threw a leg over the bike and started it, then held up a hand without looking back. Her palm slipped into his, her other hand going to his shoulder as she straddled the seat behind him, legs placed alongside his hips and thighs.
By the time they got to the airport, he’d somehow become accustomed to riding in the front of the multiple columns of bikes, all wearing different patches, and as he rolled to a stop on the tarmac next to the hanger Myron had provided as the correct location, Wildman was settled and strong, confident.
And ready.
Chapter Twenty
Wildman
The private jet offered many luxuries, but the one Wildman found himself taking advantage of was a full-length couch set at right angles to the fuselage. It was actually a sectional, bolted to the floor, but still a structure with a corner. He was propped in that corner, one leg spread long across the cushions, one boot planted firmly on the floor, Justine in his arms and draped over his lap. She’d dozed off not long after takeoff, after telling him how flying always put her to sleep, but she’d wake up on the other end. Her back was to the rest of the plane, and the unspoken trust set up a resonance within him. She’d followed his lead all day, showing everyone they were a unit. He snorted. Almost all day. If he’d had his way, she’d be at his house right now, taking a bubble bath or something. That ain’t the kind of woman I’ve fallen for, he reminded himself, choking back another laugh.
On the other couch, Po’Boy and Wrench held nearly the same positions, with Po’Boy’s chest being the pillow for Wrench’s head. They’d whispered for a few minutes, then Wildman had watched as Wrench directed Po’Boy’s lips downwards for a kiss that lasted, deepened, and eventually trailed off. The smile Po’Boy had worn as he lifted his head stayed there, even through his whisper-shouted, “What? You still fixatin’ on that kiss, brother? I done told you, got me all the man I can handle right here.” His hand smoothed down the back of Wrench’s head, fingers tangling in the short hair at the nape. “We are fuckin’ lucky men, aren’t we?”
“Yeah, we are.”
A few minutes later, the intercom crackled; then a low, professional voice announced, “Folks, weather’s great in Miami, temps are warm and comfortable, and we’ve got a very light breeze from the water. We are third in line for a runway, so about twenty minutes out. Please follow the attendants’ instructions to prepare for landing. I’ll let you know our taxi time when we’re on the ground.”
Wildman gently shook Justine’s shoulder, and she blinked up at him, going from asleep to wide awake and aware in a breath as he smiled down at her. “Need to buckle up, baby.” She scooted off his lap and swung her legs off the couch, arching her back in a long stretch followed by a satisfied groan.
“Sending everyone their transport assignments before I lose the Wi-Fi. If you don’t have it on your phone by the time we’re ready to get off the plane, let me know. No bikes or vans for this run. Best I could do were high-dollar rentals, which means we’ve got dually trucks with crew cabs, and two Hummers. Swear to God, Florida is the worst for rentals.” Myron’s voice decreased in volume, but Wildman could still hear him complaining back in the rows of seats. “Four-door sedans everywhere, but can I rent a motorcycle? Not from an agency, nope.”
“You ready, brother?” Wrench lifted his chin as he caught Wildman’s gaze, holding it until he nodded. “Luck rides with us today.”
“As she always does.” Raising his voice as he called out their last set of orders, Wildman turned to look at the faces staring back at him from the seats arranged across the plane behind him. “Myron’s your point for transport, but the run is mine. Mason, Wrench, Retro, Sparks, Capone, and I have a roster for the rollout. We’re going to hit the compound from three directions. Myron will alert us if anything looks out of place. The timing is close to when we think Bassil will be arriving with Einstein, so if he tells me we’re not far enough ahead of them, we’ll hold and wait until they get settled. Last thing we need is for them to bust a gate and roar out of there.” He held up a hand with a smile that felt toothy, sharklike. “But if they do, Myron’s promised me he can follow them anywhere. I’ve rousted the Big Bend chapter, and Ragman is ready and willing to be the pincers to our hammer if needed. There’s a lot of info points to this potential club launch as a trial run, and we all know what happens when unmonitored pop-up clubs start raising hell.”
He glanced down at Justine, who had her gaze angled towards her legs but her head turned enough to indicate she was listening closely. “The worst time the Feds get involved is when we can’t control our own. So think of this as a proactive treatment. We’ll keep these boys from getting more baddies involved.” Looking back up the plane, he met Mason’s gaze with a nod. “We do not have permission from the resident dom to be in their territory, which is one reason I’m glad Myron wasn’t able to roll iron for us. We’re ridin’ heavy, every fuckin’ one of us, and the intent is to do this with prejudice. That’s my call, and I’m telling you now there won’t be any IMC blowback for stealin’ a shot. I just want us all back on this plane in ten hours, crew rested and ready to haul our asses back to NOLA. If the dom gets wind, while we’re here or after, all that shit’s also on me, so do not fuck around. We’re not here t
o tag vests, not here to rile clubs, no matter any bad blood or history you may have with them. That’s not this run. You want to petition for assistance down the road, we’ll talk. Right now, we want to disassemble this snake pit, get Einstein back, and assure the safety of his family and everyone on this fuckin’ plane.”
He gave it a beat, saw only a few heads nodding, and roared, “You fuckin’ get me?”
Mason grinned as he nodded, as did Retro, and when Wildman turned to face the front, he found Po’Boy had sketched a salute at his brow, middle finger firmly extended as he returned the shout, “Aye, aye, Lyle.”
“Fuck me.”
Debarking happened in record time, the men lining up quietly and moving down the short set of stairs quickly, some of them showing off what looked to be naval skills of sliding the rails at speed. Multiple pings filled the air as they cleared the plane, and Wildman watched as each man checked his phone, then made his way to whatever vehicle had been designated as his ride. Eight pickups and two Hummers were lined up in front of the hangar, and he followed Myron with his gaze as the man walked to speak to a crew exiting the building. A few words, a handshake, and Myron aimed himself back to where Wildman stood with Justine, Mason, and Wrench, waiting.
“Maintenance and refueling will happen on schedule. We’ve got an hour or so to get to the clubhouse.” Myron looked around the lot, and Wildman noted he glanced up too. Cautious little shit. “Everyone looks sorted. Are we ready?”
“Yeah, My. We’re golden. You’re riding with me, Justine, and Wildman. Hoss is drivin’. Po’Boy’s just waiting for Wrench to climb his ass up in that Hummer he tore away from Mudd.” Mason put action to his words, striding across the hot surface towards a large black pickup. “This is the rig with your hookups, right?”
“Yeah, that’s the one.” Myron slung his backpack around to carry on his chest, unzipping and digging into the main compartment. “Should have a couple of built-in monitors in the back of the seats for me to tap into. Makes my life easier.”
“No doubt,” Justine muttered as she visibly lengthened her stride to keep up with the men. When Wildman would have slowed for her, she shot him a glare and added a hopping skip that made up the distance tidily. “Surprised you don’t have a command vehicle.”
“Too much scrutiny. Construction bosses and contractors fly under the radar with some fun toys, which are the kind of vehicles I settled for, but a full-on comm-sat would be noted, marked, followed, and likely cause us a hell of a lot of trouble for little gain.” Myron patted his backpack. “I honestly have everything I need right here, but the extra real estate for the computer screen makes some shit easier to do.”
“Makes sense.” She trotted for a couple of strides, then tucked her fingers around Wildman’s belt. “If you have the tablet, I can work the entries we discussed from that, leaving you the screens.”
“Sounds good.” Myron ducked under Mason’s arm, climbing into the back seat of the truck as Wildman and Justine rounded the bed. They angled into the seat next to Myron, Justine in the middle, and even before Mason had his door closed, Hoss had floored the accelerator, barking the tires against the tarmac.
Wildman glanced behind them, seeing Wrench and Po’Boy in the front seat of the following vehicle, the rest of the trucks and other Humvee filing out behind them. It was the work of minutes to navigate the surface roads around the airport, given they’d come in on the west side, opposite the normal passenger terminals, and then they were out on the highway, headed south.
Looking out the window, Wildman noted the many things that had changed about the area and the few places or locations that appeared to be the same. A thick fog settled over him, the sense of déjà vu making his skin itchy, had his fingers twitching for something—anything. He checked and settled his guns in their holsters three times before Justine’s hand covered his, pressing his palm flat on the top of his thigh.
“Tell me what I can do?” She leaned close, chin to his shoulder as she looked at him. “I’ve got Myron hooked up, so you’ve got my full attention.”
“These are my old stompin’ grounds. See the next turnoff up there? I had two members lived on that road. I had organized a roofing party for their houses the week before all the shit with Powell went down.” He shook his head. “Everything looks different, but it’s not. It’s all just the same. All the shit that was here before, still out there, waiting.”
“No, it’s not.” She was on her knees in the seat, plastered along his side. “Nothing is the same, baby. You’ve got allies and friends here, right now.” She hesitated, and he glanced away from the window in time to see a tender look cross her face. “And you’ve got me at your back. Always. Everything’s different for you now. You found your place, found your way, and found your family.”
“Family.” The word felt like a gut punch. He opened his mouth and closed it without saying another word.
“The van is only fifteen minutes out. We do not have time to enter and stage before Bassil arrives.” Myron leaned up between the two seats, motioning for Wildman to do the same. He sat forwards as Justine settled back, moving out of the way. “Wildman, do I have your approval to make the call to divert? We’ll set up along three streets, spaced three and four blocks from the compound. I’ll have eyes on him the instant he hits the fence, and if I’ve got things right, even inside. Still workin’ that angle, but I’m close now. Another twenty will ensure we’ve eyes inside, too.”
“Yeap, do it, brother.” Wildman sighed and twisted his fingers tightly with Justine’s. He looked into the front seat, and Mason’s grey eyes, so like Justine’s, met Wildman’s as he nodded in agreement.
“You got it,” Myron muttered, toppling backwards into the bench seat, laptop balanced on his knees. “Less than twenty. Down to a science.”
There was no chatter in the text channels, no responses to the change in plans Myron fired off to the groups, and no conversation in the truck. Wildman found himself watching Myron’s screens, seeing a bright green dot come into view moving south, traveling quickly as it exited the highways. That’s Bassil. He’d never thought he’d see the man again. Remembered the feel of the bastard’s blood on his fists the last time they’d had an encounter. Something wasn’t right that day either. Hard to pin down, especially when the remembered anger was enough to white out the edges of Wildman’s memory.
“He’s on-site.” The screen changed, now a top-down view of the compound, entirely unfamiliar territory for all of them, except where Myron’s tools had pulled back the curtain. They knew most of the men in the compound were in the main building but were also running what looked like a chop shop from a smaller garage near the back fence. “Looks like we’ve got folks converging.” Wildman watched intently as small gray blobs traversed a slightly different gray representing the parking lot. “Bassil’s vacated. They’re taking one person from the van.” Myron’s voice cracked, and he cleared his throat. “Confirm, they’ve only retrieved one person.”
“Call it, Myron.” Wildman’s fingers danced across the holsters and handles of his guns, slipped the hilt of the blade strapped to his thigh up, then snicked it back into the sheath. “They’ll have him inside in half a minute. We need in there.”
“Back gate is already jimmied open.” Myron split the screen, dual focus on the back fence near the garage and on the van. “Front gate’s on a code, and I’ll have it open before we get there. No one’ll hear anything.” Hoss put the truck into gear, and they started rolling as Myron split the screen again, this showing a long view of the inside of a metal building, all industrial struts and columns, dangling chains, and overhead lights. “I’ve got eyes inside. I’m counting more than twenty bodies in there. Repeat, twenty or more hostiles, one friendly.”
Wildman thumbed at his phone, opening the text thread. He responded with just one phrase: Roll quiet
That would ensure no one drove in guns blazing but would get everyone moving. Justine pointed at the screen, and Wildman gave her leg a s
queeze; he’d seen the same thing. “Mason, they’re dragging him up the center. Looks like a stage or some shit. Got chairs set up.” He shook his head. “Fuckin’ church? What the hell?”
“Hold, brother,” Mason muttered, leaning forwards as they drove through the open gate. “Fuckin’ hold, man.”
Wildman glanced in Hoss’ mirrors and noted the six vehicles filing in behind them. The rest would be at the back of the property. Fingers curled around the handle, he waited for Hoss to drift to a slow, silent stop, then flung the door open, leaving it wide for Justine. Every instinct in him screamed to protect her, but he knew in his gut she really didn’t need it. She could hold her own, and more—she needed to do this. Not for him, but for herself. Something he didn’t yet understand, but he hoped he’d have a chance to soon.
Gravel crunched under their boots as the men in the other vehicles bailed out, running alongside and behind him. Their goal was the door at the end of the building, an opening that fed into the metal shell near where that damn stage had been constructed. From the inside video, he knew they’d be protected for about twenty feet by a metal hallway before a barn door opening would feed them into the main area. Hopefully right in position to take Bassil by surprise. If fate was with them today.
That fickle bitch was, for a change.
Gun in one hand, blade in the other, he burst around the end of the hallway and, along with a dozen men he trusted at his back, swarmed the stage. He kicked Bassil in the chest, pleasure blooming in him as the man starfished through the air, landing on his back with a racketing thud. Einstein fell to the side, rolling off the stage quietly, shoulders and elbows as swollen and deformed as his face was, but Wildman didn’t have a moment to spare. He was on Bassil, skidding to a stop next to the man before flinging a knee in the center of a chest still trying to suck in air after the fall.
Tarnished Lies and Dead Ends Page 26
