3. Ghost
GHOST
My head is splitting.
What the fuck happened? I’m slumped against something surprisingly soft and comfortable, but as I try to sit up, searing pain flashes behind my right eye, almost making me throw up.
“If you’re sick in my car, I’ll knock you out again,” a deep voice says smoothly.
He has accented English, but it’s very good English.
What the fuck? Who is he? And where am I?
I’m not sure what’s happened. I let myself stay slumped, not wanting to make the mistake of trying to move again, and instead slowly peel open my eyes.
Or rather, eye. My right eye isn’t cooperating.
I touch my face. The skin all around that eye is swollen, and, when I press my nose, eliciting a fresh wave of pain, my fingers come away sticky.
I stare at them, making out the red in the dimmer light of the interior of the vehicle.
The car has dark tinted windows, and I imagine bullet-proof glass, too. These clearly aren’t amateurs.
My hands are tied at the front, but the stupid fuckers only used a zip tie.
I can break those easily enough. I wriggle my toes and flex my ankles.
My feet aren’t tied. Maybe not so professional, then, or perhaps they’ve just underestimated me.
After all, they’ll imagine I’m just a biker and have no idea about my past or my training.
Working as fast as my pounding head allows, I assess my situation.
Zip-tied in a vehicle. Lots of pain. Maybe something broken in my face.
I take the risk of lifting just my head very slowly.
Two large figures sit on either side of me, one with a gun pointed at me.
A man in the front passenger seat twists around to look at me.
“How’s the head?” He smirks.
“Peachy,” I reply.
My adrenaline is beginning to kick in, but I’m still as confused as fuck. I can’t recall what happened the moments before I ended up in this car. So, add concussion to the list.
The last thing I remember is getting ready for the day. Wait… leathers, I put on my full leathers. Why?
I blink and swallow against the pain it causes in my right eye. Even though the damn thing isn’t opening, the tiny muscles firing in response to movement in my left eye is enough to cause severe pain.
Focus, Ghost.
Leathers, the bikes. The ride out! We were going on a ride out.
The vehicle starts to slow, and I manage to turn my head, fighting against the nausea the movement causes. We’re turning onto an airstrip. There are a couple of hangars, and we turn again, so we’re approaching them.
An airstrip? Are they going to fly me out of the country? My stomach drops. No fucking way. I can’t let that happen.
A memory flashes, sudden and unwelcome. The oil. The slick on the road and my bike going out from under me. That awful feeling as you hang, as if in space for a brief moment, between the tilt of the bike and the moment you hit the ground.
I recall sliding along hard tarmac. Thank fuck I wore my leathers or I’d be in an even worse mess.
We drive across the airstrip, toward the huge open doors on one of the hangars. Inside are two small, private planes, plus a couple of other vehicles, which I assume are identical to the one I’m in.
Once inside the hangar, the car stops, and the guy closest to the door on my right climbs out. He doesn’t leave, though. Instead, he reaches back in, his fat fingers wrapping around my wrists, and he drags me out, too. I land on concrete and am hauled to my feet.
I fight another wave of dizziness, still trying to process the events that brought me to this moment.
Shots. There were gunshots. They fired at us. They hit some of us… Jack.
Oh, fuck, these assholes shot Jack.
Heart hammering, I glance around. It’s slightly darker here than in the full glare of daylight outside.
The man who had his gun on me in the car is on the other side of the vehicle.
The driver and the passenger seem to be discussing something, one of them pointing toward the nearest plane.
The assholes have left me with just one guy by me, and his fingers are wrapped around my wrists, no weapon in sight.
They’ve clearly underestimated who they’re dealing with.
Not even thinking, reacting on pure adrenaline and fight-or-flight instinct, I slam my elbow hard into the soft gut of the man holding me.
He grunts and doubles over, letting me go.
The zip tie snaps easily as I bring my knee up right between my wrists.
Two of the men rush at me from around the vehicle.
I slam my fist into the face of the driver, and he goes down with a satisfying groan of pain.
The second has his gun raised, but he makes the mistake of glancing back to the man who told me not to puke in his car, and I shoulder slam him, knocking the gun out of his hold.
It goes skittering across the hard floor, and I bring my knee up, connecting with satisfying force to the bastard’s groin.
“Ooooomph.” He folds like a cheap suit and falls to the ground.
Two more men grab me from behind. Where the fuck did they come from? There were only four in the car with me, and one of those is still standing to one side, watching, that smirk still in place.
I struggle, trying to break free.
“Christ, he’s strong,” one of them huffs.
“My friend, I suggest you stop fighting,” the man with the strange smile says. “I have more men here. I also have a gun, but I really don’t want to shoot you. You’re not here for that. I just want my son back.”
His son?
It all clicks into place. The accent. The hit on us… Ledger. Oh, fuck, this is Ledger’s father.
As the fog clears more from my mind, I wrestle back control of my baser instinct to fight.
Two more men approach from around one of the private jets. One is holding a gun aimed right at me. So, with Ledger’s father, I count eight in total.
If I’m dead, I’m no use to anyone. I need to find out what they want. My training starts to kick in and I grow still.
“That’s better,” one of the guys holding me says.
“Your son?” I look at the man who is in charge.
Why is he still smirking? If he’s Ledger’s father, I’d think he’d take this more seriously.
“I’m Hector Sanchez, and I want my idiot son back. Word is that your MC has taken him. I’m willing to make a trade.”
More vehicles approach the hangar and park close by.
As the men get out, three from one, two from another, one of them approaches Hector, his head down, his shoulders slumped.
So, thirteen in total now, I note. He speaks in Spanish, and I can’t follow what he’s saying.
I do have a basic understanding of the language, enough to ask where places are, and for a beer, but he’s speaking fast. He’s stressed and scared, his body language that of a whipped dog.
Hector shakes his head, takes a gun out from his waistband, tucked under his shirt, and shoots the man in the head.
I can’t help myself; I jump at the sound and the sudden violence.
Fuck me, that’s cold. If this man is willing to shoot one of his own like that, he truly is a ruthless motherfucker, and my chances of getting out of this alive just diminished rapidly.
The man drops to the ground, his muscle tone gone in an instant.
So only twelve, I think ruefully.
“This is the man who shot your president.” Hector looks down at the body as if he’s a pile of shit. “That was not supposed to happen. The last word I got is that your president is still alive.”
These fuckers shot Jack and they think we’ll make a deal?
Except, I would, if we had Ledger. Despite that, all I can think of right now is Camile.
A solid rock lodges in my chest with the fear that Jack might die, but the idea of these men going after the club when it’s in disarray and getting their hands on Camile is more than I can bear.
She’s been through too much.
If they are here for Ledger and they find out he’s dead, they’ll go after her, and the rest of the club, too.
I need to keep them thinking Ledger is alive, until the club can regroup.
There must be a traitor in our midst… except, if they told the cartel where we’d be this morning, how come they don’t know Ledger is dead? It makes little sense.
“Well, it did happen, and if Jack doesn’t survive, then we’re in a whole new world of trouble,” I point out. “Do you know who I am? Since you seem to know who Jack is?”
Christ, if Jack dies, I won’t be able to control the fallout from that. I can only imagine trying to tell Big Mike he can’t come after these fuckers, guns blazing, without a thought-out plan, because of Camile. That could put her in more danger.
“You’re the enforcer, I do believe? I have Jack, you, and someone called Saul noted as the people to speak with, but now you’re here, and Jack is… indisposed, that leaves only Saul that I have on my list, unless you know better.”
Definitely a spy in our midst back at the club. Fucking hell. We thought that ended when we dealt with the Numbnuts.
Right now, I must keep calm, focus, and play along.
My training taught me ways of talking to those holding you without giving too much away.
I can lie so calmly that I’d fool a lie detector.
It’s not something I’m proud of, but it’s a fact.
Part of our training was to endure torture techniques for as long as possible.
They’d lock us in darkened rooms, and pump heavy metal music nonstop, or play a baby screaming for hours on end.
We’d be wearing heavy covers over our faces sometimes, so we had no sense of where we were, and we’d be beaten with sticks until every bit of our body hurt, but never hard enough to break bones.
Then there’d be the water torture, God that was the worst of all.
“Like I say, I just want my son back.”
“Do you know what he was doing here? He took a girl who matters to us, and he fucking hurt her. I don’t know if the club will trade him for me.” I watch carefully for his reaction.