The Nomad Series-Collectors Edition

by Janine Infante Bosco

  “Yo,” Riggs calls, dragging me away from my observations. “Have you tried the sausage and peppers? They’re fucking incredible,” he says, shoving another forkful into his mouth. Chewing, he readjusts the party hat on top of his head before offering to make me a plate. Grabbing a clean dish, he doesn’t wait for me to respond and starts piling up the food.

  While I wait I glance around the house, taking in all the faces—new and old, and wonder if this was the vision my father had in mind for the club when he was the one holding the gavel. Probably not.

  If it had been, then he wouldn’t have let my mother walk out of his life. Like Riggs’ young son is here today, I would’ve been present at all club gatherings too. I wouldn’t be hiding my identity from these people.

  “Jesus Christ,” Blackie growls, pushing his girl, Lacey, off his lap. Startled, she follows him out of the kitchen and I notice the room start to clear. Wolf bellows from outside the house and everyone becomes on high alert.

  “What’s going on?” I ask Riggs. Unfazed by the commotion, he offers me the plate and shrugs his shoulders. “Fuck it, more for us.”

  “Sounds like there’s a problem,” I tell him, setting the plate on the counter. Curiously, I wheel myself toward the window, push the curtains aside and stare out the window. Spotting an SUV parked haphazardly on the lawn, I turn my attention to the people standing beside it. Deuce looks like he’s ready to spit fire and the pretty woman next to him looks as if she’s seen a ghost. The club crowds around the couple as a black Maserati pulls into the driveway. Three men step out of the overpriced car, all dressed immaculately.

  “Great, fancy pants is here,” Riggs mutters. Lifting my head, I eye him as he keeps his gaze pinned to the scene playing outside the window and shoves some more food into his mouth.

  “Who?”

  “Rocco,” he supplies. Peeling his eyes away, he tosses the rest of his food into the trash and rubs a hand over his flat stomach. “Better leave room for dessert,” he says. “Rocco brings the drama but, he also brings the best cannoli’s.”

  Turning my attention back to the window, I watch the women huddle around the girl with Deuce. They lead her to the house and Deuce starts shouting at everyone.

  “Shit,” Riggs hisses. “How much did you miss the mayhem?” he questions, straightening the party hat on top of his head. While it’s clear Riggs has had his fill of the club drama, I haven’t even begun to get mine. I’ve been locked away for too long. Like a starved man, I lift my head and meet his bored expression.

  “Bring it,” I reply.

  Gripping the push handles of my chair he nods in understanding. Pushing me through the kitchen, he picks up speed and dashes into the living room. The fucking guy can’t steer for shit and I nearly topple forward.

  “Coming through,” Riggs calls. I hold on tight as he zooms around the couch. “Dude, we’re going to go off-hill with this thing later,” he adds before coming to an abrupt stop. In true Riggs fashion, he commands the attention of everyone in the room. “Whoa, why all the sourpuss faces?”

  “Not now, Riggs,” Blackie warns.

  Regaining control of my equilibrium, I look at Deuce. The last time he visited me we fought. Now, I can’t recall much of the shit we said to one another. All I remember is it being ugly and him leaving.

  “Welcome home,” he says hoarsely.

  “Thanks,” I reply, putting the brakes on my chair. Sweeping my eyes around the room, I take in all the sullen faces before angling my head and lifting an eyebrow toward him. “But, something tells me you showed up and killed the party.”

  Looking between Jack and Rocco, he doesn’t deny it.

  “I need for one of you to tell me why we couldn’t get a hit on Yankovich? I need one of you fucking idiots to explain to me, to make me understand, why he got the chance to fuck with Ally today?”

  “We had no idea he was here,” Jack argues.

  “Then you should hand your fucking patch in,” Deuce growls before glaring at Rocco. “And you should quit while you’re fucking ahead because the two of you are going to get us all fucking killed,” he sneers.

  In the short time I’ve known Deuce, I’ve never seen him lose his shit before. Out of us all ‘nomads’ he’s always been the most laid back and level headed.

  Not now.

  “Back the fuck up,” Blackie warns. “You’re angry and you got every right to be but you’re overstepping.”

  “Ask me if I give a fuck,” Deuce fires back.

  “Someone put a leash on this kid so he can fucking explain what happened,” Rocco requests.

  “Fuck you,” Deuce spats.

  “Deuce,” Wolf starts, pulling the party hat off his head. “Ain’t no one here going to be able to get a hold on this thing if we don’t know what happened.”

  “Tell them what the fuck happened!” Cobra demands, losing his patience. Looking between him and Deuce, I connect the dots and name the girl who arrived with Deuce as Cobra’s long-lost sister. Judging by the fire in our cowboy’s eyes, he has crossed onto the other side too and found his heart.

  “My tires were slashed this morning,” he reveals. “It was probably some punk ass kids. That’s why we took the truck. Anyway, when I drove out of the lot, I saw a black car and because I was already paranoid about the tires, I got to thinking and realized I had seen that same car before, twice in fact.”

  “What kind of car?” Jack asks,

  “A Bentley. Before you ask, no I didn’t get the plates. Anyway, we were stopped at a set of lights and the car slammed into us. He backed up and hit us again. Three times total. I was about to get out of the car when he pulled up alongside me. The back window rolled down and Ally gasped. Then the motherfucker said something, I don’t remember what it was, but it spooked the shit out of Ally,” he pauses as Cobra’s fist collides with the back of the couch, drawing everyone’s attention. “Something about you have nothing to fear,” he continues.

  “Did she recognize him immediately?” Cobra asks hoarsely.

  “Yeah, yeah she did.”

  “What happened next?” Jack probes.

  “He sped off. She was shaken up, but she’s better than I thought she would be. We gotta get this motherfucker.”

  Deuce turns to Cobra and they stare at one another silently for a beat.

  “You hear me? We gotta get him. We can’t let him hurt her anymore,” Deuce declares desperately.

  “I hear you,” Cobra agrees hoarsely.

  “We all hear you,” Jack interjects. “I know what the two of you are thinking,” he says, pointing to Cobra. “You doubted me once, and I brought home your little girl and your sister. Me, I did that,” he says, pounding his open palm against his chest. “Now, you’re going to go and underestimate the power of this club?” His hand moves from his chest to the coffee table, jerking everyone’s attention toward him. “Over my dead body,” he roars.

  “We fucked up,” Rocco admits, unbuttoning his suit jacket. Standing next to Jack, he looks around the room. “But now we know he’s right here under our noses. We’ll get him.”

  “How?” Stryker asks. “How the fuck are we going to get him if we didn’t even know the sick fuck was here all along.”

  “The card game,” Rocco says, pointedly.

  Intrigued, my eyes dart to the gangster and I wait for him to elaborate. If there is a shot of getting this cocksucker through a game of cards, then I’m the brother who is most capable of taking him for all he’s worth.

  You don’t need your legs to cheat a man at cards.

  All you need is a skillful con artist, a degenerate gambler, and a master manipulator.

  I’m all those things.

  The holy trifecta.

  “Fuck your card game,” Stryker spits. I tune the rest of his words out as the wheels turn furiously in my head.

  “What card game?” I ask.

  “This dope thinks he’s going to shoot up Yankovich’s card game, rob his money and I don’t know, scare him
?” Stryker hisses, clearly not on board with Rocco’s proposal.

  I can change that.

  “Look, whether it’s the card game or something else, we need to figure this shit out,” Riggs says. “Up until now, all we got are a bunch of quick fixes. This guy has us wrapped around his finger. First, he fed us the men he hired to rape Gina and had us kill them. Then he handed us Rush, and we whacked him too. When does it stop? When does it end?”

  “It ends now,” Jack grunts. “It’s going to end here,” he states.

  “I know you really want to believe that but unless we find out how he operates, what makes him tick, why the fuck he’s doing any of this, we’re not going to end anything,” Stryker replies. “We don’t know if this is a personal vendetta against the club or a power play for Rocco’s territory. We know nothing.”

  “Stryker’s right,” I interject. Ignoring all their skepticism, I continue to plead my case. I am still part of this club and my two cents are as just as important as anyone else with a patch. “And you’re not going to get him unless you get close.”

  “What are you suggesting?” Deuce questions.

  “Turn the tables, play that motherfucker for all he’s worth,” he says.

  Make him fucking bleed.

  “You mentioned a card game, is this something routine or just a onetime buy in?” I question, hungry for answers.

  “No, it’s steady,” Rocco answers.

  “But isn’t it his brother’s?” Riggs asks.

  “It doesn’t matter whose it is, all that matters is that it’s Yankovich’s wallet we’re working with,” I tell them.

  “Talk to me,” Jack says, leaning forward, bracing his elbows on his knees as he hangs on my words.

  “Yankovich loves his money, right? It’s the driving force behind his crimes. You wanna nail that motherfucker to the ground you fatten his wallet. You need to be of value to him, learn how the beast operates. You need to make him money.”

  Just like I did with Sally.

  “You’re suggesting we pay this fucker off?” Riggs asks incredulously.

  “No, I’m saying you send someone in like Rocco, with deep pockets, and you get a dealer in there, someone Yankovich can learn to trust, someone who knows cards and takes Rocco down in front of Yankovich. The dealer bleeds Rocco dry and earns Yankovich’s trust. He becomes an asset to him, he learns to trust him and he brings him into the fold. The dealer finds out what makes him tick, he finds out what game he’s playing, and he finds out what the fuck happened to the other girls, why he took Ally to begin with and why he sent those men to hurt Gina.”

  You put me in and let me reclaim my manhood.

  Let me feel useful.

  Put me in and I swear I’ll make this cocksucking weasel pay the way I couldn’t make Sally pay for what he did to Savannah.

  You give me this and I’ll deliver mayhem.

  “That’s a fucking stretch,” Rocco mutters.

  Shut the fuck up fancy pants.

  “It’s not if you get the right dealer,” I argue.

  “Where the fuck are we going to find a dealer?” Rocco asks. “What you’re suggesting only works if it’s one of us and this bastard knows all of us.”

  “He don’t know me,” I tell them.

  “You’ve lost your fucking mind,” Stryker rebuts, shaking his head. Turning to him, I level him with a glare.

  “Why? If anyone here knows, it’s you…you know I’m unbeatable in cards but because I’m in this fucking chair, you think I’m worthless,” I growl, daring him or anyone to deny the truth. If someone else with my capabilities had suggested this, it wouldn’t be an issue.

  Well, fuck them.

  “It’s too risky,” Blackie argues.

  “It’s your only shot,” I fire back.

  I am your only shot.

  The crippled motherfucker.

  The son of the devil.

  “Do you really think you can do it?” Deuce questions.

  The tone of his voice, the shred of hope professed in a single question, makes me turn to him. At the same time, Jack stands and points between him and Cobra.

  “If we send him to do this, we’re not sending him in blind,” our leader snarls, rising to his feet. “He needs to know as much as possible about Yankovich or he’s going to get himself killed and I’m done digging holes. The next hole I dig will be for this cocksucking Russian.”

  Yes!

  “What are you getting at?” Cobra grinds out.

  “He’s saying he wants to talk to Ally,” Deuce growls. “He wants to fucking grill her and make her relive all that shit.”

  “Not happening,” Cobra declares.

  “Especially not after today,” Deuce agrees.

  “The two of you don’t get to call the shots,” Jack reminds everyone, clenching his jaw. “This is my fucking club and you are all my responsibility, that includes your women and children. I’ll kill for them just like I’d kill for you. Now, I’m done pleading my case to you motherfuckers. You take orders from me, you hear me? If that’s a problem then hand me your fucking patches, just remember it won’t stop me from talking to that girl. Like it or not, Ally is our only chance at getting this right. She’s the only one with any intel on this guy.”

  “What do you want to know?” a soft voice calls from behind me. Along with every man in the room, I look at the pretty girl with blue eyes and Wolf’s words play in my mind.

  “Lastly, I want you to look at Ally. Look at the woman who lost fourteen years of her life being a prisoner. Think about her as a frightened child. Taken from her family and thrown in the back of a van. Picture the young girl who was likely raped and tortured for over a decade. Look at her and then look at yourself.”

  I got you, blue eyes.

  -Seven-

  LINC

  Everyone cleared out of the living room leaving Ally with Jack, Cobra and Deuce. Knowing Ally was about to share the brutal nightmare she endured, the mood turned somber for all of us. Bozo the clown didn’t stand a chance and Wolf dismissed him and his balloons. With the promise to be in touch, Rocco and his goons were next to head out leaving the cannoli’s behind. The rest of us made ourselves scarce giving Ally the privacy she deserved.

  After hitting Riggs up for some herb, I rolled myself a joint and made my way to the back deck. On the first pull, I tightened my lips and held the smoke for as long as I could. Being stuck in a hospital for months and unable to smoke had me hacking away like an amateur. Welcoming the fire in my lungs, I savored the burn rising in my throat as I blew a ring of smoke from my mouth.

  The second hit went smoother and by the third my high settled in. I guess sobriety had weakened my tolerance. Having had my fill, I clipped the lit end of the joint between my fingers. Shoving what’s left into my pocket, I leaned back and let the cool air wash over me. My back ached something fierce and my legs felt heavier than usual. Having my body folded into this chair for hours was beyond uncomfortable but, I refused to admit that to anyone. Especially with the club being divided on whether I was fit to take on this Yankovich mess.

  I’m fucking crippled not blind. I saw the doubt in their eyes and if I’m being honest with myself, I’m not sure I blame them. If the roles were reversed, I’d have the same concerns. I’d question how a handicapped man could possibly make a predator like Yankovich pay for all his heinous crimes. However, they’re not sending me into the lair to hunt the animal. My job is to get close, to gain his trust—and set the table for his final supper.

  When he’s comfortable, when he thinks I’m the best thing to ever happen to his underground operation—then, and only then will he be delivered to Satan’s altar. He’ll be tortured in the most dreadful ways. He’ll feel pain. The physical kind and the mental kind induced by humiliation. He’ll suffer and bleed until there is nothing left. His family won’t recognize him and, they’ll be saved the expense of embalming his remains.

  The thought alone is enough to get my dick hard and my heart racing b
ut, the truth of the matter is I likely won’t see any of that. Jack will sweep in with the club and I’ll be dismissed of my duties. Stryker, Cobra and Deuce will be the disciples nailing that motherfucker down.

  And me, I’ll probably watch from the sidelines.

  Gripping the arms of my chair, I glance down at my legs. The denim hides the scars but not from me. They stare back at me burning my corneas. Desperate to escape them, to go back in time when they didn’t exist, I close my eyes and try to remember what it feels like to plant my feet on the ground.

  To lift myself out of a chair.

  To put one foot in front of the other.

  To walk.

  To run.

  To throw my leg over my bike.

  To feel the vibrations beneath me as the engine sparks to life.

  To piston my hips and fuck until I can’t breathe.

  To live.

  A movie reel plays inside my head, flashing to before the bomb and I get lost in the memories of how life used to be. It’s so real, so vivid that I lean forward and try to move my legs. It doesn’t register that my legs aren’t working and, I nearly topple forward.

  “Whoa, whoa!” Stryker shouts. Startling me, he grabs me by the back of my shirt and tugs me backward. Reality settles in and I white-knuckle the arms of the chair as pain slices through me. Gasping for breath, I lift my eyes as Stryker rounds the chair and slouches down in front of me.

  “What the fuck happened?” he growls, his face tight with concern.

  “Nothing,” I bark, pushing him away. “Bad high.”

  “Bullshit,” he calls, pausing to assess me. Not trusting myself, I turn my head and take the brakes off the chair. “Linc, if you’re having second thoughts about going in there you need to speak up. Everyone would understand. You just got out of the hospital and we all want you to put your efforts into your rehab.”

  “Don’t,” I shout, rolling backward. “You’re not taking this from me. You already cheated me out of death by pulling me out of that fucking explosion.”