Raw Deal (Steel Veins Book 3), page 15
The gunshots sounded like a fireworks display and continued for far too long.
Actually, I was glad I didn't see it. That was one bloodbath I could afford to miss.
As I was about to start the bike back up, my phone began to vibrate. It was Double D.
My stomach began to churn. With everything else going on, I'd forgotten all about him and the rest of my chapter. My heart sank at the realization. Of all the people to get killed or captured, those motherfuckers topped the list.
They should've been at the farm.
“Hey, Pres.” I buried my concern and anger under layers of practiced dark casualness. “What’s up?”
“Cowboy, Cowboy, Cowboy.” The name leaked from Double D's lips like the steady drip of venom from a viper's fang. I felt the slightest crack run along my stone-cold biker facade. “Turns out you weren't completely honest with us, brother.”
I stayed quiet. I had no idea how to respond. The cracks in my cover, my armor, deepened and spiderwebbed. My mind raced with the agonizing possibilities. Was I made? Did they somehow finally figure it out?
Then again, did it really matter if they had?
I didn't have to play pretend anymore.
It would be so damned easy to hang up and walk away, but something nagged at me to stay on the phone.
“For a guy who's good with a quick story or joke, you're awful quiet.” His voice was thick with the superiority of certainty. Double D was a bulldog; once he got his teeth into a target, there was no prying them apart. If he wanted blood, which he so often did, he would get it.
A wide, sharp smile split my face. He had no idea what just happened to the rest of the club. While I reveled over exactly how I was going to give him the news, he continued.
“That's fine. We have a new storyteller now. Don't we?” He sneered. “Say hi, pumpkin.”
Pumpkin? I didn't have to contemplate who he meant for long.
There was a whispered, defiant “No” in the background. A short, stubborn silence followed that was broken only by a slap, then finally a scream.
I knew instantly that it was Elisha. Any satisfaction I had building was immediately dashed.
The thought of not going after her never made it past my subconscious. It was just the opposite—I'd never been surer of anything in my entire life. The sun would rise, the moon would glow, and I would find her.
If that meant leaving a wake of bodies in my path, then so be it.
I'd spent hundreds of thousands of words over the course of two years building and maintaining my biker persona. It only took one to tear it all down.
“Where?” The word escaped me not as a question, but as a hard, unyielding demand.
I heard an amused laugh on the other end of the line. By owning up to it, or even caring about the owner of the scream, I'd basically admitted what he’d already assumed. Now they knew beyond doubt that I was the rat.
“The carnival at San Andino.” The amusement drained from my former pres's voice. All that was left was a tone that promised nothing but violence. “Two hours. And don't bring any of your new federal friends with you.”
That last part wouldn’t be a problem. I doubted Harris would even answer my calls at the moment.
When Double D started oinking, I ended the call.
I scoffed, pulling up my recently dialed numbers. If Double D thought I wasn’t bringing help to what was obviously a trap, he was out of his fucking mind.
If this just involved me, I might have gone and met them alone, but this was Elisha who was in trouble. Egos aside, I wasn't going to take the chance.
Just before I made one last call, a terrible moment of hesitance struck me like a rock to the face.
Unless they were standing behind me, fuck ’em. The Broken Veins as an organization was being ripped to shreds right down the road. Double D and the rest of the chapter were nothing now. They were just some armed assholes who would be twisting in the wind without a support network. They had bigger problems than finding me now. Eventually they’d be forced into hiding from the Steel Veins wanting to clean them up.
And with no Broken Veins to inform on, I was technically free. At least until the FBI got around to giving a shit about me again.
Could I really throw everything away for a girl I’d literally just met, and whose last name I didn't even know?
The thought immediately made me feel nauseous.
So what if I didn't know her last name?
My whole life had been one compromise after another. I’d sold out my associates for the undercover deal just so I could sell out the Broken Veins to the FBI. All I'd ever done was keep myself alive, while never truly knowing why I should even bother. I drew breath strictly out of habit.
And sooner or later, I'd find a way to kick that habit too.
Elisha was just so damn different.
Going against the Broken Veins for any reason was insane, but she rose to face the insurmountable challenges head-on. It wasn't just because of the money; she did it to prove to herself that she could. Even in the face of death, she refused to back down and give up.
Elisha was incredible in so many ways, and she gave me hope that I could be a better version of myself. If I had even the faintest glimmer of a chance to save her, I had to take it.
To hell with the man I’d always been. It was time to be better than that.
“It can be incredibly rewarding to do the right things for the right reasons.” Elisha's voice cooed in my mind, and I knew that this—that she—was worth fighting for.
I blew out my breath and dialed the number. Fuck the consequences.
Remy didn’t answer, of course, so I left a message explaining the situation and what I needed. This was another in a long line of gambits. For all I knew, Remy could be lying facedown on that farm, drowning on his own blood. No one might ever hear my message for help. It was also the only number I had, so I had to take it on faith that he’d not only survive but also come save my sorry ass. He had no reason to—it wasn’t part of our deal—but I swallowed my pride and begged anyway.
You’re not doing this for yourself, I reminded myself. It’s for Elisha.
I would go after her either way, but if I didn't have any help, it would be a token effort. It'd just be a way for Elisha and me to be killed together instead of being hunted down separately.
It was with her in mind that I stuffed my phone in my pocket and turned my bike on. I would rescue her and put the MC life behind me, or I’d die in the process. One way or another, this fake life I’d been living was over.
It felt amazing to have a worthwhile purpose again. She made me feel truly alive, and no force on earth could take that from me. Live or die, I would do so by her side. Funny, I’d always feared death, either at the hands of my club or in prison. Turned out what I was actually scared of wasn’t dying—it was dying for nothing.
Elisha's pearly, slightly crooked smile roared in my heart and mind like a raging bonfire. If I had to die now, it would be for something. With a steely resolve and my gaze locked dead ahead, I wasn't afraid anymore.
I twisted the throttle, and the bike sped off like it was fired from a gun. I was now the bullet aimed at Double D and the rest of my chapter.
Chapter Fifteen
Elisha
My ribs ached the worst. I had clipped them at full force on a door handle when the bikers dragged me from the hotel room. The raw image of the cleaning lady's blood splattered all over the food clung to me as I clung to the crazy notion of escape.
I needed to get away.
It was a waste of energy. The Broken Veins took me easily.
Aside from the poor woman's murder, the worst part of the abduction was all the averted eyes from people we passed. Bastards.
Customers, staff, everyone was too afraid to help. They just looked at the floor when the four burly bikers dragged me out of there. No one raised a voice to stop something so obviously wrong.
The hotel Mason and I stayed in wasn't a cheap, sketchy motel. It wasn't the kind of place that had five deadbolts behind the door and bars over the windows. It wasn't super nice either, but it had multiple floors, a pool, an exercise room, and even a concierge booth.
When we'd checked in, the normalcy and familiarity of it all made me feel safe. It was a time-out from all the mayhem and danger. It was like I’d pressed Pause on an action film to go to the bathroom and grab some more popcorn. Kenneth and I stayed at these kinds of places whenever we vacationed or traveled for work.
I'd never even heard of something like this ever happening. And yet here I was, my eyes desperately scanning everyone, anyone, hoping just one person would meet my gaze. That just one person of the dozens we passed would be brave enough to cry out or threaten to call the cops.
Anything!
No one did.
Those scared, weak bastards were too paralyzed and thankful that it wasn't happening to them. I was sure someone called the police, but we were long gone before they arrived. And from the way these devils drove, I knew no one would be able to catch up to us.
I didn't even know what was going on until they eventually stopped by the side of the road and called Mason. When I heard his voice faintly through the phone, it made my heart somersault. I never thought I'd see or hear from him again.
Most of the conversation was Double D's taunts and verbal stabs. It was only when all eyes fell back on me that I realized what my role here truly was. I was the bait in their twisted game. The whole concept repulsed me.
I wanted nothing more than to call out to him, scream his name. Mason, please help me! If I did, he would probably come.
That foolish hope burned like a coal furnace inside me. It was the same way my insides felt when he wrapped his arms around me. I was terrified of these men and what they would do. Care, concern, and safety were but words away; all I had to do was ask for them, and Mason would come.
How could I not cry out for him?
I immediately felt selfish and ashamed. His club knew the truth about him now. He would have to come alone and face off against four vicious criminals. How could even he survive that?
I narrowed my eyes. Breathing out, I shook my head. I refused to play their game.
I wouldn't call out for him if that meant watching him die. I couldn't bear that burden. I knew they were going to kill me regardless of if he showed up or not. As scared as I was, it was better to die cold and alone knowing I wasn't responsible for his death too.
This whole thing was my fault, after all. If I’d just let him go before we got to Carver, all of this would've been avoided. I didn’t know if it was pride or stubbornness, but I’d had a chance to walk away, and I didn't take it.
With a look from his pres, Ginge, the bearded, red-haired monster, tested my high ideals with a backhand. My lip split under the force of the blow. I held my breath, fighting back a whimper. I remained firm until the cherry tip of a cigarette surprised the side of my neck.
My own body betrayed me. I screamed, then slumped low.
“Where?” Mason's voice boomed like a thunder strike through the phone's receiver.
I should've rejoiced in knowing that he intended to come for me. Who wouldn't jump at the thought of rescue? But it only made my heart all the heavier. With that one act of weakness, I'd just signed his death warrant.
I’d failed him.
It was another long ride before we pulled into the derelict carnival at San Andino. Between despair and resignation, my head filled with curiosity. What could a carnival down here look like? I speculated that it might resemble some I'd been to when I was a child. Maybe there were people here who could help me.
I couldn't have been more wrong.
When the bike engines were all silenced, there was a moment of deathly calm. No one spoke; they just gazed at the carnival. The only sounds on the horizon were of the howling wind whipping over rusted metal and the groan of great wooden structures as they slightly swayed with dogged consistency.
I’d stepped from one twisted reality into another. The decaying bones of a long-since-abandoned amusement park haunted a small stretch of landscape that over decades was being reclaimed by nature.
It was a chilling sight.
We couldn't possibly be headed in there, could we? The danger of the situation was overtaken by a deep unsettling in my nerves. The hair on my arms stood on end. That was where Mason and I would die?
If there were ever a portal to Hell on this earth, I imagined it would look a lot like this.
“Spaz, stay here,” Double D barked. “Let us know when you hear movement.”
The Broken Veins’ pres was as unfazed as if he were stepping into the convenience store for snacks. If this sight was normal to them. How many other people had they dragged here?
“The fuck do I have to stay for?” Spaz protested. He was considerably more fazed.
“Don't be such a bitch.” Ginge flexed one massive arm and shoved Spaz with ease. It sent the scruffy rail of a man nearly toppling over. “It's not haunted, you fucking pussy. Besides, with Cowboy out, you're the new blood again.”
“Fuck you, you troll-looking motherfucker!” Spaz shot back, his hand sinking to his pistol.
Maybe they would kill each other and I could escape in the darkness and confusion.
That dream only lasted a few steps before someone's greasy hand wrapped around my arm and wrenched me backward.
“Enough fucking around. When you hear Cowboy's bike, give a call, then come meet us. Everyone else, let's go,” Double D growled. He dragged me into the park, under a weather-worn arch that, in faded, once-red letters, said ‘Welcome to Fantasy Zone!’
My head swam and my throat tightened with each new horror that was unveiled in the beams of the Broken Veins’ flashlights. Large plastic clown heads that wept paint and grime hung over near-collapsed game booths. Hideous dead-eyed faces smiled dumbly back at us at every turn.
Age, weather, and neglect had taken what was once probably innocent and cheesy and made it into the stuff of nightmares. At any moment I felt that something would come alive and swallow me whole.
I looked up at the moon for a sense of something familiar, something I could understand. Soon that too was broken by the few stubborn sections of a skeletal roller coaster that seemed to defy gravity. Its silhouette was easily the tallest thing in the park. It stood like a gravestone over a plot of rainbow-colored death.
My chest and throat became coarse, and a new worry began to strangle me. An asthma worry. I hadn't been able to bring my inhaler. If I had an attack right now, I might not survive long enough to even see Mason. Tears welled in my eyes at the grim thought.
“Where are you, Mason?” I said too softly for the bikers to hear. A gentle breeze almost stole the sound from my own ears. I needed to hear his name spoken aloud for it to feel real. The sandpaper in my throat subsided just a little at the comfort in his name. “Mason,” I whispered again.
We passed a carousel, an arcade station, and even a walled-in bumper cars ring before finally coming to a stop at the teacup ride. I was shoved into one of the filthy cups, unceremoniously landing on leaves and other dried matter. The back shell of the cup had large rotted-through holes in it. The thought of groping hands coming in from the pitch-blackness behind me was horrifying.
One of the bikers lifted a crate from another teacup. What they pulled out of it finally made me understand why we came here. Each man tucked away his pistol and grabbed an assault rifle. It looked like they were preparing for war, or a slaughter.
I felt even worse now about that scream earlier. How could Mason possibly hope to survive this? I prayed he wouldn't come after me.
Double D frowned at his watch.
Ginge decided to check on the biker they’d left behind. “Anything yet, fuckface?” he asked into his phone. A brief conversation later, Ginge shook his head at his pres and closed the phone. Growing frustrated, the fiery red-haired troll turned to me.
“Where the fuck is your rat boyfriend, bitch?” He kicked my teacup for added punctuation.
I jolted backward from the force of the blow, rusted metal crumbling down onto me in small sheets. Three sets of angry eyes fell on me, demanding answers.
I'd never felt so small.
A gunshot in the distance mercifully drew everyone's attention away from me. It got me worried though, especially when one shot became four or five.
Was that Mason?
The crushing thought of him not being all right ruined me. I scanned for any way I could possibly help him. I had to do something.
The only thing I saw that I might be able to reach was Double D's knife. It was in a sideways holster along the back of his belt. While they were distracted calling Spaz and scanning the dark landscape, I was slowly inching toward the knife handle.
“No answer. Weaselly fuck had one job.” Ginge looked gravely at his pres, who idly stepped just out of my reach. I jerked my arm away at the last second to avoid detection.
My breathing came in a torrent. What was I thinking? I didn't have any kind of plan after I got the knife. There were still three of them with guns. What the hell was I going to do with a measly knife?
The third biker, whose name I hadn't even learned, walked a dozen steps away and peered around the corner of some kind of ticket booth. He was flashing his light back toward the entrance, hoping to see some signs of movement. After a minute or so, he turned back to the group. “I don't see anything. Should we go back for—”
A gunshot split the air, cutting the man off. I didn't see where the biker was hit. All I saw was his flashlight flip out of his hand and smash against the ground, momentarily dimming with the impact.
He was highlighted a second later by the remaining two Broken Veins. The bullet had caught him in the jaw and blew open his throat. He was writhing from the pain, clutching the wound uselessly.
I had to turn away from the gore and the gurgling of the dying man. The only solace in my heart was that I knew he deserved it. They all did.
“Skip!” Ginge cried out, setting off after his friend. Double D took aim over Ginge's shoulder and shot the dying man in the head, dropping him instantly. “Fuck!” Ginge and I recoiled from the noise and the suddenness.
