Tarnished Lies and Dead Ends

by MariaLisa deMora

  The moment Bassil recognized him, Wildman saw surprise replaced with hatred, thick lips pulling back from yellowed, ill-spaced teeth, the man’s broken snarl still showing the effects of their last meeting. “You?” Bassil’s wheeze lacked substance, and Wildman ground down against his bones, leaning more heavily where his knee was compressing the man’s chest. “The fuck you doing here, boy?”

  “Not your boy.” Wildman shook his head. “Never was. The fuck you think you’re doin’, snapping up a member of an ally of the IMC? You always were stupid as fuck.”

  “Not as stupid as you and your brother was.” Bassil grabbed for his hip, and Wildman’s hand met his there, ripping the pistol away and flinging it into the dark at the back of the stage. “He was a tool, but he was my tool, bent and broken to my hand. You fucked that up for me, just like you’re fucking this up too.” Bassil bucked underneath him, and Wildman sprawled to the side. Both men rose to their feet. “I’m gonna kill you, boy.”

  “Let’s see you try.” Wildman took a risk, holstering his gun. He was vaguely aware of multiple altercations happening at his back but trusted Justine and his brothers to keep everything at bay. Blade in hand, he feinted at Bassil. “Bring it, old man.”

  ***

  Justine

  Trailing the men into the building, Justine noted the small group splitting off towards the van as she found a place for herself in the line, well back from the front runners. This was their beef, not hers, and even if she hadn’t let Wildman see her uncertainty, she’d wondered a dozen times why she’d been so insistent on making this trip with them.

  Her reasoning was clear, and she believed the basis of what she’d said. So did Wildman and Davy; otherwise, they would never have agreed, no matter how she’d have argued. If they didn’t understand how her reputation within the club—and thus Wildman’s—hung on the men trusting and believing she would never act against their interests, then not only Wildman’s presidency but probably even his membership would be default within weeks. Justine had no illusions how things would have been handled otherwise, and being locked in a room in the clubhouse while people she loved flew a thousand miles away wasn’t something she could have tolerated.

  Now, though? In the thick of it, there was no uncertainty. Her sole goal was to watch Wildman’s back. Make sure none of these assholes who’d started shit with the clubs had a shot at him. And make sure there’s no chance of friendly fire either. Not that he didn’t trust the men with them. He’d not said a single thing against any of them. But he’d made it clear he didn’t know many of them well, if at all, and was taking their leaders’ word they were true and loyal.

  Daddy didn’t raise no fools.

  Loyalty couldn’t be bought, but betrayal could, and she’d earned herself enough enemies through the years. Her upcoming defection from federal ranks was already making the rounds through the outlaw world. It’d have to be, based on the number of calls and emails she’d ignored from various agencies she’d collaborated with through her career. Next would be her office, and while she knew Wildman still held out hope they’d make their grand tour of her life after this business in Florida was settled, she was more interested in not being scooped up and detailed as a risk. Which meant she’d need to go through channels to get a clear pass. But not right now. Focus, Jussie.

  The line of men rounded a corner and disappeared, and as she ran three steps beyond, putting her back to the wall as the men behind her continued to flood the room, it took her half a breath to find and lock her gaze on Wildman.

  Hands wide for balance, he was dancing in a crouched circle on top of the stage she’d seen on Myron’s screens. The man from the van was opposite him in nearly the same position. The only difference was Wildman held his knife in a defensive pose against his forearm while Bassil appeared unarmed.

  Appearances could be deceiving, she knew, so she moved around the backside of the stage, keeping her back to a wall, ensuring the dozen fights remained in front of her.

  Mason and Hoss had a man on the ground and were taking turns kicking at the guy’s back and legs. Intimidation rather than pain and injury, which meant they didn’t feel threatened.

  Retro was stooped beside someone lying next to the stage, Mudd protectively hovering nearby. That would be his man, Einstein.

  Po’Boy and Wrench stood back-to-back, taking on three men at once. She angled forwards when Po’Boy appeared to stumble but then stood upright when she realized he’d nearly lost contact with one of the men and was pulling him back into the melee.

  On the stage, Wildman and Bassil continued to circle each other. The men’s mouths moved, but their taunts as they tried to gain the upper hand were lost in the noise and chaos around her. Then they made another half circle, and she saw the gun at Bassil’s back, tucked low into his belt.

  Bringing her gun up to firing stance, she steadied her double-handed grip and kept the sight on the center of Bassil’s spine. If he went for the gun, she’d know it and deal with him before he could lay a finger on the weapon. A gunshot echoed through the building, the first such sound, and her gaze was drawn beyond the two men to find the shooter.

  Then Wildman and Bassil collided and went down, elbows and knees flying as they fought for advantage. Another gunshot, this closer, and Wildman’s body lifted up a couple of inches before falling back down on top of Bassil.

  No!

  Heart in her throat, she ran for the stage, leaping up the three feet like she’d risen on wings. Neither man moved, and the sound around the elevated platform fell away. At the edge of her vision, it looked like every fight had stopped in place, suspended as dust wafted through the air, brilliant sunbeams piercing the gloom as she fell to her knees next to Wildman. She laid a hand on his shoulder, and he shuddered, rolling away from her and the unmoving body, knife in his hand dripping. Justine launched herself at Wildman, hands searching across his body and clothing looking for a cut, a tear, a hole. For bloody flesh, a wound, or trauma.

  The front of his shirt was wet with red, and she pushed the leather of his vest to the side as she ripped at fabric, tearing it apart in her hands. “Wild. Please, no. Please.”

  His hands on her arms stopped her, finally. She’d found nothing, but it took his words to break the hold the terror had on her.

  “Not mine, baby girl. Shhhh. It’s not my blood. It’s okay, honey.” His arms circled her, and he stood, lifting her with him as he climbed to his feet. “It’s not mine. I’m okay.”

  She cradled his face in her hands, staring up into those eyes she’d come to love, into that face she adored, and at the man she lived for. “Scared the shit out of me.”

  “It’s okay.” His head lifted, and he shot a glance over her shoulders. “We’re on the tail end of this shit now, baby. Bassil’s a goner, which is a good fuckin’ thing, trust me when I say that.”

  She backed away a step and turned, looking down at the man lying on his back. Blood pooled from underneath him, concentrated along his waist, where his hands clutched at a long tear through his abdomen. Bulging intestines threatened to break free, held in place by connective tissue and his fingers.

  “You.” Bassil’s eyes never moved from staring straight overhead. She didn’t know if he knew what he was saying or if the blood loss had scrambled his brain. “Done it now.” His grip on his side slipped, and he groaned, slapping one palm over the gash and pressing. “Shoulda died by now...” His words trailed off, becoming breathy and jagged. “Shoulda.” His chest fell, and his hands dropped away, a tiny gush of blood cascading along his side.

  “You okay, Jussie?” Wildman’s question seemed odd, and she looked at him, surprised to see uncertainty on his face. “You’re good?”

  Smiling, she lifted her chin and stepped closer, realizing why he seemed hesitant. “I’m good, Lyle.” Gesturing with the gun in her hand, she indicated the men spread out over the inside of the building. “Let’s check on our folks.”

  “We’ll come back to this later.” He bru
shed a kiss across her cheek; then his palm connected with one globe of her ass in a stinging swat. “You’re good.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Wildman

  There’d been a moment when he’d seen the gun in Bassil’s hand where Wildman wasn’t sure how things would end.

  He shook his head. Last thing I should be thinking. Then the man had aimed the weapon at Justine, and there had been no hesitation. Wildman had struck hard, burying the blade deep in Bassil’s belly before jerking it to the side, tearing through the aorta before he was done.

  Bassil’d gone fast, too fast for Wildman’s way of thinking. But on the other hand, he’d been glad it hadn’t drawn out. Once Justine had latched her eyes on Bassil, she hadn’t turned away, hadn’t said anything, just watched the man die. Wildman had a moment of fear, wondering what she saw or thought, the man dead from his hand. Then she’d pulled herself together, moving close to give him what he’d needed.

  Bassil and two others were the only casualties. Po’Boy would have a black eye, but his bruising was truly the only damage on their side.

  Except for Einstein.

  The man had been beaten unconscious, as well as dislocating a shoulder and elbow trying to get away during the long drive from where they’d taken him hostage. Mudd was still working on him, trying to keep the man calm while he prepped him for transport without getting an actual doctor or EMT involved. Mudd had men in both professions on video providing guidance in the form of one Bama Bastard and one IMC officer from the Big Bend chapter, and Justine had settled nearby, appointing herself Mudd’s runner as needed.

  Retro claimed to still be unsure at the motivation behind the madness, but Wildman had watched his face as Mason and Wrench dispatched men to question the ones they’d restrained. Retro had an idea; he just wasn’t ready to share it yet. One of the first things they’d learned from those interrogations was Bassil hadn’t acted alone. No, not at all. The Monster Devils were in this neck-deep, but it would take time to extract the information they needed and then for the puzzle to be pieced together.

  The blanket-covered forms in the van were Einstein’s wife and daughter.

  Wildman had stared into those faces for a long fucking time.

  Eyes closed, expressions peaceful—if not for the bruising and paleness in contrast, they could have looked asleep.

  Like Shelly did.

  Myron was already working on a story that would allow Einstein to bury his family without hiding. Could lay them to rest respectfully, with friends and loved ones around him.

  Standing alongside the building’s outside wall, Wildman widened his stance, folding his arms across his chest as he counted back the years and then shook his head. Nothin’ but bones by now. The baby in Shelly’s belly had been so small, so new—likely nothin’ left. He shook his head again, more viciously, punishing himself for the anger and resentment welling through his chest, choking him. Man shouldn’t be envious of another man for gettin’ to bury his family. “It’s a goddamned horror he’ll have to do this. I’m glad he won’t be alone with it.”

  A hand landed on his shoulder, and he jerked around to find Po’Boy within reach. The grip rocked him back and forth, feet firmly planted but swaying as if in a strong wind. “It is a goddamned horrible thing, brother.” Po’Boy bent close, mouth near Wildman’s ear. “I fucking hate this shit. Beyond everything, the fact anything we do can touch family like this? It scares the bejeezus out of me. Someone targeting me? Or Ty, due to club business? I get it. I don’t like it, but it’s what we choose every day. Crissy though? Or someday soon—please God—a babe of ours? That doesn’t make any goddamned sense.”

  “Bassil said he was the one who talked my brother into taking out a contract on my head.” Wildman scooted back to rest his shoulders against the wall, trying and failing to pull out of Po’Boy’s grip. “Man stood there and basically admitted to being the reason my wife died, man. Who does that shit?”

  “No compass in that one. His true north was one thing and one thing only. Power.” Po’Boy crowded closer. “That’d be the reason you didn’t stay and deal with him when it all shook out. Because you probably got how he was, having seen him around for a while. You’re a smart boy. You were bound to figure shit out, you know?”

  “Not fast enough. Didn’t change a damn thing, did it? Me leavin’? Me pullin’ up stakes and puttin’ it in my rearview? Didn’t change a damn thing, and now another man’s family is dead. How is this happening again?” He fastened his gaze on the van, watching as someone moved it into the shade of an overhang. “I understand Myron’s got a plan. Got somebody out buying supplies, so we can take them on the plane. I’m real glad Einstein’ll have them close to home. It won’t help with the pain, but just knowing they’re where he can go visit has got to help somehow.”

  “I talked to Mason and Retro, then I called our man Twisted.” Po’Boy’s forehead hit the side of Wildman’s temple. “You want to bring your ole lady home and plant her in the family plot out back of Mother, they’ll have a place ready and waiting for her.”

  Wildman reared back, turning to look at Po’Boy, heart pounding in his chest. “What?”

  “Retro said he knows where she is. Where they are. Said it’s twenty minutes south. Myron already accounted for it somehow, like he knew, but whatever.” Wildman watched as Po’Boy’s throat moved, Adam’s apple bobbing deep in his throat, like the words were hard to get out. “Be my honor to help you bring them home, brother. It’d be my honor.”

  “There’s nothin’ but bones left. It’s been years, man. I don’t know if I can—I don’t know if I can see her like that, you know? All that was Shelly, reduced to a few scattered bones? I don’t know.” He closed his eyes. “But I’d be lyin’ if I said I didn’t want it. It’s fuckin’ killed me how things had to be left. Fuckin’ tore me up for years, how disrespectful it was to her. How fuckin’ cold it made me to know she’d been discarded, because the triggerman pullin’ her number was inconvenient for the club. But I don’t know if I can see that.”

  “Then you don’t see that part.” Po’Boy made the statement like it was easy. “You bring us to where she is, make sure we know where we’re lookin’, and then you stay where you can have your hands on Justine. We’ll bring her home for you, brother. I ask, we’ll have a dozen hands in the air, ready to help, and you fuckin’ know it. Because you’re our brother, and we’ve got your back. Patch don’t matter in this, man. This is the life, and this is what we do.”

  “Justine. What would she think about it? It’s one thing to hear it as a story, but to see the fallout? To know what she’s potentially signing up for? That should be enough to have any woman running, sure thing.”

  “Bitch is not just any woman, though. And I think you know it, brother.” Po’Boy grinned. “Hot as fuck to watch a woman who can handle herself, even distracted as I was in there just tryin’ to match my strides to Wrench. Her sole focus in there was you. Just you, Wild. Lyle. Every threat to you, she had it locked down, eyes on, gun drawn. And you know that kind of devotion won’t break because it’s already factoring in the worst options and just bustin’ through the backside of the territory to look for any more threats to her man. Hot as fuck, brother.” Po’Boy leaned close. “She’s only going to give a fuck about the impact it’ll have on you. Nothin’ else. She’s not going to see it as a foretelling or augur about possible futures. She’s going to see the settled look on your face once we get your family home, and she will not only be good with it, but she’ll also be grateful your brothers take care of you, however we do it.”

  “Fuck, I want that, brother. Been tearin’ me up for so long, I won’t know what to do when the pain’s gone.”

  “Let’s get you to that place, then. Where you can see how it feels to not carry so much goddamned weight, man. Let us do this for you.” Po’Boy shook Wildman’s shoulder a final time before stepping back. “We want to. Hell, if I’m honest, some of us—me included—are desperate to feel any kind of a w
in out of this. You heard the stories these boys been telling?”

  Wildman stared at him, then shook his head slowly. “Been out here since Mudd got Einstein’s elbow back into place. Wanted to watch over his family for him. I know it’s stupid—”

  “Nope, not a bit of it is stupid. I get it, man. And that’s righteous of you, brother.” Retro stepped up behind Po’Boy and gave Wildman a nod. “Very much appreciated, and this is me telling you how as of right now, Lyle Woolsey has a marker from Jeremiah Rogers. You stepped up, brother, and I owe you.”

  “No, man. It’s what we do, right?”

  “Yeah, but I fucking owe you.” Retro’s lips pinched flat. “Cast your mind back years ago. You remember calling your dominant and askin’ for help after Shelly was murdered? After you got home from holding death watch over your brother and came home to find your wife dead? After you killed the man who had the audacity to still be in your home, shittin’, and sittin’, and eatin’ food she’d prepared with her two hands?”

  Wildman didn’t respond, frozen in place, fists clenched tightly enough to set up an ache in his joints.

  “That dom flung a request wide, and I snagged it. There’d been lots of talk about a brewing shitstorm in southern Florida, and I deal in information, so it seemed a good way to get intel. Little cleanup, little investigative work, and I could pull my net back in closer to Alabama.” Retro shook his head, one hand coming up to rake through his hair, flipping it over a shoulder. “I didn’t know you. Never learned a name other than Ogre, but I’m the one who did a shit job of takin’ care of you back then. I coulda done what Myron’s doing for Einstein right now, made it so it could have been an official death. Was easier not to, and I didn’t know you. Feel like shit right about now because of that weight you’ve been carrying, man. I don’t know it, don’t need you to speak it, because I’ve seen it in your face since I met you. That’s on me. So I fuckin’ owe you, okay? Suck it up and deal, because you’ve got a marker with me. A personal marker, in addition to the one the Bastards owe you for takin’ up our cause today.”