by C. L. Riley
In my case, this entire situation needs to be handled with greater care than I first imagined. I have three superiors to please, and they would not take kindly to my various and conflicting loyalties.
Only one of my bosses knows about the other two, and even he isn’t aware how close I’ve become to Rowdy and the MC.
He can’t know.
Not if I want to remain and dismantle the current Hells Guardians’ structure, helping Rowdy make a clean separation.
My real reason for being patched in has become convoluted through the years, and my original assignment has been adjusted so many times I can barely remember the ultimate goal.
When all the pieces of my life intersected like a completed puzzle, everything got far more complicated. The club, my family, and initial job have all congregated at the same crossroads. And though I’d prefer to kill my cousin and Dr. Martin, I’m going to have to sacrifice one to satisfy my first boss.
Блин, блин, блин. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck...as Rowdy would say.
Even though he frustrates the hell out of me at times, Rowdy is my friend. I didn’t intend for us to get so close. But we did. He’s become what many would refer to as a bestfriend. And Trina is a special lady.
All the more reason I need to figure my shit out and keep everyone semi-satisfied while keeping my ass out of the hot seat. I’m already feeling the flames; just a sampling of the heat blowing my way, heat that will turn into a raging inferno if I’m not cautious.
If I tell anyone the truth, it will be my father. When I explain the benefits my position affords, including the times it has saved our family grief, embarrassment, and most importantly, imprisonment, he might be persuaded to disregard one tenet shared with the MC.
Bury all rats.
I don’t see myself as a rat or snitch, more like an organizer, a big player in a game of cops and robbers. I find ways to take the most dangerous fuckers off the game board, those who harm others simply because it suits them and feeds some inner demon they can’t control.
Guys like Rowdy and Boone, they might be what my original employer considers bad guys, but I know better. Ringo, Pyro, and the doctor and my cousin are perfect examples of the real bad guys, the ones who take things too far from the law, destroying innocent lives in the process.
Most of my biker brethren are okay guys. Yeah, they live by their own principles, but I’ve grown to admire and respect the camaraderie they maintain when they’re not bickering over stupid shit or in the middle of a mutiny attempt.
Speaking of respect and admiration, maybe I should trust my friendship with Rowdy and spill it all.
He’ll realize I know more than enough to put the club away on RICO charges. But I made certain any incriminating evidence disappeared and have since helped in his quest to move away from the club’s criminal enterprises, all the while, protecting him from other agencies sniffing around. I anticipate he will take those benefits into consideration when it comes time administer my sentence.
I guess when you get right down to it, I am a bad cop, dispensing justice as I see fit, occasionally feeding a lower-level criminal to the top brass.
My position in the FBI, as an undercover agent, came about when I was on the outs with my father and the family. I was barely twenty-one. The FBI, of course, was well aware of my blood relations and had high hopes my connections would prove useful in gaining a foothold in that world.
So when I got arrested for a bar brawl, where I beat two men unconscious, they offered me a job instead of prison time.
The Hells Guardians’ investigation fell into my lap due to the Oregon chapter’s former president and his connections to organized crime, which once again made me an ideal agent to infiltrate the MC.
Nothing is ever as it seems, though. Evidenced by my shifting loyalties and desire to live a simpler life.
“Watch out!” Brandon shouts.
Brandon is my cousin’s latest alias...fucking ridiculous is my initial thought as I’m yanked from my silent analysis and propelled into the present, a present where I am swerving toward an oncoming car that appears to be headed toward the mansion.
“Idiot!” he bellows even louder, discounting the fact my quick reflexes helped us avoid a head on collision with a sleek Mercedes worth more than our current vehicle.
Stomping the breaks, I look toward the other car. It slows but continues around me, keeping its course. I don’t get a good visual of the driver, but I’m sure it’s a woman.
Overlooking my cousin’s ongoing insults, I make a cautious U-turn and follow the Mercedes.
If she’s going where I think she is, entering the estate with her as a cover might be our best course.
I’ll need to deal with my blathering sidekick first.
His presence will serve no purpose. And I’m still not sure who is going to meet the Reaper tonight, so I’ll need to knock him out and secure him until I decide.
My cell rumbles.
Rowdy has been calling every thirty minutes, for hours. Ignoring him isn’t something I’ve ever done, and it feels wrong on so many levels, especially since the attack at his house that I’ve yet to respond to. But I’m not ready to deal with him either.
Right now I need to rescue Cheryl Cunningham, the current hostage, and stop the woman driver from a similar outcome.
Screw supervisors, family, and biker presidents―saving lives is my priority. Once that’s accomplished, I’ll figure out who goes to prison for life and who gets to meet their maker.
I know I should call for back up, but then my choices will be taken away by the bureau. There’s one agent I trust to assist―William Thatcher.
He provided the intelligence and evidence from working undercover inside Brain Matters, evidence that will shock the public and medical community alike. He also understands how delicate this entire situation is.
One wrong move from some agent wanting to play hotshot hero could ruin all we’ve worked so hard to achieve.
As for Rowdy, as much as he wants the doctor dead, I may not be able to follow his order because of the research that waits in Brain Matter’s basement labs, research that will likely require Dr. Martin to answer questions, copious questions.
Keeping the doctor breathing behind bars could be what ultimately comes between me and Rowdy. Add on my true identity, and our future friendship is bleak at best. But Dr. Martin needs to stay above ground for the moment, at least until he elaborates on what went down in his labs.
Burying those worries for now, I maneuver our car onto a side road that leads nowhere. It’s one of those gravel roads that turns to dirt and then ends in a field of grass.
“Why are you stopping here? Follow the woman. We can―”
I don’t let him finish, shoving a syringe filled with enough propofol for him to endure at least six or seven colonoscopies, back to back...or butt to butt, into his neck.
I chuckle in spite of the circumstances.
Brandon had been the one to boast about the drug’s effectiveness, during that specific, always unpopular, medical procedure. He’d made sure to point out the drug works fast. And he was right.
It takes less than thirty seconds for his chin to hit his chest. I doubt he ever expected one of his favorite knockout drugs would be the precursor to his own ruin.
With him sedated, I move fast, cuffing his hands to the wheel. I disarm him and snag the car keys, before locking the doors. I’m nice enough to leave the back window cracked a half inch.
After removing the magazine from his gun, I eject the cartridge from its chamber and conduct a quick survey of my weapons and pocket another syringe of propofol. I’m as ready as I can be.
I shoot off a text to Brain Matter’s chief of security, giving him the directions and situation parameters.
Knowing Rowdy will keep calling, I send him a message too, explaining I’m tied up with a family emergency, my reason for traveling to Seattle to begin with.
Feeling calmer, I edge away from my cousin and our car.
Grate
ful for my all black attire and the weight I’ve recently lost, I break into a jog, keeping my head lowered and staying near the tree line.
I make it to the gate just as the Mercedes pulls up. The driver must have slowed way down at some point. Maybe she senses the danger that waits behind the ominous wall. Whatever the reason, it worked in my favor.
Darting from the shadows, I crouch behind the car, palms against the trunk. I can smell the wax and almost see my face, thanks to the polish job.
Once the gate is open, I’ll need to dispose of the guards immediately while trusting William to disconnect the camera feed to this entrance, something he assured me he could do with a moment’s notice. He’d also hinted at an inside informant, an anonymous informant he solicited and trusts.
I don’t give a flying fuck what the snitch’s name is as long as he or she takes care of business and has my back if I need help.
Nark or not, with one of the FBI’s premiere, hacker-programmers, helping us hunt down two Seattle serial killers, we’ve already bypassed roadblock after roadblock.
I’ll need to buy Agent Thatcher a drink. He’s earned one, working for Cliff AKA Greg Martin all these months and breaking through the doctor’s security measures at every turn without being caught. Damn impressive.
“I have a meeting with Dr. Martin,” the Mercedes’ driver announces, fully capturing my attention.
I recognize the visitor even with her voice trembling. Trina has returned to face her captor, and she couldn’t have come at a worse time.
“Блин,” I hiss. Fuck. Now I’ll need to keep her alive too. If Trina dies and Dr. Martin lives, Rowdy will pull every resource to reward the person who eliminates me.
I doubt my family or the FBI could stop a man like Rowdy.
If Trina dies, I’ll turn myself over to Rowdy and let him finish me himself. I’ll be man enough to look him in the eyes while he does it.
So to ensure she doesn’t end up dead, I spring into motion the minute the gate opens, putting a bullet in the first guard’s forehead. The second comes foolishly towards me, drawing his gun.
He’s too slow. His chest blooms crimson.
The third is on a phone, his frustration mounting when the device fails to function. I’m not sure who to credit, inside informant or FBI hacker.
His gaze meets mine at the same instant I pull the trigger.
I take second look at the guards’ uniforms, relieved to see they are wearing all black, well, black and blood for one, and two with brain matter. At least I won’t look out of place escorting Trina, considering my near-matching clothing.
Turning back, I hold out a hand. Trina’s eyes widen with recognition.
A little nod tells me she doesn’t need to be reminded to stay quiet. Without any further prompting she grabs my hand, keeping her face forward and refusing to even glance at the mess I’ve created.
Dogs bark and a piercing whistle follows in three short bursts, silencing them. I have no clue what command was given, but we’re about to find out.
Rowdy
It’s after one in the morning and the traffic from the airport to Mercer Island is light, another thing in my favor.
After landing at Sea-Tac, I picked up the waiting car and was on my way to Brain Matters when Olympia called to report the best news of the night.
The vehicle Trina hijacked is fitted with a tracking device, courtesy of Jayde’s slightly paranoid, very jealous husband. After seeing how upset his wife was, he admitted to the monitoring system.
I’m sure his sudden willingness to help find Trina had far more to do with the MC’s involvement than any real desire to aid us. Had something happened to Trina because of him withholding information, his future would have been cut short.
Smart man.
“Fuck! Demon.” My mood plummets, thanks to his text. Sent about fifteen minutes ago, I’m just now reading it.
His excuse for not responding sooner rings false.
His mafia family has functioned for years without his intervention. Lately, he’s been back and forth, dealing with them more than in all the years we’ve known each other.
Starting with their unwillingness to share information I’d paid for, to the recent, supposed crisis, my inner-alarm, or whatever the fuck you want to call it, is shouting at me to pay attention.
Demon has been off. His head isn’t in the game. Not like it should be.
Once this situation is resolved, we’ll be having an overdue sit-down to iron this shit out. My plan includes him running the club when I step away. There’s no one else I trust to follow through on the changes we’ve started. If he has reservations or new family obligations, I need to know sooner not later.
He’s also the only one with enough power and influence to keep the guys in line and purge the inside threats to the club’s security. The traitorous group that invaded my house today may have a momentary reprieve, but they’re on the short list for elimination.
That line of thinking comes to an abrupt stop as I start across the floating bridge, connecting the greater Seattle area with Mercer Island and with what will likely become a bloody showdown.
The GPS coordinates have allowed me to pull up an aerial view of the fortress that Trina’s captor believes he’s kept off the grid.
He has taken security to a serious level, but I have Spyder and Boone already pulling up property schematics and history. The house is not listed in Dr. Martin’s name, and he’s done a good job hiding his trail, but not good enough.
I squeeze the steering wheel until my bad hand throbs, joining the stinging face wound and stitched-up slice on my arm; together they repeat the same chorus in an agonizing symphony.
There’s no denying, I am not in prime condition to faceoff with a madman, but I’ve got local Soul Scorchers moving into position to back me up, and now that I know my target has not one but two helipads, an old acquaintance is making arrangements for air support.
Not bad for an ex business executive turned biker.
I’ll reach out to law enforcement if it becomes necessary, anything to save my wife.
Failure is not an option.
Dr. Martin
“Sir, your invited guest has arrived. She’s entered the gate, and I’ve contained the dogs.”
I yank up my pants, annoyingly my dick is still hard.
Dex, no doubt, was gifted with an up close and personal view of my impressive ass. I’m not sure which side he bats for, and I don’t care. But the thought of him ogling me from behind is somewhat gratifying.
Considering I never got to play with Ms. Cunningham, Nurse Templeton will be enjoying the fucking of a lifetime. I may actually take her to my bed and make love to her like a man without my tainted tastes.
That would be a first.
She won’t escape my belt under any circumstance. After the hell her disappearance put me through, she’s lucky I don’t chain her for a week.
Depending on her attitude, that could still be her destiny.
If she grovels to my satisfaction, I’ll give her a night of pure pleasure and introduce her to the playroom after we’ve had a few days to reconnect and catch up.
“Take her to the small den and offer her a drink and some refreshments. I’m going to make myself more presentable. I want this reunion to be perfect.”
Why I even care what she thinks, I can’t begin to explain. At least I can honestly claim I didn’t assault her friend, thanks to the constant interruptions and Trina’s arrival. But I’m not sure how to explain why I’m not releasing Cheryl right away as agreed to.
Trina won’t take kindly to my deceit.
“Sir, one more thing, if you don’t mind...” Dex trails off; well aware how I hate any delay once an order is given.
“What is it?” I tear my gaze from Cheryl and stalk toward him.
He takes a step back, into the shadows. It’s his way of letting me know he fucked up and wishes he could disappear.
“Should I rouse your sleeping guest? I belie
ve Ms. Templeton has followed your guidelines. There’s no evidence to the contrary. She appears to be alone.”
I sigh, letting the air rush through my nose. It’s like he read my mind. I might be dangerous and downright devious, but keeping my word is something my father beat into me. There are always exceptions, but since my lovely nurse obeyed and because I want her affection, it would behove me to release her friend.
The risk will be significant, but I believe Ms. Cunningham will stay silent. I’ll make sure she understands the consequences to both herself and Trina should she suddenly get chatty with the wrong people, in this case, all people.
“Fine. Yes. Give her some Ritalin. That will bring her around quick enough, but she is not to join us until I notify you.”
I’ll give them a minute to say their goodbyes and make sure they both understand the rules for ongoing survival. Cheryl holds two lives in her well-manicured hands.
Who knows? If Trina accepts her new role and submits to me completely, I may allow supervised visits with her girlfriend.
Realizing I could use a little stimulation myself, I turn back to Dex. “Hold off on waking her. I need you to entertain Nurse Templeton while I shower. You can revive Ms. Cunningham once I’m done preparing myself.”
What I really need is enough time for the Adderall I’ve elected to take, to work its chemical magic.
Its effects will put a stop to the annoying insecurities nagging me. I’m a genius, after all. I’m handsome, according to the women who gawk at me every day. I’m famous and wealthy beyond measure. Yet Number 23 has me sweating like a virginal choirboy.
I need to stop thinking of her as a person and as an equal.
She’s a number.
Number 23. Not Trina. Not Nurse Templeton. She’s nothing but a playmate that’s earned additional time and attention from her master.
Repeating the mantra, I swagger to my suite, a long overdue smile on my face.
I’m on my knees, in front of my medication and gun safe in an instant. Thirty minutes from now, I’ll be back to my normal, confident self.
And forget any acts of charity. Cheryl will stay.