4. Venom
4
VENOM
T he air smells of burning rubber as I skid to a stop in the driveway of the home I share with Lily. The smoking back tyre of my Harley and the black mark on the concrete are a testament to my wild ride from the Fremantle cop station. I manage to kick down the stand on my bike, barely offering the pinging overheated machine a second glance to check that it didn’t land on its side, before I’m running to Lily’s SUV to pull the door open.
It doesn’t budge.
Locked.
I peer through the tinted window.
Empty.
Dashing to the base of the elevated deck surrounding the house, I take the stairs to the front door two at a time. The hair on the back of my neck stands up, an eerie feeling of being watched dawning, as I stop to fish out the handgun I stashed under the loose board in the patio. Most of my weapons are back at the compound, no doubt tagged as evidence by Joseph Kingsley’s cops. They’ll try to withhold them for as long as they can, but Gabriel will work his magic, and our registered guns will be returned while the weapons we run remain safely stashed away from the prying eyes of the authorities and out of the pilfering hands of the Maddison clan.
This temporary inconvenience wouldn’t generally rattle me.
Except it’s another delay I don’t need right now.
Another second that passes while Lily remains missing.
I try the front door. It’s locked as well. After double checking the handgun is loaded, I edge my way inside. Heart beating wildly, I scan the main living area. The smell of Lily’s perfume floods my senses, and my knees sag as I fight not to break down.
“Lily!” I shout into what I can already tell is an empty house. “Little Cherub. Fuck. Please, sweet thing, be here somewhere.”
Her dirty mug is still on the coffee table, the T-shirt she pulled on when she got out of bed remains balled up on the couch, left there after I went down on her this morning. It sits next to the book she’s reading with Slash as part of their book club for two and her half-finished needlework project.
A series of embroidered cocks.
The shit she gets up to with the other old ladies normally makes me laugh. Right now, it kills me. My chest tightens to the point where I’m struggling to breathe when I think about how I pounced on her, interrupting her as she tried to cram in another episode of her vampire show and finish off the embroidery before work. We’d started on the couch. I’d quelled her triggers while eating her out, then we’d ended with her tits pressed to the shower tiles so I could drive myself inside her until we were both breathless but satisfied.
And running late.
“Fuck, Lily… if you’re hidin’ somewhere, it’s safe to come out. It’s just me.” I rub at my chest to loosen the vise grip around my heart. “Carnage. Metukà shelì . I’m callin’ carnage.”
Even as I shout the safe word we created years ago, I know she’s not here.
Lily isn’t hiding.
She’s gone.
Stolen.
The only boon in this situation is that the presence of her SUV in the driveway means she made it home. That cuts down the time she’s been missing by more than half an hour.
Still, a lot can happen in an hour and a half.
I learned that the hard way four years ago.
My mobile phone is still locked in the box in the chapel, so I tiptoe deeper into the house to grab one of the backup burners I use when I’m on a run. As I move through our home, the muzzle entering each room first just in case my senses have failed me, a shudder runs the length of my spine. This emptiness, this brittle silence, could become my reality if I fail to find my woman before something happens to her.
Something worse than what’s already been done.
After dragging the nondescript box off the top shelf in our walk-in-robe, I dig out the burner. I rip it out of the packaging Cub stored it in to keep it clean from interference until we are supposed to depart. Every second that ticks by while the damn thing powers up weighs heavily on me. As soon as the signal settles, I hit green icon on the only number programmed in the burner and wait for the call to connect.
It takes three attempts before he answers.
“She there?”
“Nope.”
The exhale that erupts from Slash is filled with every bleak emotion that’s surging through my veins. “Cub’s on it, but Brutus is breathin’ down his neck—it ain’t goin’ well. He’s put a bar stool in the wall so far.”
“Jesus fuckin’ Christ. I swear… I hate that cunt sometimes.”
“Hearin’ ya.”
The uselessness pounding through me makes me restless. I stomp out of my bedroom, stopping to pull open cupboards in the hallway and slam them shut once it’s clear nothing’s been disturbed. I make quick work of checking the other rooms. Not a thing is out of place. Entering the spare room at the back of our house, the final area left to search, I slide open the wardrobe, peering inside. It’s empty—like I knew it would be. With my free hand balled into a fist, I listen to the commotion at the compound coming through the phone while I take a look in the ensuite bathroom.
“What do ya want me to do about the prez?” Slash asks. “Give me the word and I’ll put a bullet in ’im.”
Catching sight of myself in the mirror, I stop abruptly. The bruise on my face inflicted by the boot of Joseph’s minion is setting in. But it’s not the damage that makes me take a second look at myself.
It’s the despair in my eyes.
Agonisingly familiar.
A replica of the look that plagued me after Slash, Sander, and I found Lily being brutalised by Alex. Back then, it was a constant companion. A heavy weight that anchored me in rage, grief, fear, and guilt. So much fucking guilt. Three days of anger. Seventy-two hours of uncertainty and self-recrimination, that lifted the moment the doctors told us she was going to survive.
It never fully disappeared.
Failure of that proportion never does.
But I had no plans for it to be reborn.
I tried my hardest to keep her safe.
I failed.
Again.
Something crashes in the background of the call. Slash grumbles under his breath, then remarks, “I tell ya, I’m about ready to knock him the fuck out, just to get some peace.”
“What’s his game? Why isn’t he out lookin’ for her? Why is he tryin’ to stop Cub workin’ his magic?”
My best friend grunts. “Brother, he’s fuckin’ cooked. Literally put a barstool into the wall when we returned from the cop shop without you, then sat his fat arse on the floor and refused to answer us when we asked for his orders. Dad’s been directin’ things in your absence, and it was only when Cub picked up a signal a second ago that Brutus was suddenly interested in lookin’ for Cherub.”
“Gonna put my fist through his?—”
“Hold that thought, brother.” Slash cuts me off. “Cub’s onto somethin’… gonna call you right back once he’s confirmed it.”
The call is disconnected before I can reply. I stalk back into the living room and toss my handgun onto the coffee table. With the burner clutched to my chest, I collapse onto the couch and stare at the blank TV screen. The oppressive silence expands. It weighs me down. Makes me think about the last time I failed to put Lily’s safety above my ego.
It’s a harsh truth, but this could’ve been avoided if I’d manned the fuck up and told her Alex was getting out early.
At the start, I was going to tell her.
Then I talked myself out of it.
She is doing well. He isn’t on her mind all the time. I could tell that the years had exorcised the poison he’d filled her head with, and that Lily was finally seeing herself the way the rest of us see her. Strong. Capable. Full of promise. Deserving of the best the world has to offer.
So, I’d chickened out. Told myself that keeping her in the dark would preserve the light in her eyes. Fooled myself into believing that he wouldn’t come straight for her the moment he didn’t have bars and fences separating them. Allowed myself to grow too confident in the MC’s ability to protect her.
“Fuck.” I throw my head back and blink away the burn that’s building behind my eyes. “Fuck the Kingsleys to hell.”
Once I have myself under better control, I scoop up the T-shirt she was wearing this morning and hold it to my nose. It smells like me and my sweet thing combined. I’m not affected by scents in the same way Lily is, but the truth is that I spend an inordinate amount of time sniffing her things when she’s not around. Despite the bad situation we’re in, a small laugh rumbles through my chest.
She’d kill me if she caught me.
My humour dies when I remember that Lily isn’t simply at work, hanging out with Slash, or partying with Nadia.
She’s been taken.
By the animal who almost killed her five and a half years ago.
The burner erupts. I drop the T-shirt onto my lap and answer the call on the second ring. “Please tell me, you’ve got somethin’…”
“Some sort of signal blocker is in play, but I’ve found the tracker signal and triangulated the location best I can,” Cub tells me in a rush. “Fuckin’ weird, it looks like she’s in a building across the park.”
“You’re positive?”
“Hundred percent.”
“Then point me toward this house. I’m in the mood to kick down some doors.”
I spring to my feet, jam my gun down the back of my jeans, and stalk toward the front door. My head is clear. My body vibrates with rage that’s about to find an outlet. Focused on the task ahead of me. Determined to get my woman back before Alex hurts her any worse than he already has. My fingers graze the doorknob when Cub takes the wind right out of my sails.
“Might wanna pop a chill pill before you get little Cherub caught in the crossfire.” My hand drops to my side. “According to the records, the house was sold privately last year to a family trust set up for an elderly woman… only problem with that is she’s been dead for about ten years. I need you to go over there and scope it out for me, without breakin’ anythin’ or puttin’ a bullet in any heads, while I reverse engineer the records to find the real buyer.”
Stepping out onto the front porch, I glare at the houses across the other side of the parklands like I can work out which one it is if I stare hard enough. Cub’s advice is sensible, but sensible doesn’t settle real well on a man’s shoulders when the woman he loves is missing.
Even so, I force myself to breathe a few times before I respond. “So, you want me to act like a clueless douchebag… what do you want me to do if I sight Lily? Blow her a fucking kiss, then leave her there to fend for herself?”
“Fuck no,” he retorts. “Then you put a bullet in someone and bring her home… but only if you’re positive that you won’t get her hurt in the process.”
If she was here, it’s right about now that Lily would be rolling her eyes at the pair of us, then she’d tell us to whip ’em out and measure ’em to settle it once and for all. Cub, or Luke Hayes as he was known before he prospected for the Shamrocks, has been around the Mayberrys so long that he’s basically an honorary sibling at this point.
Hence his protective streak, especially toward the twins, is almost as strong as mine.
He’s quite literally taken more than one beating for them.
And that’s made him more vocal than he should be at this time, considering his patch is still shiny.
“Ain’t your place to give orders,” I growl at him. “Back off or remind me where I was when you stitched my VP patch onto your cut because I musta missed it.”
He sighs. “Not tellin’ you what to do, Venom… just tryna stop this from goin’ pear-shaped until I can give you as much info as possible. Last thing we need is our VP walkin’ into a setup without his brothers at his back.”
Pinching the bridge of my nose, I screw my eyes shut as I battle past the urge to reach through the phone and choke the stubborn little shit to death. Sure, his advice comes from a good place, yet there’s a reason why he’s sitting behind his laptop, and I’m the one willing to walk into this situation alone.
“Not sure what to tell ya, Cub. No amount of intel will change the fact Alex has her…” When a lump wedges in my throat, I swallow it down then continue. “It was his father and his bunch of dickless automatons raidin’ the clubhouse under the pretence of a bomb threat this afternoon. That’s confirmation enough for me. So, we don’t need any more information—we need the ability to rewind time to stop this from happenin’. Don’t have that… so gettin’ her back as fast as I can is the next best way to help her. Second only to tellin’ her I’ve finally put a bullet in his head… like I shoulda done more than five years ago.”
“Hearin’ ya,” he concedes. “Look, it’s the house with the red roof. It’s directly opposite, right where someone who’s tryin’ to keep tabs on you without arousin’ any suspicion could see straight through your windows with the right equipment. Figure that’s where you’ll find the proof you need that she’s there, or at least has been, if you manage to talk your way inside.”
“Tell Slash to ready our brothers. They needa meet me at yours and Sander’s,” I command as I take the steps toward ground level two at a time. “He’ll know who I mean.”
“Roger that. I’m gonna get eyes in the air now so I can check the yard and surrounds. I’ll keep you in the loop. Just… just, call me back with an update,” he pauses, then inhales noisily. “Good or bad, I wanna know.”
Slowing my stride, I end the call and wedge the burner into my back pocket. Moments later, the unnerving whine of a drone erupts from behind me and swoops across the park. It drops lower once it’s cleared the top of the red-roofed house, then disappears from sight.
Despite the tension coiling within me, I have to tip my hat to him. The little fucker might be no good in a punch-up or a gunfight, but put the right tech in his hands, and he’s a one-man reconnaissance crew. No doubt it helps that the house he shares with Lily’s twin and her middle brother, Fret, is three down from mine and that whatever government system he’s managed to hack allows him to operate a drone from the compound.
This shit is going down on home turf.
That’d normally be an irritation.
Right now, it feels like a deliberate middle finger.
I pull my cut straight to ensure that the butt of my gun isn’t showing, then I do my best to wipe the rage I’m feeling from my expression and plaster what I hope is the look of a mildly worried boyfriend on my face. My steps grind to a halt when I reach the end of our driveway and something shiny catches my eye.
Lily’s lip gloss.
It sits in the gutter.
One tube of M.A.C. Cosmetics tinted lipglass .
Shiny, sticky, tastes like cinnamon and jojoba.
The shade she wears is called Love Child.
I know this because I’ve been sent to the store more than once to purchase a new tube after Nadia’s accidentally taken Lily’s home with her. In a similar fashion, I discovered the hard way that it’s lipglass and not lip gloss. The teen on the makeup counter who rolled her eyes at me made that point very clear. Best friends for a decade, Lily and Nadia share most things, clothes, books, eyeshadow, but they’re territorial over their lip gloss, handbags, and their shoes. With Slash, I’ve refereed more than one shouting match between them over the right to be the only one to wear a pair of over-the-knee boots on a night out.
The tinted lip gloss debate rages even fiercer while quarrels over designer handbags can end in fist fights.
Stooping down, I scoop it up and toss it gently in the air, catching it in my palm. A lightweight, insignificant, easily replaced item. Yet, as I curl my fingers around it, I run a gauntlet of emotions. Gratitude. Ruin. Apprehension. The presence of Lily’s lip gloss confirms she was stolen from our driveway. It also tells me that she’s really gone and ramps up my worry over the state she’s going to be in when I find her.
Because I will find her.
And I will kill anyone who helped Alex take her.
I pocket the lipglass, stiffen my spine, and stomp across the parkland to the house with the red roof. In the late afternoon light, it appears deserted. The whirl of the security cameras tells the opposite story. Despite knowing that there are likely eyes on me, it takes effort to walk up the driveway rather than stomp through the garden to the front door. My knock on the door is perfunctory, even though I’d prefer to use my boot to kick it open.
A guy with a crew cut cracks the door a moment later, and every thought I had about breaking Lily out by myself dies an instant death. A killer recognises another killer. And the dude staring back at me is failing to hide his murderous tendencies about as well as I am.
“Can I help you?”
The question is right. The tone it’s delivered in is all sorts of fucked up. As is the knowing glint in his feral eyes. Ex-military, mob, or MC? Whatever the colour of his stripes, he definitely walks on the same side of the law as me.
The lawless side.
Doesn’t matter who pays him for his services. I have his measure, no matter how he tries to play this off, and I’ll happily cop any repercussions that come for messing with a rival MC, the Maddison Clan, or the cartels without getting it sanctioned by Brutus first.
Whatever organisation this fucker belongs to has just been added to my shit list.
Top five.
Directly under Alex, Brutus, Joseph, and Kristoff Maddison.
Anger rippling through me, I somehow manage to keep my tone friendly as I say, “Yeah, sorry to bother you, but my fiancée lost her phone earlier today.” The tracker is actually in Lily’s necklace, but I don’t want to alert anyone to that fact. “We’re door knockin’ the local area, tryna see if anyone might’ve picked it up.”
The crewcut sporting prick comes close to sneering at me, then remembers that he’s supposed to be placating me, so he tries to feign surprise. “Sorry, mate. I ain’t seen nothin’, but I’ll keep an eye out.”
“Would appreciate it.” My response is short and sharp because I’m battling the urge to throw caution to the wind and force my way inside. When he goes to close the door, I shove my hand against the wooden panel. His eyes widen when I use my strength to force it all the way open. “Don’t you want to know what colour it is? The brand? Something like that?”
“ Ah, sure, yeah… what colour is it?”
“Blue. Like bright blue, but not sapphire.” I pause, cocking my head to the side as if I’m thinking. My narrow-eyed gaze takes in the living room behind him. I note the brown leather couch, the brand on the security panel next to the door, the way the coffee table appears to have been knocked out of place, as I search for clues that Lily has been here… or is still here. “I think she calls it cerulean.”
“Yeah, so it’s blue,” he mutters. “I’ll let you know if I find a blue phone.”
As he tries to shut the door again, I spot a red-bottomed shoe lying at the head of what looks like a hallway. I’d recognise that kind of high heel anywhere, having held Lily’s bags while she’s shoe shopped more than once. A Lou-boo-something-or-other. Expensive as fuck. And that style of shoe is especially clear in my mind since I made my woman Vegemite toast this morning while she on put a pair just like it.
“Listen here, cunt—” I press forward, but stop when the telltale click of a hammer being cocked catches my attention. What is obviously a muzzle—to me anyway—is notched to the soft spot where my skull meets my spine. Raising my hands in the air, I venture steadily, “Look, I don’t want no trouble.”
“Bullshit,” a male voice replies from behind me. “Anyone wearin’ that cut is trouble. So, I’m gonna have you keep your hands where I can see them, turn around, and walk your arse right off this property.”
I blow out a frustrated breath. “Can’t do that.”
“I think you can.”
“And why’s that?” It’s probably not smart to antagonise the prick holding a gun to my head, but now that I know Lily’s more than likely here, I’m not leaving without her. “You know somethin’ I don’t?”
“I know that you’re a Shamrock and you’re sniffing around somewhere you’re not welcome.”
As the hair on the back of my neck stands up, I shift slightly to my left to see if I can catch a glimpse of the arsehole behind me in the sidelight. His reflection is distorted, nonetheless, I see enough to place him. Hugh St. James. Made man of the Maddison clan. Best friend to Alexander Kingsley. A violent criminal—not that I judge him for that—with a penchant for trafficking unwilling women, selling fentanyl-laced MDMA to unwitting uni students, and testing the boundaries around the Shamrocks turf with unerring regularity.
Now, those three things I do judge him for…
Crewcut glances past me to Hugh, then he quickly inclines his head. I see the resolve in his eyes a second too late, so he’s able to slam the door shut before I can stop him. Jiggling the handle, I shove my shoulder into the thick wood. Four beeps and the security system is set. I’m locked outside. Separated from Lily. Held at gunpoint by a Maddison.
My temper spikes, rapidly building to eruption point. I whirl around, knocking the gun out of my face with one hand while reaching for the weapon I shoved in the back of my jeans with the other. Pointing my muzzle at Hugh’s face, I smirk when he fumbles his handgun and drops it onto the concrete path.
“Fuck.”
“Hands up,” I tell him. He edges his arms, palms out, into the air with obvious reluctance. Flicking my gaze between him and the gun on the ground, I quip, “Guess you’re kinda glad that didn’t blow ya toe off, aren’t you, butterfingers?”
“You’re too late.” He ignores my mocking to taunt me in return. “She’s already out of your reach.”
Got to appreciate a man who doesn’t beat around the bush.
Even if he’s hooked up with the Maddisons.
“Is that right?”
“Yeah.” Hugh grins wide. “He’s locked her away in a safe room. There’s only one way in and one way out… not that Alex will be looking to leave anytime soon. They’ve got some catching up to do—” He winks then licks his lips. “—if you catch my drift.”
Most of the time, when I reach breaking point, I step outside myself. Observe as I wreak havoc from above and below, even as my hands are coated with the blood I’m spilling. Almost like I’m conscious of what I’m doing, I can feel everything, yet I have no control over my actions. My surroundings fade to a blur. My hearing becomes a roar. My vision turns hyper focused—almost like there’s a radar homing device between me and my prey. Nothing exists, except me, my rage, and the target of my fury.
It’s alien.
Mechanical.
Animalistic.
A combination and a contradiction of all three.
No one can snap me out of it, bar Lily. Conversely, nothing can trigger an episode like knowing metukà shelì is in danger. Yet, in this moment, as I watch Hugh admit that Alex has my woman trapped with him inside the house behind me, the depersonalisation that usually occurs when I lose control doesn’t eventuate.
Nope.
This time, I’m fully cognisant as I shoot Hugh St. James in the gut.