Scotch: Unraveled (Brimstone Lords MC Book 4)

by Sarah Zolton Arthur

  “I got to Brighton’s place; it’s turned. Furniture flipped and broken glass and the lasses are gone.”

  “Call the police?” he asks.

  “I had a neighbor call; don’t know if he did it. Duke, brother, my hands are shaking. I feel sick. Wanna take me on, fine, but women and babes?”

  “I need the address.”

  “I—”

  “Calm down and gimme the goddamn address.”

  I finally hear the sirens in the distance. “Turkey Hill. Uh, five-thirteen. The cops are coming.”

  “Stay calm, brother. Boss is on the line with Tommy right now. We’ll be there in ten.”

  Before long, Brighton’s house is swarmed with Thornbriar PD and Lords on the front lawn waiting for news. Tommy goes in with a kit to check for anything biological aside from the small spot of blood on the floor.

  “Got prints,” Tommy calls as he walks out. “No other biological traces.” He pauses to let that sink in. No other biological traces means he may not have violated the women, at least not yet. “But he sure don’t care if we find his identity—left prints all over the front room.”

  “What now?” I ask, so tense I’m coming outta my skin.

  “Now you head home and wait for my call ’less you want Blood and Hero on this, too.”

  Duke cuts in. “Already on it.”

  Go home? I can’t go home when my family’s missing, but the longer I stand around with my thumb up my arse, the angrier I get. Keep going over it in my head, who would want to hurt Frankie or Brighton?

  Suddenly, the answer hits me like a shot between the eyes. It was that fucker Rodrick. I’d bet my life on it. Heading for my truck, one thing’s certain, I’m getting my family back before I put a bullet between his eyes.

  “Where you goin’?” Blue, one of the newer brothers, calls out to me, catching the attention of the other brothers. Shite, that’s the last thing I need.

  “Didn’t get yer answer.” Duke’s gruff voice stops me. “Where the fuck you going?”

  “Shite to take care of.”

  “What shit?” he demands to know.

  “Gee, sorry, Dad… didn’t know I had a curfew.” Our president or not, he doesn’t get to control my movements.

  “Yer woman and kids have been taken and I can’t have ya running off halfcocked causing trouble while we try to figure this out.”

  “I didn’t join this club to be told what I can and cannough do.” I start for my truck again.

  “Ya also didn’t join this club to deal with shit alone. Blue, Crass—yer on ’im. Lock ’im down if ya must. Ain’t wasting time bailing brothers outta jail while we’re trying ta mount a rescue.” Duke’s words are law and the next thing I know, Blue and Crass jog up to my side. They both mount their bikes while I pile back inside my truck, wishing like fuck that I had my bike because I need to ride.

  Before I can think better of it, I turn in the direction of the Sheriff’s Department. It doesn’t take but ten minutes to get there and with my brothers at my back, I walk inside. I’m not stupid. It takes a great deal of strength, but Duke was right. I won’t do the lasses any good if I’m in jail. Before I hit the waiting area I breathe in slow-like, letting it go slower, to calm myself down. It’s a damn good thing I do, too as all heads turn to look at us when we enter. But I don’t give any of ’em a second glance, dead set on talking to the man himself. Murmurs rise in the air as I approach reception.

  “I’m looking for Rodrick,” I tell the lass behind the desk. “He in?”

  “Deputy Rodrick is in back. Let me call him. One moment, please.” Then she picks up the phone, presses a button, and waits. I hear it ring through the receiver. I know he picks up because she tells him, “There’s someone out front to see you.” After she hangs up, she tells us to take a seat.

  My brothers and I drop into a set of uncomfortable wooden chairs lined against a wall opposite the desk to wait. Business carries on around us, though we continue to get looks. And the jacknut keeps us waiting forever. My leg bounces a mile a minute. I run my hands through my hair for the fiftieth time when Crass asks, “You wanna tell us now what we’re doin’ here? Already got Tommy on the case.”

  “It was Rodrick. He took my family.”

  “So you march into his house to confront him? Is that smart? You got proof?” He pulls a smoke from the pack in his hand but doesn’t light it because there’s no smoking inside the building. He taps it on the pack instead.

  “He’s not wrong,” Blue chimes in. “Be smart, brother. Unless you got something Tommy don’t, let’s get proof before we confront him.”

  “Listen, if yar scared, then get the fuck out. I didn’t ask ya here.”

  Crass shoots Blue a look, but neither of ’em moves to go. Finally, I see the fucker walk out of an office. There’s a second man with him. They shake hands and the man turns to leave. Rodrick catches my glare and doesn’t make a move in our direction until that other man leaves. Only then does he saunter up to the desk. The brothers and I stand. And with them at my back, I make my approach. “My family’s missing. Where are they?” I demand to know.

  “Did they go missing within the city limits? If so, then I’m afraid that’s TPD jurisdiction. I’d be happy to call down for ya,” he answers in a tone that couldn’t be more patronizing if he tried. I ball my hands to keep from reaching out to grab him by this throat.

  “Where are they?” I ask again, losing patience.

  “I’m sure I don’t know, seein’ as I been in meetings all day, but if you wanna make a report, I’ll be happy to call around, see what I can find out.” He raises an eyebrow at me like he thinks he’s won. Crass and Blue step to my back, each taking a side.

  Then Crass leans in and murmurs, “Lock it down or we lock you down.”

  Right.

  And that’s when my phone rings at the same time as my brothers’ phones. It’s Tommy Doyle on mine. “Whatcha got?” I ask.

  Blue and Crass crowd me.

  “The prints got a match,” Tommy says. “The guy’s name is Ray Turnbull. He also goes by—”

  “Bull,” I finish for him, gritting my teeth. “Fucking Horde.”

  12.

  Frankie

  Every bone, muscle, tendon, and bit of cartilage in my body hurts more than I ever imagined I could hurt. Only one of my eyes opens enough to see out of; the other throbs, so completely swollen I couldn’t pry it open if I tried. Nausea fills my belly and I can only turn my head enough before I puke to not get it down the front of me.

  I can’t see Brighton or the babies.

  My whole body shakes as I shove up to a sitting position. Putting even the slightest pressure on my left wrist brings fresh tears to my eyes and I pull it back, cradling it against my body. I’m positive it’s broken. That’s when I see the blood in my vomit, but although concerning, I can’t be bothered by it right now. I need to find my girls. And it wasn’t my fault, per se, but Brighton only got dragged into this mess because of my association with the Lords. What else could it be?

  The nausea comes back as I force myself to stand, still hunched over, because every time I try to make it to my full height, my breathing sputters and sharp lightning bolts of pain shoot through my system. I’ve never had broken ribs before and I’m no doctor, but it seems pretty plausible to believe there are a few broken ones now.

  Slowly, I’m forced into a sort of limp-drag of my right foot, the only way for me to escape the corner our attacker dumped me in. Using the wall to steady myself, I make it to a flimsy wooden door, twisting the handle, expecting it to be locked. It’s not locked. The door doesn’t just look flimsy; it feels cheap and hollow and thankfully doesn’t take too much effort to push open, revealing an expansive room, dark in this corner. An ugly, garish orange light shines in the opposite side of the room—the side where the noise comes at me from. Not the noises from crying babies or a scared friend, but the murmur of low voices, maybe two. And the most god-awful burning chemical smell fills the entir
e space.

  Oh god, my brain keeps thinking as my eyes blink continuously while I attempt to hold back the retching. If it didn’t hurt so much to move and I didn’t need my left hand to guide me along the metal wall, I’d use it to cover my nose and mouth.

  Eventually, I have to push off the wall, seeing as the way is blocked by an overly large crate. The crate’s lid sits askew, leaving the—well, seeing as I don’t know much about guns, I have no idea if these are automatic or semiautomatic—but there has to be a whole lot of them in a crate this size and looking around the room, there have to be at least fifty of these same-size crates. Without looking inside each, I can’t know if they all contain guns, but I’m going to go with they do.

  So I’m probably in a warehouse. A warehouse full of guns plus a burning chemical smell. I’ve watched enough cop shows to figure they’re probably cooking drugs in here. What kind of drugs get cooked? Meth, right? That’s one of the big ones?

  This day just keeps getting worse. I can’t have Mollie and Macie around guns and meth—or whatever nasty thing they’re cooking. Before I reach them, I come upon another door and behind is where I finally hear the baby whimpers I’ve been longing to hear. But this door won’t open like mine did.

  I shove on the door with my shoulder and frantically wiggle the knob to no avail. “Hey, sweetie,” I quietly call through the door. “I’m here. I’m coming.” Then I push harder, the panic beginning to raise because I’m so close and they need me. They need me. The door feels cheap and hollow like the other, but the lock and the frame surrounding the lock isn’t. Dammit.

  Only one idea comes to me and it’s not one I relish, but my girls need care. They need formula and diaper changes. Shoving back the panic, I limp my way across the main floor, stopping intermittently to catch my breath and to fight back the pain in order to continue on, eventually making it to the garish orange lights and the three men busily making illegal drugs.

  I count to three and then clear my throat. All eyes look to me. I hold my hand up. “Please… the babies. They need formula and diapers. I don’t care what you do to me, so long as you let me take care of them. And Brighton, please. She’s innocent. Don’t hurt her…” I swallow hard and cough.

  Two of the men wearing cuts that read Horde move toward me. One of them unbuckles his belt. Okay. I resign myself to the fact that he’s looking to violate me. I refuse to flinch or cower, hoping that they see with me not fighting, that I’m a woman of my word and that they’ll let me take care of the girls. However, right before he reaches me, another man, the scary dude who attacked us at Brighton’s house, walks in from outside—I know it’s outside because the daylight floods in when the door opens—and stops him.

  “The fuck you doin’?” he asks the guy who had his button popped, too.

  “She said she’d do whatever we want if we let her take care of the kids. She’s hot and I’m horny.”

  “Touch her, I chop your dick off, shove it down your throat, and beat you ’til you shit it out again. We got whores at the club. She don’t get touched. Scud’s orders.” Then he walks over to me. The soles of his boots clomp loudly on the thick cement floor until he reaches me. “Ain’t no place for you,” he says, grabbing a fistful of hair at the back of my head to pull me back toward the room with the babies. He walks so fast that it forces me to walk on my bad leg.

  When we reach the door, he fishes out keys from his pocket, unlocks the door, and shoves me inside. I fall to the ground and make the mistake of using both my arms to brace my fall, which jams my already broken wrist, causing a whole lot of dry heaving on my part.

  “I’ll be back with shit for the brats. Give me shit, they all die.”

  “I won’t give you shit; I promise.”

  Once he’s slammed the door and I hear the lock, I use my one okay hand and one okay leg to drag myself over to the babies sitting in their carriers on the floor. “Macie.” I singsong her name softly. She’s the closest to me. “Hey, sweetheart. I’m here.” Then I continue to drag myself until situated between the two girls. I bend in to kiss the tops of both their heads. “I can’t pick you up… sorry.” I keep on sweetly. “But I love you and I’m gonna take care of you.”

  The tears breach the levies of my eyes, rolling down my cheeks. I still don’t know where Brighton is or what they’ve done to her. The thought makes me sick. Since every second stuck in this place feels like a millennium, there’s no way for me to know how much time passes before he shows back up with a couple of grocery bags. One has a box of diapers and the other has two new bottles, dry formula, and a gallon of water. Not ideal. I couldn’t chance wasting the water to wash out the bottles, which means they’ll just have to take their meals as is. It totally grosses me out, but what can I do?

  Everything has to be held with my thighs because of my injured hand. Opening the can, which includes popping and peeling off the aluminum top, fishing out the scoop—my hand shakes as I try to dump a scoop into each bottle—then peeling off the plastic cap to the water. The full gallon is too heavy and I end up spilling water on my skirt. Screwing the caps on. Shaking the bottles. All of it done one-handed. I unsnap Macie’s onesie first and do my best to change her diaper, but having been in the same one all night, she has angry red splotches all over her baby girl parts. Mollie is less red but still she has splotches, too. Instead, I let them air out while I hand them off their bottles, using a rolled-up disposable diaper to prop them up for each girl. Thirsty myself, I take a swig of their water and then move to rest my back against the hard metal wall.

  The girls get my soft rendition of “You Are My Sunshine.” They love that song. I try to get into it for them, but the whole time, all I can think is, Please, Rory. Please find us.

  Eventually, the sound of whimpers resonates outside the door and when it swings open, Brighton stands next to another man I don’t know. On the side of her face where that devil-man punched her is blue and purple, and there’s some swelling. Her lip is scabbed over from the cut and, of course, her hair is disheveled and there’s a rip at the neck of her T-shirt she wore last night as part of her pajamas, as if someone grabbed it and pulled or dragged her from her house, most likely.

  She’s visibly shaken and injured, but not cradling or favoring any arm, leg or ribs. Mostly she just looks scared. He holds her by her long hair, shoving her inside. She stumbles, landing on her hands and knees with watery eyes, yet she doesn’t cry out. My best friend is strong.

  “Up, bitch!” he calls over to us. I don’t know who he’s talking to until he says again, “I said up unless you want me to tear up her sweet pussy.”

  I struggle to stand.

  “No,” Brighton breathes softly, shaking her head. But I have no choice. I promised that I’d do whatever they wanted in return for not hurting her or the babies.

  “I have to,” I say to her, looking her directly in the eyes, hoping that she sees everything I can’t express out loud. “Help me up… Please.”

  She nods once and pushes up off the ground to help me stand by wrapping her arms around me under my armpits. There’s no missing my limp, clearly now darkly bruised, broken wrist.

  Up, I put my weight on my okay leg. “Take care of the girls,” I say, then turn away, limping toward the door with my lame leg dragging behind me again.

  I’m in pain. I’m a mess. Still, I straighten my shoulders as much as possible and lift my head despite how badly it hurts to do it. He shoves me without regard to my injuries and I stumble but manage to stay standing.

  “Over there.” He points to the lab area. I nod and walk. He steers me to a metal table, the kind they used in my college science classes. It holds a hotplate and an old frying pan coated in a white film. There are blocks of white powder and chemicals on the table. Instead of asking, he shoves me down onto a stool. “Cook the coke with the cleaner,” he orders.

  “What is this?” I ask.

  “Crack.”

  Crack? I didn’t know people still used that. Obviously, the
meth-or-whatever-it-is-production far surpasses the crack production, but I follow his directions. I’ll do anything they ask to keep Brighton and the girls safe. I can’t do it one-handed, but there are a couple of kitchen towels on the table. One of them I loosely roll up and tie around my wrist. It’s not ideal, but at least with the break somewhat immobilized, I can do the work. The second towel I tie around my nose and mouth as a sort of filter because I don’t think it safe to be breathing it all in.

  Bikers show up checking on our progress, though there’s one man who’s clearly in charge. Average height, has a slight beer belly but looks like someone stomped on his face and it never recovered. Maybe I’m bias because he’s keeping us here and I hate him on principle. He paces around the lab with hard footfalls and his arms crossed over his chest, an always-present reminder of what’s at risk if I don’t comply—not that I could ever forget. They don’t let me up for hours, not even to use the bathroom. No one offers me a sip to drink or a bite to eat. The pain in my head starts to make my vision blur; still, I keep my head down and try to blink away the dizziness, never stopping production or uttering a peep of complaint.

  Finally, when I think that I’m about ready to pass out from pain, hunger, exhaustion, dehydration, and the fumes, the man whom the others address as the infamous “Scud,” the man in charge, stops by my table. “Did good today. Got a cot and some soup for you.”

  Thank the good lord.

  “Can I see the babies?” I ask.

  “They’re fine.”

  “But they need to see me.” I slowly push up from the stool and attempt to stretch the kink out of my neck and back, courtesy of spending an entire day hunched over.

  “You ain’t their ma,” he says.

  “I didn’t give birth to them, but they’re mine… please. Even five minutes, then I’ll come right back here if that’s what you want.”

  We walk to a different room than the one where they’d kept the babies earlier, farther back, still clearly rooms off a warehouse. When he opens the door, Brighton looks up from where she’s been sitting on an old coil-spring cot with a threadbare mattress. My girls are next to her. She gasps and pushes from the cot to run to me, throwing her arms around my neck and squeezing tight enough to choke me. My body screams under the pressure from her arms and I teeter on the verge of passing out. But as I can’t catch my breath, I can’t tell her.