Blood and Honor

by Vixen, Jayna

  There is nothing here for me. There never was.

  She knew what she had to do now. It wasn’t going to be pretty, but if anyone was going to risk their life, it was going to be someone who had nothing to live for.

  Someone who was worthless.

  Tainted.

  Toxic.

  Me.

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Alanna was well and truly fucked and there wasn’t much she could do about it but pray—and she was pretty sure that God wasn’t listening to her.

  Once the man, Vidal’s former henchman or whoever he was, forced his way into the her vehicle, she found herself bound, gagged, and tossed unceremoniously onto the floorboards. She struggled and screamed against the tape over her mouth for what seemed like forever, to no avail. Finally, exhausted, she resigned herself to her fate. She knew she was a bitch, but she was no dummy. The man’s appearance now could only mean one thing: He meant to collect on her offer.

  For a while, she stared up at the windows, willing a big rig to drive by and its driver to notice her. The beach scenery faded away and she knew they were hitting the freeway. They seemed to be heading to the outskirts of town, but Alanna couldn’t be sure. The fumes rising up from the back of the old van were making her nauseous, so she closed her eyes. Later, she regretted doing that, because when she opened them again, she had no idea where she was.

  The vehicle slowed and she could hear the sounds of a gate opening. Alanna feigned unconsciousness as hands reached for her and dragged her roughly out of the van. Then, she was hauled over some guy’s shoulder. She heard men’s voices and laughter as the smell of stale cigarettes and beer met her nostrils. A door opened and she was dumped roughly on a cot. She lay still, huddled in the fetal position, until she heard the door slam and a key turn in the lock.

  Alanna surveyed her surroundings. The room was small and the only source of light was a naked bulb dangling from the ceiling. There was no paint on the walls, and some sort of dark stain spread across the floor. It was cold, too. For the first time, she wondered if her quest to be with Dax was leading her down the wrong path. After all, she couldn’t get with him if she was a prisoner.

  Or…worse.

  Sounds that were vaguely familiar began to trickle in through the thin walls of the room that housed her. There were men here—drunk men. The loud rattle of custom pipes sank in and then she knew where she was—she was in a biker compound.

  If only she knew which one.

  ***

  It turned out she didn’t have long to wait. The door flew open and the big lug who had snatched her walked in behind a shorter, olive-skinned guy who held one of his hands behind his back.

  “This the bitch?”

  “Yeah.”

  “So, what’s she got on Jamison?”

  Alanna kept her eyes downcast but at the mention of Dax’s last name, her heart leapt into her throat.

  “Thought I’d wait til you were here before I started.”

  Started? Oh, fuck. Alanna felt the color draining from her cheeks as the two men sized her up. Then, the smaller man approached her.

  “Look at me, bitch,” he commanded softly, in accented English.

  Slowly, Alanna brought her eyes up and when she did, she was unable to hold in the shriek that burst from her lips. Before her, the man held up his wrist, displaying nothing more than a ragged stump.

  “You see this?” He waved his disfigured appendage in her face and she jerked back, horrified. “This is your friend Jamison’s fault. So, I’m gonna take him down. But first, I’m gonna take down his club. My amigo here says you got dirt on the Phantoms and I want what you got, comprende?”

  Oh double fuck. This was worse than she could have ever imagined. These men wanted to hurt the club—hurt Dax. Maybe even kill him. There was no way she was going to let that happen. Alanna stubbornly lifted her chin and resolved to keep the information she had from them, no matter what they did to her.

  Both men chuckled, as though they had understood her silent conversation with herself. Alanna held out a few minutes. Three maybe. But when the man with the accent grabbed her and began tracing her face with what remained of his mangled wrist, she broke so fast she was ashamed of herself.

  They left her in the small cell shaking with self-directed rage. Her phone, with its incriminating pictures, left too, stuffed in the front pocket of the Chicos’ club president.

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  The last thing he wanted to do was leave the girl. But, shit was going down now, so there was no help for it. Wince took a deep breath and opened the door of the meeting room. Dax and Slade were waiting for him, sharing similar looks of grim anticipation.

  “Finally. Now we can get this shit straightened.”

  Dax motioned for Wince to take his seat. When his VP began talking, Wince was glad he was seated. An hour later, Wince’s head was about to explode. Dax had a plan but it required Wince and Slade to do their parts. Wince wasn’t sure what the hell Hawk was doing, but Dax was going along with it, and that was all he needed to know for now.

  But first, he had to get to Mickey and let her know to stay put. She’d be safe here at the clubhouse for a day or two until the time was right for a little family reunion. It was so quiet in his room he had a fleeting suspicion that she’d taken off on him again. She was right where he’d left her-curled in the middle of his bed. Wince let out a sigh. After all of these years of trying to track this girl, the sight of her, safe and sound did something to him.

  Something warm and fuzzy and…nice.

  Before he could stop himself, he was kneeling beside her. She was only pretending to be asleep—he could tell by her controlled breathing.

  “Mickey?”

  There was no response.

  “I know you’re not asleep, baby.”

  Baby? The word was out of his mouth before he realized he was going to say it.

  “You left your computer open.” Her voice was devoid of any emotion and the flat quality scared him more than if she had screamed at him.

  Wince sat back against the carved, wooden headboard of his bed. “You saw what was on my desktop?”

  “You know.” It was a statement of fact and now he could hear the shame that tinged her voice.

  “I know,” Wince admitted.

  Mickey squeezed her eyes tightly shut. “The—the videos he made—I didn’t see those.”

  “I couldn’t find any of you…or at least any I thought might have been you.”

  “How many?” Mickey whispered.

  “How many girls?”

  “No, how many sites are there? I knew my stepfather was a disgusting pervert, but I had no idea he was doing this.”

  Wince hesitated. There were some things that were better left untold, right?

  “How many? Please, I need to know.”

  Everything in Wince begged him to touch her, to pull her into his arms and promise her that he would take away her pain. But, he knew that putting his hands on Mickey Blake would be the worst possible thing he could do right now. Still, he couldn’t deny his reaction to the woman who huddled in his bed.

  His every nerve seemed to be fired up in her presence. His eyes slid over the wild haircut, the faint bruises on her jawline, down to the wrap on her ankle. Despite her injuries and her demeanor, she exuded an inner strength. Mickey was tough yet fragile—a puzzle of interesting dichotomies—the kind of puzzle that called to him in a very primal way.

  “I found twenty-three.” And counting. Wince was certain there were more porn sites connected to the same interface but he simply hadn’t had the time to hack into any more of them.

  Mickey gasped and her body jerked as though she had been slapped. Then, she sat straight up and turned to look Wince in the eye. “He needs to be stopped, Wince.”

  “Who? Who’s behind this, Mickey?”

  “Marvin Thatcher.”

  “The fucking congressman?”

  “The one and only.”

  Wince’s m
ind reeled. “But—Marvin Thatcher is the politician who’s giving your sister a massive grant. She’s been meeting with the piece of shit. Something doesn’t make sense…”

  Mickey smiled but the look on her face was positively terrifying. “I have something Thatcher wants. Evidence. He’ll do anything to ensure it disappears before the election.”

  “And he thinks Rhee has it?”

  “Maybe. Or he’s just trying to lure me out of hiding. It worked, I guess.”

  “This evidence, what is it?”

  Mickey went silent, and her face went ghostly white.

  “Mickey? Are you alright?”

  She swallowed and pointed to a bottle of water he had left on his desk. Wince retrieved it and opened the cap for her. Mickey took a long swallow before she finally responded.

  “I have the video my stepfather made of Marvin Thatcher raping me when I was sixteen years old.”

  ***

  Sometimes, just when you thought you had everything figured out, everything went sideways. Then, when you looked back at all that had occurred, somehow, things made perfect sense—like there had been a plan to it all along.

  From what Mickey had overheard, something big was going down at the port, and the Phantoms were deeply enmeshed in it. Wince had spoke in low tones in the bathroom, but she heard all she needed to know. He mentioned a rat at the Phantoms’ table. That was bad. Then she heard Thatcher’s godforsaken name. And then she heard the words “port,” and “loading dock.”

  Mickey went on autopilot after that.

  In this kind of place, it was easy to get her hands on a weapon. Wince had a fully operational nine stashed in the toilet tank—he probably had forgotten it was there. Then, she waited. Wince was visibly agitated, and even though it was pretty obvious he didn’t want to leave her alone, this club business wasn’t something that could wait. Sooner or later, Wince was going to have to take a break from babysitting her.

  It happened more sooner than later. Mickey was relieved that her ankle was significantly better. Thanks to the drip the club doc had insisted upon, she was hydrated too. Now, all she had to do was get to the shipping yard and find Thatcher.

  And take his ass out.

  It was something she was surprised she hadn’t considered doing years ago. Mickey hefted her backpack onto her shoulder and headed downstairs. Then, she sucked it up, batted her lashes and turned on the charm. The old man, Tank, was pretty banged up—for the better part of an hour, she’d watched the man take down a fifth of whiskey and lament the direction the club was taking.

  He was an easy mark. He talked up a storm and then his eyes fell closed right there in the yard. After she poured the snoring man a glass of water, Mickey was out the door. There was an old bus line that she was hoping still stopped a few miles down the street. It would take her straight to the port. Thanks to Tank, she knew exactly where the Phantoms unloaded their cargo.

  With any luck, she would get to Thatcher before anyone discovered her.

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  It was him.

  It had been years, but she would never forget the man who starred in her nightmares. She forced herself to scrutinize him. Thatcher looked…smaller. Less intimidating somehow. There was a subtle softening to his face and lines around his eyes. The piece of shit was old when he tried to buy her body the first time, and he was even older now.

  A massive container was lowered to the dock. The monster signaled to a man wearing a cut and he rushed over with a crow bar. She could just make out the words on the back of the man’s leather. Los Chicos. A shudder went down her spine as things started to fall into place. These boys were in with the cartel and they were still up to no good, from the looks of things. Mickey began to shake as the memories overwhelmed her.

  No! Now is not the time to be weak, she scolded herself. To no avail. Her vision started to go dark around the edges. Mickey realized that she had made a grave tactical error. She was going to pass out in the middle of a loading dock that was crawling with the very people who wanted her dead. Mickey reached into her waistband with shaking fingers. She had to do it now. Before it was too late.

  Another man joined the first one to work the container door. It opened with a creak. At first, nothing happened. Then, a few seconds later, a collective sound issued from the depths of the vessel. It was a sound she remembered well, because she had made it herself so many times before. It was a whimper of terror, of helplessness, and of defeat. It was the cry of a young girl who knew she was lost and that there was no one to help her find her way. Or in this case—the cries of many young girls.

  “Please…please help us.”

  This was worse—so much worse than anything she could have imagined. There were girls in that container. Thatcher was trafficking young, helpless girls and doing god knows what with them. The plaintive pleas that came from the open, yawning mouth of that container transformed the icy shame in Michaela Blake’s heart into a burning rage. All of the difficult emotions and traumatic memories that had plagued her since she was sixteen years old evaporated and left in their wake firm determination. Her hand steadied on her nine.

  No one else is going to suffer the way I did.

  With a flick of her thumb, she took the safety off of her weapon. Then, she trained it on the back of Thatcher’s head. A smile bubbled up and she found herself grinning like an idiot at what she was about to do.

  Time to take out the trash.

  Mickey didn’t hear the man come up behind her until he grabbed her. One large hand muffled her shriek of outrage another plucked the gun right from her fingers. She found herself yanked hard against a male chest and all of her bravado disappeared as she was dragged behind a stack of huge metal pipes.

  “Don’t scream,” a familiar voice hissed in her ear.

  Wince turned her slowly in his arms, removing his hand from her face.

  “Why did you stop me?” she demanded in that same low hiss.

  “Because, darlin’, I can’t let you go down for this. You’re in enough hot water as it is.”

  “Give me back that gun!”

  Her hands shot out and she was groping his muscular frame before she realized what she was doing. “Where is it, Wince?”

  He pulled her flush against him, effectively silencing her. “Mickey, stop.”

  Why did his voice have the power to calm her? For whatever reason, she stopped struggling. Mickey’s cheek pressed into his chest. She realized she could hear his heartbeat and the sound gave her pause. Wince’s hand stroked firmly down her back as if he were soothing a wild pony.

  The drugging effect the man had on her was almost enough to make her forget why she was here.

  Almost.

  “Wince, there are girls in that container. I heard one of them scream. Thatcher, he’s—he’s a bad man.” Her voice shook but Mickey continued. “He’s going to—he’s going to make them…” she faltered.

  “I know. Me and my boys have a plan. It’s not safe in here. We have to move,” he said urgently.

  He was right. What was she doing here? I’m going to get this guy killed. Mickey took one more look at Marvin Thatcher. He would get his. Maybe not today, but he would get what was coming to him—soon. Wince readied the nine with one hand and grabbed her with the other.

  “Stay behind me,” he ordered.

  Mickey thought they were going to make it outside without further incident until…they didn’t.

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  “I can’t believe that little white slut was telling the truth.”

  Wince knew that voice. He hated that voice. He felt himself tense up as he turned to face the president of their most hated rival crew, pushing Mickey behind him.

  “Juan.” Wince let his gaze travel down the man’s body, resting on the empty sleeve of his flannel shirt. “I hear they’re calling you ‘Stumpy’ now.”

  “Shut the fuck up!”

  “What the hell is going on over there?” An imperious male voice called.


  “Found us some trouble, cabron,” Juan replied, his voice echoing through the building.

  “Move. That way.” He gestured towards the middle of the loading platform, where the container sat ajar.

  Wince felt Mickey’s hand tighten on his wrist as she pressed herself against his back. He could feel her body quiver as she followed his lead. He turned slowly, keeping himself between Mickey and the man with the gun. How the fuck the Chicos had managed to skirt their security detail and get in here, Wince had no fucking idea. Slade was supposed to be on duty with two of the other fucking grunts. A few seconds later, Wince found himself face to face with none other than Marvin Thatcher. The older man smiled grimly as he studied Wince’s cut and ink.

  “Phantoms, huh? Thought we had a deal, Juan? You told me that we could sneak this one through their operation.”

  The dirty politician stood just to the left of the container, a revolver in his right hand. Wince felt a violent shudder wrack Mickey’s body as the man spoke. He wanted to put his fist through the disgusting pervert’s face, but with a huge pile of steel bars directly behind him, and two weapons trained at his chest, all he could do was wait to see how this was going to play out.

  “We had a deal with the ship gang, cabron.” Juan protested. “Those motherfuckers will pay for fucking things up…”

  “Shut the fuck up,” Thatcher barked. “We have a situation here.”

  Thatcher took a few steps towards them and then froze when he spied Mickey.

  “Well, well, what do we have here?”

  The way his tone changed made Wince’s stomach turn. Mickey was underweight and petite—she looked young and vulnerable. The way Thatcher probably liked his girls.

  “Come a little closer, doll.”

  The word “doll” twisted Wince’s guts another degree. Sick fuck.

  Mickey stood her ground, until Juan gave her a shove.