HAMMER: Wolves MC (Riding With Wolves Book 1)

by Faith Winslow

  On my way to the door, I passed a dirty, long-haired boy who looked like he couldn’t have been much older than eighteen. He was sitting on a parking strip, smoking a cigarette, and I didn’t pay him much attention. But as soon as he saw me, he stood up and started walking behind me.

  “You’re the sister, right?” he asked in his young, boyish voice.

  I ignored him and kept walking. He was obviously a biker—or other lowlife of some sort—and I couldn’t be bothered with whatever he had to say.

  “I heard you been asking questions,” he went on, ignoring me ignoring him. “Well, here’s one for you… Was Terry made of steel?”

  I stopped and turned around. The question was so ridiculous and weird. “What?” I asked, giving the young guy a demanding look.

  “Was Terry made of steel?” he repeated. “I heard he had a closed casket, ‘cause the guys in the yard beat him down pretty hard. But he couldn’t have looked that bad, could he? When he went in for killing that other biker a few months back, he didn’t have a scratch or bruise on his body, did he? He stabbed that dude after they got into a fight—but the other dude didn’t even leave a mark on him, which don’t make sense. So that’s why I’m askin’—was Terry made of steel?”

  The dirty kid had a point, and it was one I’d considered before. When Terry turned himself in for killing Jake Keller, his body was completely clean. Things between him and Jake had “escalated to a physical level” and got so heated that Terry stabbed him six times, but Terry didn’t have a single scuff on him. It was another one of those things that just didn’t add up.

  “Who are you?” I asked the guy. “And what do you want?”

  “I’m a friend,” he answered, stepping closer to me. “And I wanna help you… You been askin’ questions, and I can help you get the answers you need.”

  I looked at the door, then at the kid. I needed to tend to things inside, but this shit that was happening outside needed tended to, too.

  “No worries,” he went on, sensing how I was torn. “We don’t gotta talk now, but we gotta talk soon. How about you meet me after you’re done in there?”

  “Okay,” I said quickly, without much thought.

  “Not here though,” he answered. “Too many eyes. There’s a bar called Kent Town about three miles down the street, east of here. We can meet out back, in the alley behind it. It’s off the beaten path, and we can talk good there.”

  This kid looked like a slimeball, but he said he had information I wanted, and I knew I wasn’t going to find it any other way. So, against my better judgment, I agreed.

  “Okay,” I said. “I’ll meet you there in about a half hour. Okay?”

  The kid smiled and nodded at me. “A half hour sounds good,” he said. “And bring some scratch. I wanna talk, but it ain’t gonna be free.”

  I nodded my head as well, confirming his monetary request, and watched as he slithered away, then I turned back around and went into Bradley’s to do what I needed to do.

  As packed as the place had been earlier in the morning, Bradley’s was like a ghost town when I went back in (no pun intended). The place had all but emptied, except for a few funeral workers and some random mourners who’d accidentally left something behind.

  I swept past them without any mind and went to the funeral home director’s office to get the Mass cards and envelopes from the donation box, which he kindly and quickly gave to me in a large canvas bag, along with his condolences and regards.

  After that, I returned to the main room to pick up the floral arrangement from Terry’s teacher, and as I did, I examined the space again. It was so different, so daunting. The place where Terry’s closed coffin sat looked so empty, and it made me think of the emptiness—the void—I’d have in my life now that my brother was gone.

  I stood there for a moment, closed my eyes, and said a silent prayer. I got about halfway through my internal dialogue when I was interrupted by a real voice that spoke to me from the other end of the room.

  “Miss Cramer,” a man said. “May I speak with you for a moment?” The voice sounded familiar.

  And when I turned, the man looked familiar, too. It was the priest.

  “Yeah, sure,” I replied.

  He gestured towards the seating area, and I walked over and sat down

  “Are you the only surviving family member?” he asked, taking a seat in the adjoining chair.

  “Yes,” I said. “Our mom died when we were young children, and our father left the picture long before that… Terry and I were raised by our Uncle Bart out in Bristol—but he died a few years back too, right before we moved to L.A.” I didn’t have time to tell the priest my whole life story—I had to meet that dirty kid in a half hour, remember—but I figured I owed him some type of response.

  “I’m sorry to hear about the losses that you and your brother endured,” he replied. “And I’m sorry for the loss that you now face in his absence.”

  “Thank you,” I said with a somewhat forced smile.

  “As Terry’s only surviving family member,” the priest said, reaching into his jacket, “this goes to you.” He pulled out a very thick manila envelope and held it out to me.

  “What is it?” I asked before taking it.

  “The Wolves took up a collection for Terry,” he answered. “There’s fifteen thousand dollars in there.”

  “Fifteen thousand dollars?” I asked, pulling my hand away from the envelope.

  “Yes,” the priest replied.

  “From the Wolves?” I asked.

  “Yes,” the priest replied.

  “I don’t want it!” I shouted, standing up from my chair.

  “Miss Cramer,” the priest retorted, “the Wolves collected this money to help you take care of your brother’s funeral expenses. Surely you aren’t going to ignore their help and good will.”

  I looked at the priest and tried to scowl, but it was hard to scowl at him. He looked so kind and considerate, so compassionate and real. He was nothing like the hardcore biker types I had to deal with over the past few days and months, and he had a sensibility about him—in his appearance and demeanor—that not a single one of them possessed.

  His head was bald, and he wore thick, black-framed eyeglasses that matched his entirely black ensemble, which was rather avant-garde and high-end, considering his vocation. His body was thin, but obviously very healthy, and his skin glowed with softness… But still, I wasn’t going to let his mainstreamness distract me.

  “Their help and good will?” I asked, trying not to sound as heated as I really was. “The Wolves aren’t offering me help and good will. They don’t know what ‘help’ and ‘good will’ is! This money isn’t to take care of Terry’s expenses! It’s blood money. Hush money. A payout. It’s their way of getting me to turn and look the other way, to forgive them and overlook what they did without asking any more questions.”

  The priest stared back at me with a confused look on his face.

  “Your sermon was wonderful,” I went on. “And I hope that the Wolves were able to appreciate its meaning, but there’s a lot you don’t know about them, or about Terry. They’re the ones responsible for his death, but they refuse to be accountable. And, now, they wanna give me money? They want to give me fifteen thousand dollars? But they can’t even do it themselves? They had to send a priest to do their dirty work.”

  “I’m not a priest,” the “priest” said back.

  “Huh?” I asked.

  “I’m a minister,” he answered. I noticed then that his entirely black, avant-garde, high-end ensemble lacked the little white band that priests religiously wear on the neckline of their cleric shirts.

  “There’s a big difference between priests and reverends, you know,” he said, holding up his left hand. His shirt may have lacked a band, but his ring finger didn’t. He wore a gold wedding band on it.

  “Priests are Catholic and live a very abstinent life,” he explained, telling me something I already knew. “I, on the other hand
, am a nondenominational Christian minister.”

  “I’m sorry,” I replied, both humbled and humiliated. “I didn’t know.”

  “No need to apologize,” the minister said. “But, rest assured, I am not here to do anyone’s dirty work. I’m here to give you this money, which the Wolves have collected in Terry’s memory and honor. I wouldn’t have laid my hands on it if I thought it was ‘dirty’ in any way—and I urge you to accept it, regardless or whatever prejudices and suspicions you have.”

  Terry and I weren’t really raised with any religious affiliation, but nonetheless, I, like most people, had come to hold men of the cloth in high regard. When a priest, pastor, preacher, reverend, or minister said or recommended something, their words were usually worth listening to, and given everything I’d seen of this particular minister so far, and considering my financial situation, I decided to take heed.

  I walked back over to the minister and reluctantly took the envelope from his hand.

  “Alright,” I said. “I’ll take it and use it to reimburse myself for the funeral expenses I’ve already paid—and I’ll put what’s left over to a good cause.” (That “good cause,” by the way, was T.J.; I’d put the remainder of the money in a savings account for him, if—and only if—he turned out to be Terry’s child.)

  “Lovely,” the minister said with a smile. “You’re doing the right thing.”

  I smiled back at him and shoved the envelope into the canvas bag the funeral home director had given me. Then, the minister stood up, held out his hand, and bade me farewell.

  I went back over to the flower pedestals, grabbed the silk arrangement, and glanced down at my watch. I’d been in the funeral home for more than twenty minutes, and I didn’t have any more time to waste. I was supposed to meet that slimeball kid behind Kent Town in a matter of minutes, and I didn’t want to miss my chance to hear what he had to say.

  Chapter 12

  ~ Rachel ~

  Kent Town was a dive bar if ever I’d seen one—and I say that after having only seen it from the outside—but seeing it from the outside was more than enough. The place, itself, looked decrepit and run-down, and if it hadn’t been for the whores and druggies hanging out outside of it, I wouldn’t have ever realized it was open for business.

  But the fact that it was open for business didn’t matter much to me. My business wasn’t in the bar, but rather, behind it.

  After I parked my car on the street, I walked back to the alley where I was supposed to meet my “informant.” The alley was even more decrepit and run-down than the façade of Kent Town, and I clutched onto my purse tightly as I passed a few derelicts along the way. They each appeared to be passed out in a drunken or drug-induced stupor, but still, I wasn’t gonna take any chances.

  I found the dirty kid several yards deeper in the alley, standing next to a dumpster. He was smoking another cigarette, and he tossed it to the ground and stomped on it as I drew near.

  “Glad you could make it,” he said. “I was afraid you weren’t gonna show.”

  “Well, here I am,” I chimed back, trying to sound confident and strong. “Now, what do you have to tell me?”

  “First things first,” the slimeball said. “Did you bring money?”

  “Of course,” I replied, moving closer to him and the dumpster so that those other derelicts wouldn’t see or hear what I was doing.

  I reached into my purse, pulled out my wallet, and extracted two $100 bills.

  “Here,” I said, holding it out to him.

  “That ain’t enough,” he said, twerking his eyebrows at me.

  “That’s all I have on me,” I said.

  “You’re lying,” he shot back.

  “No, I’m not,” I replied.

  “Yes, you are,” he shouted.

  Before I could do move an inch or do anything to protect or defend myself, the slimeball reached out and grabbed me by the wrist. He pulled me forward, slung me against the wall beside the dumpster, and pinned me to the wall with one arm, then he grabbed my purse, held it to his chest, and started rifling through it.

  “Where is it?” he asked—nay, demanded.

  “Where’s what?” I whimpered, paralyzed by the intensity of the moment.

  “The money the Wolves gave you,” he clarified. “Where is it?” He dumped my purse out onto the ground and stared down at its upheaved contents.

  “I don’t have it with me. I dropped it off at home before I came here. That’s why I was late,” I blabbered. I was lying this time. I’d stashed the canvas bag containing the money in the trunk of my car when I left the funeral home.

  The slimeball tossed my empty purse onto the ground, next to its contents, and leaned into me. “I don’t believe you,” he said, pressing his body against mine.

  “Maybe you have it on you,” he added, running his filthy hands over my thighs and up my skirt. I felt something hard digging into me near my middle. I didn’t know if it was a weapon or his excited cock—and I didn’t know which one I feared more.

  “Just let me go,” I begged, as he continued to fondle me and search me. “I’ll give you whatever you want… Just let me go.”

  “Yeah, you’ll give me what I want,” he said, moving his hands from my thighs to my torso and breasts.

  I didn’t know what this guy planned on doing to me, but I knew that, whatever it was, it’d probably either land me in the hospital or in the morgue. I couldn’t fight him off. He was younger, bigger, stronger, and more determined than I was. There was no way I was getting out of this unscathed.

  I closed my eyes and prepared myself for what was to come next. My only consolation was, if worse came to worse, at least I’d be with Terry again…

  But then, in an instant, something happened. I felt a quick, hard tug, and then a sweet release. The slimeball’s arm wasn’t pinning me down anymore. His hands stopped running over my body, and whatever hard thing he had pressed up against me was miraculously gone.

  I opened my eyes and gasped. I couldn’t believe what I saw.

  The slimeball was lying flat on the ground with another long-haired man hunched over on top of him, straddling him at the chest. The other man was punching him in the face over and over again—or some might say, “Hammering” him—and blood was squirting out of the slimeball’s face at every angle, splattering his assailant’s white button-down shirt.

  “Stop!” I screamed. “You’re gonna kill him… He’s just a kid!”

  “Shut the fuck up, Rachel,” Sam Hammond screamed back at me, punching the slimeball in the face again. “This kid was gonna rob you, rape you, pound you, or do all of the above.”

  Sam must have been distracted when he responded to me, because the “kid” managed to get a punch in, and Sam recoiled a little at the impact.

  “Who are you?” Sam wailed at the slimeball.

  “Pigpen,” the slimeball wailed back, spitting out blood. “I’m Pigpen.”

  “Who sent you?” Sam shouted.

  “Nobody sent me,” Pigpen replied, wriggling against Sam’s heavier weight. “I just wanted the money, that’s all.”

  “What money?” Sam demanded to know.

  Pigpen realized that his resistance was futile and stopped wriggling, but Sam remained firmly planted on top of him.

  “The money the Wolves gave her,” Pigpen replied, spitting out more blood.

  “How’d you know about the money?” Sam asked, grabbing Pigpen by his collar.

  “I heard some guys talking about it yesterday,” Pigpen said.

  “What guys?” Sam inquired, lifting him slightly.

  Sam’s interrogation was like pulling teeth, and from the way I’d seen Sam sock Pigpen, I’m sure he’d already lost a few teeth already.

  “Your guys,” Pigpen answered.

  “Explain!” Sam insisted.

  Pigpen, however, stayed silent.

  “Explain, you little pipsqueak,” Sam insisted again.

  Pigpen didn’t say a word.

  Sam
dropped him to the ground again and repositioned his hands on Pigpen’s collar. In one brisk, ferocious move, Sam tore Pigpen’s shirt down the middle. He reached towards Pigpen’s left nipple and started pulling and twisting the barbell piercing attached to it.

  “Explain!” Sam repeated.

  Pigpen cringed in agony. “Okay, okay,” he whimpered. His whimper sounded even more pathetic than mine did a few moments earlier.

  “I was at Tony Ink’s last night,” he explained. “Two of your boys were there—I don’t know their names. They wanted to buy a QP of Orange Cush, but they didn’t have enough scratch on them. They asked Tony to front them and said they’d pay him back soon, said they didn’t have it on them ‘cause they’d emptied their pockets into a collection for Terry’s sister. She was a nosy bitch, they said, but they wanted to help her out, even though she’d been causing trouble and askin’ a lot of questions.

  “Tony chatted ‘em up for a while, and I listened. I heard them sayin’ that there was over ten grand in the collection, and that Crete had organized a drop to give Terry’s sister the money today, after the funeral. So I asked around about the funeral, found out the place and time. I went there today and hung around, picking up whatever I could hear and waiting for Terry’s sister to show. I figured—”

  “You figured what?” Sam asked, twisting Pigpen’s piercing again. “You figured you’d rob a dead guy’s sister?”

  Pigpen shrieked again and tried to say something, but nothing came out.

  “You got wings?” Sam asked, letting up on Pigpen’s nipple. Pigpen’s only reply was another mouthful of blood. “Where are they?” Sam inquired, sliding back a little and leaning forward to more closely examine Pigpen’s body.

  Pigpen tried to squirm and get free, but Sam clearly had the upper hand and kept exploring his body.

  “Ah, here we go,” Sam said a few seconds later with an uncanny sigh of relief. His body loosened up a little, but his hold on Pigpen remained firm.

  “Get over here, Rachel!” Sam shouted back at me without turning his head or taking his eyes off of Pigpen.