With our bikes peppered with bullet holes and our tyres blown out, we have no way to get to her. No way to know where they’re taking her, and nothing to do but wait for the call.
RAINE
I TAKE TWO BOTTLES of water from the bar fridge and a handful of snacks and head outside. Crazy and Killer may be in the doghouse with their Prez for a while yet, but that doesn’t mean they have to die of starvation while they carry out the insurmountable list of tasks Jett left for them.
I cross the empty lot and wave to Crazy, who’s hosing the concrete of the compound with a Gerni. He’s been at it now for more than an hour, and it doesn’t look any cleaner than it did when he first started. Still it makes a nice change from seeing him flick his Zippo lighter all day.
He switches the machine off and faces me. “Whatcha doin’ out here, wifey number two?”
I frown and attempt to ease the crease between my brow. “Wifey number two?”
“Yeah. You’re like Jett’s old lady two-point-o.”
I laugh without humour. “Er ... no, I’m not—”
“Well, not legally anyway. But you’re a much better fit for Prez than that evil sea witch.”
“That sea witch is currently being held prisoner, so maybe you could have a little heart.”
Crazy smiles and bangs his chest. “I have heart. I’d like to see her buried in a shallow grave so Prez can finally be happy.”
“Crazy, bite your tongue.”
He shrugs. “It’s true.”
I sigh and thrust the snacks toward him. “Here, I thought you and Killer could use a break.”
He leans forward and kisses my cheek, snatching up two packs of chips and the water I offered. “See? Way better old lady than Mia. If things don’t work out with you and Jett, or you and Grim, can I be next?”
I have absolutely nothing to say to that. I doubt I could even form words at this stage, so I just shake my head and make my way over to Killer in the security booth. I open the door, and wish I hadn’t.
Feminine cries come from the phone in his right hand; the other hand is busy pleasuring himself.
“Oh my God!”
“Oh, shit!” He tries to cover himself but instead drops his phone and falls off the chair. With a groan, he sits up. Killer grabs the desk for support and knocks the tub of Vaseline from the counter. His crutches clatter to the floor beside him. “Shit.”
“I’m so sorry. I didn’t ... I should have knocked.” I blush from the soles of my feet right to the roots of my hair, and set the snacks on the counter. I bend and pick up the crutches, holding them steady. I offer him a hand and slowly we pull him to his feet.
“No,” Killer says, tucking himself back inside his jeans as he balances on one leg—his other is badly bruised from the accident, and he’s a little banged up all over, but he’s lucky to be alive. I avert my eyes. “It’s er ... it’s my bad. I should have locked the door.”
Desperate for a subject change, I bend to pick up his phone, which is still playing a very loud pornographic scene of a girl pleasuring herself with what looks to be birthday cake. I cringe.
“Naughty, naughty, Killer,” the girl says. “You know friends are extra.”
My eyes turn wide as saucers. “Oh my God. Is that ... is she ... live?”
“Yep,” Killer says. “Sorry, Cherrie. Mum’s home—gotta cut this short.”
“Hey,” I protest. “I am nowhere near old enough to be your mother.”
Killer laughs, and the girl closes her legs and pulls a robe tight around her body. “Boo. No fair. I’ll catch up with you next time, lover. Don’t forget to tip.”
Killer grimaces and nods to the phone in my hand. “Would you mind? Mine are covered in spunk.”
My brows practically knit with my hairline and I fight the urge to wipe my hands on my clothing because ... ick. I’ve seen and done a lot of strange things since I began working at this clubhouse, but I never thought tipping a cam girl would be one of them. I grit my teeth and hit the flashing dollar sign on the screen, sending Cherrie an extra two hundred dollars.
I angle the phone toward Killer and he blanches. “Jesus, woman. How much did you send?”
“Two hundred. Trust me, she’s earned it.” I frown. “She’s going to need to buy all new sheets, because nothing gets buttercream out.”
A courier van pulls up to the gate and Killer glances around the booth—probably looking for something to wipe his hands on. I roll my eyes and head for the door. “I’ll get it.”
“You’re a peach.”
“That’s what they tell me.” I shrug and walk to the end of the gate where Killer opens it just enough for the guy to slip the box through.
“I got a package for someone here named Jett King?” the courier asks.
“Yes. He’s out right now, but I can sign for it.”
He proffers a digital writing pad and I struggle to scribble my signature with my broken arm. The other holds the package on my hip. It’s heavy, probably more parts for the bikes the boys are fixing, but I wrestle with the weight and my newfound disability.
A beat later, the guy is gone, and Crazy comes to alleviate me of my cumbersome burden.
“Thanks,” I say as I shake out my arm. “I’m not used to being crippled.”
“I got you, mama.” Crazy smiles. His teeth gleam in the afternoon sunlight, all perfect and straight, except for one chipped tooth right at the very front. The deep rumble of the van slices through the quiet street. “I’ll take this inside, but you better get in there too because—second wifey or not—Prez is gonna kill you and then us if he finds you outside the clubhouse on lockdown.”
“God forbid any poor, defenceless woman should leave the shelter of the kitchen, right?”
“It really is the safest place for you bitches. Hey, if you’re headed there, wanna make me a sandwich?”
I raise a brow in disapproval, then I decide that doesn’t send a clear enough message, so I flip him off and turn to walk back inside as his laughter fills the compound.
JETT
“HEY,” RAINE SAYS, SLIDING up to the bar beside me.
“Hey.” I stare into my bottle of Jack because it fucking hurts to look at her. It hurts to be so close and unable to touch her.
“Do you have a minute?”
“That depends on what you need a minute for.” I finally glance at her face and sigh as I gesture to the hall behind us. “You wanna come in my office?”
Her brows pinch together and the corners of her lips twitch like she’s fighting a smile. “I ... yeah. Let’s talk, in your office.”
I nod and set my drink on the bar. Sliding off the stool, I follow as she walks down the empty hall. She waits at my door, like a polite little schoolgirl. I bet her teachers longed to bend that tight arse over their knees.
I open the door and gesture for her to go first. She enters the room, but she doesn’t sit on the couch along the wall. She stands by my desk, biting her bottom lip, as if she’s in trouble with the headmaster.
“Oh, this came for you earlier. I signed for it at the gate.”
I glance at the square box on my desk. “What the hell were you doin’ at the gate? Lockdown means no one leaves this building.”
“Would you relax? I went to give Crazy and Killer refreshments.”
“Come a-fuckin’-gain?”
She shrugs her small shoulders, but at least her expression is contrite. “Well, those boys have been working really hard to get back into your good graces.”
“Those boys fucked the only chance I had of getting my wife back!”
She blinks and her throat bobs as she swallows. I scrub my hands down over my face, let out a long breath and stare at the ceiling, trying to find a calm I haven’t felt since Raine began working for me. “I’m sorry.”
She shakes her head. “It’s okay. I can’t even imagine how much stress you’re under right now. I’m sorry about Mia. I really am.”
I nod and we stare at each other for a long ti
me, me on one side of my desk, her on the other. Whether it’s my wife, my marriage, or a fucking cherrywood desk, it feels like there’s always something keeping me from her.
I glance at the box. There’s a courier label but no sender information. Dread worms its way through my gut. “You signed for this at the gate?”
“Yeah—”
“When?”
“Um, right before you guys came back. I was in the booth with Killer when ... Jett? Is something wrong?”
Her words barely register as I grab the knife from my belt and pull it from the sheath, driving it into the flimsy cardboard. The smell hits me first. Copper. Meat, raw and fresh, but with the faint odour of something sour that turns my stomach. I shove at the plastic wrap inside, fear and certainty eating away at my insides.
No! No, no, no.
Jesus fucking Christ.
Finally, I pull back the plastic. Hair. Long dark hair I spent a fortune on every month. Hair I used to grip in my hands as I fucked her. Those chestnut strands are no longer soft, but tacky with blood as I reach in and move them off her face. Her mouth is slackened as if in sleep, her eyes closed, and her long black lashes fan her cheeks. Her expression is peaceful, but I know her death was not.
“Jett? Are you okay?”
A single fly buzzes against the raw flesh where her neck used to be. The sound is so loud in my ears, so deafening as I struggle to breathe through my emotions. Tears well in my eyes. “Fuck!” I roar.
Raine steps closer.
“Don’t,” I whisper, but it’s too late. Her eyes widen in shock as she peers into the box and then she runs into my bathroom and hurls her guts into the toilet bowl while I’m still standing here, staring at the severed head of my dead wife.
JETT
FIVE HOURS AFTER FINDING Mia’s head in a fucking box, Tank approaches me in the clubhouse bar. “Prez?”
“What?” I slur, slamming my drink on the counter.
“Trigger found the son of a bitch.”
“Where?”
“He’s at a house—a private compound, really—in Rozelle.”
“Are you shittin’ me? My wife was that close the whole fuckin’ time?”
“We don’t know he took her there, but it’s possible.”
“How many guards?”
“At least five on sight. Possibly more inside the house.”
“Fuck.” I take a deep breath in through my nose and hang my head between my forearms resting on the bar. “Who isn’t fuckin’ injured or dyin’ right now?”
“Killer’s still down for the count, I’ve got him on guard duty in the security tower, but everyone else is up to the task. We all want this son of a bitch dead.”
“We need enough left behind to protect our women and children.”
“I got it handled. Diesel, Country, and Grim are gonna sit this one out.”
“Alright. Tell everyone else we’re riding—” I shake my head, remembering that our bikes are fucked. “Tell them we’re leaving in two hours. I need you to find me another van. We’re the only goddamn motorcycle club without any fuckin’ bikes.”
“I got a guy who’ll have any vehicle we want here within the hour. I’ll give him a call.”
I nod. “And get that bitch Hannah to bring me some goddamn coffee.”
“You got it, Prez.”
Jesus. I need to sober up fast. I need to check on Raine, but not like this. Kick walks by and I reach out and grab his cut, pulling him toward me. “Go check on Raine.”
“Already on it, Prez. Indie, Ivy and Grim are in there now with her.”
“She okay?”
“She’s not cut out for this life, Prez.” He shakes his head. “She hasn’t had to deal with this kind of shit before. She’d never seen a dead body before all of this, much less realised what our enemies do to our women if they get a hold of them.”
“You think I don’t know that?”
“We’re gonna make this right, Prez.”
“My wife is dead, Kick. There ain’t no making it right. There’s only revenge.”
WE BUST THROUGH RYZHANOV’S gate with the van and jump out, shooting motherfuckers left right and goddamn centre. I make my way to the front door and lift my machine gun, firing at the guard’s hand. He screams and drops his weapon, and I shoot the lock from the door before dropping him where he stands.
“Ryzhanov!” I shout as another guard rushes me. I don’t have time to aim, and I’m tackled to the ground by three-hundred kilos of fat Russian. I pull my knife from the sheath and stab his gut over and over until the chunky bastard slumps all of his weight on top of me. Blood pours from the gashes in his abdomen, making my hands slick as I try to move him off me.
I finally crawl out from under him, and I’m hit in the back of the head. I see stars, but I come out swinging and kick the shit out of the arsehole who hit me. He’s a lanky kid, no more than twenty, and right now he’s in my fucking way. He pulls a Glock from the back of his pants. My own gun is being held hostage by a dead, fat Russian right now, so I slowly ease my hands up in surrender.
“Get on the ground!” he commands. His eyes are wide and panicked, and his hands shake as he aims the gun at my head.
“Okay,” I say placatingly. I bend my knee as if I’m about to go down, but I pick up the metal bowl he hit me with and fling it at him. It strikes him clean in the nose and he drops his Glock. I snatch it up and shoot him in the head.
Someone comes up behind me and I whirl with the Glock in my hands. Tank arches a brow, and I lower my weapon. “Ryzhanov?”
“I don’t know. He’s gotta be here somewhere, right?”
“Boys are still outside. I’ll have them slash the tyres of those shiny cars in case Ryzhanov tries to flee.”
I point my chin in the direction of the rest of the house. “Get Trigger in here. The kid’s like a fuckin’ bloodhound. I want every inch of this house scoured, and I want Ryzhanov alive.”
Tank and I fan out, and I kick in each closed door I come to. He’s nowhere to be seen, and when I circle back to the main entrance, a movement catches my eye. A blond male in a sharp grey suit fires at me. I duck behind a wall and take aim. “You’re fucked, Ryzhanov. All of your men are dead and I’m not letting you leave this goddamn room.”
He laughs. “I guess I am, but then, so was your wife. She tasted so sweet.”
“Shut the fuck up!”
“Oh, and she begged. Do you know what it does to a powerful man to have his enemy’s wife on her knees?”
“Shut your goddamn mouth!”
“Her life wasn’t the only thing she begged for. It’s a shame I had to kill her. I’d grown rather fond of her in our time together.”
I stalk out from behind the wall. I don’t care that I’m exposed, that years of dealing with fuckers like this should mean I know not to react. But I walk right up and shoot Ryzhanov in the chest. He goes down like a sack of shit. Blood bubbles out his mouth and the fresh holes in his torso. His rib cage moves in a succession of short, sharp breaths and I press my boot to the centre of his abdomen. Crimson blood runs in rivulets down his expensive suit. He coughs, and it pours out of his mouth.
The overhead lights glint off a slick, metal surface and I glance at the TV cabinet. A Samurai sword sits in its display only a foot from where I’m standing. I reach forward and pull it from its perch, then I stare at the gleaming silver blade.
“An eye for an eye, motherfucker,” I say as I bring the sword down on his neck. It takes several swings to lop his head clean off, and by the time I’m done, I’m soaked with blood. I drop the weapon and stagger back, leaning against the wall to take in my handiwork.
Jesus Christ.
Tank glances at the ruin of Ryzhanov and then up at me. “Time to go, Prez.”
I stare at Ryzhanov’s inert body, the bloody sword on the ground, and his head hacked off from his neck, and it all feels anticlimactic.
I killed the man who killed my wife.
An eye for an eye, and i
t doesn’t even matter anymore.
RAINE
I KNOCK ON THE DOOR to Prez’s office. There’s no answer, so I gingerly open it and head into the dark. He hasn’t come out in days. He hasn’t moved from this room since he killed the Russian mob boss and the police were called to remove Mia’s head. Chills crawl down my spine when I think of her like that, and her perfect face—so still and alien inside the box—is all I can see when I close my eyes.
“Leave me the fuck alone!” Jett murmurs.
In the quiet dark, the cock of a gun is deafening. It’s as loud as a bomb going off. I whimper. “It’s Raine. Please don’t shoot.”
He doesn’t say anything, but something thuds against the carpet and I breathe a sigh of relief. I switch on the light and the room is cast in a soft yellow glow. Jett squints and presses his fingertips against his closed eyes.
The floor is littered with bottles. I don’t know who’s been bringing them to him, but there are several discarded beers, two empty scotches, and a tequila bottle—minus the worm—resting on the coffee table.
“Oh, Jett. What have you done?”
He smells like a brewery. The whole room needs sanitising. There’s overturned furniture and clothing scattered on the floor, papers thrown about, and a couple of empty food containers. At least he hasn’t been existing on alcohol alone.
“Come on. You need a cold shower.”
“I don’t need shit,” he slurs. I tug on his arm, but he pulls me on top of him. I shriek. His breath is overwhelming—not the sweet whiskey I’d tasted in the clubhouse kitchen before Mia found us. He tastes of desperation and heartbreak.
I squirm in his arms. “Let me go.”
“Kiss me, babe. I need to feel something other than this.”
I shake my head and push up, sliding off him and sitting my butt on the edge of the sofa. “No.”
“Why?”
“Because you need to feel your grief. You need to mourn your wife, and I deserve better than to be a cheap fuck because you don’t know how to deal with your pain.”
JETT (Savage Saints MC Book 3) Page 8
