Stolen: Hell's Overlords MC (41 page)

He is putty in my hands, drifting closer and closer as I tighten the slack in the tie. My ass wiggles behind me. I wrap the tie around his neck and climb down from the stage. Turning away from him, I sit back until my thighs lie on top of his and my ass is in his crotch. I let the music dictate the pace of my slow grinding.

Leaning back to rest my head on his shoulder, I tilt his ear towards me. My lips brush against him as I whisper, “Do you want to go somewhere a little more private?” As I do, I let one hand fall between my legs to tap threateningly near to his bulging manhood. I feel him nod. That’s all I needed.

Vince

I go home. There’s nowhere else to go. But the second I step inside, I realize what a mistake it was to come back here. Everything smells like Rose. Just a week in the house, and she’s infused everything with that haunting scent of hers. I can’t get away from it. It fills my nostrils and refuses to leave.

I need it gone, though. I meant what I told her. She’s dead to me. She might as well have never existed. I plan on erasing every trace of her from my home, from my memory, from my life. I start to march towards the bedroom to begin stripping her away, but something on the kitchen table catches my eye.

It’s a pad of paper, covered in pen. The writing is a swirling, feminine script. I know without having to think that it’s Rose’s. I sit down and start to read.

Dear Vince
, it starts. From there, it flows in a meandering scroll that winds from emotion to emotion. Each word is thick and dark, bearing the weight of so much feeling behind it. I can practically sense her aura, like it’s still lingering here even though hours must have passed since she first wrote it.

I should have told you right away about the baby. But I was scared. I still am scared, actually. More than scared. Terrified. I feel like I don’t have control over my life anymore, like I’m nothing more than a victim to bigger, meaner men throwing me around at their whim. I’m scared you are one of them, even though everything I’ve seen tells me you’re so much more, so much better than they are…

I read on, feeling a foreign burbling in my chest. I’ve never had a feeling like this before. Ever since I met Rose, I’ve waded through emotions I didn’t even know existed. But they must have been in me all along, just waiting for her to tug them out from the dusty corners where they were hiding.

Fucking hell. I reach the end. In big, careful letters, she writes her final words.

You said you’d protect me, that nothing bad would ever happen again. I just want you to know, I trust you.

Love,

Rose

She might as well be in front of me, saying the words herself. I can almost hear her voice speaking them.
Love, Rose.
She does love me. The truth there is obvious to me. I don’t care what Carlos says, Rose would never betray me. I can understand being afraid of a man like me. I wasn’t given an easy lot in life and I certainly didn’t make it any easier on myself with the path I’ve chosen. There are things to be frightened of. I’ve seen bad things. I’ve said them and done them, too. But goddamn, Rose makes me want to shield her from all of that. I want to be there for her, to protect her from all the dark shit the world throws at a person. She deserves to wake up every day and have those eyes be unclouded, free from fear and pain. She deserves to have a baby look back at her with those same blue eyes, just like Devin’s, full of hope that maybe there’s a better way than the one I’m mired in right now. I want to make all of that happen. For her. For my child.

My father may have abandoned my mother and me to a life spent adrift being battered around by forces bigger and stronger than us. I made it out of that, but I was lucky. So many others suffered worse fates. I won’t subject Rose and our son to the same kind of life that I was forced to endure. For their sake, I can’t give up. Surrender is not an option.

I stand, tucking the note into my back pocket. I grab my cell phone as I run out the door and mount my bike, veering off down the street the instant the engine comes to life. “Boulder,” I bark into the mouthpiece as I ride. “Don’t let anyone leave the clubhouse. The Inked Angels aren’t going down without a fight.”

Rose

I straighten back up as the music draws to a close, taking the Diablo’s hand in mine and standing to lead him to the back room. The crowd boos at first at my departure, but they quickly move on as the next dancer is introduced and takes the stage. When we pass by the other man in black, they give each other an appreciative nod. I smile grimly.

The hallway shelters some of the noise. I see a tall door covered in red leather. This must be the private room, at least, I hope it is. I open the door and pull the man inside.

The interior is lit with dim orange lanterns that flicker and leap. There’s a throne at one end. I twirl and shove the man down into it, then tug the door shut. It clicks, cutting us off from the outside. Perfect.

I spin back around to face him, flashing my most seductive smile. He grins and settles back in the chair. Gyrating my way towards him, I sink to the floor between his knees. I run one hand up his thigh towards the rising lump behind his zipper, though I pause before I get all the way there. My fingertips retreat, tracing lightly down over his jeans. He reaches towards the buckle of his belt, fumbling with it in an effort to free himself from the pants.

“Not so fast,” I say in a sensual voice. I take his hands and lie them back down along the armrests. Reaching for the belt around my waist, I withdraw the handcuffs and slap them down around one of his wrists, securing him to the heavy chair. It clicks into the locked position.

His sneer broadens. He must think I’m just being kinky. Wait until he finds out what I actually have in store. “Have it your way for now, slut,” he drawls. 

I rise to my feet. My tone slides from seductive into a violent snarl as I say, “I’ll have it my way all night long, you fucking son of a bitch.”

He frowns and starts to say, “How fucking dare you,” but the baton smashing across his face stops him mid-sentence. Blood and tooth fragments splatter against the far wall. He looks up at me in horror as I raise the baton back and strike him again. A low moan of agony pours out of his throat. He raises a hand to try to stop me from hitting him a third time, but it’s useless. I fix weeks of rage into the tension of my muscles as I bring the baton up and down once more. It thuds into his flesh with a sharp crack. He screams, but the walls muffle all noise.

I push the baton back through the loop on my belt and lean over him, setting my hands on top of his. His fetid breath rolls into mine. I crinkle my nose but don’t retreat. “No one can hear you except for me, do you understand?” I hiss. “And the only way you stand a chance of getting out of here alive is if you start talking.”

He says nothing, blood dribbling down in thick streams from his nose and mouth.

I press forward despite his silence. “What is Carlos planning?” I ask.

The man spits around broken teeth, “Fuck you, bitch.”

I reach up and seize hold of his shattered jaw. The lightest touch of my fingertips sends pain hacking through his skull and mouth. I let him writhe for a few long seconds in my grip. “I’m gonna ask you again,” I grit. “What is Carlos planning?”

He stays stony silent, refusing to speak. I rip off the hat and sunglasses. “Remember me?” I yell in his face. His eyes bulge in recognition. “You know exactly who the fuck I am. You tried to rape me. Then you kidnapped me. You know damn well what you did to me.” The man is squirming in my grasp, but I bear down harder. I feel another tooth give way in his cheek. His blood is streaming over the backs of my hand. I don’t let go. “Tell me right now, motherfucker. What is Carlos planning?”

Still, he won’t say a word. I sigh, pick up the baton, and raise it again. I’m halfway into a viciously fast descent that will pulverize what little remains of his jaw when he starts to scream. “Okay, okay!” he bellows in a voice distorted by his mangled bones. “He’s going to kill them all!” Random syllables are missing from his speech, falling victim to the devastation in his mouth, but I don’t let him stop. Whatever pain he is feeling is just a fraction of what he deserves.

“Keep talking,” I instruct.

“At the surrender tonight. He’s going to kill every last man. Please, God, don’t hit me again.” His eyes are hazy with pain. He looks like he’s about to pass out. “He’s got dozens of men and containers full of guns on the cargo ship, ready to go as soon as they’re in position, but oh, God, please don’t do anymore.” He’s a whimpering, blubbering mess, oozing blood and bone chips.

I turn away and close my eyes to think for a moment. Shit, shit, shit. My worst fears have been confirmed. I can’t let Vince go blindly into a death trap. I just hope it’s not too late to stop him. I need to find a way to get in touch with him. But how? I don’t have a phone or a car. Shit, shit, what do I do? If I don’t do something, Vince and every man in his club are going to die.

The whoosh of an outgoing text message catches my attention. I pivot back around to see the Diablo cuffed to the chair with a cell phone in his hand. He looks up at me and tries to grin through the damage to his face. “Get ready,” he mumbles. I scream and crack the baton across his face. He’s out instantly.

I barely have time to turn back around before the door flies open. The other Diablo bursts in, a knife raised above his head. I’m firing solely on animal instinct as I leap to one side. The knife goes hurtling down through the space I just vacated to bury itself in the leather booth lining one wall. Before he can tug it out, I lower my weight, cock the baton back behind me, and then swing it upwards between the man’s legs as hard as I can.

A repulsive crunch sounds as the hardened plastic ruins the Diablo’s genitals. He erupts into a feral, keening wail that pierces my ears, his hands dropping the knife immediately to attempt futilely to contain the pulpy remnants of his member. I don’t hesitate to swing again, this time at his skull. He collapses to the floor instantly, a pool of sticky blood beginning to flow into the carpeting.

It takes a few long seconds of panting before the bloodlust dims. When I come to my senses, I drop the baton, step outside, and seal the door behind me, leaving the two limp, unconscious bodies locked within.

A cocktail waitress walking by notices the blood shining on the back of my hand. Her eyes widen. “You okay, hon?” she says in alarm.

I stare her down as I reply, “Tell everyone not to interrupt me in there for a while. I’m just getting started.”

Vince

Midnight. The night is cool and damp. The stars hide behind smog. They don’t want to see what’s coming.

Our footsteps trudging on the slick concrete make little noise as we advance towards a broad clearing in front of our warehouse. Flies buzz around the crackling bulbs of high-powered lights that cast an eerie, dreamlike glare over the scene. Drizzle falls from the sky like someone above is spitting on us. It’s the worst of Galveston nights. Fitting.

We step into the light. I lead the pack. Behind me are the men I call my brothers. We all wear the same leather jacket, emblazoned on the back with the Inked Angels insignia. On each of our shoulders is the same tattoo. It might mean different things to each man. That’s the power of the club. A man takes from it what he puts into it. The club gave me my life, so I’m willing to give it right back.

We assemble, a crowd teeming with more scars and tattoos than you could shake a stick at. Together, we’ve got more miles under our belts than just about any other group of men alive. We’ve seen shit, real shit.. But now, the wheel of life has seen fit to crush us under it. The only way to go is the way I plan on going: with guns blazing and my head held high.

There’s a lot I’m leaving behind if things don’t pan out perfectly. A woman who loves me. A child bearing my name. I swore to myself the day my dad left that I wouldn’t leave a son without a father, but sometimes the world just gets in the way. Not every promise can be kept. It’s what we do with the shards that matters. For my part, I intend to use them to slit Carlos’ throat, if I can just get close enough to do it.

“Never thought I’d see this day,” says Sliver.

“Neither did I, brother,” I reply solemnly. “But here we are.”

“Here we are, indeed,” he echoes, shaking his head. “What’s that you always used to say? That thing about God?”

I answer, “That he looks after drunks and idiots.”

Sliver laughs hollowly and slides a flask from his hip pocket. Unscrewing the top, he tips it back, drains the thing, then tosses it aside. He smacks his lips after he swallows. “Well, now I’m drunk, and you’re definitely an idiot, so let’s hope the Big Man is smiling.”

I chuckle. After all, what’s death but the next great ride? I just hope it’s on the back of a bitchin’ engine.

A figure emerges from the shadows a few dozen yards away. The hubbub amongst the men falls silent as Carlos approaches. He walks towards us, then stops a short distance off. He folds his hands in front and looks at us with eyes as calm as a Hindu cow. “Gentlemen,” he says.

“Furthest thing from it,” I shoot back.

He blinks. “If you say so. I take your arrival to mean that you have agreed to my terms.”

“You give us back our men. We give you the keys to our stash, the rights to our territory, and we all leave town. You won’t see any of us again.”

Carlos inclines his head. “Yes.” He extends a hand and takes a few more steps towards me. “The keys, please.”

I take the metal ring of keys from my pocket. They punctuate the night with a rusty jangle. I start to offer them to him, then pause. “Mortar and Steezy,” I say sternly. “I want to see them before I give you a damn thing.”

“You’ll get them as soon as I have the keys.”

“I want them now.”

“You don’t really have much bargaining power here.”

I raise an eyebrow. “I’m using what little I have.”

Carlos sighs and drops his hand. “Very well.” He turns to face the direction he came from. “Bring them out.”

I crane my neck to look into the darkness, but I can’t see anything aside from the rustling of vague silhouettes. I peer closer. Still can’t make out a damn thing.

The sudden flash of motion takes me by surprise. Carlos whirls back around and brings a fist careening into my forehead. He’s shockingly strong. The blow is hard enough to stagger me backwards. I reach down to fish the knife from my boot, but before I get halfway, strong arms tackle me to the ground and wrench my hands behind my back. I look around me and see that, on all sides, Diablos in black tactical gear are doing the exact same to the rest of the men. It takes only moments before we are all prostrate and subdued on the wet pavement with our wrists zip-tied together.

“I didn’t want to do that,” he says, standing over me. From the way my face is jammed into the ground, I can see only the tops of his shoes. Their black leather surface is polished so brightly that my face is clearly visible. My eyes are pools of anger. The knee of the Diablo crushing between my shoulder blades is not helping matters. “Oh, well,” he murmurs. “Take them onto the ship!”

I am yanked to my feet and men on either side of me grab me by the crooks of my elbows and start to drag me forward. I see the dozens of Diablos carrying the rest of the Angels behind me. We leave the circle of light. It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to the darkness, but gradually, a gangway leading up to the hull of a massive cargo ship comes swimming into clarity. The footsteps of my captors change from heavy thuds to hollow echoes as we leave the concrete port floor and step onto the ramp.

I can feel the indentation of Carlos’s knuckles where he struck me in my forehead. The motherfucker has some zip to his fist. I am taken up a winding staircase, my ankles clanking painfully into every step, and brought out onto the top deck. All around me, containers in various shades of rust are stacked high, like a giant game of building blocks. I shudder to imagine what they might contain. Knowing the Diablos, it could be anything—prostitutes, drugs, weapons, or any of a million other things that might be used to inflict suffering on a mass scale.

We step into a fifty-yard square clearing in the midst of the boxes. The men holding me drop me on the floor against one long container and pat me down for weapons. They take a gun from each boot, another tucked along my calf. As each Angel is thrown next to me, they do the same, adding our armaments to a growing pile in the middle of the ship.

I look down the line. A few of the men look roughed up. Some have bloody gashes or welts rising on their faces. Others are coughing blood from vicious kicks to the abdomen. So far, we are not faring well. I hope to God our luck turns.

Carlos steps up onto the deck after the last of us have been stripped of weapons. His men assemble behind him, holding automatic rifles clutched against their chests. He walks over to the pile of confiscated weapons and plucks a knife from the top of it. Tossing it back and forth in his hands, he strolls towards where I am seated on the ground.

When he reaches me, he kneels down and presses the knife tip underneath my chin. It’s gentle at first, but as he stares me down, he presses harder and harder, until I can feel my skin split and a drop of blood well up against the length of steel.

“You brought quite a lot of weapons for a surrender,” he remarks.

“Can’t blame a man for trying,” I spit back. I hadn’t planned on him being so stupid as to let us break out in an open gunfight, but I need him to feel like he has the upper hand. It’s the only way this suicidal plan of mine has any chance of succeeding.

He smiles palely and stands. “Where are the keys?” he asks the men who patted me down. One of them steps forward and hands him the key ring they’d snatched from my pocket. Carlos tosses it up and down in his palm. The crash of waves against the ship is a low rumble in the background.

“Where are they?” I ask hoarsely. “Where are Mortar and Steezy?”

Carlos nods. “You’re right. They should be here, too.” He turns and gestures to a man standing by the staircase we’d come up. The Diablo disappears for a moment. We hear groans and clanking from below, then he re-emerges with two men in tow.

I breathe a sigh of relief. Mortar and Steezy are alive—for now, at least. They look pretty banged-up, though. Steezy is limping and Mortar winces whenever he puts weight on his left leg. It takes them several long minutes to hobble their way to where we are sitting. The Diablos surrounding them shove them to a seat beside me.

“Hey, boss,” I say to Mortar. “Hey, Steez.” They smile back sadly. “I fucked up, guys. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry.” Mortar grimaces. “Mistakes happen. I made plenty.”

Steezy nods in agreement.

We turn to face Carlos. “Now what?” I ask him.

“Now, unfortunately,” he replies, “is the finish line. This is how your world ends. Not with a bang, but with a whimper.” His face is devoid of expression as he raises an arm and points at the youngest prospect, a skinny, shivering boy of fifteen. He’s so green that the ink on his winged skull must still be fresh. I want so badly to look away, but I force myself to watch. I owe him that much.

Two Diablos step forward and pick him up roughly by the arms. They carry him over to the edge of the ship. All eyes are riveted on them. Carlos follows a few yards behind. They stand the boy facing out into the dark ocean. The railing is low, just below his knees.

Carlos pulls a gun from his belt. He squares up behind the boy, raises it, aims at the back of his head, and pulls the trigger. A sharp report pierces the air. Blood sprays. The boy crumples limply over the side of the ship and vanishes from our view.

I nearly vomit at the sight. I’ve seen men die in some horrible fucking ways. But this is too cold. Too brutal. Not a shred of fucking humanity in sight. That prospect was barely more than a child. I look at Mortar next to me. He’s unreadable, but Steezy’s face on the other side is a wrenched mask of tortured emotion.

I see something break the uniform outline of the stack of containers. Just above the uppermost edge, a man’s head and shoulders pop up, then duck back down. Boulder. Right on time.

“Next,” Carlos says coolly as he checks the clip in the gun. Two Diablos grab Sliver and jerk him to his feet. They start to drag him towards the same spot, when suddenly all hell breaks loose.

I feel it before I hear it. It’s like the rumble before a belch, this sub-sonic tickle that quickly escalates into something magnitudes more powerful. A wave of hot air ripples past my face. The Diablos turn to look at the containers behind them. One, a dark blue crate, bulges outwards for the briefest of moments. Then it explodes.

The boom is deafening. Fire and shards of steel erupt in a thousand directions at once. The Diablos who’d been standing between us and the explosion take the brunt of the damage from the flying debris. I see at least a dozen of them drop to the ground screaming as molten steel eats through their clothing and flesh, turning the black garments into puddles of searing pain.

I don’t waste time to do my own part. Squeezing my fists, I flex my forearms as hard as I can. A spring-loaded steel blade fires out along each wrist. A little trick picked up from Steezy. I use the serrated edge to slice through my bindings and free my hands. I leap to my feet. Two Diablos directly ahead turn back from the explosion and see me rising upwards. They start to lower their weapons towards me, but I’m too fast. I dive towards them, taking down one with each arm. We hit the floor with a grunt. Rolling over one, I grab his gun and fire two quick bursts. The bastards stop moving.

All around me, steel is sizzling. The container must have held clothing or something else flammable, because mounds of burning clothes writhing with flames are scattered across the deck. Smoke fills the air, cloying and stinging, but I fight through. I spin around to see a Diablo charging at me with a knife. Ducking, I use his momentum to roll him over my shoulders and send him flying into an open flame. I fire another round into his body to be sure he is dead.

Most of the Diablos are running for cover. Turning back to face where my men are all fighting to regain their feet, I see Mortar headbutt one viciously, taking him down despite his hands still being tied behind his back. Steezy sweeps the legs out from underneath another, then delivers a savage heel straight down into his nose. Everywhere, Angels are grabbling with Diablos. Some have managed to free their hands, while others are making do with tripping the Diablos into the raging fires.

Behind Steezy, a Diablo points his gun. A one millimeter twitch of his finger and Steezy will be dead with a bullet lodged in his brain. I roar, “No!” and try to intervene, but I’m too late.