Stolen: Hell's Overlords MC (38 page)

The phone rings as soon as I finish. I walk over to check the caller ID.
Unknown
flashes on the screen. I frown, but I figure Vince is calling from a private number and that I should go ahead and answer.

But the voice that speaks up on the other end isn’t Vince. In fact, it’s the last person in this world I expected to hear.

“Carlos?” I breathe into the phone.

“Hello, Rose,” says the man I once married. “It’s been a long time.”

I don’t know what to say. All the certainty I’d felt just seconds before crumbles in an instant. I wasn’t expecting this. How could I have been? It isn’t until this moment that I realize I’d thought about Carlos as though he were dead since the day he left.

“Carlos,” I repeat dumbly. There’s no mistaking his voice, and yet I need to say his name out loud again, as if to confirm it’s really him.

“I don’t have much time, Rose. You need to listen to me very carefully.” His voice is steady and calm. On the other hand, my heart rate is skyrocketing. The second he speaks, questions begin to zoom at me like cars on the freeway. How the hell did he find me—here, of all places? What is he doing? Why here? Why now?

I try to ask everything at once. “How did…I mean, what…?” Where do I even begin with this? I was never prepared to talk to him again. There’s so much to ask. But the panicked haze of questions gives way to a drooping dread the moment he cuts me off.

“I have Vince with me, Rose, and if you don’t do what I say, he’s going to end up very, very hurt.”

It’s like the sound has been sucked from the room. My heartbeat is thunderous in my ears. Every crackle and pop of the static on the line sounds like an explosion. Seconds pass like centuries. “What do you want, Carlos?” I ask quietly.

“There is a restaurant at the end of the pier right next to where you are. I want you to leave right now and meet me there. You need to come immediately, is that clear?”

I nod, then realize he can’t hear me nodding through the phone. “Yes,” I fumble through dry lips. “I’ll leave right now.”

“Good,” he replies, still so measured and cool. “I’ll see you soon, Rose.” The line goes dead. I drop the phone and step back numbly. The feeling of being overwhelmed and wordless is pouring over me again. Just when I thought I’d surfaced, I go back underneath the wave. I’m helpless against it. Against everything, really. Talking to Carlos is like talking to a ghost. I’d written him out of my life, damn near forgot about him. But apparently he had not forgotten about me.

I don’t have time to waste thinking. He said he had Vince. If I don’t hurry, Vince could get hurt. I couldn’t bear the thought of that. I had no choice but to run.

I burst out the door, feet slapping against the ground as I sprint towards the beach. I approach the main avenue that runs along the coastline. Cars are veering by in both directions, but I hardly bother to look as I keep running across. Horns honk, drivers yell. I don’t give a shit. There’s only one thing that matters, and that’s getting to Vince.

It should have spooked me that Carlos seemed so content with the life we’d led. Bike rides and televised soccer aren’t enough to keep anyone satisfied for long. There must have been more to him than I realized. I wonder what kind of person he’d been when I wasn’t looking. I caught glimpses of it whenever that shadow stole across his face, but I always managed to convince myself it was just an illusion, or, at worse, a kind of existential dissatisfaction. I never imagined there was something evil beneath it.

I’m pouring sweat as I round the corner and run onto the salt-softened planks of the pier. Zigzagging between pedestrians and tourists with ice cream cones, I head for the far end. A shabby restaurant stands shoved under the shadow of a decrepit Ferris wheel. I haul across the remaining hundred yards and step inside.

It takes a moment to orient myself from the bright sunlight outdoors to the cool darkness inside the place. Four-top tables are scattered liberally around the interior with a row of booths pressed along the back wall. All are empty, save for one. I can only make out the heads of two men seated there. I swallow hard, my heart drubbing forcefully in my chest and my hands shaking in fear.

I walk down the line of booths, growing closer with each step. I reach the table and there he is.

Carlos.

I’d forgotten how unremarkable-looking he was. Not much has changed. The same brown hair, brown eyes, pale white skin. I do see a few scars I don’t remember. He isn’t short, nor is he particularly tall. His body is thin but with wiry muscle and prominent knuckles in his hands. When he looks at me, he gives me a faint smile. It is the kind of smile I’d give to a half-remembered acquaintance I hadn’t seen in a long-time while I struggle to remember their name. It certainly isn’t the way I’d greet someone to whom I was married. His polite familiarity unsettles me.

But when I look over and see Vince sitting calmly on the other side of the table, hands folded and relaxed like he’s hanging out with an old friend, I am floored completely. He looks up and sees me. His eyes narrow in shock and suspicion.

“What are you doing here, Rose?” he asks sharply, his voice rising with fear.

“What are you doing here, Carlos?” I demand.

Carlos looks at both of us placidly. “Sit down, Rose. I’ve got a bit of an explanation for the two of you. You’re going to want to listen very, very carefully.”

Vince

Two Hours Earlier

My phone starts to vibrate on my way out the door. My mouth is still warm from kissing Rose goodbye when I answer the call. “Hello?” I growl into the mouthpiece.

“It’s Mortar,” comes the voice on the other end of the line.

“What’s up, prez?” I ask.

He answers, “Change of plans.” I stop in my tracks, hand on the seat of my motorcycle. I was supposed to meet him at the weapons depot to go over some inspections, but I guess he’s got a different idea now.

“Hit me.”

“The cop called.”

I clench my fist. That can only be good. Even if it’s bad news, anything is better than no news. After such a long time spent in radio silence, I’m thrilled to be hearing anything at all. “What’s the word?” I ask.

“He wants us to meet him right now. He’s got something to share.”

“So let’s go,” I say impatiently. I stick my key in the bike’s ignition and bring it snarling to life.

“You’re gonna have to go alone,” he tells me.

I pause. “What? Why aren’t you and Steezy coming? We should all be there.”

“I know,” Mortar says, “but he says he can only meet for a couple minutes and it has to be now. I’m all the way on the other side of town at the docks. I won’t be able to make it in time.”

“What about Steezy?”

Mortar curses. “I can’t get a hold of him anywhere. Phone must be dead. I keep telling that bastard he can’t go out of reach, but he’s fucking deaf sometimes.”

Guess I’m going in solo. “Okay,” I respond. “I’ll handle it. Stay by your phone. I’ll get back in touch as soon as I hear the man out.”

“Alright, will do. He’ll be at that shitty restaurant down by the end of the pier. Booth at the back.”

“Got it,” I reply before hanging up. I gas the engine and take off down the road.

I weave through traffic and make it to the end of the pier in just a couple of minutes. Barging through the front door of the restaurant, I scan the room. No cop in sight. He’s bound to be here any moment, though, so I take a seat in the farthest booth back and tent my hands.

Fifteen minutes pass without anything happening. The waitress comes by several times, but I keep dismissing her. I check my phone. Mortar hasn’t texted. I call him, then Steezy. Neither one answers.

Another thirty minutes goes by. On the outside, I’m calm and composed, but inside, my body is crackling with pent-up energy. Where is this bastard? I can’t handle more no-shows. The last time that happened, I ended up with a severed hand on my chest. I’d like to avoid a similar situation this time around.

The restaurant is mostly empty. A few families come in to grab an early lunch, children in tow, cackling or bawling at the top of their lungs, but they leave quickly. There is a harmless-looking old Hispanic man seated a few tables over, drinking his coffee and doing a crossword puzzle in the newspaper. Otherwise, little moves.

Finally, almost ninety minutes after I left the house, the door creaks open and the person I’m looking for walks in. The cop pauses at the entry, scans the room, and sees me. He exchanges a brief few words with the hostess, then meanders through the maze of tables towards my booth. Sliding into the seat across from me, he removes his sunglasses and fixes me with a wan smile. His eyes are flat and unreadable. I open my mouth to ask him what’s going on, why the urgency if he was going to be so late, but before I can get out a word, the waitress waddles over.

“Can I get you fellas anything?”

“Not now,” I say crossly. “We’re busy.”

“Actually, I’ll have a coffee,” says the officer. “Cream and sugar as well, please.” He’s got the bland politeness of a schoolboy. The waitress nods and walks off to ring up the order.

“So what’s going on?” I demand.

He raises a finger. “Coffee first.”

I sit back in my seat. My leg is bouncing with exasperation. I don’t like what’s going on here. Doubt is beginning to gnaw at the lining of my stomach, but I can’t afford to get aggressive yet. We need to hear what this man has to say. I check my phone again. No notifications. I shoot Mortar and Steezy a quick text.
Call ASAP.
It flies off into cyberspace. Hopefully it will make contact.

She comes back over with an empty mug and a carafe of hot coffee. Setting the cup down, she tilts the carafe over and fills it to the brim with steaming brown liquid. The cop smiles again, thanks her, and takes a sip, smacking his lips.

“Okay, you’ve got the coffee,” I growl. “Now tell me what’s up.”

“We’re waiting for one more person before I begin,” he informs me.

My eyes narrow. “Mortar?”

“No, not your president. He won’t be making it today.” Something about the way he says that makes the back of my neck tingle. I feel the early inklings of adrenaline coalescing in my veins, the kind of adrenaline a person feels when he’s watching a scary movie, knowing that he’s stuck in the situation until it’s over and there’s nothing he can do to change what’s happening.

“I’m gonna need you to explain yourself.” My voice is low, violent, acidic. I reach into my boot and withdraw the little pistol I keep tucked there. It feels good to have metal in my hands. But this is not how I planned on this rendezvous unfolding.

“In due time, my outlaw friend.”

“When will that be?”

“She should be arriving any moment now. Ah, speak of the devil! Here she is.”

That’s when Rose walks in.

* * *

She cuts a quick path between the tables towards us. Her face is fallen and nervous. She looks how I feel. I doubt she has the reassuring benefit of cold steel in her grasp, but the longer I size up the situation, the less comforted I feel. I get the sneaking suspicion that having a gun won’t help me now. I’m being cornered by much more powerful weapons.

She approaches the table. Her eyes are wide. I ask what she’s doing here, but she ignores me.

“What are you doing here, Carlos?” she says to the cop. Funny, I’ve never actually known his name before. But then why does it sound so familiar?

Carlos looks at both of us. He tells Rose to sit down. “I’ve got a bit of an explanation for the two of you,” he adds. “You’re going to want to listen very, very carefully.”

My heart beat in my ears sounds like a fist smashing into flesh over and over again. I remember how Cesar looked when I first saw him at the diner in El Cruce: like a rat with owls overhead. Now, I can empathize. This is what it feels like to be hunted.

Rose sits at the head of the table. She folds her hands in her lap, but one glance over tells me she’s trembling uncontrollably. What does he have on her?

Then I remember. Carlos was her ex-husband’s name.

Like a mousetrap slamming shut, Carlos begins to speak. His tone is careful and clean, devoid of emotion, as ordinary as his face. Yet his words are the launch of the war itself. When he leans forward, his eyes sparkle. “You have been used. Both of you. I am telling you this because it does not matter anymore whether you are aware of it.”

“What are you talking about?” I bark.

“Do not interrupt me, Vince. As I was saying, you have been used. Rose, I must admit, I never expected to come across you again, especially not in such an abrupt fashion. Still, you have been helpful to us, and I appreciate that very much. Not many people would have been so successful in lulling our friends here into such a convenient sense of security. Convenient for me and my friends, that is. Not so convenient for Vince and his. Vince, I will make this quite simple for you. I have your friends Mortar and Steezy held by my men right now. You are going to assemble the remaining members of your club and present a formal surrender of your weapons and territory to the Diablos at the port at midnight tonight.”

I’m dumbfounded for a moment before the anger and disbelief set in. I snarl, “Rose would never. You’re a fucking liar.”

“I won’t tell you again not to interrupt me. More to the point, I am not a liar. Rose has been working for me from the beginning. I won’t be so bold as to claim that she was in my employ the whole time. You coming across her was, of course, an accident. But I was aware enough to seize the opportunity that she presented. You fell for her quite hard, didn’t you, Vince? It’s a shame that it will cost you so much. She led you right into this whole mess. And now, so many people will get hurt because of your choices.”

Dread fills me. The restaurant is so damn quiet, but I can almost hear the sound of everything falling into my place. Of course. El Diablo Blanco. The White Devil. I look at Carlos’ pallid skin and I know instantly that he has been behind everything. He played me from the start. Rose was just another bullet in his chamber.

Rose looks at me, tears spilling from her eyes. “It’s not true, Vince, I swear! I haven’t seen him since he left. That was way before I ever met you. I wasn’t working for him ever. I don’t even know what he wants!”

Carlos shakes his head sadly. “Rose, darling, don’t make things worse for yourself. Must I show Vince proof that you have been lying to him?”

She whirls to face him. “There’s no proof because it’s not true!”

“Then what is this?”

I squint to look at the pink stick he’s holding in his hand. He extends his open palms towards me and nods his head, signaling for me to take it. I pick it up. It’s a pregnancy test, I realize. In the center of the white strip in the middle, an inky smiley face beams upward. One look at Rose tells me everything I need to know.

“How long?” I ask quietly.

“Vince, I swear, I was going to—”

“How long?” I cut her off.

“Vince, listen, please —”

“How long, goddammit?” I roar, slamming my fist into the table. Silverware rattles and the lake of coffee in Carlos’ mug spills over the edge. A liquid bead runs down the white ceramic and onto the varnished tabletop.

“Vince, lower your voice,” Carlos admonishes.

Rose is crying, too choked up to speak. I’m seething, roiling with black rage. She lied to me. We had a bond of trust and she broke it without giving a rat’s ass. She led me here. She betrayed me.

I remember what I heard on the yacht about the informant inside the clubhouse who’d been feeding information to the Diablos the whole time. How could I have been so stupid as to overlook her? When Rose was taken, I swore to myself I wouldn’t make the same mistake twice. And I hadn’t—the mistake I’d made this time was far, far worse.

“So, Vince,” Carlos continues, “the surrender. Do I have your cooperation?”

The only things I can hear are the sobs pouring from Rose’s throat and the buzzing air conditioning unit overhead. I tighten my grip on the butt of the gun in my hand. “What’s stopping me from emptying a clip into your stomach right now?” I ask.

Carlos rubs the heel of his hand into his eye tiredly, like a parent struggling to put a resistant child to bed. “That would be a stupid thing to do. Firstly, you would be killed.” He raises a finger and points to the adjacent tables. The old man, who before had seemed so innocent as he labored over the Sunday crossword puzzle, now holds an automatic rifle tucked under one arm. It is pointed directly at me. I’m cornered yet again.

“Secondly, as I mentioned, Mortar and Steezy are being held by my men. Here, take a look if you’d like.” He slides a cell phone across the table. Lit up on the screen is a picture of my president and my best friend, bound and gagged, with blood dripping from welts and slashes across their faces. I look away, unable to bear the image.