Chapter Four
Viking pulled into the Road Devil’s parking lot and let out a sigh of mixed happiness and exhaustion. It was just past eleven o’clock in the morning, and he was going on almost two full days of zero sleep. He hoped that the guys at the Garage had the coffee on, but in a pinch, he’d meander over to Satan’s Bar and see if Rebel would maybe open the kitchen an hour early. He needed to get that order of french fries soon anyway, or he’d pass out where he stood.
He was just stretching out his back when the guys started appearing from the various Road Devils businesses: his fellow Blue Dragon Ink workers, Arrow and Saint, were coming out of the tattoo parlour as Dux and Drake, the twins, walked out from the Garage. By the time he’d greeted them all, Wolf, Scars and Ice had joined the group, wearing matching grim expressions.
Viking exchanged looks with the three of them, loaded and meaningful looks. After all, he’d hauled ass out to Utah with a dead body on the say-so of the motorcycle club’s President, Wolf Connor, and with the full knowledge of the Vice-President, Scars Innis. And of course, Ice Johansson had been there at Jolene’s house in his role as ex-Enforcer and -Cleaner (well, ex until two nights ago), handling the god-awful mess left all over Jo’s bedroom floor, walls and ceiling. Although everyone in the MC knew that Jo’s ex-husband had shown up and hurt her, and they also knew that Jo had killed the fucker, they didn’t have a clue where Viking had been the past couple of days.
They knew what he’d been doing , naturally, but they didn’t have any details. They’d never had any, and Viking wasn’t about to go all kumbaya and start sharing now, not even with Wolf. The law was clear on the matter of murder: no body, no crime, and so Viking would go to his grave as the one and only MC member who knew where all the bodies from the last twelve years of the club’s history had been buried.
That was all his burden and his alone – it was a heavy one and he’d just added one more secret to his very-full closet of Road Devils skeletons. The damn thing was overflowing now, threatening to burst wide open all over the room, and Viking had to really put his back into keeping those doors closed tight and safe.
Most days he felt up to the containment job – but he’d had enough now. Brian Fielding was the last name that he’d have to forget.
I hope so, anyway .
“Hey, man,” Wolf said in that voice that made the ladies squirm and the men look for a defensive weapon. “Welcome back.”
“Thanks, Prez,” Viking replied. “Glad to be here.”
“You had a good couple of days away from here? Happy travellin’?”
“Sure did.” Viking stretched again, feeling the pull and ache in his lower back start to unravel. “Got some fresh air, saw some sights, gave myself a back injury driving this damn van.”
Wolf nodded, his grey eyes sharp with understanding. The man had close to zero education if you thought of formal schooling, but his street smarts were off the damn charts, and nobody with an ounce of brain-power ever forgot that. Not friends or foes.
“OK, then,” Wolf said in a tone that clearly indicated that the matter of Viking’s whereabouts and activities was closed. “You look like you need a coffee, huh?”
“That’s a fact.” Viking unlocked the back door, swung it wide. “We just have a few things here to put back in the Garage.”
“We got all that,” Dux said and his brother nodded his identical dark head, liberally sprinkled with grey. “Go relax. Rebel got the grill going at seven o’clock this morning, said he wanted to be ready whatever time you got here. Told us to let you know that he’ll make you a full breakfast as soon as you hit Satan’s.”
“The man is a bonafide saint,” Viking said, already dreaming of a mushroom and cheese omelette, a towering stack of toast, and Rebel’s wicked coffee. “Just make sure that steel drum in the back there goes through the power-wash ASAP, OK?”
“Got it,” Scars said, already in the van and handing boxes of tools out to the waiting men on the ground. “You’ve done your bit, Viking, so go and kick back now. It’s done.”
“Done,” Viking echoed and gave his MC brothers a grin. “Coffee time.”
Scars gave Arrow the last box of tools and reached for the foul-smelling drum – he knew now how Viking had disposed of the evidence even if he had no clue where this had taken place – when suddenly he paused. Without a word, he turned and hopped out of the van.
“Ummm, what’s up?” Saint said. “That big old steel barrel too heavy for you to roll on over to us? Need a hand, old man?”
Wolf knew, though – his Veep had that look on his scarred face. The one that made the hairs on Wolf’s neck stand up; the one that said ‘we got trouble’, as clear as if Scars had said the words out loud. Whatever the hell had made Scars haul his ass out of that van double-time had nothing to do with the steel drum.
It had to do with something else in the van.
“Scars.” Wolf spoke flatly, a dozen questions being asked in just the one word, and the men heard every single one of them loud and clear. They tensed, ready for whatever the hell was happening.
“Someone’s in there,” Scars said in a low voice. “Between the drum and the back wall.”
The men all spun around and stared into the van, squinting at the spot Scars had mentioned. Sure enough, they saw what looked like a pile of blankets – and the pile was breathing. Quiet and shallow, to be sure, but still sucking in air.
“Shit,” Wolf muttered, wondering if he should send one of the guys to his office to get his gun locked in the wall safe. “What the hell?”
“No idea.” Viking was utterly astonished. “Wolf – I don’t know. I didn’t see anyone back there at all.”
Ice reached behind and under his cut, pulled a gun from the holder on his lower back. Nobody was even slightly surprised at that: Ice might not be club Enforcer anymore, but that meant nothing to him and he’d clearly not received the memo to step down. Enforcers were born, not made, and just because the title no longer actively applied to Ice’s role, nothing had really changed in his core. He remained as cold as his name, implacable, lethal, emotionless, loyal to his President and the club and nobody and nothing else.
He levelled the gun at the bundle of blankets and looked at Wolf. The man was a stone-cold killer, but he wouldn’t make a move without his boss’ go-ahead.
Wolf took a step forward. “We see you there, under the blankets. C’mon out.”
The bundle didn’t move.
“Listen up, asshole. You can come out willingly or we can drag you out by your fuckin’ throat. We’re good either way, but I was thinkin’ that you might prefer to keep on breathin’ nice and easy.”
Still nothing.
“OK, boys,” Wolf said. “Bring him out, I don’t care if it’s in goddamn pieces.”
There was a squeak and the blankets twitched, then slowly fell to the floor. A man’s boot appeared, then a huge coat. The person was still hidden behind the steel container, and seemed hesitant to actually come forward.
“C’mon now,” Wolf said in his scary-as-all-fuck voice, the one that he’d routinely used just before beating someone’s face in. “Last chance to come out by choice.”
A slight pause, then the stowaway stepped into the middle of the van, head down, face hidden behind a scarf.
The men froze at the tiny person standing there – this wasn’t what they’d been expecting. Not even remotely.
“Fuck,” Drake said, stunned. “It’s a kid .”
**
Iris stood at the back of the van, trembling wildly despite the layers of thick, heavy clothing on her body and covering her face. She glanced up quickly, then immediately wished that she hadn’t.
The group of people standing in front of her were – to put it mildly – the most terrifying men that she’d ever seen. More terrifying that she’d even be able to imagine in her most nightmare-ish imaginings… yet here they stood, very much alive and in the flesh, wearing matching black vests with badges or patches or something. Staring at her, looking not at all thrilled to see her in their van, looking like they’d just been released from jail – or were on their ways there on murder charges. Multiple charges.
Whoever she’d thought would eventually open the van door, what was actually standing in front of her now was so much worse than Iris could have ever predicted.
“Fuck,” said a dark-haired giant with piercing dark-blue eyes. “It’s a kid .”
“Jesus,” said another man, and Iris started when she saw that he was identical to the first one who’d spoken. “How the hell did he get in there?”
“No clue,” said a massive guy with a wild beard; Iris recognized his voice from the hours of singing. “I can’t even begin to guess.”
“C’mere,” snapped a rough voice, one that Iris identified as belonging to the man who’d threatened to drag her out by her throat. “No fuckin’ games, you got it, kid?”
She nodded, took a few small steps forward. Not so much to get close to the group of scary men, more to show a spirit of cooperation.
“Wait.” A man with sky-blue eyes in a badly-scarred face spoke now. “What do you have under all that clothing? You got a weapon?”
Startled again, she shook her head.
“Yeah, we won’t be takin’ your word for that, seein’ how even a five-year-old can pull a trigger,” said the threats guy, his wolf-grey eyes narrowed. “Coat off.”
Iris hesitated, looked at the group of large men, realized that she had no choices here. Reluctantly, she shed the coat, leaving the cardigan hanging the length of her body and the scarves wrapped around her face and legs. She hoped hard that they didn’t want anything else taken off, but of course, luck was not on her side.
“Everythin’ off,” the scary man snapped. “Let’s go.”
Iris shut her eyes. Prayer had never helped her before in her life, certainly not Gideon’s kind of prayer, and once again, every possible deity across all the heavens let her down.
“ Now . Or I get in there and strip you down personally.”
Just about the last thing that Iris wanted was any of these men to touch her. Quickly, she unwound the scarves around her calves, dropped them on the floor. She undid the cardigan with trembling fingers, feeling smaller and more vulnerable with every button sliding out. She shrugged the last piece of solid clothing off her body, raised her hands to her throat.
“Wait.”
She paused in unwrapping the scarf from her neck and face, a bit unnerved by the scary man’s sudden change in tone. He didn’t sound angry anymore, instead he sounded – shocked? Confused? And that was when she realized what these men were seeing in front of them.
She was standing there in a white nightgown and men’s boots and not much else. It was obvious now that she was a woman – she didn’t have much in the way of breasts, but the thin gown left exactly nothing to the imagination. Anyone with eyes would see that she was no man, not even a teenaged boy.
Iris had nothing left to lose anymore; she was as trapped and helpless as she’d been when she was drugged into compliance by Gideon and his monster Guardians. That same crazed courage that got her up and out of the compound, and told her to give the camera the finger, and pushed her to hide in the back of a stranger’s van, rose up in her again, making her feel that odd combination of reckless and invincible.
Ignoring the man’s order to wait, she ripped the scarf from her face and then raised her head and stood in front of them, fully exposed for who and what she was. She was at the mercy of these men now, and she knew it. All she could hope was that whatever they did to her, it wasn’t as bad as life had been at the Garden. If she’d survived and escaped that, she’d get through anything.
At least she hoped so. These guys were looking at her like they had her very painful demise fully planned out in their Neanderthal minds. And to be honest, all they had to do was shut the van door, get in the driver’s seat, floor it the hell out of wherever they were, sit on her until her breath ran out, and dump her body somewhere. These guys looked like they knew damn good and well how to dispose of pesky problems – things like living, breathing human beings who were in the wrong place at the wrong time.
So it was nothing but a shock when the wolf-eyed nightmare and the scar-faced giant exchanged quick glances, then nodded at the huge guy with the beard who’d driven her into this situation. Right away, he took off his black leather vest thing with the insignias and badges all over it, then removed the fleece-lined jean jacket underneath, leaving him in just a black t-shirt. She shrank back against the wall as he approached and he paused. Without a word, the other men moved back as one, almost as if they’d been told to do so.
The man extended his tattooed arm, holding the jean jacket. “Here, honey.”
Iris blinked.
“I’m not gonna hurt you, none of us will,” he told her, and she watched the blond one with the ice-blue eyes tuck his gun away. “I was just thinking that you were cold. You must be, right?”
Her teeth were chattering, whether from the freezing air or fear, she didn’t know. Probably both.
“ Are you cold?” he asked.
“Y – yes,” she stuttered. “I am.”
“OK, then.” He put the jacket on the floor, backed up right away. “Put this on.”
Iris watched the men watch her as she carefully stepped forward, paused, stepped forward again. She half-suspected that one of them was going to grab her as soon as she got close to the door, then it occurred to her that if that’s what they wanted to do, they’d just climb in and get it over with; they could subdue her with their baby fingers. The fact that they’d stood back seemed to mean that they were trying to set her at ease, get her to calm down a bit.
Yeah, sure. The calm before the decapitation .
She darted forward, snatched the jacket off the floor, took six steps back before slipping her arms into the sleeves. It was massive on her, but it was warm and smelled of a spicy, citrusy cologne and something else, something strong, smoky, sexy. The scent made her a bit weak in the knees – it had been a long time since she’d inhaled that heady smell of pure, amazing man .
Jesus Christ, get it together girl .
“OK,” said the wolf-eyed creature in a soft voice, or as soft as a man who clearly gargled gravel could manage. “Let’s get you inside. You hungry, sweetheart?”
Iris blinked again, this time at the endearment.
“Ummmm,” she said. “Yes.”
“C’mon out of there, then,” he said. “We got one hell of a cook over at the bar, just across the parkin’ lot. He can make anythin’ you ask for.”
It occurred to her that she could get out of the van, all docile and sweet, and then just make a run for it. But that was pointless and dumb and would just piss them off and besides, she’d get two steps before tripping over her own feet in these damn boots.
So here was the moment of truth: she had to believe that despite appearances, these men wouldn’t hurt her. She had no reason to think they would, really, since they could have pulverized her by now and they hadn’t – so she had to have faith. Real faith, the kind that Gideon knew nothing about despite all his preaching, the kind which had eluded her for years and years, maybe her whole life. But she had to have some now.
After all, faith got me this far, so maybe it can take me just a tiny little bit farther .
With a sense of falling, a sense of flying, Iris climbed down to the ground, realized that the men were even taller and bigger now than she’d thought from her elevated position. But they were forming a loose semi-circle around her now and gazing down at her with real worry on their hard faces.
Without saying a word, they’d all moved to block her from the wind howling around them, and without touching her, they’d started to guide her over to a building called Satan’s Bar. Iris’ feet began to move on their accord and despite herself, she felt something that she hadn’t felt in a long, long time. She was so surprised at the feeling that at first she couldn’t believe it; it took her several seconds to actually name the emotion, and then she knew that it was true:
She felt protected.