Tank's Promise, page 1
Published by EVERNIGHT PUBLISHING ® at Smashwords
www.evernightpublishing.com
Copyright© 2023 Winter Sloane
ISBN: 978-0-3695-0759-4
Cover Artist: Jay Aheer
Editor: Lisa Petrocelli
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
WARNING: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.
This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and places are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
DEDICATION
To my readers, I hope you enjoy Tank and Tiffany’s story as much as I loved writing it.
TANK’S PROMISE
Ruthless Reapers MC, 6
Winter Sloane
Copyright © 2023
Chapter One
“You’re sure this is the place?” Marshall “Tank” Ramsey asked Brick, the vice president of the Ruthless Reapers MC.
Tank, like several of his MC brothers, had killed the engine of his Harley right in front of the old Tudor-style house. The place looked like it was on the verge of falling apart. A mild earthquake or storm could bring it easily down. It reminded Tank of a haunted house with its fading black and grey paint, missing roof tiles, and broken windows. Tank surveyed the rest of the property. Tall grass, overgrown bushes, vines, and dead oak trees only gave Tank a sense of abandonment.
“I’ll give Whizz a call,” Brick said. “If this isn’t it, then we’re moving on. Don’t get off your bikes yet.”
The vice president seemed to share the same doubts Tank harbored. Brick checked his phone again. Whizz was the MC’s resident hacker. Since Whizz never made an error before, Tank wondered if their informant made an error. Then again, they had been using the same informant for months and the guy’s info had always been legit. Tank frowned up at the house. It was too quiet here for his liking.
Tank expected resistance from the moment the guards saw their crew riding up the road to the rusted iron gates. Buried in the heart of the woods near a ghost town long abandoned after the mining deposits dried out, the property hadn’t been easy to find.
To his surprise, no guards were posted at the front. Tank thought maybe Black Dogs members would start firing at them after they entered the property. The lack of men and guns bothered him. Did this trip turn out to be a dud after all?
Disappointment set heavily inside Tank. After Tank’s visit to prison last week to see his dad, he’d been in a foul mood. Tank knew visiting his old man had been pointless but he did promise his ma on her death bed that he’d see his father in prison at least once a year.
Adding more salt to his wounds, Pansy, the club whore he’d been regularly hooking up with, had decided to move on. According to Pansy, she met a decent guy online and they decided to move in together. Tank didn’t do romance. Pansy and he agreed from the beginning there would be no strings attached between them.
After spending several nights alone, it occurred to Tank he disliked sleeping alone. Being a patched member of the MC ensured Tank would never want for company. Desperate and horny women flocked to him and his MC brothers all the time but after a decade of hook-ups and one-night stands, Tank felt empty. He found himself looking at his MC brothers who had found their old ladies.
Now wasn’t the time to be thinking about relationships, Tank reminded himself.
The MC had gotten word from a reliable source that this place was being used by another rival MC, the Black Dogs, as a stash house. The Black Dogs dealt in drugs and women. Tank and the others expected to ride in, guns blazing. The Ruthless Reapers always had an uneasy relationship with the Black Dogs. Their two groups had clashed numerous times in the past but they were never officially at war with each other.
The Reapers had formed numerous alliances with other groups over the years but they had twice the number of enemies. When it came to the Black Dogs, they were at a stalemate. Everything changed when the Black Dogs set two of their warehouses ablaze a week ago.
Whizz estimated a loss of close to a million dollars in profit. Their merchandise had been nuked, which meant shipment delays and unhappy customers. With their club’s reputation at stake, they had no choice but to retaliate. Hitting one of the Black Dogs’ precious stash houses had been a good plan, except this seemed like a dud from the start.
Brick just got off from his phone call to Whizz.
“There’s been no mistake, according to Whizz and his source. Since we’re here, we might as well scope the place out,” Brick said. “We’ll divide ourselves into four teams. Let’s wrap up this job quickly, boys. At the same time, don’t let your guard down.”
Tank had been partnered with Gunner, which was a relief. Gunner and he went way back. The senior MC member had been the one who recruited Tank to the MC ten years ago. Back then, Tank had been a twenty-year-old kid who had no money and no place to go.
“This is a waste of time,” Gunner grumbled.
They entered the house last. One team went to check upstairs. Brick and Razor checked the rest of the grounds. The smell of cold and rot filled his nose. Tank coughed. Another awful smell seemed to be permeating from the back of the house. The two of them were responsible for checking the first floor and possibly the basement, if the house had one. Tank had a feeling it did, given the creepy vibes this place was giving him.
Despite Gunner’s initial complaint, Gunner took out his gun. Tank did the same, because it never hurt to be extra careful.
“Disgusting,” Tank commented when they entered the kitchen, the source of the rotting food smell.
“Gunner,” Tank said, nodding to the trash can by the stove. He kept his voice low. Gunner followed his gaze, then frowned when he caught sight of the discarded pizza box in the trash. No mold on the crusts yet. Tank also spied several beer cans in there. Could be nothing. A squatter or two might’ve decided to take refuge here, but Tank’s gut told him it was something else.
“Should we tell the others?” Tank asked. Gunner pressed a finger to his lips.
Tank quieted, wondering if Gunner saw or heard something. Then Tank picked up the sound. A low moan. Not a ghost but the sound of someone hurt, possibly tortured. They started investigating the kitchen. Tank pressed his ear to the pantry door. He thought he heard a whimper. Tank could also feel damp air tickling his face. Why did he have to be right about there being a basement?
“Gunner,” he whispered.
He tried the knob. It wasn’t locked. The door swung open. Tank gritted his teeth as the hinges creaked. Tank and Gunner looked into the darkness. Tank could see an outline of stairs.
“Whizz and that informant might be right on the money after all,” Gunner said. “Before we head down, let me send Brick a quick text.”
While Gunner did that, Tank returned to a drawer he left opened. He remembered seeing a couple of flashlights in there when he and Gunner rummaged through the kitchen earlier. Tank tested if the flashlights were working. Both were, so he handed one to Gunner.
“Good work,” Gunner said. “Be my guest.”
Tank rolled his eyes and shone his light down the steep flight of stairs. He started down the passage, trying to remain as quiet as possible. The basement smelled dank and moldy, three times worse than the first floor.
When the stairs ended and Tank was standing on a slick, granite floor, he looked around the space, surprised to find himself in some kind of corridor. Multiple doors looked back at him and Gunner. His stomach sank. They both hadn’t imagined the sounds earlier. A shrill scream came from the closest door. A woman moaned, not in excitement but in pain.
“Shit,” Gunner said under his breath. “You know what this is?”
“I do,” Tank said, keeping his voice low. They both did. It was common knowledge the Black Dogs ventured into territory the Reapers would never touch—human trafficking. He wondered which sick fuck was responsible for constructing this homemade dungeon. The prisoner in the first door let out another scream.
“Shut the hell up!” came a male voice from one of the rooms.
Gunner and Tank traded a look. That didn’t sound like a captive. There were no other occupants in the house, only this guy. Was he the jailer? Why just one man?
Tank had to assume the people in these homemade cells weren’t important enough and the Black Dogs only left one guard. Flawed merchandise they couldn’t sell perhaps? Then again, this house was in the middle of nowhere, in a place no one would have thought to look.
The Black Dogs probably selected victims who wouldn’t be missed. Would anyone even remember these victims once they’d passed? Tank shook his head in disgust. Anger steadily built inside him. Tank couldn’t—wouldn’tstand for this shit.
“Tank, wait,” Gunner hissed when Tank strode forward.
He ignored the caution in Gunner’s voice. Tank didn’t care if there were more enemies. This scum had to die. He walked past all the doors, tuning out the horrible noises from within. Gunner and the others would ensure every single victim in his hell house would be freed. Tank noticed the last door in the back had been unlocked, the door ajar.
“Be good. Don’t make this hard for yourself,” said a creepy male voice.
Tank kicked the door all the way open and pointed his gun at the back of the bastard’s bald head.
Chapter Two
Tiffany Patterson
Screw him. Tiffany saw what Gary had considered clothes. One time, Gary had forgotten to close her cell after he was done with her. The greedy bastard opened the door to the room opposite hers. She’d seen the brown rags the woman there had been wearing. Revealing rags. That was what good behavior would earn her? No, thanks.
Tiffany let out a bitter laugh that soon turned into a coughing fit. She spat out a wad of phlegm, the motion making the chain to her ankle jingle. She drew her knees to her chest, shivering.
Was she dying? Tiffany certainly knew she was sick. Apart from the terrible cough, she was also feverish. Maybe in a couple of days, death would finally claim her. This entire nightmare would be over. She didn’t know how long she’d been here. Heck, Tiffany was starting to believe life before her imprisonment had just been a figment of her imagination.
She’d been a waitress in a small town she’d lived in her entire life. Tiffany remembered that at least. Both her parents had died while the three of them were driving from her high school graduation, leaving Tiffany the only survivor.
Tiffany had no one. That was one of the reasons Finn took her. Finn. Just the thought of the deceitful biker filled her with rage. Anger was good. It fed her even when she was physically starving. Finn had been charming and handsome. A false prince who made her promises that were too good to be true.
Her coworker Cathy warned her it was dangerous hanging around a Black Dogs MC member. That MC was bad news, Cathy claimed. Tiffany had dismissed Cathy’s advice, thinking the other woman was simply jealous. Finn was gorgeous, after all.
Tiffany had only one boyfriend before Finn. Heck, she never had a serious relationship until Finn, and she liked the idea of falling for a bad boy.
She had leaned into the romance novels she devoured during her free time. Books had always been her sanctuary. They saved her when she’d been drowning in grief after the death of her parents. Tiffany thought she could be the heroine in her own story, that Finn would give her the happy ending she wanted. That way, she no longer needed to rely on books to escape.
She’d been a fool for trusting Finn. Tiffany had given her body and heart to him. How naive she’d been. In the end, Finn had only viewed her as potential merchandise, and a failed one at that. Tiffany had fought Finn and the men who thought they could make use of her with all her might. They deemed her too difficult, a waste of time and resources.
In the end, Finn dumped her here. In this little prison where all the broken and defective dolls were sent. Sometimes, Gary would lead strangers in here so he could make extra money on the side.
Mostly, those sent here, died here. Tiffany knew she’d never taste freedom again. She rested her head against the cool concrete and stared at the single light bulb hanging from the ceiling. There weren’t any windows in her cell. During the days she let her mind drift so she could forget what was being done to her, she started picturing herself standing in a grassy field, gazing at the blue sky above. Maybe when she drifted off to sleep this time, she wouldn’t wake up anymore. Tiffany’s soul would leave her broken body and she’d be sent to the afterlife. She wouldn’t mind that. After all, Tiffany didn’t have a reason to live.
Hearing the jingle of keys and Gary’s familiar footsteps took her out of her daydream.
“Don’t enter my cell. Choose someone else,” she whispered.
Tiffany knew if Gary chose another victim, at least it wouldn’t be her. She cringed, hearing herself think that way. She always prided herself on being a decent person. It was their fault they turned her into this broken mess, this awful creature she couldn’t recognize anymore. All the good parts of her had died.
Gary started to hum a lewd tune under his breath. The sound of his footsteps grew closer, as did his keys. Tiffany had a feeling he purposely shook those keys, knowing his prisoners would dread his arrival. A lock clicked and the door to her cell opened, revealing a balding, heavyset man in his early forties. Gary beamed down at her, flashing her a mouthful of yellowing teeth.
Depression and dread clawed at her insides. Tiffany just wanted to get this done and over with.
“How are you doing, number 54?” Gary asked her. “Not so glad to see me?”
A few days ago—or was it weeks? Tiffany had lost track of time—she would’ve reminded Gary she had a name, not a number. Now, all the fight left Tiffany’s body. She stared up at Gary with lifeless eyes. When she realized she was the fifty-fourth victim thrown in here, she’d been horrified, because it meant the Black Dogs had gotten away with this for so long. Tiffany once asked Finn why he’d done this to her.
“Because I can. Let this be a lesson to you, Tiffany. You’re weak and powerless. I’m the opposite. In this world, it’s survival of the fittest,” Finn said after tossing her in this cell and turning his back on her.
That was the last time she saw Finn. Was he scouting for a new victim, a fool like Tiffany, who trusted far too easily? Maybe Finn had already found a new mark. Could anyone put a stop to him and his MC?
“Where’s that sharp tongue?” Gary asked. The jailer squatted in front of her, squinting at her. “You’re not going to last long, are you? Might as well get one last use of you.”
Tiffany thought she imagined the large shadow of a hulking beast approaching Gary. Gary started undoing his pants. Usually, Tiffany would allow her mind to drift into one of her old romance stories, but not today. Her gaze remained fixed on the new element in her cell. The shadow took physical form. Was Tiffany hallucinating?
A towering giant of a man stood behind Gary, who was cursing because his underwear got caught in the zipper of his pants. Like this, Gary looked pathetic and vulnerable. Tiffany had tried escaping before but that only earned her punishments she didn’t want to relive.
Tiffany opened her mouth, then shut it, refusing to cry out and somehow alert Gary that there was a demon behind him. Tiffany sucked in a breath as the intruder pointed a gun to the back of Gary’s bald head. He didn’t hesitate, he simply fired. Tiffany let out a scream as blood splattered her face and some parts of her body. Gary toppled forward and she scrambled backward, far from the corpse. Tiffany’s heartbeats thundered as the man finally looked at her.
He was handsome, in a rough sort of way, she thought distractedly. Built like a linebacker, Gary’s killer had short dark-gold hair and merciless black eyes that sent chills down her spine. Underneath his leather cut, she spied hard muscle and ink. The patch on his shoulder wasn’t the Black Dogs MC but that of another MC.
Half of her still couldn’t process what just happened—that Gary, her most hated tormentor, was finally dead. Tiffany had no delusions that this biker was here to save her. Destiny wasn’t generous or kind, simply cruel and unfair.
Finn had been a part of something evil. It wouldn’t surprise her if this man was exactly like Finn, but she didn’t think so, not when those black eyes had shifted from hatred to pity. She started using her blanket to clean Gary’s blood off her face and body but she couldn’t seem to wipe the blood off properly.
“Here,” the biker said. He handed her a white, pristine handkerchief with a letter T embroidered on it. Did he think she was a fool? No one in this world gave gifts freely. Tiffany shook her head.
He spoke again, “It’s okay, I’m not here to hurt you. Hell, no one’s going to touch a single hair on that beautiful head of yours ever again.”
Finn had called her beautiful too, but Finn was a skilled liar. This man could be the same. Tiffany stayed where she was and didn’t make another move.
The biker dropped the handkerchief in front of her, not because he was disgusted by the sight of her, Tiffany realized. He was giving her some space. Could he be different after all? Hope surfaced for the first time in a long while, but Tiffany distrusted that emotion. If she clung to it, she’d only end up disappointed and crushed.
