Chapter 17
Teller sat behind the wheel of the rental car, hesitant to shut off the engine but knowing he had to. They’d arrived just after dark in a beat-up clunker Ingram had secured for the operation. The body looked like hell, but the engine, tires and suspension would get them wherever they wanted to go.
“Roger,” Teller said.
Sachie glanced his way, touching a hand to her ear where they’d equipped her with a radio earbud.
She looked pretty badass all in black with her blond hair tucked up in a black and gray do-rag and heavy eyeliner ringing her eyes.
However, looks weren’t everything. She didn’t have the body mass and combat training the rest of his team had acquired over their years in special operations.
“I don’t feel good about this plan,” Teller admitted.
“I’m not feeling all warm and fuzzy myself.
” Sachie reached across the console for Teller’s hand.
“But we’re not going into the bar, as was the original plan.
After I identify Travis, we can leave and let your guys wait for him to leave, follow him to a more secure location, grab him and take him down to the police station.
They can question him and get his confession as the arsonist who burned down my office on the Big Island and everything else he’s done as my stalker. ”
“And if he denies all of it?” Teller asked.
“At least he’s off the street and will be sent back to jail for violating his parole,” Sachie said. “He can’t hurt Candice anymore.”
“Until he’s released on parole again,” Teller said.
“Hopefully, that won’t be for a long time.” Sachie’s lips thinned. “And if he isn’t my stalker, we’ve eliminated one suspect.”
Teller stared at the entrance to the Leather & Chains bar, wondering if the dull yellow bulb hanging over the door would shed enough light to allow Sachie to pick Travis out of the other patrons who might stop in for a drink.
Hell, they weren’t even sure Travis would appear that night.
His team might be wasting their time and risking their lives for nothing.
“You know, if I were on the run from the law, I wouldn’t show my face in any public place,” Sachie said. “What if Travis doesn’t show up tonight?”
Teller shrugged. “Then we find a different hotel and get some rest.”
“Are you sure your guys will be okay inside that place?” A frown creased Sachie’s forehead. “I’d hate for them to get hurt on my account.”
When Teller and Sachie had met with Ingram, Bennet, Atkins and Johnson, they’d discussed the plan, agreeing that Sachie shouldn’t go into the bar, but stay in the car, identify Travis and leave.
George Ingram, one of the largest men on the Brotherhood Protectors Hawaii team at six feet four inches, had insisted on going into the bar. Reid Bennet had accompanied him.
The two inside men had dressed in black jeans, leather vests, army boots and do-rags.
Neither man had shaved that day and sported thick stubble on their chins.
They’d gone to a tattoo parlor to have temporary tattoos airbrushed on their arms, chests and necks.
Their broad chests and thick biceps would be enough to make club members think twice about fucking with them.
At least, Teller hoped their disguises would do the trick.
“If they get hurt, it wouldn’t be your fault,” Teller assured Sachie.
“I know,” she said, waving a hand. “I won’t have pulled the trigger or thrown the punch, but it’s because of me that you and your team are here.”
“We’re here because this is what we do.” Teller’s fingers tightened around hers. “We protect people.”
“But how many of your guys does it take to protect one woman?” Sachie asked. “And how is infiltrating a biker bar protecting me? To me, it seems like overkill, or maybe I’m pushing too hard for too much.”
Teller raised her hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles. “We’ll be all right as long as we get you out of here unscathed.” Her safety was his number one priority. If that meant losing Travis, so be it.
Five tricked-out motorcycles roared into the parking lot.
Three of the five had long ape-hanger handlebars.
The other two had black and red flames painted across their fuel tanks.
Their riders lined up in front of the building and dismounted.
Two of the five men had goatee beards. They all had tattoos from the tips of their fingers up their arms and across their necks.
None wore helmets, and they all looked as if they chewed nails for fun.
As far as Teller could see, they weren’t packing handguns but were probably armed with some lethal knives. The backs of their leather vests had BANDIDOS written in bold letters.
Sachie stared at the group through the mini binoculars Ingram had brought along with the communications equipment and an assortment of weapons, including sheathed knives, switchblades, stun guns and mace.
Sachie lowered the binoculars. “None of them are Travis.”
Teller tapped the mic on his headset. “Five Bandidos entering. No bogey.”
“Roger,” Ingram responded softly.
“Any problems yet?” Teller asked.
“Not so far,” Ingram said. “The place was pretty empty when we arrived.”
Rex Johnson and Logan Atkins arrived in a truck and parked at the opposite end of the building from Teller’s position.
“Rogue 3 in position,” Johnson said into their headsets.
“Roger,” Johnson replied.
Twenty minutes passed before two bikers arrived on Harleys with DEVILS brEED embroidered across the backs of their vests.
“They like announcing their affiliation, don’t they?” Sachie murmured. “Not Travis.”
The bikers entered the bar.
As the hour grew later, bikers came and went, more coming than leaving. So far, according to Sachie, not one of them was Travis Finkel.
“I feel like we’re wasting time here,” Sachie said. “The man is a parole violator. Surely, even he isn’t dumb enough to show up somewhere public.”
“Given his criminal record, I wouldn’t consider him one of the brightest,” Teller said. “It won’t hurt us to stay until the place closes. He might choose to come later to avoid the main crowd of bikers.”
Sachie nodded and lifted her binoculars to her eyes as a single motorcycle pulled into the parking lot. This bike was different from the others as it was shiny with no distinguishing artwork. Most of the bikers had added saddlebags, fancy handlebars, art or stickers to their rides. Not this one.
“That’s a Harley Davidson, and it has a just-driven-off-the-lot look to it,” Teller commented.
Sachie tensed beside him, her gaze fixed on the man dismounting.
He was one of a handful of men wearing helmets that night.
The helmet was black with a dark visor shielding his face.
Dressed in faded jeans and a black leather vest with a Harley Davidson logo emblazoned across the back, the man unbuckled the helmet and pulled it off.
Sachie gasped. “That’s him.”
Teller’s eyes narrowed as he studied the biker. “You’re sure?”
She nodded. “It’s those thick eyebrows. I remember thinking he looked like Javier Bardem, the guy from that movie where he had that awful haircut...”
“No Country for Old Men,” Teller studied the man. He did resemble the actor who’d won an Oscar for that part. “The Bogey has landed,” Teller said into his mic. “Big guy looks like Javier Bardem.”
“The guy with the bad hair in No Country for Old Men?” Ingram clarified.
“You got it,” Teller confirmed.
“We’ll take it from here,” Ingram said. “Get out of here.”
“Roger,” Teller said.
Before he could start the engine, a dozen motorcycles streamed into the already full parking lot.
As they parked wherever they could, they surrounded the car where Teller and Sachie watched and waited.
Teller sank into his seat, his hand on the ignition switch, ready to set the engine in motion should any trouble erupt.
One of the men who’d parked near the front of the building slipped off his bike and turned his face enough that Teller could see the bruised cheekbone of one of the men who’d attacked him in the hotel. “Shit,” he whispered. “The guy by my door is one I fought with at the hotel.”
Sachie ducked low in her seat as a man strode past her door. She drew in a sharp breath. “That’s the guy I hit with the lamp.”
Teller didn’t dare turn on the engine and draw attention to them. Not until the group of bikers entered the building.
On the backs of their leather vests were the words PELE MAKA.
“Pele Maka,” Teller whispered. “Is that Hawaiian for something?”
“Yes,” Sachie said. “Pele is the goddess of fire and volcanoes. Maka is the word for eye.” She leaned forward, her gaze on a young man climbing off a small motorcycle that looked more like a racing bike or what Teller would have called a “crotch rocket.”
The guy’s face and the way he wore his hair were familiar.
“Isn’t that—” Sachie frowned.
“—the guy who stole your purse,” Teller said through clenched teeth. “He didn’t stay in jail long.”
“The kid with him...” Sachie sucked in a sharp breath, and her face blanched. “Luke,” she said, barely above a whisper.
Before Teller knew what was happening, Sachie flung open her door, lunged out of the car and raced for the kid.
“Sachie, no!” Teller cried out. He shoved open his door and leaped out of the car, too late to stop her from following the kid into the building.
Teller’s cry had the eight remaining bikers still standing in the parking lot turning toward him.
The man with the bruised cheek pointed at Teller and yelled, “Get the bastard!”
Teller ran for the entrance to the bar, desperate to get to Sachie. He only made it ten feet before the bikers closed ranks around him. A man stepped in front of him and shoved him backward.
Another shoved him from behind, sending him toward the guy with the bruised cheek.
Outnumbered eight to one, Teller would have to fight his way through them to get to Sachie. He balled his fists and came out swinging.
The nightmares, the hallucinations and the shadowy sightings of a dead teenager had rushed over Sachie when she’d spotted Luke.