Outlaw's Vow: Grizzlies MC Romance (Outlaw Love)

by Snow, Nicole

  All right. Think.

  “Did the cartel surprise you?” It couldn't get much easier than that.

  Two blinks. Yes.

  “Were you able to fight back? Did you hit anyone?” One blink. “It happened too fast?”

  Yes.

  I swallowed, licked my lips, and slowly gathered my words. My heart pounded, threatening to explode in my chest. “It was someone in the house, wasn't it? Did Stryker do this to you?”

  His eyelids moved. Once.

  Jesus Christ. I leaned in. I had to double-check.

  “Norm, I'm asking you again...did Stryker hurt you?”

  No.

  “Was it Asphalt?” I knew I was stalling, saving my brain from going down that pitch black alley all logic pointed to.

  No.

  “Did Beam do this? Is he the traitor?”

  One. Two. Yes.

  I swerved, grabbing onto the wall a couple feet away for support. My palms hit the cool glass, and it was the only thing that kept me from passing out.

  The bastard who'd tried to force himself on me, who'd almost tempted me with his lips, his touch...he was the rat.

  He was the bastard.

  He was the one threatening to steal Roman away from me forever, and rip our family to smithereens.

  “Jesus Christ...” I fought the urge to bolt out the door and go running back to Christa and Rabid. “Thank you, Norm. I'll be back as soon as I can. I've just...I've got to go. You'll beat this.”

  He gave me two more blinks, and I saw the faintest hint of a smile in his eyes. Damned right.

  I gave his arm one last squeeze. Too rough. He winced. Then I tore out of the room and pounded toward the doors, leaving the nurse on duty at the tiny computer desk inside yelling after me.

  Outside, I crashed into Rabid, who got up with Christa when he saw me coming, holding out his arms. I was a shaking, adrenaline fueled mess. It took me a few seconds to speak while they shouted.

  “What is it? What's going on?”

  “Is your cousin okay? Talk to us!” Christa's voice blasted through my other ear.

  “I know who the rat was. It's not who you think. It was Beam all along.” Rabid's eyes went wide, and then filled with a dark, inky anger. “You've got to call Blackjack right now, get your President on the line, tell him everything. Hurry, before they –“

  He pushed me away, probably a little more roughly than he intended, and I went spinning into Christa's arms. She caught me, shot Rabid a dirty look, and then walked me into the waiting seat.

  “Stay the fuck there. Both of you. I'm already on it.”

  I wiped my eyes while Christa shoved tissues and a water bottle into my hands. I needed it too. My throat felt like it'd caught on fire, and then froze over, choking me alive.

  “It's like a fucking nightmare,” she said sadly. Her eyes were glued to the door, waiting for Rabid to come back.

  We both inwardly prayed he'd get in touch with the others this time. Jesus, they might be tearing Stryker to pieces that second, and all for nothing.

  I didn't know how Beam had framed him, but he did. Worse, I doubted it was just to cover his own ass. The men might be in real fucking danger while we sat here waiting, and there was nothing we could do about it.

  “You can wake up from nightmares,” I told her. “This just might be permanent.”

  XII: Better Mousetrap (Roman)

  The torch felt like a block of ice in my hand. It was amazing that the shit inside could ignite, hot enough to sear human flesh in a heartbeat.

  Stryker wouldn't live to let the black eyes we'd given him show. The fucker was tough, and really good at playing stupid, far better than I'd given him credit for.

  We'd whaled on him and pulled all the usual mind tricks for more than an hour, and it hadn't yielded a damned thing. The bastard kept his lips sealed, telling us to go to hell, warning us we were making a big fucking mistake.

  All the usual stone cold denials of a guilty man.

  I grabbed the torch after Blackjack backed away from him, clawing at the rat's shoulder. He'd asked him about Uncle Manny again, and the asshole admitted to it, except he claimed the grinning chef in the pictures wasn't his Manny.

  He told us the pictures were off, manipulated. Someone had taken his pics and changed them, lifting Manny the chef into the middle of a cartel don's dinner.

  Bullshit.

  Guess he didn't know the Prez had a guy into digital shit connected to the club comb over everything. The verdict was in, and there were no doubts.

  Over against the wall, Asphalt, Brass, and a couple other guys shook their heads every time he hacked out more lies. They'd both had their chances to loosen his tongue, digging their knuckles into his wiry body so fucking hard they were lucky their hands didn't break. And the look they were giving me now was begging for another chance at making this asshole squeal, or else put him outta his goddamned misery.

  “You want me to repo our colors now? Maybe that'll open this asshole up.” I looked at the Prez. We shared the same dark fire, boiling in our eyes, a little hotter every second, watching our boy twitch in his restraints like a cornered rat.

  Blackjack paused, straightened his long gray hair, and reached into his pocket for a fresh smoke. The Prez was still a man, and puffing on that endless supply of cigs calmed his nerves. It also made him meaner, righteous in his ruthlessness, confident in his justice.

  “Do it, son. Our lost brother isn't even trying to soften the dagger he's shoved into our backs. As far as I'm concerned, he's no longer fit to wear the bear on his skin a second longer.”

  Adrenaline shot through my veins. I lit the torch, and watched the hot blue flame dance, holding it up in front of my face. Stryker squinted at me through his narrowed, beat up eyes. For the first time since we'd started, I saw a flash of mortal fear on his ugly mug.

  Smiling, I stepped forward, taking my sweet time. We'd already wasted more than a damned hour – what were a few more minutes? When you wanted to break a man, more than half the equation's psychological.

  The pain comes secondary, but once this flame touched Stryker's inks, he'd be in a world of nothing but searing, brain ripping agony.

  “No, no, no!” he snarled, thrashing in the chair we'd bound his arms and legs to. “You can't fucking do this, brother. Not for the love of Christ! I didn't do it. It was some other asshole, somebody set me up, somebody who really wants to see this club killed!”

  I cocked my head, bringing the flame so close to his face the fucker flinched. “Really, now? You're telling me there's somebody else with Mexican cartel connections who got off with a little blood wound the night the cartel came calling? I saw what you did to my girl's cousin, asshole. You'd better believe we're all gonna fuck you up twice as bad before you're buried in concrete.”

  His eyes opened wide as I started to move the flame close, first to that filthy tourniquet wrapped around his arm. The fucker's tongue must've went numb. I'd seen it happen with other dudes, right before they realize imminent death's around the corner, ready to snatch his soul in a blink, or at least make him wish he was getting off that lightly.

  For this jackass, the end was coming slowly and painfully. I watched his eyes widening, lighting up with a thousand pleas for mercy.

  No. NO. NO!

  I ripped the flame away, right before it lit the bandage. Fucking shit. The sudden noise bleeting through the empty warehouse interrupted me.

  My phone droned for about the fifth time in my pocket, reminding me there were darker things to think about than the worst ways to ship this rat sonofabitch off to meet his maker.

  The torch sputtered out as I released the button. Growling, I reached into my pocket, hauled out my phone, and stared at the missed call. Another one from Sally.

  What the fuck was happening? Rabid tried to call the Prez a couple times too, but he wouldn't take it, too wrapped up in his frustration over cracking Stryker's armor to worry about anything outside this old warehouse.

 
; “What the hell's the hold up, son?” He said, never taking his smoke outta his mouth. “Move your ass. He's not going to tell us anything until he's let off a few screams first. We don't have all evening to shake his tongue free.”

  “I'm sorry, Prez. I keep getting these calls...fuck. Just give me a second. Please.”

  Blackjack bared his teeth, practically biting his smoke in two. I told myself it would only be a minute, maybe two, no more.

  Something tightened up in my gut. The calls shouldn't have kept coming after we ignored them, persistent and mysterious.

  I walked over to the opposite corner by the exit out back, right where Beam had been standing a couple minutes ago. I was too busy staring at my phone to wonder whether he'd stepped outside for some fresh air or a piss or what.

  Several voicemails blew up my inbox. Whatever, I had to make this quick, so I skipped over them and hit the reconnect button for Sally's phone instead.

  She answered on the second ring.

  “Jesus, where the fuck were you? Please tell me you haven't gotten to Stryker yet.”

  I gritted my teeth. “What's this about, babe? Start talking. You've got thirty seconds.”

  “I went to see Norm –“

  “Norm? Fuck me, where's Rabid at? He was under direct orders not to let anybody step foot outside that house.”

  “Roman! Just calm down – listen! Give me one fucking second!” I'd never heard her so wound up, screaming 'til my goddamned ear was left ringing. “It was Beam all along. You've got the wrong man. Norm told me face-to-face he's the rat, the one who ambushed him, broke his bones. Well, sort of...”

  “Sorta?”

  “He could only blink to communicate. I asked him the questions. But I triple checked everything. I know he was telling me the truth. I already told Rabid, baby, but he couldn't get to you guys either. He's on his way to –“

  “Babe, come the fuck on,” I growled, shaking my head. “You really expect me to believe all the dirt the club's got on Stryker's nothing but complete shit? And all this from a dude who's so fucked up he's probably got more pain killers than blood in his veins?”

  I really regretted answering this fucking call now. The shame of the Prez and the boys overhearing everything was all that kept me from exploding, hurling the phone against the wall, smashing it into a million pieces.

  Yeah, she was my woman. But right now, she was fucking disrespecting me, feeding me this crazy bullshit, sticking her damned nose where it didn't belong.

  Where the fuck was Rabid? I wondered again. And why the fuck wast he boy so gullible?

  There was a long pause. Just as well, because we were about done. I had to get back to work.

  Now, my hands really ached to do some damage to that fuck in the chair. They'd have to hold me back before I went deeper than his ink, burning him to a goddamned crisp, roasting his bones.

  “What?” Fear chilled Sally's voice, and so did disbelief. “Oh, no. No, no, no. You've got to believe me, Roman. I'm not making this up. I swear!”

  “Didn't say you were. Seems to me we've got the facts screwed up. Fact is, your cousin's fucked up, and I'm gonna need a lot more than a damaged dude's word when he's not even in his right mind. Too bad we're outta time to wait for this to go to trial.”

  “Roman – no! Don't do this. You can come to the hospital with me, talk to him yourself. You'll see. If you'd seen the look in his eyes, how coherent he was, there's no fucking way –“

  “Goodbye, babe.” I thumbed the phone and ended the call, once again resisting the urge to rush over and destroy that motherfucker. This time, I completely shut it down before I made my way back.

  Stryker was halfway outta it by the time I got back underneath the beam of sunlight filtering through the busted window. My girl had bought his evil ass a few more seconds to accept his fate.

  Fucking wonderful. I'd have to make him suffer twice as hard, invest a little more energy to make this place echo with his screams.

  I picked up the torch. My eyes flicked to the Prez, and he nodded his approval, an anxious spark in his eyes telling me to finish what I'd started.

  There was a deafening rumble as the flame sparked to life. Way too deep to be a fiery hiss, and too damned close to be thunder. It was clear overhead.

  Engines. Lots of them. Vehicles that sounded much bigger and more numerous than bikes.

  All the guys in the room perked up, even Stryker, lifting his miserable head and giving me a surprised look. My heart got such a heavy shot of adrenaline I nearly forgot to kill the torch and slam it back down on the old crate holding our implements.

  “Who the fuck's out there?” Blackjack growled, clenching his fists and marching toward the narrow slit of dirty glass next to the back exit.

  “Sally said something about Rabid showing up.” I sounded like a fucking ghost. There's no way Rabid and a couple prospects would've made that much noise with their bikes.

  One by one, the boys went to the glass, and stopped dead in their tracks. I knew it wasn't good – whatever the fuck was waiting for us out there was a disaster. Didn't stop me from snatching my gun off my hip and walking up to join my crew.

  “Grizzlies motorcycle club! We know you're in there. Come on out, or we shoot our way in!” A tanned man in an ivory white suit leaned outta a sunroof on an SUV, his gold teeth gleaming in the evening light every time he moved his mouth. “You have exactly one minute.”

  Other men stepped out of the six or so huge trucks lined up around the broken down courtyard, the place we'd always used as a graveyard for traitors and enemies. They were all Mexicans, packing automatics and shotguns, and they looked pissed.

  I looked at the three guys next to me, one by one. Brass had no fear. Asphalt looked pissed. Blackjack wore the same freakish calm he always showed in situations like this.

  I had to hand it to him – his guts never wavered one bit. Even when we were about to walk out into an ambush, outgunned and underprepared, vulnerable to every fucking double cross in the book if the cartel wanted to end this war right here.

  As for me, I had faith. The bear owned our fates now, and we were already dead men, or else the biggest goddamned underdogs who'd ever worn this patch.

  Blackjack looked at us and nodded. “Lets go.”

  “Right behind you, Prez,” I growled, stepping in front of him and pounding the door open.

  More than a dozen cartel bastards waited, their weapons drawn. Blackjack walked out, holding out an arm to keep us back. When the fucker with the gold teeth saw him, staring through his oversized shades, he ducked down into the SUV and slid out the passenger door a couple seconds later, smoothing his suit as he stood up.

  He looked like a fucking lounge lizard, but the large silver crest on his lapel told us exactly what we were looking at. His emblem had the same eagle swooping down on the desert snake I'd seen before. But the only dudes who got these fancy medals were cartel bosses, and now there was one in front of us, a general on a mission.

  “Ah, Blackjack,” the Mexican said with a grin, his thick accent more noticeable out here. “You're even older than I've been told. If you hadn't killed legions of my men, I'd shake your hand.”

  “Shut the fuck up and get on with it,” the Prez snapped. “What're your terms? I know when my balls are in a vise.”

  The cartel boss' grin melted. “I believe in fighting fair. I'll offer you the same thing you've given my soldiers – a quick, clean, easy death like men.”

  Asphalt snorted. He reached for his nine millimeter, and suddenly a dozen men jerked like one machine, readying their guns and aiming them in our direction.

  “Don't. I know you're a smart man, and a reasonable man. You have lost, old man.” The don's gold teeth reappeared, this time like a vicious wolf. “It's completely up to you whether you want your MC to die in agony. Perhaps we'll spare your life for a few hours to talk about the big picture after every last one of your brothers here is dead. Step out of the way.”

  “No,” the P
rez growled, digging his boots into the concrete. His old wound must've scorched like fuck. “You want to talk terms, then you'll do it with the rest of my boys, and you'll kill me first. Go, collect your rat inside, and get on with it.”

  The boss looked at one of his guys, muttered something in Spanish, and sent him behind us, into the warehouse. The grunt returned a couple seconds later, marching out Stryker, his hands still bound behind his back.

  When I saw the big Mexican return to his leader, leaving Stryker behind with the rest of us, my fucking heart sank. They were either enormous bastards who'd butcher their own informants...or Sally was right.

  “There's nothing to collect except your bodies,” Gold Teeth said. “We've already got our insider, and he's going to be rewarded quite handsomely.”

  Shit. She was right.

  Stryker couldn't be our rat, unless this was all a sick joke. Not out of the question for these fucking demons from across the border.

  But I knew it wasn't that easy. I knew we'd just spent our last couple hours on earth torturing a fellow brother, an innocent man. That shit alone made me want to walk right into the gorilla holding the shotgun, and feel the hellfire cut through my chest.

  Fuck, fuck, fuck. Is this how my old man felt before he lost his mind and got himself killed?

  The whole world condensed into a tight black ball. The Prez's mouth was moving, but my ears wouldn't work, and I had to grip my gun tight to keep from passing out.

  An SUV's door slamming brought me back to life. I saw the devil himself walking toward us, through the cartel ranks, Beam, complete with his fucked up hair.

  “You sick, fucked up sonofabitch,” I growled, getting in front of Blackjack.

  All the guns were trained on me. The asshole kept coming, slithering past the evil bastard who'd offered him his pieces of silver.

  “Easy, big boy. Your old lady wouldn't like you going out in a hail of rage and bullets – not that she's got much choice at this point. I'd love a shot at giving you the same treatment I gave Norm. Go ahead and give me a good reason.”

  My fists had never been so damned hungry in my whole life. It took every ounce of strength I had to fight the urge to pop this fucker's brains out his skull.