Chapter Sixteen
No Country for Old Dusty
Crackhead Rudy lived in a UFO about thirty minutes outside of Roswell. The UFO wasn’t a crashed spaceship, it was just easier to say it was. Rudy had seen a show on Netflix about unique homes and spent a cool million last summer constructing his version of the infamous craft. People knew him by his moniker even before Rudy started using, on account of all the crack he’d sold to the good people of Sanderson over the past several years. The nickname didn’t roll off the tongue or anything, but there was no denying it had a ring to it.
When Crackhead Rudy wasn’t making and selling crack out of the cockpit/kitchen of his UFO, he took refuge in the single-story adobe his father had bought him for his twenty-third birthday. Dusty couldn’t remember the last gift Rat had given her, though she knew it sure as shit wasn’t a mini-mansion. He did bring her back a single tampon once—unprompted—shortly after she turned fifteen and was annoyingly smug about it for the remainder of the day. Sometimes, she wondered what life might have been like if her dad had been there for her after Desi died. Even before his arrest, no one would confuse Rat for Father of the Year. Still, he tried his best with what he had, and he loved her and Desi with everything he had. Though loving them wasn’t enough to save them.
Love wasn’t enough to save anyone.
The UFO’s lights had gone dark, which meant Rudy was at his main residence. She left the Mustang behind and made the rest of her trip on foot. She didn’t want Rudy to see her coming, though the security cameras planted in various cactuses up the long, winding driveway nullified her attempts at stealth.
Regardless, the Mustang was a rental, and Sal would be pissed if Dusty brought it back riddled with bullets. Assuming she made it out of Rudy’s at all. After taking over the Legion, one of the first changes Dusty had made was ordering her men to cut any ties they might have to dirty cops. Associating with the same men and women willing to put people like her in the ground didn’t sit right with her. Some of the Legion had listened. Others had not. Raph had lost an ear for more than just his failure to bring back her drive. The flash drive was supposed to have been atonement for ignoring her orders and feeding the local police department intel. She couldn’t blame the boys in blue who were getting rich off jobs meant for her and her men, but she could damn well blame Raph. And did.
I hope Ape takes his toe. Just for fun.
In exchange for her silence about his extracurriculars, Raph agreed to keep his mouth shut about why he was assigned to the bank job in the first place. Though, no one would understand the significance of the flash drive, even if they found out about it. She’d left it back at the motel, tucked away in Edward’s jacket pocket. If anything happened to her, Ape knew where to find him and would finish what she’d started.
And Edward? The question came unbidden. What happens to him if you’re gone?
“No one chases death like you do, Adele Burdot.”
One day, she wouldn’t be fast enough to escape paying a tithe of soul, and flesh, and blood, but for now, there was only spent bullets and a trail of broken promises—like breadcrumbs—there to lead her back home again.
Dusty was a few yards from the front door when the floodlights came on. She pulled her gun from the holster, aiming down the length of the barrel as the door swung open. It took her sight a bit to adjust to the sudden brightness, and when it did, there was a woman standing on the porch. Her thin, pale body was adorned with a silk chemise and a pair of matching bottoms. Her short crop of curly brown hair was a halo around her face. She reminded Dusty of Poppy and she hesitated, finger slipping off the trigger.
Someone shifted just out of view, a flower-adorned robe peeking out before disappearing just as fast.
Dusty’s jaw tightened in annoyance. Rudy.
“She cannon fodder?” Dusty motioned to the girl with her gun and the woman grinned, her gaze blank. There were marks on her inner arm as she lifted her shoulders and let them fall. A half-hearted attempt to shift the straps of her camisole back where they belonged. For a moment—a strange, dark moment—the scene shifted, and reality fell away. A woman lay prone on the floor, the front of her Cami soaked with vomit. She convulsed on the ground, the needle still in her arm, and her gaze already far away. A figure stood over her, every inch of skin covered with tattoos that writhed and danced like smoke. He wore a black hood pulled low over his brow, hiding his features from view. When he turned his head, his eyes glowed white hot and eager.
“Depends,” Rudy called from around the corner, pulling her back to the present. “You mad enough to shoot me?”
The woman giggled. Apparently, the thought of getting caught in the crossfire was worth a chuckle or two. Dusty should have been annoyed. Instead, she was just relieved the junkie was still alive. The vision was nothing more than that. A few seconds had passed, but Dusty’s hands were shaking and clammy, as if she’d caught a fever. She ran her palms down the side of her jeans, trying to get herself under control. She wasn’t some na?ve teenager anymore. Wasn’t dumb enough to believe she had power at her disposal. When she was young, the idea that she was favored by the ancestors—the spirits of loved ones passed—made her feel special. As a grown ass woman, she knew better. If the ancestors loved her so much, then why the hell had they taken her sister? They’d shared a womb, so why favor one over the other? There was nothing special about her, nothing making her more worthy of life than Desi.
Yet here she was, breathing still.
Arm heavy, she let the gun sink by slow degrees.
Dusty talked to a therapist once a month. She knew all the jargon. This was projecting. The ‘why’ would have to be discussed during next week’s session. For now, she had more important shit to worry about than the state of her psyche. She caught the glint of light on glass as Rudy peeked at her through the reflection of his handheld. Paranoid asshole was still inside the house, and after her vision, or hallucination, it was all Dusty could do to control her temper.
“You dumb enough to shoot me ?” Her fingers flexed around the handle, the gun dipping as she toyed with the idea of taking the shot.
A dark chuckle, and this time, Rudy peeked his head out as if to gauge her mood. “Not right now,” he was as jovial as usual. “Might change after a line or two.”
“Fair enough.” Dusty let the gun drop the rest of the way, hugging it against the side of her leg before sitting it on the ground. Dusty kicked the gun away. Sneering when Rudy stepped into view, gripping the woman around the waist and planting a kiss on the side of her neck. She was still unmoving, unblinking. Dusty might have confused her for a doll if not for the deadness in her eyes.
“That’s better,” Rudy purred.
A rustle from one of the bushes stationed near the house sent the hair on the back of her nape up. Scanning the darkness with a jaded eye, she found four men surrounding the main building. Dusty’s night vision wasn’t great, which meant there were more around. Rudy having guards should have been great news. This was Rudy’s base of operations after all, the hub responsible for most of her product. The Legion did occasional runs for the cartels, and the consensus was always the same across the board. Rudy made good shit.
Which explained why he was always high. Dusty tried not to think too hard about which came first. Rudy and Crack would forever remain her chicken or the egg. Either way, a chemist of his caliber was in high demand. Rudy, however, preferred leading a more independent life, which is why he worked with Dusty. As long as he adhered to her rules, he was free to do whatever he liked without fear of being snatched up by some intrepid mob boss. He took over the safe house and no one knew where he was except for Dusty and her inner circle. It kept Rudy safe, and it gave the Legion some much-needed leverage amongst some of the more powerful players. A fact she might be able to use to her advantage, considering the assholes trying to take her out.
Do I really want to get any more tangled up in the mafia? Eliot is bad enough.
Nope .
“You going to invite me in?” she asked, and Rudy laughed.
It was a good laugh, she’d give him that much. Rudy may have been handsome at some point—some of the pretty still lingered in the shape of his mouth and in his baby-blue eyes—but years of chasing his next high had left their mark. He was skinny, too skinny for his slight build. His mousy brown hair was thinning, and his teeth were blackened in several places. He had enough money to deal with his cosmetic issues, but instead, he wore them like a badge of honor. She was used to seeing him dressed in suits and cashmere sweaters, his skin sunken and the marks on his arms and legs a glaring reminder of just where all his wealth had come from.
“You going to tell me why you’re sniffing around?”
“Conners,” she said, her voice iron.
Rudy’s eyes widened, and without waiting for a response, Dusty strode up the front steps. She half expected someone to shoot her in the back and was relieved when she made it to the door unscathed.
“Got any booze in this shithole?” she shouldered past Rudy.
The door clicked shut behind her, as Dusty took in the safe house. It never failed to astound. Rudy had been obsessed with aliens for as long as she’d known him, and the UFO theme had been carried over to the main house so he could enjoy it year-round. The living room resembled the inside of a cockpit. Silver paneling for every cabinet and door, along with a single, unobstructed sheet of one-way glass, did a decent job of feeding into the fantasy. Dusty knew, from experience, the sliding doors opposite the entrance led down a long hallway where several bedrooms and a bathroom had been designed much the same way. Everything was custom, everything was brand new, and it was all filthy.
Empty cups, plates of rotting food, lines of coke on a glass table. The white carpet—a design choice Rudy likely regretted now—was stained in several places and nothing more than a backdrop for discarded clothes and trash. She imagined Edward living here for any length of time, imagined him even walking through the door, and recoiled.
Well, there goes that plan.
A hand gripped Dusty’s ankle from beneath the glass coffee table, and she kicked it away. It would seem she’d interrupted Rudy mid-orgy. Men and women in various stages of undress lounged around the room. Two men were fucking in the recliner in the far corner, unconcerned by her arrival.
“Who the hell are all these people?” she asked through numb lips, turning on her reluctant host. There were no cars outside, so there was no telling how long these people had been there or even how they’d arrived. All that mattered was that they were in the last place they should have been. She eyed Rudy, gauging his high. Today was a tuxedo day, though he’d abandoned the suit jacket somewhere, and his button-down shirt lay open to the waist, revealing an ornate Crucifix stretching from the base of his throat and down to the waistband of his pants. The eyes of white Jesus followed her, and Dusty scowled at him.
Rudy’s hair was slicked back, and he was wearing bright red lipstick and totting a hunting rifle over one shoulder. He cocked his head to one side, swaying where he stood. “These are my friends.” He gripped the girl cosplaying as his human shield by the waist and pulled her close. “C’mon, Candy, let’s show Dusty how friendly you can be.” Nuzzling her neck, he nevertheless kept his eyes trained on Dusty as the girl sagged against his chest. If he weren’t there to prop her up, she would have fallen.
Gross.
Dusty wasn’t sure what the two of them were on. It wasn’t crack-ish behavior, but they damn sure weren’t sober. “I spoke to your little friend, Officer Conners, today,” she said without preamble, putting an abrupt stop to the love fest.
Bleary-eyed, the woman frowned even as Rudy’s jaw worked in annoyance.
“He’s not a friend, D,” Rudy said, shoving the girl away.
She slunk off, but Dusty’s relief was short-lived. Even if she were free of Rudy, there was no shortage of strangers around, eager to take advantage. Already she was being approached by the man from beneath the coffee table, and Dusty gripped her knife. The pommel against her palm soothed her, but the urge to shed blood left her itching for a fight.
“I give him a little product and a few bucks,” Rudy was saying, daring enough to step closer. She side-eyed him, and nervous, he laughed and shuffled back. “He makes sure the boys down at the precinct mind their own business,” Rudy said. “He’s good. We’re good.” His eyes turned shrewd. “Unless he’s on your shit list or something.”
Oh, how well he knew her. “How many,” Dusty asked, still calm for now.
Rudy frowned. “How many what?”
“How many women has he assaulted since you brought him on?”
Rudy shook his head, and his fingers flexed one by one around his rifle. “I don’t…I don’t know what you mean.”
“I think you do.” Tired of the game, Dusty pulled her second gun from the holster at the small of her back and checked to make sure there was a bullet in the chamber. “You know how many missing-person flyers there were on my way here, Rudy?”
He paled.
Idiot. “A lot ,” she continued. “Too many, in fact. So, here’s what I think.” Before Rudy could say or do anything, she shoved the barrel into the side of his head and drove him to his knees, incensed. “I think you and that pig have been snatching girls instead of running my fucking product.”
Profits had been down for a while now, but it had been hard to pinpoint the exact reason why. Dusty had been working through the different angles, ever since running into Conners. Profits were down because less product was being sold. Either Rudy wasn’t making as much, or some of it was going somewhere else, like into the veins of the pretty brunette getting pawed at on the living room couch. Women were easier to train and manipulate when they were coked out of their minds. Dusty knew how it worked. Beat them, drug them, fuck them. Do it enough on repeat, and soon, all the soul and the fight simply disappear.
“You’re crazy,” Rudy gasped, dropping the rifle in favor of raising his hands into the air on either side of his head. He curled into himself, striving to look as small as possible as all eyes turned on them. Even the couple in the corner paused long enough to pull their clothes on.
Dusty raised a brow, “Am I?” She nodded, still thoughtful. “Maybe. Let’s see.” It took no time at all to think of the name. It had been with her since the hotel. “Hey, Clara,” she called. “Your momma’s been looking for you, girl.”
The woman on the couch stirred, a bit of awareness returning to her eyes. “Mom?” she whispered, so broken and small Dusty’s finger twitched on the trigger. Memories of Desi, of Poppy, swam through her blood, and rage rose like a storm, crackled and bit like lightning. She slammed the butt of her gun into Rudy’s nose, and he screamed, falling back. Dusty followed him down, straddling him and trapping his arms against his side as she reached forward and pressed her thumb into his eye. He bucked beneath her, but she was anything but petite, and years of drug use had left him nothing but skin and bone. She pushed, pushed, pushed until resistance fled and Rudy’s eye popped clean out of its socket. Dusty gasped, open-mouthed and drunk on pleasure.
All around her, people scrambled out of the way, running out of the room, for fear she’d turn on them next. Their fear was something she could feel, something she could swallow whole, and the world was awash in a red, red haze that tasted like blood and terror. Soon, one of the guards from outside would come to investigate, but for now, she gloried in the pandemonium.
Dusty leaned into Rudy, inhaling the stale stink of him as if it were meat fresh from the bone. “I’m going to cut out your fucking tongue,” she breathed, pressing the nozzle of her gun hard enough into his temple to bruise. She couldn’t kill him, not yet, but she’d have her pound of flesh come hell or high water.
A memory of Edward standing in the bar as she sliced through Raphael’s ear, watching her without expression or judgment, crowded into her thoughts, and she hesitated. What would he think if he could see her now? If he knew what she was doing and how far she still had left to go?
Dusty gained her feet but kept her gun leveled on Rudy lest he try and slither away.
Why should she care? She’d only ever done what needed to be done. What others refused to do. Even now. Either she put Rudy in his place, or she slit his throat. The second option was tempting, but once he was dead, she’d lose any hope of finding the girls he and Conners had trafficked. Even worse, she’d have to find a new cook before the cartels came sniffing around. She didn’t have thousands of kilos worth of coke just lying around, nor did she have the money to cover the loss of such a sum. So, Rudy would go on breathing for a time, but Dusty would make damn sure he regretted every second of it. Speaking of, Rudy had stopped screaming and was muttering something under his breath.
Dusty scowled down at him. “You better be praying,” she said coldly.
“Oh, I am,” he giggled, the sound wild with pain. “But not for me. For you.”
A pair of long, brown fingers slid over her shoulder. Skin so thin she imagined she could see the white of bone beneath. Her gaze traveled up the hand to the wrist, from wrist to arm, until she met white, bottomless eyes. She had known him, ever since she’d crawled screaming from the dirt, and mud, and grief. She turned because the Devil told her to, and there, standing behind her, dressed in plain clothes and sporting a shit-eating grin, was Officer Conners. He was holding Rudy’s abandoned rifle, and at this distance, it wasn’t a question of if he’d hit her but how big the hole would be after he did.
Once again, she was presented with a choice. Dusty could either abandon Rudy and turn her gun on Conners, or she could blow him away and damn the consequences. Baring her teeth in an answering grin, she squeezed the trigger just as Conners reared back and punched her full force in the face. She and Rudy hit the ground at the same time, and as consciousness fled, she bathed in the fucker’s blood and smiled, really smiled, for the first time since Officer Dipshit. And with nothing to stop the memories, the past came rushing forth with painful clarity.
***
“You sure about this?” Dusty met Eliot’s gaze, her own heated. Sure about it? She was so excited she was bouncing in place. At the look on her face, he chuckled. “You’re a horror, you know that?” He breathed, his fingers tangling in the curls at her nape and pulling her close.
Strange how the words, coming from him, sounded so much like I love you . Dusty warmed, glowing under his praise as Eliot pressed their foreheads together. They were so close they managed, somehow, to drown out everyone and everything else. Eliot pressed a kiss against her lips.
“I spiked his beer,” he whispered, breath fanning her skin. “You still have about five, maybe ten minutes before the effects start to kick in.” He smelled like mint toothpaste and his father’s cologne.
Dusty jerked away, brow furrowing in anger, but Eliot grasped her wrist and pulled her back, trying to make the move look casual instead of what it was. A reprimand. “You can hate me all you want later,” he hissed. “But I’ll be damned if I watch Axel beat you to death over some stupid bet.”
The bet.
Dusty had been hounding Axel for weeks. A few hours ago, in front of the entire bar, he’d accepted her terms. They were simple enough. If she won, she got the Legion. If he won, he got her. Axel liked them young. In fact, Axel liked a lot of things, including beating women. His preferences were earning him a bit of a reputation ever since he’d taken over the Legion. Two years after Rat was charged with several counts of 1st-degree murder, violence was all the Legion was known for. Dusty hated this, hated watching something Rat cared for so much become the subject of true crime podcasts and speculation. Her dad had built this club from the ground up and handpicked every single member himself. It was small at first, just him and Ape. Soon, it grew into a bunch of friends, just hanging out and shooting the shit while they traveled from town to town. But somewhere along the way, things had taken a turn, and now the same men who had attended her eighth birthday party after Rat got too drunk to show were on a government watchlist.
The Legion, and the men and women who made up its number, were her people. The closest thing she still had to a family, besides Eliot, and he didn’t count anymore. Things had been…weird between them ever since that first kiss, and she didn’t think she could ever go back to just seeing him as her foster brother.
Papa Tate would be livid if he knew, but that’s what secrets were for. Though, if anyone knew about secrets, it would be Tate. He and Gran had known one another for a long time, and when the media swarmed their small town looking for a traumatized girl with a story, she sent Dusty to live with him and his son for a while. Papa Tate was approaching retirement and in the middle of training his nephew, Eliot, to take over when Dusty landed on his doorstep. Tate was strict but fair. These two qualities came in handy during his rather illustrious career as an enforcer for the mob.
Eliot had no interest in his uncle’s business. Dusty, however, was all too eager to learn everything Papa was willing to teach her. For two years, she’d soaked up every lesson he had to impart, and now?
Now, she was ready for war.
Eliot crouched before her, wrapping the knuckles of her right hand. She glared down at the top of his head, shaking. The world around them was loud, knives against her bare skin. She was wearing a sports bra and a pair of boxers, but already she was slicked with sweat. Maybe it was nerves. She wasn’t sure. It was hard to tell what she felt sometimes. Most days, she didn’t feel anything at all, and she liked those days the best.
“This place is disgusting,” Eliot muttered under his breath as wrapped her other hand. “Smells like blood in here.” He glanced up, as if waiting for her agreement. When it didn’t come, he sighed, his shoulders slumping. “Don’t look at me like that,” he said. “I know you’re mad, but there’s no reality where you win this on your own.”
Dusty didn’t respond. She didn’t have to. Her heart squeezed tight, and she turned away, eyeing the room. The bar hadn’t changed since she’d left, and there was an air of neglected nostalgia about the place. No matter how far the Legion went, they always ended up back here. The Clubhouse was home, after all. The one safe place many of them had. No one would respect her if they thought she’d cheated. If she was going to win their bet, her victory had to be quick and decisive.
How long had she been waiting for this? How long had she planned? Rat was sentenced just a few months ago. Even for such a high-profile case, the justice system moved at a snail’s pace. There was no telling how long things would have dragged out had he not pled guilty from the very beginning.
A dumbass to the very end.
A part of Dusty wanted to reassure Eliot; she had everything under control. But even if she wanted to speak, she couldn’t. Sometimes, her vocal cords didn’t open and close properly. The doctors said the trauma would lessen over time, but Dusty didn’t care either way. What need did she have of a voice when there were men to cut down? It was a task best done in silence, after all.
Axel sauntered to the center of the bar where chairs and tables had been pushed aside to make room for the fight. Jerking her hands from Eliot, Dusty strode forward to meet him. She should have been terrified. For all his faults and vices, Axel was still a grown man and a full head and shoulders above her, though his muscles had turned to fat years ago. Dusty checked the clock on the far wall. Five minutes until the roofie kicked in.
Shiny, she thought. Let’s be bad guys.
There was an answering giggle, but she tuned the voice out. She was getting better at ignoring Desi these days. Gran told her if she ignored the spirits for too long, they’d no longer speak to her. Boo hoo.
“You don’t have to do this, sha,” Eliot called after her, speaking around the cigarette in his mouth.
Dusty lifted her hand, giving him the finger as she pushed through the crowd. She wished he believed in her, just a little. Maybe it would make what she had to do easier to stomach.
“Don’t trust anyone out there but yourself, Dusty. No one is going to value your life over their own. Not your gran, not Eliot, and not me.”
It was Papa’s first lesson, and Dusty was forced to agree. Hadn’t she hesitated to save Desi? She loved her sister more than anything, more than anyone, and yet she still woke screaming at night, trapped on the blacktop next to Rat’s overturned bike.
Frozen.
In fear.
In indecision.
Her weakness had cost her sister her life.
Dusty would never be weak again. Not for anyone. Not about anything. She would be a horror in human skin, sharp as a blade. Quick and cruel. If she had any hope of killing the monster who took her Desi, she would have to turn into something even worse than he was. The room was full of bikers, full of Legion, and they swarmed around her, watching. Waiting for her to fail and prove she didn’t belong there and never had. Everyone and their mother had come out to see Rat’s daughter fight for the rights to a legacy no one gave a shit about but her.
Most of the members were much older than her, but some—like Diesel—were around the same age. He was crouched on the edge of the pool table across the room, his red hair in disarray and his blue eyes bright under the fluorescent. He grinned as she passed, and Dusty glared at him. A runaway, Diesel had sought out the Legion about three years ago. It was Rat who’d taken him in and allowed him to join. He used to be nothing more than an errand boy, but he’d just gone on his first job. Must be feeling himself, she thought, dismissing him as unimportant. All her focus was on Axel. It had to be.
“Ooh,” he crowed drunkenly. “Someone looks serious!” He shivered as if he were scared and laughed. “Come ’ere girl. Let me teach you a lesson your child-killer of a daddy never did.”
Several people snickered, and Dusty made a mental note of each.
“Hey, kid.” A hand on her arm brought her up short. A man, a giant, stared down at her with dark brown eyes. He was Samoan—the traditional tattoos on his face and arms hinted at a land far from this one. She scowled, and he studied her in silence before nodding as if he’d reached some decision.
“You need help out there, you let me know, and I’ll come running. Got me?” He didn’t look like he was going to let her go until she agreed, so she nodded and jerked her arm free. Dusty remembered him well enough. He was a big fan of an online first-person shooter game called Apex Predators. Once Rat’s right hand, they used to play during the summer at Gran’s while her dad slept off his hangover. Ape had never been much of a drinker, though he’d be the first biker she’d ever met who could say such a thing.
Once Dusty managed to work her way past the others, she didn’t stop or slow. Instead, she strode right up to Axel, ducked out of the way of the right hook he threw, and drove her fist into his Adam’s apple, rabbit quick. He choked, eyes bulging, and rocked forward. She shoved her foot into his knee, putting all the force she could muster into the motion. There was a snap, and he dropped to his good knee with a scream. As he went, she pulled the knife Papa gave her from her belt and flipped it open. She was a little clumsy with it still, so the slash across Axel’s throat wasn’t as clean as she might have liked.
Still got the job done, though. Arterial blood coated her in a red mist, and Axel fell like some great tree. He hit the ground face first at her feet, just where he belonged. Dusty blinked the scarlet haze out of her eyes and met the stunned gaze of the men and women around her. Toward the back, she caught sight of Eliot, his face a mask of horror and disgust. Turning away, she lifted her arms into the air like a prized fighter at the end of a match. Her heart leapt as the Legion erupted, their cheers filling the clubhouse until the rafters shook.
They were hers now, first by birthright and now by so much more.
Eliot’s right, she marveled. It does smell like bloodshed. Dusty’s tongue darted out, and she licked her bottom lip as a crimson curtain consumed her and the Legion, both.