CHAPTER 11 GRETA
GRETA
I’m pacing the living room while Carol’s kids watch a cartoon when all hell breaks loose at the Wild Hair clubhouse.
The prospect Adam comes running through the room, a rifle strapped to his back. Then Low Joe, Betz’s man. Then several others I haven’t properly met.
“What’s happening?” I ask as Carol rounds up the kids and takes them down the hall to their rooms. She’s gone before she can answer.
The men ignore me like I’m a piece of furniture. When a less intimidating looking member of the club strides through the hallway door, I get right in front of him, blocking the exit. “Tell me what’s happening!”
He picks me up by the waist and sets me aside, banging the door on his way out.
I turn around to Betz’s smirk. “How’d you like them apples?” she says.
“What the hell is going on?” I ask.
“Trouble at the wedding. You got your shoes on? It’s all hands on deck.” She pulls a set of keys off the rack by the door.
“What? Me?”
“You said you wanted in on Wild Hair business. Or are you chicken shit?”
“No.” I glance down at my jeans and silky Hermes blouse. “Am I dressed okay?”
“You’ll be fancier than the guests. But the red shirt won’t show any blood. Come on.”
Blood? I glance back for a moment before following her out into the dark. Maybe Betz is right. Do I want to get involved?
I work hard not to stumble as we cross the gravel drive. “Why aren’t you riding with Low Joe?”
“Men go on bikes. Women in cages.”
“That’s sexist.”
“Shut up and get in the car.”
I shouldn’t. I really shouldn’t. Uncle Sherman wouldn’t want me to. I’m a mother, for Christ’s sake. Surely, Carol’s staying behind. She’s got four kids!
I stop walking. This is madness.
Betz heads for a banged-up, dirty white open-top Jeep near the shed off to the right of the house.
Then I think of Iron Jack. Is he in danger? What if I could do something they won’t, like call the cops, or even Uncle Sherman? Uncle Sherman knows everyone, even weird “syndicate” people he and Max always whisper about, real vigilante types.
Yes, I might be able to help. I run to catch up.
I climb into the passenger seat as Betz fires it up.
The motorcycles roar away from the house, all in a line. I stand up, hanging on to the roll bar. It’s an incredible sight, the bikes racing off into the night.
Christina comes running out of the clubhouse with a duffle bag. She lunges into the back. “Go!”
I plunk back down in my seat as we lurch along the gravel drive. “What’s in the bag?” I ask Christina as I strap in.
“Ammunition!” she calls.
Oh, God.
Betz floors it, and the wind noise is too high to talk. My hair whips in every direction. When we pause at the highway, I rapidly make fairy braids so I won’t have to deal with it.
“How did you get those to stay without a band?” Christina asks.
I don’t get to answer, because Betz jets out onto the highway and we can’t talk anymore. I’ll show her later.
If we survive.
We’ve driven about ten minutes when I realize someone outside of the Wild Hair ought to know what I’m up to. I quickly text Merrick. I’m headed to the wedding. Something’s gone wrong.
I don’t hear anything, so I write Diesel. I’m in a Jeep headed to this wedding protection gig the Wild Hair are doing.
He writes back immediately.
Diesel: Merrick just left to join it.
It really is all hands on deck.
Me: Did he say what happened?
Diesel: Only that shit was going down.
I want to say something about this being exactly what Uncle Sherman was worried about, but it would sound too “I told you so.” Instead, I pocket my phone and hold on to the roll bar over my head.
The night is pitch black, and the only things visible are the faint red tail lights of whatever is ahead of us on the highway. I’m not sure if we’ve caught up to the bikers or not.
The wind is fierce. I glance back to watch Christina holding her hair down, her expression grim.
Betz sucks on a cigarette, focused on the highway. I check the speedometer. She’s going ninety-five.
Holy shit.
My stomach roils, but I force it to calm. The Wild Hair do this stuff all the time. Surely, they can handle it.
Then a voice nags at me. Should I tell Uncle Sherman? He got involved at their big altercation. That was with the Kin. Bailey called him. I have a sense that the Wild Hair were none too keen on her interference. Diesel and Merrick were certainly pissed about it.
I shouldn’t. Not yet, anyway.
But if I wait, will it be too late?
I keep picturing the red wedding from Game of Thrones. Everyone lying around, bodies splayed out in pools of blood.
My belly clenches. What was I thinking, coming here? This is way out of my league. Anyone’s league.
The lights aim to the right. They’ve turned.
Betz flicks on the blinker. We’re going that way, too.
This road is smaller. The dank smell of the swamp permeates everything. I can’t figure out where we’re going. We’re in the middle of nowhere.
But ahead, I see more lights. This path cuts through a field of sawgrass, but up ahead is higher land, the outskirts of Miami.
Just knowing we’re driving toward civilization calms me a bit. There will be police, fire departments, an ambulance if need be.
Not just swamp graves. Didn’t someone mention that before? Burying people in the marsh? Right. Iron Jack said it to that member of the Kin last night.
I thought then it was a joke, an idle threat, like I’m going to tear you a new one.
Maybe not.
Ooooh, I should not have come to Florida at all. I should be at home in New Jersey, relishing a quiet house while Jude has Caden. Catching up on Bridgerton and Heated Rivalry. Eating popcorn in bed.
But no. I’m in a Jeep with a madwoman and a bag of bullets.
We’re about to approach the first ramshackle businesses on the edge of nowhere when we turn left. Now we have bars and used car lots to our right, swamp to our left. I almost want to ask Betz to let me out at a seedy strip mall with a pawn shop and a 24-hour washeteria.
Watching clothes dry sounds real good right about now.
But we careen to the left again, away from the businesses, down a crumbling side road.
Then everybody slams on the brakes.
Up ahead is a big building with a huge paddle wheel. There’s no trees here, just the grass and the road and a parking lot.
“Why are we stopped?” Christina asks. She’s leaning forward between our seats.
“Waiting on a signal,” Betz says.
I wish I could see more. There are the bikes in front of us, and off to the right, a narrow drive heading up to the building. It twinkles with light, some of it reflecting on the hoods of cars in rows. Nothing appears out of the ordinary.
But then a shot fires somewhere in the lot.
I bend over, my head between my knees. A shoot out? What are we doing here?
The Jeep lunges forward. I can hear Betz laughing.
I turn my head. “What?” I call out.
“You’re such a fucking baby.”
“They’re shooting!” I cover my head with my hands.
“That was the signal, you dipshit.” She cranks the steering wheel and we lurch to the right.
I lift my head to look. Five Wild Hair sit on their bikes in front of the building, each pointing a rifle or a hand gun at a row of bikers facing them. The Wild Hair are way outnumbered. There are twenty rival bikes, easy.
Betz drives the Jeep to the right side, by the water wheel. I recognize Chain in his truck on the other end.
The additional Wild Hair roar up behind the row of other bikers. The big patches on their backs have a pair of red wings connected by a stylized gold “U.”
Unholy Wingmen. That was the club of the brother who’s mad his sister is marrying into the Rebel Death.
So they came.
I scan every bike now that we’re still. Iron Jack isn’t with them. There’s an empty bike next to us. I peer at it. I’m pretty sure it’s his. He must be inside.
Not dead, right? His bike isn’t empty because something happened to him and now a bigger fight is on…
Right?
I feel like I’m going to throw up.
Now that more Wild Hair have arrived, the Wingmen are surrounded, the numbers evened out. But they aren’t budging.
Christina moves behind me, and I see her passing a rifle to Betz.
“I thought it was just ammunition!” I hiss.
“Inside the guns. Want one?” She tries to pass me a handgun.
I press my hands against my chest to avoid taking it. “I don’t know how to use that!”
“Point it at the bad guy and pull the trigger,” Betz says. “It ain’t rocket science.”
“How do we know who the bad guy is?”
“They’re not wearing a Wild Hair cut.” Betz stands in her seat and leans on the roll bar, drawing the gun to her shoulder.
“I’d take one to wave around,” Christina says. “Otherwise, you’re easy pickin’s.”
Oh, God. My hand trembles as I accept the sleek black gun. “Is it loaded?”
“Of course it’s loaded. Jesus.” Christina stands and aims her gun at the line of bikers. “I left the safety on, though. I’m not interested in you blowing your own hand off.”
That’s good. I examine the gun, trying to figure out exactly how to hold it. It’s way heavier than I expected.
The front door slams open, and Iron Jack steps out into the light over the entrance.
I’m so relieved to see him that the gun nearly slides off my lap. I snatch it back up.
It takes a moment to realize the woman he’s holding on to is actually there by force. He shoves her down to her knees, revealing a slice in his black shirt. In the slit, his skin is smeared red.
Oh my God, is he hurt? He has to be if the shirt is cut.
Iron Jack’s voice rings out over the rows of cars. “If you want your little spy back in one piece, you all need to leave except one, and the last biker can have her.”
I can barely breathe. What the hell is going on here? Light spills out from the windows. I realize people are looking out. From this angle, I can’t easily see in.
The man on the bike at the center of the line rolls forward enough to make himself known. “I’m not leaving without my sister,” he calls. “No Wingmen woman will be marrying into the Rebels.”
“Not your choice,” Iron Jack says. “Now, we can settle this the easy way, where your photographer friend goes home with you and your sister gets to say, ‘I do.’ Or we can let loose the firepower and see which club ends up on top.”
The man on the bike spits on the ground. “Fucking A. Goddamn chicken shit Rebels had to go and fucking hire a goon squad.”
“You’ve got five seconds to roll out, or the bullets start flying,” Iron Jack says. “I’ve got my sights on you.”
“Can you at least get my goddamn sister out here for a goddamn second?”
Iron Jack tilts his head toward the side window. “She’s right there.”
I whip my head around to look. Sure enough, a woman in a veil leans out the window. “Jericho, I told you to stay away. I’m done with the Wingmen! I told you! Get out of here before Iron Jack kills you. He will!”
Would he?
Jericho spits on the ground again. “Our parents are rolling over in their graves, Artemis! Get the hell out here. There’s plenty of good Wingmen you can pick.”
“I already picked!” she cries. “You done decided to choose your club over your sister. So get on out of here.”
“You’re dead to me, Artemis!” he shouts. “You’re as dead as our parents!”
“Then go on! Let me be dead!” The bride dabs at her eyes with a white Kleenex. “Just go!”
“The count starts now,” Iron Jack says. “Five…four…”
Jericho fires up his bike and turns it sharply in a spray of broken asphalt.
I slowly let my breath go as the other bikers follow him, save the one on the end.
Iron Jack pulls the woman to her feet and hauls her through the line of Wild Hair to the lone Wingmen member. The woman climbs onto the back of the bike and they take off.
“Damn,” Betz says, lowering her gun. “I was hoping to shoot something tonight.”
I feel like crumpling on myself. “Is it over?”
“Looks like it.” She passes the rifle back to Christina. “That was boring.”
I peer out the windshield. “Can we talk to Iron Jack?”
“He’s busy,” Betz says.
But as Iron Jack walks back to the front of the building, I notice him touching his arm with his hand and checking for blood. It comes back bright red.
He is hurt!
I don’t think it through for even a second, just jerk the door open and take off across the parking lot. “Iron Jack!” I call. “You’re bleeding!”
He pauses, peering at me. I’m coming from the dark.
I know when he recognizes me, because he gets stiffer, stands straighter.
I reach him and grab his arm. Blood trickles out of a gash below his shoulder. “What happened?”
“The photographer shot me.” His grin catches me totally off guard.
“Why are you smiling? Holy shit! We have to get you to a hospital!”
“It’s just a flesh wound,” he says.
“Jack!” I cry. “We are not quoting Monty Python! We have to get you to a doctor!”
“I’m fine. The bullet grazed me and went straight through the cake. It didn’t even topple. I think Artemis likes it better now.”
I can’t cope with that last sentence. “Iron Jack, what the hell kind of life is this?”
“Biker life. Come on in, since you’re here.”
He opens the front door, but I stand there, stuck.
“Is there going to be any more shooting?”
“Unlikely. They did their thing. None of their allies will go up against the Wild Hair over a wedding, so that was all they got.”
I let out a long rush of air. In the parking lot, the rest of the Wild Hair take up new positions throughout the rows.
Betz rolls up in the Jeep. Christina’s still in the back. “You coming?” she asks.
“She’s staying with me,” Iron Jack says.
“You keeping the gun?” she asks.
I look down. I’m still gripping the pistol.
“It looks good on you,” Iron Jack says. “But maybe not the best accessory for tonight.”
I walk over to the Jeep and pass it to Christina.
“See you later!” Betz speeds off.
Iron Jack stands by the door, looking like a sexy action hero in my post-danger adrenaline spike. What the hell is going on here? I should be running away, calling an Uber. Getting my ass to the airport and the safety of home.
But I don’t. I shove my hands in my back pockets and walk his way.
I guess I’m attending a biker wedding with the president of the Wild Hair MC. After I stop the bleeding.