Fire Meets Fire: Wretched Soulz MC

Chapter 9

I’ve got more than enough reasons to be wary of men. Even before… Well, I had to survive in a male-dominated world, had to show I was the best just to get by. There’s something about Chaz that draws me in. Somehow, he gets through all the boundaries I’ve set, and I don’t understand why. I don’t know why I ran my mouth. Normally, I tell no one my early background, but then they normally don’t ask. Names are accepted without explanation, and in the Army, before I became Helo, I was just called May. But for some reason, though I was looking at the man wearing the VP badge, I spoke to Chaz.

I didn’t tell them to get sympathy. I’ve lived my past and survived it, and it made me into the woman I am today, or who I was anyway. Now I turn my glance Chaz’s way. It seems like he wants me to elaborate further, but they should get the picture without me having to spell it out. An unwanted baby abandoned to die doesn’t necessary lead to a happy ending. Especially when no one wanted a kid already addicted to heroin and who had to be weaned off that shit before having a chance at life. Adopters who’d turned their backs had had a lucky escape as I’d remained a sickly child for the first few years of my life.

I’m wondering why I’m telling them anything at all. After giving them ideas about what was wrong with their setup and how they could improve their security, I should have insisted they let me leave and then get on with figuring out the rest of my life. I’m really not at all sure why I’m sitting here. They’ve not even offered a cup of coffee to me.

This wasn’t how I expected my day to go. Sure, I knew they’d be annoyed and want info from me, but I hadn’t realised they’d have had me investigated. And that, even though I was comfortable at Harold’s, meant I was going to have to leave. I’m not looking forward to coming up with some explanation for letting the old man, and his hopes for his son, down. Neither am I embracing the thought I’ll, yet again, have to start all over with nothing to my name except a pitiful few dollars and a rucksack of worn clothes. All to stay one step ahead of whoever blames me for being alive.

Sometimes I wonder why I try so hard to survive, why I keep breathing and don’t just let them end my life. It’s the pigheaded side of me that says it was a miracle I already climbed out of the darkest pit of despair, and the effort that took shouldn’t be wasted.

A lapse of judgement had once allowed them too close as the remembered agony of my shoulder can attest to. I suppress a shudder recalling it was sheer luck that had allowed me to get away, but my instinct had been to run and fight for survival. A Night Stalker doesn’t give up. I’d had the advantage they thought they were dealing with a weak female, not a battle-worn soldier, something they’d ignored despite knowing my rank.

Why am I still sitting here? Now the third man has left, two against one are odds I can deal with. Fuck knows how soon my trail will be picked up now my DNA and fingerprints have been checked. The sooner I get a head start, the quicker I can find a new refuge, or at least a place to temporarily hide out.

For some reason, it’s hard to get myself moving. The thought of heading off into nowhere again and starting over is making me weary—and angry, with the bikers and myself. If I hadn’t gotten into their auto shop and hadn’t been arrogant enough to think criminals wouldn’t care, then I could have stayed at Harold’s fixing his son’s bike. Though, it’s a pipe dream to think of being able to stay in one place. That’s a luxury I’ve never experienced.

As a child, I moved from one foster home to another, getting more and more fucked up until no one wanted the disturbed unruly child. Then, in the Army, I went from base to base, and then in different areas on tours. Since coming back Stateside, I’ve been forced to keep moving around.

I’m sick of it.

I served my country, suffered for it, and what have I got to show? No friends, no family, no roots and no prospect of settling down.

I don’t know how much of my thoughts have been showing on my face, but it’s enough for Chaz to lower his tone, saying softly and cajolingly, “Tell us what’s going on, Queenie. We might be able to help.”

Queenie. How long has it been since anyone called me that? Normally I’d insist on my hard-earned handle, but what’s the point if I can no longer fly? It just makes a mockery of all I’ve achieved. As Queenie, perhaps I can strive to make a new life, one equally as fulfilling as the one I’ve lost.

I’m tired, physically and mentally. The thought of confiding in someone is tempting. But I can’t. I, too, soften my voice. “There’s no point telling you anything, you won’t be able to help. At worst it will put you into the sights of people you don’t want to be on the wrong side of.”

Joint chuckling comes from both of the men, Bull adding an amused snort. “We’re the ones feared, sweetheart, not the other way around. Not many people are brave enough to take on the Wretched Soulz.”

That may be so, but they’ve no idea who’d they’d be up against. I might not know who exactly, but I’m pretty sure whoever it is is using ex-US Special Forces to carry out their dirty work. And I don’t want to share my story. These men might have more sympathy for my enemy than for myself.

“If you want to help, you can give me a lift out of town.” To the state line might be best, but however far I can go would be a good start.

Chaz stares at me for a moment, then his eyes lift and find Bull’s. They have a conversation consisting of chin lifts, head jerks and grunts. Having been around men for a long time I’m not surprised when Bull nods and, without explanation to me, exits the room. Leave us alone and maybe I’ll get more out of her. I interpreted.

Once the door closes, Chaz wastes no time asking, “How about I agree I’ll help you if you tell me all that you know?”

I don’t know how I recognise it, but I can see this stern abrupt man is bending for me. I don’t think he’s normally got much patience. A motion catches my eye. His fingers are strumming a silent rhythm on his desk, showing underneath he’s agitated. I admire the fortitude he’s displaying. This probably isn’t a man who suffers fools lightly.

What I don’t feel coming from him is any animosity, which is strange. He should consider himself the wronged party. While I don’t feel comfortable enough to share my whole story, I am driven to give him something.

Putting my hands on the arms of the chair, I push myself to my feet. This is a conversation I need to have moving. I pace to one side of his office then back, and give myself a moment before I speak, assessing how much I can divulge without harming national security. Then, inwardly, I laugh at myself. Why the fuck am I still worried about that?

First, I assuage my conscience. “I had to run. I’ve no access to my money. I soon found using it gave them the ability to track me. Eventually, I ended up here. Harold found me, took me in, and we came to an agreement. I fix his son’s motorcycle, and he provides board and lodging. For the first time in a long while, I could hole up and regroup.”

“You’re a mechanic?”

Without conceit, I reply truthfully, “If it’s got an engine, then I can fix it.” To his credit, he shows no sign that he doubts me. When he gives an imperious wave of his hand, I continue, “You refused to help Harold?—”

Interrupting, he scoffs. “That bike was a total write-off. Yeah, we could put it back together, but it would have been cheaper to buy a new one.”

Unable to argue with that, I give him a brief version of Harold’s story. I see his face go through a variety of emotions as I explain how the old man’s linking the restoration of that bike to his son regaining consciousness. Instead of sneering, I reckon Chaz is feeling empathy with the man who’s more dead than alive, compassion for another biker losing out to a bigger vehicle on the road.

When I finish, Chaz puts his hands to his face and rubs his cheeks thoughtfully. “You think his son will pull through?”

Grimacing, I shake my head. “Extremely unlikely. But getting his bike fixed is allowing Harold to come to terms with the situation gradually.”

“You don’t think it’s better for him to face reality?”

“What’s reality, Chaz?” I counter. “Who can say there’s nothing in Harold’s dream for his son’s recovery? Miracles have happened before.”

He stares at me thoughtfully, then raises and lowers his chin, then observes astutely, “But MacPherson isn’t paying for any parts that you need.”

“Harold’s bankrupting himself keeping his son alive. The medical costs are astronomical. I thought I’d try and do as much as I could without asking for money.”

Chaz snorts. “So instead, you stole from us.”

I shrug. “Yeah, but even you know the money you demanded was ten times the value of what I took. Most of the shit came off your scrap heap.”

“Nevertheless, you stole from us and thought you could get away with it.”

As his tone is calm and not at all angry, I chuckle softly. “I didn’t give a motorcycle gang much credit for stocktaking.”

“Club. Not gang.” He’s not disrespecting me, so I raise my chin, acknowledging the correction. Suddenly, he sits forward. “Tell me, what’s the main driver? You wanting to put a roof over your head or were you sucked in by MacPherson’s sob story?”

I take the seat again. “Until you went searching for me, Harold’s was a great place to stay. I was able to keep busy, and if I had one of my attacks, then I was safe.”

“Safe except when you were up on a beam in the barn shooting at us. What the fuck would you have done if you passed out then?” As I look down at my hands, his head moves side to side. “Fuck, woman. You’ve got less sense of self-preservation than a biker.”

My lips curve. “I was a helicopter pilot in multiple war zones, so…” I don’t bother completing my sentence.

Chaz stands now. He walks around the desk, leaning against the front of it with his arms folded across his chest. Standing emphasises his build, but he doesn’t intimidate me. It’s not desire or justified anger which I read on his face. Instead, he seems to have a genuine interest in me.

“Tell me what happened,” he cajoles in a gentle voice. “I presume you crashed or something? Got injured and left with fainting problems you now have.”

“It’s classified,” I remind him.

“Woman,” he snorts, “I’ve probably dealt with more classified information than you have, though it might not be at national security level. Brothers wouldn’t last long in an MC if they didn’t know how to keep their mouths shut. It’s why prospects have to show us they’re trustworthy before they patch in. Might not deal in State secrets, but what I carry up here,” he taps his head, “could end up in people doing serious jail time.”

I don’t have to try hard to believe it.

It’s his gentle tone. If he’d demanded, I’d keep quiet. There’s something about him that makes me believe if he says he’ll carry my secrets to the grave, I can trust him. And for some reason, after all this time, I’m ready to share my story. Placing my head into my hands, I rub at my temples, trying to summon words to use that will give him the bare facts without making it too hard on his ears. What happened still plays like a constant loop in my mind, invading my waking thoughts and plaguing my nightmares. It was hard to live through at the time, and sometimes I wish I hadn’t survived. I glance up at him, seeing him watch me gather my thoughts, and patiently giving me time. What is it about this man? Anyone else and I’d have raised my middle finger and told him I wasn’t going to say anything. But Chaz?

Fuck knows why, but I want him to understand my story. Maybe I’m just tired of running.

Eventually his patience starts to run out, and I see him fidgeting. It gives me the impetus I need. Turning to stare at the Wretched Soulz logo on the wall, I let out a long breath, and begin to give up my secrets.

“I can’t tell you where I was, or why.” I notice he’s stilled again at my opening words as I check that he accepts the secrecy that surrounded my last mission. His lips thin, but he doesn’t pry. “I flew a Black Hawk.” That part’s easy. It’s a matter of record, and up to that fateful day, an occupation of which I was proud. I loved my work, loved the adrenaline, the feeling of a job well done when I dropped off or rescued whoever needed transporting, or when we entered the fray ourselves to take down the enemy. Every time we flew was exhilarating. For a moment, my thoughts are lighter as I think about the good times, then I swallow twice before I go into the details of my last flight. “The call came in. A team of SEALs needed extraction.” All in a day’s work, nothing unusual about it. “Unfortunately, there was a sandstorm enroute. My co-pilot, Karen, wanted to delay takeoff.” My voice trails off as memories fill my mind.

“And you didn’t?” Chaz interjects to prompt me.

“I took note of what he said.”

“He?”

A half-smile comes to my lips. “Yeah, Karen was his handle, like Helo was mine. Well-earned as he was a Karen about everything. A serial moaner if you like.” I shrug. “He’d gained his nickname long before I met him, it suited him. But in many ways, he balanced me. I could be too gung-ho. There were times I could do with being more cautious.”

“And this was one of those times?”

Raising and dipping my chin, I agree. “Probably. I thought there was a chance we could have flown around the storm, but Karen was risk adverse, or as much as a helo co-pilot was allowed to be. Our departure was delayed by an hour.” Sixty minutes which changed everything. Three thousand six hundred seconds that ended my war. Again, I swallow, trying to moisten my throat. “The delay had consequences. Once in flight, we lost contact with the SEALs, but carried on anyway. We had no way of knowing how long they’d been out there, and it was likely their radio batteries might have failed.”

Chaz shifts awkwardly. “That sounds risky.”

In hindsight, it was. Even at the time, I had an uneasy feeling. Grimacing, I confirm, “Yeah, but what could we do? Leave the team there, or carry on and get them out?” It’s a rhetorical question, and I don’t wait for the answer. For me, both at the time, and now, it was a no-brainer. It didn’t matter that Karen, Bosh, my crew chief, and Jaxson, my aerial gunner, all felt the same unease. No one objected to continuing the mission. We weren’t going to leave any man behind. Night Stalkers aren’t quitters. Even now I recall that with only raised chins, grunts and nods, we’d discussed and simply agreed on extra vigilance.

Lost in the past, I relate the bare facts to Chaz. Explaining how the flight had already been tense as we approached the target area. I’d circled once, getting the lay of the land. In this mountainous region, there was no place to set down. No problem, we’d employ the SPIES system, a single rope with rings to which special harnesses would be attached to winch up the men from the ground, but first Bosh and Jaxson would fast rope down to make sure none needed additional assistance. Without communication with the SEAL team, we didn’t know what we would find, whether we were also recovering dead or injured.

A flare had gone up from the ground. Grinning at Karen, I’d said, “They’re almost home”, not knowing my thought was premature…

“Queenie?” Chaz prompts, noticing I’ve been lost in my head.

I blink, for a second needing to take in the shoddy but practical office I’m sitting in, the whack of the rotors fading away. Unable to suppress a shudder, I relate what happened next. “We were in position for the extraction. Bosh and Jaxson were ready. They’d already unclipped their harnesses. The missile warning system went off.” I swallow rapidly, bile rising in my throat now, just like it had then.

The loss of directional control and my inability to maintain stable flight immediately told me our tail rotor had been hit. I didn’t need to think of the devastating consequences as they were already happening. The aircraft began to spin out of control and I could do nothing to stop the rapid descent. Combined with the wailing of the alarm, I could hear the screams and thumps as the men who’d been preparing to exit lost their battle to hold on to anything and were tossed out.

There was nothing I could do.

There was nothing Karen could do.

It seemed to take hours, but it was a matter of seconds until we hit the ground.

Chaz clears his throat, and again, I come back into the present with a start, unaware of how much I told him, and how much I’d kept in my head. It must have been enough as he sums up succinctly, “You were hit. You crashed.”

I glance down at my hands, seeing they’re shaking badly, grasping them together to try to get them to stop. My whole body ends up trembling as I confirm, “We crashed.” I try to pull myself together, consigning the memories of the terror I’d felt to the past. It wasn’t the crash. Fuck knows we’d gone through enough simulations in our training. At the time, I’d been calm, the professional in me fighting to minimise the damage and give us and the SEALs we were there to rescue the best chance.

Chaz’s hand moves as if to comfort me, but thinking better of it, he takes it away. I take a breath into lungs that feel starved of oxygen then force myself to resume my story, relating it in a monotone as though describing something that happened to someone else.

“The Black Hawk came down hard on one side. I knew immediately Karen was gone. He’d cracked his head against the side window and his eyes were wide open and staring. I was trapped, pinned by the harness and the cyclic.” My mouth’s gone dry. I work to get saliva into my mouth. “It wasn’t long before I was freed, but it was by no rescuer. That’s when I found out Bosh had fallen to his death. Jaxson was badly injured but alive.”

“The SEALs?” Chaz asks, as my voice trails off.

“They’d been ambushed.” I thump one fist into the palm of my other hand. “If we’d taken off on time, we’d have been able to save them. Four were still alive, but they’d lost two more of the team.”

Chaz doesn’t ask what happened to us. The answer we were captured was obvious. His eyes narrow and his jaw clenches. “How long?”

“Six months,” I say calmly, trying to hide the sheer and utter hell of twenty-six weeks of being held captive. Hope of a rescue receded fast as days all rolled together in a never-ending cycle of torture and misery, replaced by the despair that there was only one way this could end—death—and the wish that that would come sooner rather than later.

Chaz turns and goes back behind his desk. His hands disappear from sight, then reappear holding a bottle and two shot glasses. He pours out two generous portions of amber liquid.

I take the one he slides toward me. Sniffing it, I know it’s probably top-dollar scotch. Not my favourite spirit, but right now, I wouldn’t turn down anything alcoholic. Remembering the crash is bad enough, but that’s the point my nightmare started.

“They blame you for the crash?” he asks, after downing his own shot. “About the delay? Could you have rescued them if you’d taken off on time?” He pauses, then offers, “Do you think it’s one of the SEALs who’s after you because of their capture?”

If only it was that simple. He needs to give me time to compose myself if he wants to hear more. This is the part that’s hardest to speak about.

When I don’t answer, he takes it as confirmation of what he’s just suggested and gives a quick shake of his head. “I don’t get it. How could you be blamed? Firstly, you could have taken off on time and lost the helicopter due to the storm and never arrived at the pickup point. Secondly, I don’t know much about flying, but I doubt even the most experienced pilot would have been able to survive a missile strike like the one that affected your craft. Who the fuck could blame you in any of that? And why would it be so important that they are now threatening your life?” He pauses, then continues, “It doesn’t add up, sweetheart.”

It doesn’t. My mouth works but I don’t know how to tell him the rest. But he’s waiting for something, so I give him the basics. “Only two men apart from me survived. All of us were in a bad state. One, in particular, had been worked over pretty badly and was a mess when he returned to the States.”

“What had happened to the others?”

“Tortured and beheaded.” I shudder as I say the words and again raise the glass of whisky to my mouth.

“You were tortured?” Chaz asks, his face contorting with rage.

How can I reply? My eyes meet his, allowing him to see something of the truth in them.

I wasn’t beaten or threatened with the loss of my life. They didn’t see the point, believing a woman couldn’t have knowledge worth extracting. My captors had very different ideas what to do with an enemy female.

I’d rather have died.