Saving Marvel (Satan's Devils MC Second Generation Book 4), page 1
Satan’s Devils MC - Next Generation Book #4
Manda Mellett
Contents
Production Acknowledgments
Satan’s Devils
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Acknowledgments and Author’s Note
Other Works by Manda Mellett
Stay in Touch
About the Author
Copyright
Published 2022 by Trish Haill Associates
Copyright © Manda Mellett
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book reviews.
www.mandamellett.com
Disclaimer
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Warning
This book is dark in places and contains content of a sexual, abusive and violent nature. It may not be suitable for persons under the age of 18.
Production Acknowledgments
Cover Design by Wicked Smart Designs
Edited and formatted by Maggie Kern @ Ms.K Edits
Proof reading by Darlene Tallman
Photographer: Golden Czermak of Furious Fotog
Model: Lovett Taylor
Chapter One
Marvel…
Fuck my life.
Inching forward in the line, I fidget, shifting my weight from right to left, idly thumbing through the keys in my pocket, wondering why the hell in this age of plastic and smart phones, anyone bothers with cash. For the life of me, I can see no good reason unless you’re a biker and prefer to leave no paper trail behind. Looking around at the other customers, I appear to be the only member of the motorcycling fraternity, so I’ve fuck all idea what their excuses are.
I’m not even here on my own behalf. I’m here to get the float for Angels, the strip club that’s owned by the Satan’s Devils MC. Normally it would be a prospect’s job to collect the cash so the bar can make change, but today Wizard has got all three of them on other duties, so it’s fallen to me.
After all these years, I still snap to attention when my prez asks me to do him a favour. Though I might have put up more resistance had I realised how slow and boring it would be. I’d expected it would take no more than a couple of minutes.
Fuck my life.
Jostled from behind, I turn sharply to see an elderly woman, so intent on searching for something in her bag, she’d unwittingly shoved up against me. I give her my best frown.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” she offers, smartly taking a step back, only to then collide with the man to her rear, necessitating another apology.
Turning to face the front again, I roll my eyes. As I do, I note the little old lady at the front of the line, finally, completes her transaction, and hurries away with a look of relief. I sigh. One down, another ten to go, and then it will be my turn.
Why the fuck don’t they have more tellers working? I’ve got things to do, places to be. My fingers tap against my cut impatiently.
For want of something better to do, I turn my head again, noticing the growing line that’s formed since I’ve come in. I catch the eye of a man who’s just entered, who, on seeing the number of people ahead of him, looks about as disgruntled as I feel. Our eyes catch and we share a moment.
Then something about the man behind him draws my attention, and my senses go on high alert.
I’m a biker in a one-percenter club. Though we don’t often step over the line into illegality, I sure can recognise a criminal when I see one, or at least recognise someone equally as dodgy as me. My eyes narrow as I note he’s shielding his face behind a bandanna and lowers his chin as if he doesn’t want even his eyes to be seen.
My hackles might rise, but as I’m here on a legitimate purpose, there’s nothing to say he’s not doing something similar. Or maybe he’s here to launder some money, in which case, it’s none of my business. I evaluate the threat, dismiss it, then automatically take another step forward when the next customer is seen.
The cashier seems one of those pleasant types that likes to make conversation. I don’t hear much, though a comment about the damn security cameras not working again catches my attention. Doesn’t bother me none except to muse that the less pictures there are of me around, the happier I am.
The customer, who seems to be a friend of hers jokingly replies that it’s a perfect time for a robbery, making me roll my eyes. Yeah, if only it was that easy.
She goes, and another customer steps forward to fill the gap. While I move from foot to foot with impatience, I tell myself that at least I’m getting closer.
After a middle-aged man in a suit that’s definitely off the rack completes his business relatively swiftly, another man steps up. Now him, I can’t see much of as his hoodie is pulled up over his head. Is that allowed? But hell, the cashiers must know what they’re doing. Disinterested in anything other than how quickly he’ll conduct whatever he’s here for, I strain my ears to hear his request, hoping it’s something simple and he’ll be served fast.
My attitude changes when abruptly he moves his hand under his hoodie, and it reappears with a gun. For a moment, I’m frozen in shock.
“Everyone down! Hands on your heads!” That loud shout comes from behind me. I don’t have to look to know it’s from the man I’d already identified as being someone I perhaps should have been keeping my eye on and not so quick to dismiss.
Oh shit. My day just got worse. I’m in the middle of a fucking bank heist, and one which certainly won’t benefit me.
“Get down. Now. On the floor.”
Some customers have already dropped to the ground, others are looking around in disbelief. When I spy the gun being waved erratically, that’s enough for me. I’m no fucking hero. I fall to my knees.
A few customers are bunching together as if there’s safety in a group. Women are screaming. One, with a stroller, clasps her hands together and begs them to just let her and her kid go free.
Bank robberies always seem organised on television shows, but this is utter bedlam. The robbers yell, swear, and wave their weapons—semis—I notice. In the confusion, I catch movement out of the side of my eye. The door just to the right of me, bearing a large sign stating Loans, is opening. Seeming with complete disregard to his own safety, a bank employee rushes out.
“What’s going on?” the newcomer shouts, though he’d have to be blind to misread the situation.
“On your fuckin’ knees,” Robber two at the back of the line yells, while Robber one continues his discussion with the cashier. I notice no one’s come in behind the second man, so guess he must have bolted the door to the outside. “No one has to get hurt. Give us what we want, and we’ll leave.”
Jesus, I’m trapped, and have just become a hostage. I try to assess whether these men are seasoned professionals or desperate down-on-their-lucks with nothing left to lose, or perhaps in a drug-induced high, thinking it’s easy to liberate money from a bank. But knowing probably wouldn’t make any difference as to the danger I’ve found myself in. Whatever their motive or driving force, the end will be much the same, and I suspect it will be one I don’t like. When bullets fly, they don’t much care what they hit.
If any of my brothers were with me, I wouldn’t do what I decide to do next. But I’m surrounded by civilians all unknown to me, so my sense of self-preservation takes precedence. I’ve clocked the door from where the loans manager—or whoever he is—had emerged has been left ajar. Taking advantage of the confusion, I leopard crawl slowly in that direction. I’m almost there when a shot is fired, making me automatically cover my head.
“He shot the cashier!” someone screams, the words repeated, then lost in the cacophony of panic.
Fuck no. There’s no way now for this to end cleanly. I start moving again, making it through the doorway, apparently unseen. People are yelling and shouting, and the gunmen are trying to make themselves heard.
Crossing the threshold, I take the risk of closing the door behind me. Then I lean against it, my ear to the wood, listening carefully. No one shouts an alarm or yells that someone’s missing. I appear to have got away free.
Still not liking the odds of my escape being a success—there’s no windo
But when I go behind to crouch down under its shelter, I notice someone’s gotten there before me. For a second, I’m not sure who’s the most shocked. Me, or the female who’s shaking like a leaf and opening her mouth to scream.
Quick as a flash, my hand is over her lips. I lean down and whisper fast, “I’m not one of them, okay? I’m just a fuckin’ customer keeping my head down, same as you.”
She gulps, her eyes fixed on my cut. I resist the urge to roll my eyes as I know how this goes. I’ve been a Satan’s Devil for the best part of thirty years—twenty-five of those riding with the Tucson club. The colours I wear have the effect of making civilians shit their pants, even though they’ve nothing to fear from us, unless they do us harm first.
Knowing my patches mean there’s need for more reassurance, I give her the reason for my presence, hoping to prove my legitimacy. “I’m here to pick up the float for one of our clubs. I’m not one of the assholes trying to rob the bank.” I pause and examine her face. She doesn’t exactly relax, but the small dip of her head suggests she’s inclined to believe me. I prepare to take the risk, but make sure I warn her first. “Now I’m going to remove my hand, okay? If you scream, they’ll come in. And if they do, we’re both probably dead.”
Her eyes widen in horror, but also in acknowledgment. This time, when she gives a more defined nod, I believe I’ve got my message across. I remove my hand, then when she speaks, slam it down again.
“Quietly,” I snap, my eyes homing in on her for a second, before I raise my fingers again.
Now she says, so softly I can barely hear, “What’s going on out there?”
“I’ll be fucked if I know.” My voice is just a murmur. “Two punks, as far as I can tell, both armed. They’ve already fucked it up. They shot the cashier.”
As she gasps, there’s another shot and a barrage of screams. It makes her squeak and automatically clutch at me as if I could possibly keep her safe.
There’s no reason to explain my instinctive reaction to hold her close. Maybe it’s the realisation that the thieves won’t be getting away with this, and very possibly, I’ll end up being collateral damage, along with the woman who’s found her way into my arms.
If these men are professionals, I’ll eat my hat. If there was ever a plan, they can’t be sticking to it. I certainly hadn’t envisaged this, when I’d rolled out of my bed this morning, as the day or manner of my death.
But I don’t have long to ponder whether holding her is the right thing to do. As if scalded, she pulls back as fast as she clung to me in the first place. Twin spots of red appear on her face.
I get it, lady. But it’s okay. I haven’t got fleas.
Sliding my phone out of my cut, I wonder what call to make. I suspect even if the cashier hadn’t gotten to a panic button, the shots will have been reported and the alarm already raised. Not to mention the bank’s doors being locked in the middle of the day should raise a few red flags.
I could call the club. But rescuing me and the other customers is probably best done by a SWAT team.
Shaking my head, I do something I wouldn’t normally do. I call 911 and ask to be connected to the cops.
“My name’s…” for a second I hesitate, not wanting to muddy the waters by giving my road name and having to summon up the one giving to me at birth from the depths of my brain, “Cash Johnson. I’m at the Sunrise Bank on Fifth. There’s a robbery in progress.”
“Could you speak up, please? I can’t hear you very well.” The tapping on their end sounds overly loud. I press the phone close to my ear to suppress it.
“No, I can’t fuckin’ speak up,” I growl. “We’re in a side room, hiding under the desk. The assholes don’t know we’re here. Or not yet.”
“Please hold the line a moment.”
I do, only hearing air for almost the sixty seconds promised, then another voice comes on. This one is more authoritative. “Mr Johnson, we’re already aware there’s an incident. Could you tell me what’s going on?”
“There are two robbers.” I think again, remembering the man behind the woman who’d knocked into me. Had he looked shifty, or am I now seeing things? “Maybe three.” It doesn’t hurt to warm him. “They’ve got Glocks from what I could see.” I pause, then add, “The cashier was shot. I’ve no idea how bad she was hit. And since I’ve been hidden, there’s been one more shot.”
“How many customers are there in the bank?” he asks sharply.
I do the quick math in my head. “A dozen in the bank lobby, perhaps. Then there’s me and this lady I’m hiding out with.”
“The lady with you, is she hurt?”
I glance down and see her, having overheard, shaking her head. I make my own assessment. “Scared out of her wits. What do you fuckin’ expect?”
There’s a space where I think he’s updating someone. Next, he asks, “Do you by any chance ride with the Satan’s Devils MC, Mr Johnson?”
What the fuck? “Why are you asking?”
“There’s a motorcycle parked outside, registered to one Cash Johnson. We’ve got you listed as a member of that gang.”
I snarl, “We’re not a fuckin’ gang. We ride motorcycles. You’re not pinning this on the club.”
The woman grabs at me and places her finger to her lips, as if sensing my rage and worrying I’m going to raise my voice. Giving her a chin lift, I try to get a better rein on my temper. “Yeah, I ride with the MC, but I’m here as an innocent bystander. I was here to pick up the float for the Angels.”
“Okay, Mr Johnson—”
There’s no point him calling me a name I barely recognise now. “Marvel,” I correct him. “Call me Marvel.”
“Marvel,” he breathes. The way he says it makes me think he’s having to take time to adjust from thinking of me as a criminal to me as a victim instead. I gather from his tone, he’s not entirely made his mind up as yet when he enquires, “And who’s the lady with you?”
“I’ve no fuckin’ idea. I’ll have to ask.” I cover the phone and direct my question downward. “He wants to know your name.”
“Why? To write it on my tombstone?” she whispers drily.
I huff a quiet laugh. “No one is dying today,” I tell her confidently, while wondering what the chances are of us staying alive. Seems to me, the robbers have got nothing to lose. Murdering more people won’t make much difference to whatever their rap sheet will say after today’s events.
The roll of her eyes shows me she’s caught me out in my lie, but then she bites her lip and confides almost reluctantly, “I’m Virginia Case.”
Turning back to the phone, I repeat the name.
“Right. I’m Officer Wilkins. I’ll be your liaison. It’s useful having eyes inside the bank—for some reason the security cameras aren’t working.”
“Can’t see much from in here,” I tell him sharply. “And I’m not going to expose myself to do your job.” If he wants a spy, that’s not going to be me. This is as far as I’ll go in helping the fucking law. I remember then what the cashier had said about the cameras being down. She hadn’t seemed particularly worried as though it wasn’t an unusual occurrence. Now it occurs to be it was far more deliberate, and the robbers more organised than perhaps I’d given them credit for.
I hear a sigh. “I understand. But whatever you can hear could be useful. Put your phone on silent. If anything happens, call me on the direct number I’ll text you.”
