Every Last Reason

by Christa Wick

  My feet hit the ground. Junker's hands retreated, but the restraints circling my wrists remained. I flexed my shoulders, rolled my neck, three joints popping in quick succession. I wiggled fingers made numb by the cuffs, balled them into fists, relaxed then wiggled them again.

  A hard slap landed against my back. I caught myself before the unexpected blow could knock me off balance. A choppy laugh preceded a second, harder slap.

  "No hard feelings," Junker said. "Only members and their bitches roll up without being black bagged."

  I grunted, the sound an outlet for all the words I had to leave unspoken.

  Blind in more than one way, I didn't know what to expect. The defunct east coast chapters had forced combatants to fight to the death. Then they knocked the victor unconscious with a cattle prod and shoved him in a holding pen until it was time to fight again. Eventually, the winner became just another corpse, his body fed to ravenous dogs the club kept to guard its combat arenas and drugs.

  From beginning to end, the practice was horrific. But the FBI didn't have enough evidence to connect the chapters out west with the crimes of those on the east coast.

  "Open the door!" Junker shouted.

  Someone grabbed my elbow and guided me through a narrow entrance. When the door shut, the noise from the parking lot cut out. AC/DC filled the void, Brian Johnson growling through the beginning of "Spoilin' for a Fight."

  A crowd had already gathered inside. Beyond the pounding stadium speakers, screams for blood and shattered bones echoed off the walls. The air vibrating around my face carried an aroma ripe with sweat, beer, and bad weed.

  The song thrumming over the speakers ended as someone yanked the black bag from my head. Blinking against the harsh lights, I stared at the scene in front of me.

  Locked inside a metal cage some sixteen feet on each side, Hatchet prowled back and forth. With a dazed look, the biker suddenly jammed his body against the mesh. A man from another chapter stepped forward and held his index finger in front of Hatchet's face. Hatchet inhaled, tossed his head back and pinched one side of his nose.

  He was snorting something. Probably cocaine or meth. Opioids were unlikely. I prayed to God it wasn't angel dust. PCP would fry Hatchet's brain, making him hard to predict and impervious to pain.

  Buying time, I kept my weight on my heels and walked slowly despite Junker pushing impatiently at my back. Each step forward revealed new details about the cage. Wet blood smeared the concrete floor and steel mesh, some of it dripping from randomly placed concertina wire. Another section of cage had long, vertical strips of two-inch spikes waiting to impale combatants.

  My stomach tightened. Even if I didn't die tonight, a single cut had the potential to expose me to a disease that would last a lifetime and make me unsuitable for a wife.

  The grim thought summoned an image of Delia Mays, the very woman who had landed me in the arena. I pushed away the memory of her seductive smile and luminous gray eyes. I couldn't afford to think about her at that moment. Thankfully, I had confirmation that Maddy had received the message and acted on it.

  My head cocked to the right as I focused on the fight before me. Priority one was not getting killed. Priority two was to keep Hatchet from bloodying me up. Priority three, toss every damn biker into prison, throw away the key, and bury the building in concrete a hundred feet thick.

  "Take the cuffs off," Junker ordered.

  Tribble pranced like an excited pony as he turned the key in the lock. I jerked my arms. The cuffs fell to the floor. Rubbing at my wrists, I coaxed a little feeling into them. Then Junker grabbed me by the shoulders and yanked me close.

  "Just knock the bitch out," he warned. "Kill him and we have a problem. Got it?"

  I bobbed my chin. I didn't ask if Hatchet had to abide by the same rules. All week long, a growing certainty had built in me that Junker wanted the man he knew as Reaper dead once the deal was completed. And Hatchet, already snorting another line of drugs, was too far gone to follow anyone's rules.

  Executing one of his theatrical bows, Junker pulled back and swept his arm in the direction of the cage. I headed for the padlocked door and waited as Tribble worked the key.

  "Other side!" Junker bellowed as Hatchet rushed the door.

  Thick veins of red shot through the biker's unfocused gaze. Blood trickled down his left cheek, half of the morning's stitches ripped out.

  Had he put up a fight getting to the building?

  Probably not, I mused. There were no bruises, no other blood. Maybe Hatchet had torn at the surgical thread after one too many trips to snort drugs off the spectator's finger.

  Junker pushed the charged end of an electric cattle prod through the cage links as he screamed again.

  "Other side of the fucking cage!"

  Hatchet scurried out of the prod's reach, coming to a stop at the cage's center. Tribble threw the door open. Junker shoved me inside. The sharp push created a misstep. The misstep multiplied to produce a stumble.

  Knowing I was going down, I converted the fall's momentum into a tuck and roll. Hatchet charged as I hit the ground. I swept one leg out and caught both of Hatchet's shins just above the ankles.

  Hatchet face planted on the concrete floor, blood immediately spurting from his nose.

  I jumped up, warily moving around the cage as I kept a constant distance between my body and the inert biker. Hisses and boos poured from the bloodthirsty crowd. They wanted me to go for the kill while Hatchet was down.

  A chant of "pussy" started to roll through the audience.

  I ignored the noise and studied the cage's hazards. The corners were vicious. Concertina wire twisted upward with spiked strips to the side of where the wire's razor blades left off. Blood dripped from both the spikes and blades in the corner closest to the door.

  Hatchet finally rolled onto his side, staggered upright, and launched straight into throwing a punch. The swing was short, targeted with a wobbling gaze that suggested injuries deeper than a broken nose. I weaved right, easily outmaneuvering the punch thrown by a man who was older, out of shape, and accustomed to easier prey.

  I bobbed away from a second short swing.

  "Stay still and fight, ya little bitch!"

  The voice belonged to Tribble. Hatchet was too stoned and concussed to utter anything more than the wild scream that precursed each of his attacks.

  Needing to end the fight before the crowd completely turned on me, I edged closer to one side of the cage. A strip of spikes waited less than an inch behind me. The vulnerable skin along my spine crawled upward, but I stayed in position, my gaze locked on Hatchet's vacant eyes.

  "Aaaaii!"

  Hatchet screamed and threw another punch, this one long and wild. I calmly watched it come in, waiting until the last millisecond before I dodged to the side. Hatchet's fist slammed into the spikes. He froze, a scream still vibrating in his throat as he stared at his impaled fist and the blood dripping down its fingers in fat, red streams.

  Swooping in, I wrapped my right arm around the biker's throat, the crook nestled under his chin. I grabbed my left bicep with my right hand, then used the other hand to secure the back of Hatchet's head.

  With seven years in the Bureau, I had practiced the sleeper hold at least a thousand times. The move cut blood flow to the brain, resulting in tunnel vision and lightheadedness within seconds.

  On cue, the biker began to fold. I carefully placed him on the ground then stepped away.

  Junker stood at the door, a grin splitting his face from ear-to-ear as he removed the padlock.

  "I heard you were all into that Karate shit."

  "Jiu-Jitsu," I corrected. Like the real Reaper, I was a third-degree black belt. That had been a significant factor in my selection to pose as the man. Reaper would undoubtedly correct anyone that mislabeled the art.

  "Whatever you say, sensei," Junker laughed, throwing open the door as he offered a mocking bow.

  I eased out. Junker gave me a slap on the back then jerked Tribble
forward and pushed him into the cage.

  "Throw that pussy in a pen," he growled.

  I looked over my shoulder. The wide grin returned, scratching its way across Junker's face in slow motion.

  "Hatchet's the club enforcer. He fucked himself trying to punch up. Embarrassed the chapter." Junker slapped a fist against his chest, the gesture reminiscent of Hatchet's earlier bravado.

  "Worse—fucking asshole embarrassed me." Leaning in, he shouted. "Me!"

  I nodded. For one fleeting second, I wondered when they would free Hatchet. Then I realized I didn't give a fuck. The man had targeted Delia. He could stay in the club's pen until I put him in prison.

  "I'll release his dumb ass after a couple of kills," Junker said as he steered me toward the building's exit.

  "Kills, huh?"

  Junker smirked, then bit down hard enough on his bottom lip to draw blood. Brows dancing, he spread his arms out from his chest, the hands curled into fists.

  "I aim to entertain!" he said, breaking into a crazy, jagged laugh.

  In the morning, I would understand how that particular laugh from Junker was like Hatchet's wild scream—an uncontrollable, unintended warning before the strike. But the bright light of day was hours away.

  Much closer was the sudden right hook that connected hard on the underside of my chin.

  Pain exploded from the front of my skull to the back. Stars danced across my eyes.

  Then everything fell away, plunging me in darkness.

  6

  Delia

  I sat in the dark listening to my son sleep. I had a comfortable bed waiting for me one room over, but I couldn't bring myself to leave the chair. My world was collapsing again and the only control I had was standing vigil over Caiden.

  Tilting my head back, I tried to blank my mind—or at least relax my throat and chest. If I started crying, Caiden would wake. With his sensory processing issues, it took little to disturb him. A few sniffles from me would alert his sleeping mind to the fact that something was wrong.

  For the moment, he thought the mid-day trip from his school outside of Billings to Lindy Turk's home in Willow Gap was nothing more than a surprise weekend excursion. I hoped a weekend was all it would last. But Maddy had spoken in terms of "the foreseeable future."

  Located on a vast cattle ranch, the home was massive and well appointed. Caiden had slept in the same bed a couple dozen times over the last year. He had two drawers in the dresser that were permanently his and one half of the closet.

  I loved bringing him to the ranch. I loved being there myself. But not that night. I was tense with worry. I was also silently furious because no one would tell me anything concrete. I didn't even have my purse back. That meant no ID, no access to cash. I was completely dependent on the assistance of others.

  Caiden stirred, sat up and stared quietly at the bedroom door.

  "Aunt Maddy."

  It was another second before I heard the soft brush of footsteps in the hall. No way could I tell whose feet they belonged to. Caiden not only had perfect hearing, he also had a special pattern recognition ability that was as close to someone being psychic as I had ever seen. He could recognize familiar patterns and hear someone's footsteps long before I could.

  Getting up from the chair, I approached the bed, gripped Caiden's shoulder and planted a firm kiss on his forehead.

  "I'm going to talk to Maddy for a few minutes then go to bed next door. You go back to sleep."

  "Can I visit the horses tomorrow?"

  "If you get enough sleep tonight," I answered.

  I pulled the blanket up to his shoulders then opened the bedroom door to find my baby sister waiting in the hall.

  "Need a hug?" Maddy whispered.

  "I need information."

  I stepped into the circle of Maddy's arms anyway and rested my head on my sister's shoulder. Tears threatened. The two most important people in my life, my son and my sister, had Asperger Syndrome. As much as I believed they loved me, it made my lonely world even lonelier.

  Maddy was training herself to be more affectionate now that she was pregnant. But knowing the gesture was as much practice as it was love made me shrink back after a few seconds.

  "Did I do it wrong?"

  I shook my head. "I'm just a little raw right now. Irrational. Can you tell me anything?"

  Maddy pointed at the ceiling. "E is in the library waiting to talk."

  I released the deep breath I was holding in. Calling Emerson by his first initial meant Maddy was in Special Agent mode. That didn't bode well.

  "So is your purse," she added. "Well, it's not waiting to talk, but it's up there with him."

  A faint smile escaped the clutches of my dark mood. Both Caiden and Maddy were extremely literal. They frequently deemed it necessary to explain metaphors they had used or to unpack something they had said in case someone might believe, for example, that purses could talk or pigs could fly.

  Maddy blushed. "Yeah, sorry."

  I stroked my sister's dark red hair.

  "You never have to apologize to me for being who you are, baby girl."

  "Because who I am is wonderful," she deadpanned.

  I wrapped my arms around her, a few strands of the day's tension falling away when she unexpectedly melted into the embrace.

  "Call me after," Maddy whispered in my ear. "If you want to talk."

  I nodded, but my gut tightened at the offer. What could Emerson Turk possibly have to say that would have me calling my sister in the middle of the night?

  The door to the second-floor library was open a few inches. The room was dark except for two faint light sources—a computer screen and a small table lamp within a foot of one another.

  "Shut the door," Emerson whispered as soon as I crossed the threshold.

  A chill ran down my spine as I obeyed. I had heard him speak softly before. For two years, he had spent a lot of time at my house in Boston, mostly with my husband Ken or Maddy present, but not always. He had helped Ken put up the deck in the backyard, helped me install new tile in the tub enclosure. There were barbecues when Ken was there and busted water pipes in the old house when Ken was an ocean away.

  But this whisper was unnerving, its quiet stillness too reminiscent of the hushed tones used when the Army informed me that my husband had died in combat.

  How could the news possibly be that bad?

  "Take a seat," he ordered, indicating the library chair next to him.

  I sat down, threw a side glance at him then turned to stare.

  "Your face!"

  He raised a finger, imperiously silencing and reprimanding me with the same gesture.

  "We're going to have a conversation and you're not going to like any of it. I understand you will feel the need to be emotion—"

  Even in the low light, Emerson must have seen the inferno that ignited my gaze. At times, the man reminded me of my sister and son. But Emerson didn't have any diagnosis to absolve his behavior. He was just ruthlessly efficient, feelings be damned.

  I hadn't seen that facet of him back in Boston—or I had been willfully blind to it. But his true nature was clear once he hauled Maddy away from Massachusetts to the other side of the country. I would always be grateful for the help he had given me in Boston and for what he had done when Caiden went missing our first month in Montana. But Emerson had ghosted me ever since.

  Hell, he had ghosted me when Ken died, too. Flowers, some textbook sentence of condolences and his name, all of it generated by a computer. No call, no follow up note, nothing to indicate the hours we had spent in one another's presence, nothing to acknowledge the humor shared or the quiet conversations.

  "You're the biggest asshole I have ever met," I hissed.

  A chuckle escaped him.

  "If I'm the worst, then you're lucky."

  I took a deep breath, held it as I looked anywhere but his stony face. My gaze penetrated the shadows that surrounded us to see that he had shed the leather jacket he wore at the clini
c. The t-shirt was ripped in several places badly enough it looked like he had salvaged it from an office shredder. His exposed arms bore tattoos that were not there at the beginning of spring.

  He was deep undercover—far deeper than I had realized.

  "You were saying," I whispered, my anger dissipating until he opened his mouth again.

  "I would rather not have my mother or Leah see me right now. So let's contain the…noise."

  I noted the pause and how his mouth had started to shape a different word than "noise." Something more like "outburst" given the way his full lips had faintly puckered.

  My right calf muscle flexed with the urge to kick him.

  "Maddy indicated you have my purse," I said in my most matter-of-fact tone.

  He cocked his head toward a table next to the room's picture window. My bag sat on the table, its edges illuminated by moonlight filtering through the gaps in the curtains.

  I eased from my seat and quietly picked my way across the darkened room. I imagined the dim lighting was intentional, a sort of clandestine measure to ensure the rest of the household remained asleep. It could also be psychological maneuvering, Emerson attempting to keep me both quiet and meek.

  With a full load of spite, I turned the table lamp on its brightest setting.

  Two prescription bottles and a pharmacy bag sat next to my purse. I ignored them at first, checking to ensure my phone, wallet contents and wedding rings were accounted for. Satisfied, I zipped the purse then turned my attention to the bottles.

  Emerson cleared his throat, pushed his chair back from the table. My anger magnifying, I scooped up the first bottle and read his name and the drug prescribed.

  "This is an antiretroviral…"

  "I'm perfectly aware of its purpose."

  Cheeks heating, I put the bottle down. I left the other bottle untouched. Most likely, it was an antiemetic to take with the ARV. It was rude for me to have looked—bordered on unprofessional. His being a bossy jackass didn't justify my snooping into such sensitive information.