Stolen: Hell's Overlords MC (34 page)

Rose

The bearded man who bought me says my name. “Rose,” comes his gruff, rasping voice. It’s so familiar and so foreign at the same time. I can’t place it, can’t put my finger on why it sounds like someone I know. “I need you to believe me,” he says. “Everything is going to be okay.”

Then he pounces.

Moving faster than I can process, he brings up a fist from his side and slams it into the nose of the man who led me out from the backroom where I was waiting after the auction. A fountain of blood erupts into the air as the man groans and collapses to the floor. The bearded man swings one heel up and then drops it down in the same place he’d just punched. I hear bone crunch sickeningly as another plume of blood lashes outward.

The woman behind the table stacked high with cash is reaching underneath it. I see her hike up her dress and notice a gun holster strapped around her leg. The man sees it at the same time that I do. As she slides the weapon loose and begins to raise it to point at him, he seizes the edge of the table and flips it. Loose bills go fluttering everywhere, and rounded tokens that look like poker chips roll all across the floor, clinking and bouncing as they careen into every corner.

The woman falls backwards, knocked to the ground by the table, but she doesn’t let go of the gun. Diving towards her, the man clutches her wrists to steer the aim of the gun away from me. Her muscles bulge to resist him and guide the weapon back towards one of us, but she is no match for him. With a wrench of his arms, he points it to the window just as she fires. A hailstorm of bullets smashes into the broad glass panes, leaving tiny holes framed by cracks that skitter out in every direction. The wind whistles through the openings, threatening to take the whole window down.

I look back to the pair wrestling on the ground. The gun comes flying out from between them to slide under a couch pushed up against one wall of the room. The woman howls “No!” after it, extending her painted nails in the direction it had gone. Without it, she is helpless against the man who bought me. As I watch, he cocks back a fist and strikes her across the temple. She goes limp immediately.

He stands up, shaking his hand and grimacing. His glasses have fallen from his face. I see a flash of bright green eyes before he turns to survey the rest of the room.

The place is a wreck. Cash is fluttering everywhere, the desk is overturned, and two bodies lie still on the floor. Whether they are dead or just knocked out, I can’t be sure. I don’t have time to check, and even if I did, I don’t give a damn. All these people can burn in hell as far as I’m concerned.

We hear commotion on the ceiling above us. It sounds like heavy feet, pounding. The man spins back towards me. “Let’s go,” he orders. “They must’ve heard the gunshots. We don’t have long.”

“Where are we going?” I ask, panicked.

He points at the bullet-punctured window. “That way.” Picking up the chair in two sinewy hands, he leans back and then hurls it towards the glass. It bursts outward in a shower of shards, loud enough for the entire boat to hear. Wind is sucking in through the opening, stirring the cash into a tornado of bills flapping around the interior of the ship. The man offers his hand to help me through. Despite being careful to avoid the remaining edges, I catch my thigh on one. I wince as pain spikes through me and blood drips down the back of my leg.

The man clambers through after me. “Follow me,” he orders. He takes my hand in his and starts to run along the thin walkway on the side of the ship, headed towards the back. I hear shouts behind us. Looking over my shoulder, I see more men in all black stick their heads through the window opening we’d just climbed through. They begin to struggle over after us.

We’re sprinting across the boat as fast as my heels will allow. The man keeps looking to the left, out over the water, as if he’s expecting to see something. I wonder what the hell he could be looking for. We’re at least twenty miles out to sea. There’s nothing out here but us.

We round a corner and reach the back. It’s a small, flat area just above the motors, with a railing to prevent drunk idiots from falling over and becoming shark chum. The roar of the engines is deafening. The man drags me to look over the railing. Below us, the water is churning from the engine rotors whipping at a thousand revolutions a minute, fast enough to slice me open and drain me of blood instantly if I get too close.

He grabs my shoulders and yells something, but I can’t hear him over the thundering machines. Frustrated, he stabs a finger out over the water. I must be losing my mind, because I think he’s telling me to jump.

What the hell is happening? I haven’t had time to process anything, but this man is clearly insane. He bought me at an auction, but then, instead of paying for me and strolling off the ship like how I imagine a normal buyer of humans would do, he attacks the auctioneers and busts me out like we’re trying to escape. I don’t know what on earth he wants. And now he wants me to jump into the middle of the ocean.

I shake my head. No way. Jumping is certain death. At least on the ship I still have some chance of surviving, however slim that chance may be. I can’t just give up and drown.

The man sighs, exasperated, and rolls his head. I see motion out of the corner of my eye. The cartel men are almost upon us. Before I can react, the bearded man picks me up and tosses me overboard.

I fall the remaining twenty feet, then hit the water with an agonizing smack.

What a way to die.

* * *

Underneath, everything is dark. Bubbles stream by. The water is cold on my bare skin, sinking below to rattle my bones. It’s hard to kick with the heels on and the leash getting snagged in the passing waves, but I manage to kick up to the surface.

The yacht is twenty yards off and moving farther away with each passing second. I see the men in black gesturing at us and yelling, though I can’t understand what they’re saying. It must be something like “Kill them,” because all of the sudden they line up their weapons as if to fire.

A hand wraps around my waist and pulls me back underwater as a bullet whizzes by. It makes a vicious hiss as it hits the water and scythes down towards the ocean floor. More follow, piercing the waves with deadly intent.

The hand around my waist belongs to the bearded man. He kicks hard, sending us deeper beneath the surface and away from the boat. Water fills my surprised mouth and I begin to choke. My lungs are spasming against the influx of saltwater rasping down my throat. The man pulls another strong stroke with his free hand, sending us arrowing a further few yards away from the yacht. The bullets cease. We must be too far down for them to know where to aim.

The lights in my eyes begin to dim. I can’t breathe. I need air immediately, or else I’m going to pass out. We start to kick back towards the surface, but I don’t think I’m going to make it. Everything is fading, fading…

Just when I think I’m beginning to lose consciousness, another pair of hands seizes me by the underside of my arms and tow me from the water. I collapse onto the deck of a small watercraft, gasping and coughing up the water that had rushed into my lungs. I hear something heavy land next to me with a thump.

It takes a few long seconds to regain my breath. Everything swims back into place. I open my eyes and see two unfamiliar faces staring down at me. They have tattoos peering up from their shirt collars and scars etched into their skin. Both look curiously concerned. It’s the first time I’ve seen sympathy on a human face since I was first taken from Vince’s motel room. All the cartel men ever showed was contempt or lust. Who were these people?

I hear labored breathing to my side and look over. The thump landing next to me was the bearded man. I watch in astonishment as he pulls himself to a seated position. His head hangs below his knees as he sucks in breath slowly. Eventually, his chest calms. He looks up.

I frown. The beard is dangling from his face by a thread. Almost like it’s fake. He reaches up a hand and plucks it off, wincing a little as the glue separates from his real skin. I blink hard, once, twice. I don’t believe what I’m seeing.

It’s Vince.

Vince

Rose is looking at me like she is seeing a ghost. I rip the fake beard off of my face and chuck it into the water, happy to be rid of the annoying thing. My clothes are heavy and wet and my eyes are burning from the saltwater.

All in all, though, it feels good to be alive.

“How the…who…when…” Rose is stammering, unable to finish a single thought. She’s been through one hell of an ordeal, so I’ll have to forgive her if she’s a little scrambled. I want to explain everything—where she’s been, how she got here—but before I can even start, Mortar tears into me.

“What the fuck did you do, you goddamn moron?” he yells. The whipping wind sloughs away at his voice, but the anger brimming in it is unmistakable. “Are you fucking insane? Are you trying to get everyone killed?” He smacks me in the head, hard. His eyes are blazing in fury.

Steezy is behind the wheel of the motorboat. The throttle is wide open as we bounce across the waves at top speed, cutting a wide, foamy V through the ocean on our way back to the shore. He adds his voice to Mortar’s, saying, “Vince, you fucking idiot!”

Mortar drops to his knees in front of me, blocking me from Rose. I can see her confused, terrified expression over Mortar’s shoulder. She has no idea what’s going on. “We were supposed to be
backup
,” he seethes in my face, “not your fucking escape route. You lied. You fucking son of a bitch, how dare you.” I’ve never seen prez this angry. His jaw is clenched and his teeth are gritted like he wants to take a bloody bite out of me.

I guess he’s right to be upset. The plan we’d agreed upon was much simpler than the one I actually had in mind. He wanted me just to sneak in, glean what information I could, and sneak out without causing any ruckus or letting anyone know who I was. Low-key, undetectable. Mortar and Steezy suggested following along in a motorboat just in case things went south. They never expected to actually be called in to help.

Maybe I should’ve told him about Rose. I had a sneaking suspicion she would be on the boat, and the second I’d seen her paraded onto that stage, I knew I couldn’t leave without her by my side. The only way to ensure I had a chance at that was to win the auction. However, seeing as how I didn’t have a hundred grand to simply hand over to the Diablos, the quiet, undetected exit we’d planned on executing wasn’t going to work out. Thus, the broken window and ensuing gunfight.

I explain all of this to him as concisely as possible, choosing my words carefully. It does little to help his mood. I see tension knotted along his jaw in thick, muscular ropes.

“I ought to strip your fucking patch right now,” he says. “That’s a fool fucking move you pulled back there. You’re lucky as hell that we made it to you in time.”

“Take my patch if you want, prez,” I tell him. “I can’t blame you if you do. I blew my cover. You’ve got every right to be pissed at me.”

He sits back on the deck next to me, clenching and unclenching his fist. I look down at my own hands and notice for the first time that they’re ringing with pain. Glass shards are stabbing into my skin everywhere I see. The saltwater adds another sting to the mix. I’ll deal with the injuries when I get to shore.

I can tell he’s thinking it over, seriously entertaining the idea of booting me out of the Inked Angels. Men have been kicked out for less. There’s no room in this business for lone rangers pulling stupid stunts or men who lie to their presidents. I’d been both tonight, and if there was a punishment coming down the pipeline, I’d take whatever it was on the chin, like a man. I looked at Rose. That was all I needed to see to remind me that this had all been worth it.

“I really fucking ought to,” he says again after a long pause.

I interject quietly, “I learned something, though.”

He snaps his gaze to me. “I’m not about to play twenty fucking questions, Vince. Start talking.”

The drone of the engines plays out like a background track as I begin to explain to Steezy and Mortar what I’d overheard the men on the upper deck talking about. “They’ve got an inside guy, Mortar. He’s been feeding them information for a while. I don’t know anything about who it is, but we need to lock things down immediately. They’re getting ready for war. This whole thing—the yacht, the auction, everything—was designed to make us think they’re still early in the planning phases. But they’re almost ready to invade. They’ve been moving guns and men across the border for weeks. Any day now, they’re going to hit us where it hurts.”

Mortar says nothing after I finish talking. He stares into the distance as he opens and closes his hand, over and over. Eventually, he starts to speak. “Okay. This doesn’t change much. We just need to be more careful now. Let’s consolidate all our contraband in one warehouse and set up redundant patrols. I want separate teams of men checking on things at all times. I don’t trust anyone outside of you two; although you, Vince, are on the thinnest fucking ice I’ve ever seen. I need you to get your head out of your ass and start thinking, okay? There’s no room for error here.”

Steezy and I both nod. I’m relieved that Mortar has decided to let my wild behavior slide. “I hear you, boss,” Steezy says. I murmur the same thoughts.

Rose is sitting silently with her back on the other side of the boat. I can’t imagine what she’s going through. Weeks of captivity with the goddamn Diablos doing horrible shit to her, then this auction, the madness of our escape. But the only thing that matters is that she’s here now. She’s safe with me. I fixed my mistake, and I’m determined not to fuck up again.

The motors’ whining recedes as we approach a hidden boat ramp about a mile down the coast from the port. We pull in and guide the boat onto the trailer. I help Rose down. She grimaces in pain as she steps over the edge of the vessel. I notice a jagged cut on the back of her leg. Must be from jumping through the broken glass window.

“Are you okay?” I ask her.

She looks at me quietly. “I’ll be fine,” she says. I lower her to the ground with my hands on her hips. Even when her feet make contact, I don’t let her go. The swish of waves against the shore sounds like a giant whisper around us. Mortar and Steezy climb into the truck that the trailer is attached to, leaving us alone for a moment.

“I didn’t think I’d ever see you again,” she tells me. She’s looking up at me, eyes big and blue and so goddamn beautiful.

“I told you to trust me, didn’t I?” I say.

She keeps staring, mouth parted slightly, and touches my face, like she’s still struggling to confirm whether or not I’m real. I feel the same way about her. If I let go, part of me wonders if she’ll go back inside the dream where I first saw her. Maybe that’s why I keep such a tight hand on her hip without even realizing it. Just in case.

“Let’s go,” Steezy says, leaning out of the driver’s side window and rapping his knuckles on the side of the vehicle. “We gotta get out of here before the sun’s up.”

“Coming,” I reply. I turn to Rose. “Let’s get you home,” I tell her. I take her hand, and we leave.

* * *

After the evening’s chaos, the silence inside my house is blissful. The roar of boat motors and gun shots is still ringing like tinnitus on my eardrums, but bit by bit I begin to unwind. Rose still looks overwhelmed, though. She’s had an unforgettable experience, and I don’t mean that in the way people usually mean it, like when they take their children swimming with the dolphins on family vacation. Her last few weeks have been unforgettable in the way that torture is unforgettable. Every motion she makes for the rest of her life will remind her of it.

Someday, she’ll need to talk about it. A person can’t keep shit like that bottled up forever. It’ll eat her alive if she tries. But for now, I let her kick that can down the road. There’s always tomorrow. Right now, we have silence, we have solitude, and we have each other.

What a funny thought that is. I don’t know yet where she fits in the fabric of my life. She entered it in such a surreal way that I haven’t yet had the time to come to terms with it appropriately. Literally leaping out of a dream and into my arms is one hell of a first impression. Between the kiss in the parking lot then her disappearing just as suddenly, I feel like a fish on a line. I’d bitten on a lure that didn’t seem real, but I noticed too late that the hook was imbedded in my mouth. Yet, somehow, I’m not complaining. Not when her body keeps screaming out for my touch the way it always does. Not when her eyes echo that same desire. Even after being battered and shot at and half-drowned, she still looks like a fucking treasure.

I shut the door behind us after we walk in. Never before has the click of the lock sounded so good. To be here and safe after all the shit that just went down is nothing short of a miracle. I smile, bemused. How else am I supposed to react? It’s like they say: God looks after drunks and idiots. I had been one or the other for most of my life, so I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that I made it out of this one unscathed.

Rose is shivering. I see gooseflesh all along her arms and legs, hair on the back of her neck standing on end. Her teeth chatter.

“You look freezing,” I say.

She nods frantically.

“Do you want to take a hot shower?” I ask her. “Might make you feel better.”

“Yes, please.”

I lead her to the bathroom, pulling a fresh towel out of the hall closet on the way. I reach in and twist the knob. A stream of blistering water unleashes from the showerhead. Steam begins to fill the room and fog up the mirror as the water hisses behind us.

“Here,” I say, offering her the towel. She takes it in one trembling hand. I realize that she’s still wearing the bikini they’d forced her into for the auction on the yacht. “I’ll lay some clothes out for you on the bed in there,” I tell her, pointing to indicate the attached master bedroom jutting off from the bathroom we’re standing in. She nods again.

Before I go, I take one second to drink her in. She’s so tiny. I marvel over it every time I see her. That petite body is practically begging to be both manhandled and protected, and I’m having serious trouble deciding which urge is stronger.

But I shove the thoughts aside. She’s been traumatized. I’d have to be a real fucking dick to take advantage of a girl who’s gone through all the shit she has. She needs time to rest and recover, not my cock being forced down her throat. As badly as I want her, the right thing to do is leave her alone. I plan on doing just that. I turn to leave.

“Wait,” she says when I’m almost out the door. I pause and pivot back to face her. She’s shaking badly now, in spite of the warmth spiraling throughout the tiled room. Maybe it’s not the cold anymore, maybe she’s missing something else. I raise an eyebrow. “Don’t go,” she finishes softly. “I don’t want to be alone right now.”

I square my shoulders to hers. Aside from the water cascading against the glass shell of the shower, the only sound is our breathing. She takes a tentative step forward to halve the distance between us. Just a foot or two remains separating my skin from hers. Reaching a hand out, she wraps her fingers around one of mine. Her skin is cold, but the grip is certain. She pulls my hand up to the side of her face and rests it there, with my palm laid flat against her chin. For a moment, she closes her eyes, as if the support of my hand on her cheek is the only sure thing she has left in this world to rely on. When she opens her eyes again, the fear that had been roiling there is gone, replaced by a calm lucidity. It’s certainty. It’s desire.

Still, I hesitate. It’s nothing new for a girl to look at me and be so obvious that she wants me. But with this girl, not to mention this situation, things are different. There are lines here that maybe I shouldn’t be crossing. Yet everything she’s doing so clearly says to move forward, to push, to take. After weeks and weeks of fighting against the Diablos needling her at every turn—judging by the track marks on her inner elbow, needling might even be a literal term, those fucking scum—maybe what she needs is to submit to someone she can trust. I’ve saved her three times now. I guess I’m the closest thing she’s got.

She rises to her toes, stretching as far as she can towards my face. She’s just tall enough to brush her lips against mine. I don’t move, don’t reciprocate. She rolls back onto the balls of her feet, looks at my face one more time, then wraps a hand around the back of my head and pulls me towards her, kissing me hard.