Being Lost: Satan's Devils MC San Diego #1

by Manda Mellett

  Phil had always considered himself Alder’s equal, but he was not. Alder could run rings around him. It was about the time that Alder was exerting his influence that I knew our marriage was over for sure. Phil, an accountant, had been cooking the books and had gotten caught. He’d managed to worm his way out of a jail sentence, but not having a legitimate job any longer, went to work with Alder.

  Phil, before his death, had been a rich man. But that money went back to where it came from, into Alder’s hands. Not that I wanted any of it.

  Dan thought he’d been working for his father, unaware that Phil had simply been passing instructions on, until he found out rather than just running protection rackets, Phil was helping Alder supply drugs.

  When Dan was arrested because he’d been too violent collecting a debt for his father, he bargained to stay out of jail with the knowledge he’d gained. Of course, the ten kilos of heroin he’d stopped getting to the streets had helped his case. Now instead of the feds not knowing who one of the kingpins was behind the drugs flooding into the United States via Mexico, they now had a name and a description, and many of the routes by which they’d been brought in. Past tense, of course. By giving the information away, Dan had destroyed a large part of Alder’s operation.

  If Alder knew Dan was alive and got his hands on him again, he’d make him pay dearly for the trouble he had caused him. Alder, as Dan knows only too well, is a man who likes to cause pain.

  Dan isn’t going to be doing anything to give himself away. That’s one thing I don’t need to worry about.

  While I miss my home in Pueblo, if I had to move anywhere, there could be worse places to be than San Diego. We’ve been allocated a small house with an easy to maintain front yard, and a small one out back where I can sit in the sun, which seems to shine more often than in Colorado. At least I won’t have to contend with snow when winter comes.

  It would be perfect were it not for the fact my daughter isn’t with me.

  “See you later, Mom,” is shouted, followed by the front door banging, then the sound of the car Dan drives starting, revving, then fading.

  It’s then I lower my head into my hands and alone, give into my sorrow. I miss my daughter so damn much. I’d love Beth’s advice on the clothes I’m designing, would love her to be here modelling them for me. But that can’t be. Dan needs someone on his side in this unfamiliar state and city.

  A loud noise reaches my ears. Grrrr. It’s a motorcycle, one of those loud Harleys. I’ve no idea why, but they use our road as a shortcut to somewhere. Not every day, but often enough. I swear the sound from the exhausts makes the windows rattle. Can it be legal? Surely not.

  Closing my laptop, knowing my unsuccessful search for a mannequin has just made me miss Bethany more, I go to make myself a cup of coffee, feeling lonelier than I ever have. In Pueblo I had friends and a social life, here there’s no one I know, and I’m scared of getting out and socialising.

  I’m fifty-three years old. I haven’t had a man in my life for more than eighteen years since I kicked Phil to the kerb. I’d joked with Beth that maybe I’d find someone when I moved. But how could I seek out a man for myself, and what on earth would I do with him if I found one? My experience with my husband has soured me, and any man I’ve met since hasn’t lived up to my hopes or expectations.

  A woman friend would be nice, someone I could share a glass of wine with and gossip to, but she’d want to know my backstory, and I hate lying. I’d be terrified that I’d do or say something and slip up and lead Alder to our door. He’ll kill my son and make sure he stays dead this time.

  But finding new friends of either sex is unlikely. I work at home and rarely go out, and this doesn’t seem a particularly friendly neighbourhood, contact limited to exchanging nods and the odd hello if we’re close enough.

  To be honest, I’m lonely. I can’t even go on Facebook anymore, not that I used to spend much time on it, but if I could, I might find virtual friends if not real ones.

  I could set up a fake profile, make friends with Beth…

  Too dangerous.

  I finish making my coffee and take it into the living room, switching on the television, then switching it off again as the news is too depressing. Instead, I pick up my e-reader and open up the novel I was reading. Since Beth’s been living with Ink, I’ve taken to reading everything I can devour about fictional biker clubs, imagining my daughter and her man in starring roles, well, maybe the supporting ones who don’t have sex. I’ve no inclination to even imagine what Ink and Beth get up to in the bedroom.

  I wish I could see them. Or, just talk to them.

  I wonder how Mel, Beth’s pregnant friend and another biker’s old lady is doing? Or Vi, the president’s wife? She must be six, seven months pregnant herself. I think of Steph, and wonder how that amazing guide dog of hers is? Then there’s Jeannie who’s the mother hen to the Colorado club—she was a brusque woman, a bit older than me, but friendly enough.

  I count them as my friends as well as my daughter’s, but like the rest of my life, it was all left behind in Pueblo, Colorado.

  If only there were some way I could talk to Beth. I long to hear her voice. I don’t know if she’s well, happy, or if something has happened to her. The thought something might, and I’d never find out is horrific.

  Perhaps, if I’m clever, I can find some way to get in touch. Just to check she’s alright.

  No, I tell myself firmly. I mustn’t chance it. But I can’t quite rid the idea from my head.

  Chapter Three

  Lost

  “What d’you think of this, Prez?”

  Pennywise stops me as I’m walking toward the bar. He’s got a Harley brochure open in front of him, and he’s tapping at something on the page.

  “Nice, but pricey.” I admire the new model he’s pointing out. “Thinking of upgrading?”

  “Got to get hold of some money first.” He grins. “I can dream, though, can’t I?”

  Like most of the members, Pennywise lives at the club and has few living expenses. “Perhaps you could work out a payment plan.”

  “Can you see a bank giving me credit?” he scoffs.

  I can’t. But that wasn’t what I was thinking of. “If you need a new bike, the club can pay upfront, and you can pay us back.”

  He brightens. “I’ll think about that, Prez, thanks. I’ll have to work out whether it’s a need or a want first.”

  “Need.” Salem, walking past, has overheard. “Your bike’s in the fuckin’ shop more than you ride it. What is it? Twenty years old? You’d be doing us all a favour if you replace it.”

  Pennywise grins. “She’s a classic.”

  Salem, our enforcer, snorts and wanders off. “Fuckin’ classic,” he mutters under his breath.

  “You ready, Prez?”

  As ready as I ever am, I muse, as I give my VP a chin lift and make my way into church, noticing Pennywise closing the brochure and following.

  It’s not long before all the seats are taken.

  Dart, as my VP, takes his seat to my left, and Grumbler, the sergeant-at-arms, sits to my right. Next to Dart is Salem, and opposite him is the treasurer, Bones. Apart from Salem, who was Snake’s enforcer before he became mine, the rest of us officers have only occupied these particular seats for the past three years. We’ve melded together as best we can after Snake’s betrayal.

  Due mainly to the work Dart had put in, we hadn’t lost one man from the club. Every member sitting around this table appears to have faith in its new top team, and I have to be grateful, if not a bit wary, for that. Why the fuck did they put a man like me in charge? I shake my head daily, wondering why the hell they voted me in.

  Not that I’m ungrateful, never that. I love and respect each man sitting around this table, but hell, it’s a lot of responsibility. Each day I hope I can live up to the kind of man an MC prez is supposed to be.

  Part of which I put into action right now by banging the gavel and starting the meeting.

>   “Bones. Finance report?”

  In the past it was DJ, another out bad member, who handled the books, but it turns out Bones is quite a wizard with numbers which had surprised us.

  He sniffs loudly and wipes his hand under his nose, a sinus problem left over from a long-ago coke habit. “Yeah, Prez.” Bones passes out something. “The auto-shop with those custom builds—”

  “Pimping,” Dusty interrupts.

  “We do not fuckin’ pimp rides,” Salem snarls down the table, while everyone else chortles. “You call us a pimp business one more time, Dusty…”

  Dusty is unrepentant. He knows he gets a rise out of Salem whenever he calls him a pimp. To my mind, he’s skating close to thin ice. One of these days, the enforcer’s going to shut him up with his fists.

  “As I was saying,” Bones glares at Dusty, “I’ve been able to make some investments with the profits from the shop. Here’s the latest report on the interest.”

  “Looking fuckin’ good, Brother,” Smoker tells him, then coughs, bending forward over the table. When he recovers, he continues, “I like making money and not working for it.”

  “What sort of account is it in, Bones?” While I like the club having solid money behind it, I don’t like the idea that we can’t withdraw it and use it at any time. You never know when funds will be needed.

  “We can pull out what we need whenever we want it. I’m moving the money around wherever I think it’s necessary.”

  Bones is our fund manager, and as Smoker pointed out, we’re starting to turn a profit without raising a finger. Well, except for Bones’ on the keyboard moving money around.

  “Salem, how’s the work going?”

  “Got too much,” the enforcer says. “Starting to turn people away. The waiting list for customisation is over a year now.”

  “Gonna take more people on?” Dart asks.

  Salem shrugs before answering, “It’s a matter of room. We’ve got about as many as the shop will hold. If we expand, we could.”

  “We can speak later,” Dart suggests. “Maybe we can get the shop extended. I don’t like turning away work.”

  Salem seems satisfied.

  “I’ve an idea.” Niran raises his hand. “Why not do up one of the old hangars, bring the custom builds there? Leaves the shop free to take on more of the regular shit.”

  Salem leans forward and stares down the table. Slowly his mouth curves. “Good fuckin’ idea, Brother.” Turning around, he addresses me next. “Be good security wise, too. I know the shops well-alarmed and as secure as we can make it, but some of the work we’re doing is on valuable rides.”

  I can’t see anything wrong with the proposal. It’s not as if we’re short of space. Years back and well before my time, the club took over a disused airfield and adapted one of the hangars to become our clubhouse. “The second hangar’s at least been made weatherproof. Yeah, good idea. Look into it, Salem. Okay, what you got, Blaze?”

  “Tattoo parlour’s doing good, Prez.” A short, sharp and concise update, I can’t complain about that.

  I raise my chin toward Bones, who nods to confirm it.

  Brakes takes a moment to tell us about the strip club, requesting funds for redecoration which after some discussion, is agreed. Deuce, who manages our bar and restaurant, also confirms things are going well.

  “And the new business?” Dart probes.

  It had been Keeper, Dave as he was known while he was a prospect, who’d come up with the idea. When he’d presented a business proposal, we ran with it. It was to have a store which sold biker apparel, helmets, safety glasses, accessories and clothing. Good quality, but we were able to undercut the major retailers by using lesser known brands and cater for people who just wanted a good quality jacket but didn’t care what logo was on it. As luck would have it, a store had closed down close to our auto-shop and we snapped it up. It had been big enough to put a small coffee station in it and had become a place for bikers to meet.

  “It has started turning a profit, VP.” Bones answers Dart’s question, jerking his chin toward Keeper.

  It looks like church is going to be a short one. No problems. Just how I like it. “Anyone got anything else to bring to the table?” They haven’t. I pick up the gavel...

  “Prez?”

  I wait until Smoker finishes his coughing fit, and then nod. “Any more on Shark?”

  The good mood is immediately shattered. “Nah, but just keep your eyes open and ears to the ground. Hopefully he’s only made a flying visit and left town. But if you do see him, I want to talk to him.”

  “Motherfucker will have gone if he knows what’s good for him.”

  I raise my chin toward Snips but hope that conversation has shut down. No need to rehash the betrayal and keep it fresh in our minds. Again, I pick up the gavel.

  “Prez?”

  I sigh, but it’s our data and security guy, Hard Token. He’d picked up his name after he harped on and on about the need for hard tokens to access our businesses. In user speak it meant using a key card system to get in.

  “What you got, Token?”

  “I waited until we’d finished everything else as I thought this might take more than a minute.” So my hopes for a short meeting have just been wrecked. I raise an eyebrow toward him. Token nods. “Had a cryptic message sent to me.”

  “Cryptic?”

  “Well, I don’t know who it’s from, or how legit it is.”

  “And what does it say, Brother?” Jeez, this is like pulling teeth.

  He taps at the tablet in front of him. “I’ll read it. It says Up the security around the woman and her son that you are watching.”

  There’s an intake of breaths around the table.

  “Is that it?” Dart snaps. “Did you reply?”

  Token shrugs. “No way to reply.” He looks around, noticing all eyes are on him. “This wasn’t an email, nor an instant message. It didn’t appear on WhatsApp or anything like that.”

  “Well what the fuck is it, and how did you get it?”

  Token’s face goes hard. “It just appeared on my screen, as if someone took remote control of it for a minute.”

  “What the fuck?” Pennywise shouts. “Your security shit, Brother?”

  Token snarls. “No it’s not. Whoever got in left no trace. I don’t even know how they did it.”

  “You cleaned up your system now, Token?”

  He rolls his eyes. “No, I did not.” I open my mouth to ask what the fuck is he playing at, when he provides the answer. “What I did is put everything we need kept secure behind impenetrable firewalls but left my system as it is. Thought this fucker may get back into contact and left it so the line of communication is still open.” Again, he glances at the rest of us. “I don’t like it, but to my mind, the how and who isn’t as important as the fuckin’ message.”

  He’s right. We know where they are because the only other person who knows, besides the feds, is Demon, the Colorado prez, who told us. No one else is privy to that information. I have to wonder whether there’s been a leak, and where the hell from if there is.

  “The marshals running the WitSec program wouldn’t have said anything,” I remind them. “They run the program like a tight ship.”

  “Only lose people when they give themselves away. Perhaps either the mom or son has done that?” Token taps the table as he agrees.

  “Isn’t the son supposed to be dead?” Dart frowns. “How the fuck could they have found out he’s not?”

  “Demon organised a funeral. Closed casket, which was incinerated, so everyone should think he’s dead,” I tell them. “Moving the son was a precaution so no one saw a dead man walking around.”

  There’s another bout of coughing from Smoker, making me want to remind him to kick the habit he’s named for. As it’s obvious he wants to speak, I wait until he’s finished. “It’s not easy to remember your assumed name. Maybe one of them gave something away. Or raised suspicions by not answering to it.”

 
; “Or they contacted friends or family back where they came from,” Blaze, brushing his long dark hair back from his face, suggests.

  This is all I fucking need. Our club’s been trusted to protect them. Nothing can happen on my watch, not without losing the respect of the other chapters. As always, in the back of my mind, I have a feeling someone is just waiting for me to fuck something up. More to the point, there’s my own distrust in my ability to handle shit as I should.

  “What do you want to do, Prez?”

  What I want to do is go to bed, pull the blanket over my head and forget all my responsibilities. What I don’t want is to be the person they turn to, expecting me to have the answers at hand. Been there. Done that. Jumped the wrong fucking way, and there’s nothing to say I’d get it right if I’m challenged again. Inwardly I sigh. All I can do is my best.

  I rap my knuckles on the table as I think. “It said increase security, not that there was a clear and present danger.”

  “The only security we currently provide is making sure that nothing looks amiss at the house,” Dart summarises. “We could increase the drive-bys, maybe. Or get inside and install mics and cameras?”

  “Good idea, but how? We can’t just turn up and demand entry, we’re not supposed to know who or where they are.” Glancing at Dart I raise and lower my shoulders, in return he gives a small shake of his head.

  “Who are they hiding from?” Reboot, who I still slip up and often call Lloyd, leans back in his chair. Reboot got his name from Token who’d gotten fed up with Lloyd taunting him with his own phrase whenever there was a technical problem. When Token had threatened to re-boot him right out of the clubhouse, the name had stuck.

  He’s asked a good question though. I glance at Dart and raise my eyebrow. It’s his turn to shrug, then he raises his chin. Do I tell them? Up to you.

  Yeah. Of course it will be up to me. I’m the prez. The buck stops here. They know about the woman and son which is the part that is secret. Letting them in on the rest of the knowledge that Demon had given to me could help if we’ve got something heading our way. Taking in a breath, I let it out on a sigh and finally answer Reboot’s question. “They’re hiding from a man called Alder Cantor. He’s into drugs, deep into drugs. He brings them over the border from Mexico. Dan Forster, as the kid’s known now, was responsible for fuckin’ up his current routes.”