Fifty
FANG
Arms folded over the steering wheel, I lean toward the windshield and study the street.
So many fucking times I let Jenna unspool her shit on me, and never did I ask the basic question: where do you live?
I figured it was near the Devil’s Breed, but her journey led us to the next state over.
A sleepy little dead-end spot fifteen miles off the highway.
And now, here I sit, staring at my bike parked outside a nondescript house that sits among a row of other nondescript houses, wondering what else I should have asked.
Does she have siblings? Half-siblings? The way she spoke, it seemed as though she doesn’t. But who else might be at this house? Why did she come back here? Does her old man live here? Or has she bolted back to the last place she felt safe?
“Fuckin’ idiot.” I mutter the words, chin resting on the back of my hand.
There’s been no movement since I pulled up three doors down.
No sign of life. The neighborhood is quiet, save for a barking dog somewhere a street over.
Driveways sit empty. Garages closed. Most of the residents are probably at work in a lower-middle-class area like this.
Lawns sit in various states of care, gardens simple or neglected.
The people around here don’t have time to do much more than exist, it seems.
I eye the one thing that sticks out like a sore thumb, the reason I haven’t gotten out of the truck yet.
A lifted pickup sits vacant opposite Jenna’s house, too new and too flashy for this area. It doesn’t fit the vibe of material objects used out of necessity rather than luxury.
I tap the truck’s console to connect to Darko again.
“Yeah?”
“How much longer?” I’m impatient, but I’m not stupid. The minute the fine hairs on the back of my neck prickled at the quiet nonchalance of the street, I called for backup.
I could walk in there and find Freckles eating cereal at the kitchen table, or I could walk into something I don’t have enough bullets for.
Kings of Anarchy never back down. But Kings of Anarchy never ride alone. And this has clearly developed into more than a simple recovery mission for my bike.
“They’re about four miles to your location.”
“Can you run these plates for me?” I recite the lifted pickup’s registration, gaze drifting back to the inanimate house afterward.
The faint sounds of Darko tapping fill the truck. “Huh.” He taps some more. “What you got there?”
“How’d you mean?”
“The plates belong to a silver CRV, but they’ve been inactive for two years.”
Yeah. I sure ain’t staring at some weekend grocery wagon. “Stolen. Great.”
“Can’t give you much more than that, sorry.”
A faint rumble sets the dog a street over barking again before it cuts out.
I lean back a little and check the side mirror.
Sure enough, Loki rounds the corner on foot with Circus close behind.
They cut a path to the truck that mostly obscures them from view of anyone at the house, and then slide in the back seat.
“Pickup is unknown,” I say, filling them in. “Stolen plates. No movement at the house since I’ve been here. Unknown occupants.”
“Any indication it’s more than just her other than the truck?” Loki asks.
“None.”
“How do you want to do this?”
I lean back with a heavy exhale out my nose. “Guess I walk up to the door to start with. Hope for the best.”
Loki leans between the front seats to stare out the windshield. “I’ll cover you from across the street; make it obvious. Big boy, here, can do his thing and slip around the back while they’re distracted.”
“Best we’ve got.” I scowl at the scene before us. “There’s fuck all cover here.” No fences, fuck all trees, and a lack of parked vehicles.
Hands to my sides, I flick the safety off my pistols. I’ve done more complicated things than this, faced worse odds. But somehow this seems to mean the most.
I exit the vehicle first, Loki not far behind.
Circus stays put until we’ve drawn the attention off him, keeping watch as we walk toward Jenna’s house.
I survey the mystery vehicle as we approach her front path, scouting it for any clues on who it belongs to.
The damn thing almost seems as though it rolled off the lot yesterday, far too clean and factory standard.
No personal touches. No modifications other than the lift kit.
“Bet his pecker’s this big,” Loki teases, wiggling his little finger.
“Or his wife doesn’t know he’s gettin’ it elsewhere.”
The mood grows heavy the instant I turn off the road and start up the cracked and weed-addled path. I give my bike a quick once-over and find no clear signs of damage. Maybe she did look after it okay?
Loki positions himself near the tailgate of the flashy pickup, hand to his hip as he draws his weapon in preparation.
Fucking hope we’re all overreacting, here. I fucking ache for this all to be a funny story we share from time to time in the future. But my sixth sense tells me no.
I rap the plain blue door three times and then step back, keening my ears for any signs of commotion or rapid movement inside. There’s nothing, and then the sudden click of the latch before the door is opened a fraction.
“Can I help you?”
Tattoo over his left eye, scar on his chin, almost indiscernible against the dimple. Brown eyes and the stance of a man ready to fight. Yeah, it’s him.
“Your daughter here?”
Flinch narrows his eyes, right arm obscured behind the door.
My fingertips prickle.
“Who’s askin’?”
“Her fairy godmother.” I narrow my gaze. “It’s after midnight, and she needs to go home.”
“This is her home.”
“So, she’s here then?”
A slow smirk spreads across his hard mouth. “Nice try.” Fucker closes the door.
I knock again.
He cracks it open even narrower. “I ain’t buyin’.”
“Good thing I’m no Girl Scout, then.” I jam my foot in the gap before the asshole shuts me out.
A tense moment passes; the two of us stare at one another as though to ask “you gonna escalate this or me?” My hand twitches. I draw my elbow back.
The fucker opens the door, slow and measured.
I take in his dirty, black jeans, fisherman sweater, and almost taunting scowl.
He goads me to act first, to be the one who instigates the fight and therefore assumes blame for whatever comes in the days and weeks after.
Only, he’s no longer patched. Apart from the verbiage tattooed on his neck, this asshole no longer has the weight of the Devil’s Breed behind him.
Unless…
I let myself into the small house, noting the narrow construction.
Two bedrooms run off a short hallway to my left, a living area to the right, and perhaps a kitchen beyond.
“Who owns the ride?” I ask as I veer right and scout the simple space.
A worn sofa ahead, a matching armchair to my left. “Can’t tell me that’s yours.”
“What is she to you?”
I don’t like the way the asshole follows me: center of the doorway, close enough to force me to continue forward, but far enough away to lift arms in defense.
“More than she is to you.” I note the empty beer bottle on the table, recently opened judging by the remaining dew. The smell of fresh ash permeates the air, its tang clogged with nicotine.
I indulge my curiosity and move through the ajar door to the boxy kitchen.
Shoved in the far corner of the floor plan, a single corner window overlooks the neglected backyard; Formica countertops warp and lift around the stainless sink.
Litter lines the countertop and spills from an overflowing trash bin.
All indications that he does live here now, and that he doesn’t often expect company.
Flinch hesitates by the door, watching me with a keen curiosity as one would a kid on an Easter hunt; he knows what I’ll find, and he relishes the time it takes me to figure out what that thing is.
Or who.
I’m still not convinced the pickup isn’t related.
I take the second door out of the kitchen, which leads through a mildew-stained bathroom to the laundry, then back to the entry hall.
All the while, my host trails my every move, arms folded and a wry smile on his face. “Found her yet?”
“Who said I’m still looking for her?”
His easy smile fades. “I think you’re done here.”
I turn toward the bedrooms. “I think I’m not.”
Flinch glances out the still open front door and stares directly at Loki. Good. Distraction plan is working, then. Not sure where Circus is at, but the man’s never let me down yet.
I shove the first door open with the heel of my hand and survey the mess beyond.
What was once a tidy and orderly bedroom now has dirty laundry piled in the corner, empty packaging stacked on one of the nightstands, and every available door and drawer left ajar, as though keeping a room in order is too much to ask.
A half-smoked pack of cigarettes sits on the closest nightstand, flanked by a stack of change and a random bolt.
I’d place money on Flinch taking over Jenna’s mom’s space, soiling any lingering memory the woman has of her caregiver.
My throat grows tight as I approach the second door, which through deduction alone must be Jenna’s room.
Flinch catches my hesitation at the door, and leans a shoulder against the wall, kicking one ankle across the other. “Last place to look,” he taunts.
I spare him a cutting glare and then push her door wide before turning to look at what lies beyond.
It’s everything I expected her to be and plenty that I never could have guessed.
The decor is dark yet feminine: black sheets and a floral bedspread, flower-shaped cushions in deep reds and purples, sheer black curtains held back with cheap hooks adorned with leaves.
Yet there’s a pair of steel-toe boots in the corner, a worn and ripped canvas backpack covered in scribbles and crudely copied logos.
A stack of well-loved books teeters against the wall like a drunken shadow, leaning toward the space behind the door.
It’s girly, and yet rough.
And it’s empty.
“Satisfied?” Flinch calls behind me.
Frustration boils beneath my skin, bubbling across my taut muscles. If she’s not here, then where the fuck did she go? “Let me guess,” I sass, spinning on the soulless mongrel. “She popped out to get you two some milk.”
His gaze drops the length of me. “Who said she’d be back?”
“Where. Did she go?” I grind out.
Footsteps sound at the rear of the house, snapping Flinch’s head around.
Yet, he doesn’t call out. Doesn’t immediately go to investigate. There’s no shock, only the confusion of a man who doesn’t know if it’s friend or foe.
The person whose truck sits outside, or Circus.
I shoulder past the fuck and head toward the source of the noise. Turns out it’s both: Circus and the person who owns the truck.
“Who the fuck is she?” I ask Flinch, spinning back toward him.
Circus restrains the busty brunette in the entryway with nothing more than his hand holding hers like they’re two old friends. Her wide eyes shoot to Flinch as though warning him not to say a thing.
I draw a weapon and point it at her head, focus fixed on Jenna’s dad. “I asked, who is she?”
He sighs, rolling his lips in exasperation. “Not who you’re looking for.” He shuffles toward the living room.
I draw my other gun and train it on him. “Don’t.”
He slowly raises both hands, yet his gaze wanders to hers. There’s a silent fucking conversation going on that I’m not privy to, and I don’t like it one fucking bit.
I wave the end of the weapon pointed at him. “Turn around.”
The woman lets slip the tail end of a suppressed whimper. Let her think I intend to execute the fucker.
Flinch slowly spins, arms still up at his sides. “Think real careful about what you do next, Fang.”
How the fuck does this cunt know who I am?
“You don’t want to go shooting the wrong person.”
“Like the Breed give a fuck about what happens to you anymore.” I press the muzzle to the back of his head to make my point.
He huffs, amused. “I wasn’t talking about me.”
Both Circus and I whip our heads toward the woman in his hold.
“Name,” I bark, moving the gun pointed toward her closer.
She eyes the brushed metal, and wets her lips.
“Don’t tell them,” Flinch warns.
I glare at his mop of reddish-blond hair. “Would you rather I shot her and had somebody else fill me in?”
“Suzannah,” she snaps, tilting her head. “Make things any clearer for you?”
Neither of these assholes does much to ease my itchy trigger finger.
Loki makes his way up the path, frown deep and focus trained on my scarecrow stance.
“Where’s Jenna?” I ask the woman.
She looks to the back of Flinch’s head, eyes shuttering briefly. “She’s not here.”
“Would one of you fuckers tell me something useful!” I roar. “Fuck me!”
Suzannah jolts, steadied by Circus’s tight grip. Flinch leans his head forward a little, shoulders rising.
Loki steps inside, lifting a hand toward me.
I glare at the prick. Not now.
“Pickup belongs to Acid,” he tells me, defeat crossing Suzannah’s face as he does. “And considering he’s not in this little party, that must make you…?” He looks at the coy woman.
“His sister,” Flinch mumbles. “You’re looking at Acid’s sister.”
I drop my pistols to my side and stare up at the ceiling while I draw a deep breath. “Would somebody, please,” I grind out, “just tell me where the fuck Jenna is?”