Blaze (Twisted Devils MC Book 4)

by Zahra Girard

  Chapter Twenty

  Blaze

  Anna’s place isn’t hard to find; there’s only one rich neighborhood in town and, soon enough, I’m skulking around the backside of her two-story blinding-white McMansion, peering through windows, looking for signs of what kind of home security system she’s got. It doesn’t take long before I spy the control panel — a plain white console built into the wall just off her front door; it’s a basic model, the kind that sends a signal through the phone lines, and it’s a snap to circle the home until I locate the phone cable and cut it in two with my knife.

  In just a few minutes, I’m standing in her kitchen, looking back out into her backyard through a busted window. Pausing only long enough to steal a beer from her fridge, I head upstairs.

  This is too fucking easy. Or I’m just that fucking good.

  I case the upstairs, peering in through her bedroom door — ignoring the pile of dirty clothes on the floor and the big red vibrator on her nightstand — and then moving down the hallway, past her bathroom, past her second bedroom, until I find her home office. Jackpot.

  The office is a mess. Self-help and dieting books fill the cheap, IKEA-style bookshelf set one wall, the other wall is covered in photos of Anna at different black tie events and there’s a creepy number of photos of her with her daddy. There’s her desk in the center of the room and it is covered in a pile of file folders that almost conceal a closed laptop.

  Wanting to get out of this mess as quickly as possible, I head right to her desk and start rifling through the files until I find one with my mom’s name on it. Inside, there’s about three times as many papers as the bank provided her.

  Something in here has to be helpful to my mom’s case, I think, and I shove the file folder down the back of my pants.

  I find a thin ledger on the desk, too. My knowledge of mob movies and shows like The Sopranos tells me to take the damn ledger. It goes down the back of my pants, just like my mom’s file folder.

  Next, I open the laptop. It’s password protected, so I close it and pick it up. It’s going with me.

  Satisfied, I head back toward the staircase.

  I’m halfway down the steps when a red flash comes through the windows looking out onto the driveway.

  First one flash, then another.

  Police.

  How the hell did they know I was here?

  Laptop in hand, I race down the rest of the stairs toward the kitchen and barely come to a stop in time to avoid the curious eyes of a patrolman who is staring at the window I busted, holding his service pistol at the ready.

  I’m trapped.

  Did Tiffany really rat me out to the police?

  Her last warning — that I’d have to deal with the consequences — flashes through my mind, and I am more certain than ever that she must have called the cops the second I left the house. That’s the only explanation for how four armed officers showed up here so quickly, despite the alarm system being disabled.

  Saint Tiffany betrayed me. We really are through. She better pray I never catch up to her.

  At the base of the stairwell, I stop for a second to consider my options. There’s only a few officers here — four at most — and I know that isn’t enough men to take me down. I could fight my way out, get back on my bike, and make it to my mom’s house before any backup arrives.

  But that would just make things worse.

  As much as I hate to admit it, Tiffany was right. Fighting isn’t the answer.

  I put my gun away and I do what she would do.

  I think.

  I’m trapped in this house. The only way out without getting arrested will get me flagged as someone who attacks cops. And those kind of criminals don’t last long in police custody. They also don’t get heard. I’d be lucky if they let me say three words about what’s going on with my mom before they kill me.

  One last time, I look over the papers in the file folder I took from Anna’s office. There’s a ton of stuff in here that I don’t understand, but the numbers look pretty fucking big and I have to hope they’re damning enough that even the cops won’t be able to turn a blind eye.

  Because I’m about to turn myself in.

  Holding the laptop in one hand and my mom’s file folder and the ledger in the other, I raise my hands and step to the front door.

  “I’m coming out. I’m turning myself in,” I shout.

  It feels so wrong just saying it out loud, but it’s my only option. I have to hope that the cops will see what I’ve got in my hands and open some kind of investigation. Maybe it’ll be enough to scare Anna, her father, and the thugs from the construction yard off.

  Time to face the music.

  A voice comes from outside. A separate face appears in one of the front windows and then an upraised hand holding a gun that’s pointed right at me.

  “Put your hands against the wall and don’t move. We’re coming in. If you try anything, we will shoot.”

  I do as they ask.

  The door opens, two armed officers enter. One young, one old. Both look like they’re hardasses who’ve been waiting all day to bust somebody’s balls.

  “Officers, I have some documents you’ll want to look at. The woman who lives here, Anna Ebri, she and her father run Southwest Regional bank and they are involved in some kind of scam.”

  “That’s enough,” the older cop says, shoving me hard into the wall and wrenching my hands behind my back. Icy steel clamps around my wrist. “You can tell your bullshit story to your lawyer. You’re under arrest for burglary.”

  He pats me down.

  “Go ahead, get your fill. Maybe check my ass out a little longer, why don’t you?” I growl as he runs his hands over me.

  He pulls the Glock from the back of my pants. “Oh, and we get to add a weapons charge, too. That’ll add some time onto your sentencing. Throw in the bank robbery we know you tried, and you’re going away for a long time.”

  The young officer flips through the file folder and the ledger. “Lot of funny shit in here,” he says. “What’s some piece of scum like you want with someone’s loan records and a bank ledger?”

  “If you fuckwits show someone that understands numbers, maybe they’ll tell you,” I say.

  “Ignore him,” the older cop says, shoving his elbow right into my kidneys. “That shit is evidence. And you shouldn’t be looking around people’s private financial records. Breaks all sorts of regulations. You bag that shit and we’ll process it as evidence back at the station. Come on, let’s get this asshole out of here.”

  The older cop reads me my rights, and then I’m thrown into the back of the police car, my hands cuffed and my shoulders screaming in agony at my arms being wrenched so hard behind my back. The brief ride to the station passes in silence, the two cops not even so much as taunting me.

  They sure as hell would talk more if they knew how lucky they were that I let them take me.

  We get to the station, and they haul me out of the back of the patrol car. It’s a two-man job — I’m a whole hell of a lot bigger than either of these pigs and they’re being cautious as hell to make sure I don’t even have a chance to use my size. Together, they hurl me straight into a holding cell.

  There are three other cells in the holding area, and all three concrete, steel-barred cells are empty. There are a couple desks and a steel table in the center of the holding area, and the younger cop puts the laptop, file folders, and ledger down on the desk and takes out his own clipboard and starts processing the evidence.

  It’s just me and the two cops in here.

  Then the older cop pats his younger partner on the shoulder and takes the clipboard out of his hand.

  “Why don’t you let me finish processing this evidence? Officers Carlisle and Reynaud could probably use a hand back at the crime scene.”

  The younger officer looks up at him. “You sure?”

  “Yeah, I’m sure,” the older cop says. “This guy’s wanted for armed bank robbery, kidnapping th
at bank chick, and that’s in addition to the burglary. This could be a high profile case, and I don’t want any mistakes that could end up setting this asshole free. Besides, you know Carlisle can be sloppy sometimes — remember that case last year where he mixed up the VIN number on those stolen vehicles and that whole chop shop ring nearly walked?”

  The younger cop nods. “Shit, you’re right. I’d forgot about that.”

  “Go back there and make sure they do this shit right. And bring me a sandwich from the Starlight on the way back. Got it?”

  The door to the holding area hardly shuts before the older cop turns to me, grinning. He takes a cell phone out of his pocket and dials.

  “Yeah, it’s me,” he says into the receiver. “Picked up someone going through your home. Got a tip from some bitch of a concerned citizen. This asshole had some of your files and a laptop. Figured you’d want a heads up before we went any further. How do you want to play this?”

  There’s quiet for a few seconds.

  Then he nods.

  “We’re alone. Just me and the suspect. I sent my partner back to your house to do a little supervisory duty.”

  Quiet for a few more seconds. Then his smile grows.

  “Yeah? So you got some of your boys out cleaning up the rest of this mess?”

  Tiffany. My mom. They’re in danger.

  “You son of a bitch,” I scream, throwing myself at the bars. I grip the steel in both hands and pull. I know it’s fucking useless — I’m no fucking Superman — but just thinking about someone threatening Tiffany or my mom is enough to make me lose all control. It doesn’t matter that Tiffany ratted me out, or that she’s an uptight bitch, or that the two of us are through; I’ll still kill anyone who threatens that woman. “You touch her and you are fucking dead. Do you hear me?”

  The cop just laughs and turns his back. “Yeah, that’s him. He’s angry now, but you should’ve seen him earlier. Turned himself in and started rambling about some scam, as if it mattered. Like he thought anyone would listen to a piece of shit like him. How do you want me to take care of him?”

  More quiet.

  “Oh, you’re coming here?” He says. “Yeah, I can switch the cameras off. And, with his record, no one will question it if I say he got out of control and had to be put down.”

  Quiet again. He nods as the voice on the other end of the line gives him his marching orders.

  “No problem. He’s all yours, Ms. Ebri. I’ll see you and your guys soon.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Tiffany

  “I can’t believe you just did that,” I shout, advancing on her for a few steps and then halting as she waves the knife at me. “He’s your son. Your own son. And you’re going to get him sent to prison. Why?”

  “I’ve given him too many chances, and it’s all lead to disappointment. Well, I’m through. Maybe this will be the lesson he needs.”

  “A lesson? Maybe that his mom is an unforgiving bitch. But then, we already know that, don’t we?”

  “This coming from a moralistic whiner like you? Oh, Tiffany, for someone so smart, you are so incomparably dumb. Can’t you see that he’ll never change?”

  My eyes flare and I grit my teeth and reach for the nearest thing — a coffee mug — and I hurl it at the wall right next to her beady-eyed face. The mug shatters into a thousand pieces and she flinches.

  “Dumb? You call me dumb? Do you have any idea why he’s been sneaking around like he has? Why I haven’t just called the cops? Because these people are dangerous, and they know what they are doing. There’s an entire crew of men working for Anna and her father, and they are using these doctored loan papers to put you in debt, so they can intimidate you and force you to give up your home. Do you want to take a guess about what will happen to you if you continue to just ignore this problem? Those guys will come back. Except they won’t be as nice. They’ll hurt you, Eleanor. And your son won’t be here to protect you.”

  “You’re hysterical. There isn’t the remotest possibility that will happen.”

  “Oh, really? Think back to the Great Recession. How many banks were involved in shady activities then? Practically every single one. How much profit do you think a bank can make if a small loan of fifty thousand dollars can gain them someone’s house through foreclosure or asset forfeiture? How much do you think they can turn that house around for? Or make through knocking it down and redeveloping it?”

  She starts to lower the knife. In her head, I see gears turn and a look of worry settle over her features. She’s not so determined anymore. Not so certain that she made the right move about her son.

  There’s a fire inside me, fueled by rage at this woman and frustration that the one man I felt safe enough to open up to — as stubborn, as criminal, as wrong-headed as he can be — has been taken from me, permanently, by his own mother. Blaze and I have many differences, and he can piss me off like few things can, but I still care for him.

  I keep advancing.

  And talking.

  “How much money do you think it would cost them to hire people to intimidate someone? Or kill them? How much money do you think it would take for them to buy a few police officers? Do you think, added all together, it would even put a dent in their profits if they were making hundreds of thousands from shady real estate deals?”

  She sets the knife down on the counter.

  “What should we do?”

  It’s too late to undo the phone call, but maybe it’s not too late to warn Blaze.

  “Call your son. Warn him. And tell me where your car keys are.”

  “My keys? Why?”

  “Because if they’re going to arrest your son, maybe I can bail him out before he gets hurt. Or at least make enough of a scene that they think twice before they try to hurt him. I’m sure they don’t want witnesses or any word of what they’re doing getting out. Now — your keys — tell me where they are.”

  “They’re in my purse. It’s on the little table by the front door.”

  I don’t wait for her to finish speaking. I turn and head to her purse. Moments later, I have the keys to the Volvo in my hand and my mind is already racing ahead to my next step: do I head to Anna’s house and make a scene there, or should I head right for the police station?

  I don’t have time to answer my question; there’s a thud at the front door.

  And that thud is followed by another, heavier thud. A thud that splits wood and sends the door flying in on its hinges. A thud that makes me scream.

  Four men — big men, with tattoos on their arms, scowls on their faces, and arms so thick they make the sleeves of their t-shirts scream for mercy — charge inside.

  I turn and run deeper into the house.

  From the kitchen, I hear Eleanor shout. “Tiffany, who is it? What’s wrong?”

  One of them growls after me. “Don’t make a scene. Don’t make noise. And maybe this will hurt a little less.”

  His words chase me into the house and up the stairs. My feet hammer the steps of the staircase I run for my life.

  Below, Eleanor screams.

  Then one shouts a warning to the others. “The bitch has a knife.”

  The door to Blaze’s room slams behind me, and I topple a bookcase to barricade the door. It thuds, the wood groaning as one of the men hammers in rage against the old door.

  Heart pounding, ears filled with the threats from the men outside and the sound of distraught timbers cracking under the blows of their rage, I glance around the room.

  There’s only one way out: his window.

  No time to think.

  I throw it open. Two stories high. Looking down on the unkempt back yard and the wooden deck below.

  Behind me, timber crunches. Cracks. The bookcase groans and slides across the carpet as the door is forced open.

  I act.

  I jump.

  “You dumb bitch.”

  The words follow me on my descent, hitting me just as I crash to the ground.

  I
cry out as I land on my wounded foot and feel tendons and bones beg for mercy. Wind leaves my lungs in a whoosh and my head swims in pain.

  There’s no time. I can only act. I have to keep going.

  Sparing a glance through one window — and seeing the disturbing sight of a slumped-over Eleanor being dragged across the floor by one of the musclebound goons — I force my wounded legs to run, taking me around the house and to the driveway before any of the other men know what’s happening.

  The keys to the Volvo are in my hand before I reach the car, and I throw the door open and shove them into the ignition. It starts and I barely have time to shift the car into reverse and slam my screaming foot onto the gas and peel out of the driveway before two of the men come charging out of the house.

  Their faces fade in my rear view mirror as the rumbling Volvo lumbers down the road and then it hits me that I am truly alone, with no one to turn to, while the damnable, wrong-headed, big-hearted man I care about is in mortal danger.

  What am I going to do?

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Blaze

  ‘Soon’ doesn’t come fast enough.

  I know that when Anna gets here, I’m in for a world of pain, but that bitch takes her sweet time and leaves me fuming in the worst kind of suspense. I spend the fifteen minutes — at least — between the cop’s phone call and her arrival pacing in my cell, my heart out of control in my chest, my mind playing over and over the scenarios of Anna’s men showing up at my mother’s house and hoping that the two of them made it out in time. I don’t know what I’d do without either of those women in my life.

  By the time she arrives, my hands are clenching and unclenching into fists — knuckles popping loudly each time — and there’s a knot in my throat big enough that it’s hard to swallow.

  Anna arrives in a style that is quintessentially her: with a large latte in her hands, three thick-necked dogs at her heels, and a smug smile on her face that makes me want to vomit. I can’t believe I let this bitch suck me off back in high school.