Flame (Ruin Outlaws MC #4)

by Amy Isan

  CHAPTER 3 — LOGAN

  My motorcycle has been running like shit lately. Maybe too rich with all the smog it's been kicking out. I need to take a look at it, but now isn't the time.

  I asked Damian about the Samson brothers, but he didn't have a lot of information to tell me except what part of town they might be hanging out around. It's enough to go off of anyway, I'm sure I won't miss them when I see them.

  Judging by what Damian did know, they're not Hispanic. That might make it a little easier, but then again, this is a border town. Whatever. He said the southend of the city is where they are usually fucking around. I'm antsy about running into Mr. Martinez again. I doubt he thinks very highly of me after I shouted at him at the drug drop.

  I turn down a deserted side street and cut through a bunch of buildings. The layout of the city is coming back to me. When we first entered the town, it was like a hazy memory that I could barely grab onto, but the longer I'm here, the more the fog lifts. Hell, it feels just like yesterday I was down at the range shooting with Surge.

  Surge. I wonder what he's doing to handle the situation with the Skeletons. I've known him for so many years but still don't have that much insight on what makes him tick. I guess I've never really given a shit, but maybe Cassie is changing that a little.

  Funny. I thought I'd be the one hardening her after all this crap, but the more she lingers on my mind, the more I feel myself going soft. It's almost... frustrating? She's cheery even down here. I'll look at her and expect to see her sad or defeated after all the shit I've torn her through, but she just smiles at me. She tells me to think positive and try not to be so negative. I can't help it, but... maybe I can learn.

  I make the engine growl a couple of times and glance around for any suspicious people lurking about. Any white people at least. There's a bar down the street, its small sign barely noticeable against the bright sky, but I remember it. I'll get information there.

  I glide my bike along the sidewalk and jerk it to a stop, dropping my feet to the ground in the same motion. I kick the stand down and shut the bike off, before throwing myself over the seat and climbing onto the curb. The door to the bar is heavy and cold air blasts my face as I pry it open against the pressure.

  It's dim, with no windows streaming light inside. It almost reminds me of the bar back in Arizona, but then again, any bar might do that to me. A couple of people turn and glance at me from their stools, but they quickly turn back to their beers once they get a good look. It's dead. I head up to the bar and sit on a stool, and the bartender walks over to me and greets me.

  "Hola, señor, ¿como estás?"

  "Bien," I nod to him and lower my voice, "¿Hables inglés?" He nods and I lean across the bar. "Have you heard of the Samson brothers?"

  His smile fades and he frowns a bit as I mention the name. He dips his voice low and peers at me. "Maybe I have. Why?" His accent is still thick, but not indecipherable.

  "They owe me something and I need to get in touch with them."

  "They're bad news," the bartender says, "I'd stay away from them if I were you."

  "Good thing you aren't me. Tell me where they are."

  He sighs and steps away for a moment, acknowledging the other customers who need new beers. I watch him refill their glasses and say something to them to the effect of "hold your fucking horses," which makes me smirk a little. He's on edge. When he returns to me, he puts his hands on the bar.

  "I think you should leave."

  This isn't getting me anywhere. I shake my head. "No, I need to know where I can find them."

  The bartender smiles and straightens himself up, asking me if I want a beer in Spanish. I look at him and something in his eyes tell me I shouldn't refuse. I nod and he goes to fill a glass for me. I try to catch what he's doing, and briefly see the white bottom of a paper coaster before he slips it under my beer and slides it toward me. I take a sip and thank him, and pull out a twenty and leave it on the bar.

  I pick up my beer and coaster and move toward a secluded corner of the bar. The coaster is a bit damp from the wet glass, but the writing on the bottom is clear as day. An address and time. I don't look at the bartender again as I finish my beer and head out the door.

  The address is familiar to me, but I can't recall why. The name of the place sounds like a bar, and the street is fairly close, so I guess Damian wasn't off the mark when he said the south end of town. The time is later today, later than I'd like. What should I do until then?

  I get back on my motorcycle and start the engine. With a couple flicks of my wrist, the engine races loudly against the building. What am I doing out here anyway? Am I really going to take on these two thugs?

  From what Jimmy was saying, the brothers sound like kids. I've handled worse before, but this feels off. Wrong somehow. My mind goes to Cassie, and I fight back the urge to go to her. I can't describe my feelings, but they're wavering and torn inside my chest. It's uncomfortable, and I'd rather ignore them. I can either go protect her and let my hard edge soften, or confront these two punks head on and test my resolve. I still have to be sharp, or what good am I?

  Driving down the side streets, I find the address and bar. It's open, and even darker than the last one. Inside, there's a handful of pool tables, torn and beaten, and a couple people eating bar food at a table in the center of the room. I find a corner and sit down. I need a drink. Especially with all the strange thoughts tumbling around in my head right now. Hell, I'd like a smoke too, if I hadn't quit that shit.

  . . .

  The hours and beers pass right through me like nothing. I don't feel drunk, but I'm definitely a little buzzed. As the time gets closer to what was written on the coaster, I start studying the other customers, who've been hanging around for hours. Strange. They're just eating and laughing, not even touching their drinks really. It doesn't feel right.

  The door opens and sends a flood of light inside. I try to shield my eyes against it so I can see who it is. The man looks familiar, but I can't place him. He's wearing sunglasses and a loose-fitting blazer. He steps inside and looks around, before he sees me. He joins me at my booth and runs his hands through his hair. He takes off his sunglasses and I recognize him from the other bar. He's the bartender who told me I wasn't tough enough to deal with the Samson brothers.

  "I deal with the Samson brothers. What the fuck do you want?" His accent seems to have vanished, which is surprising. I harden my nerves and burn my eyes into his. I can't hesitate.

  "What are they, your kids?"

  "My patrons," he says cooly, "I'm their handler."

  I wave my hand away at the word like it's nothing. "You need to rein the leash in a little, since they're robbing my associates. I need something they took from them."

  He lowers his face and smiles. "Oh?" he says, peering at me across his entwined fingers. "What are you going to do about it, Logan?"

  I furrow my brow and I stare hard at him. "Who the hell are you?"

  "Gustavo Martinez," he snaps his fingers and one of the waitresses appears and brings him a drink. "You might know my brother, Victor Martinez. He deals with your kind all the time."

  "My kind? Bikers?"

  "Low life smugglers, sure. If you want to call yourselves anything else, I don't really care." His words are sharp and intended to cut me, but I ignore him.

  "Words don't have that much affect on me, Gustavo."

  "You're all just tools for my associates to use. Specifically," he continues, as if I hadn't spoken, "a Daniel Trenski... I guess you call him Surge?"

  "Is this supposed to be news? Is it supposed to impress me?" I shake my head and grip my fingers on the table, restraining myself from balling my hands into fists. "I know he set up the drop in Arizona, and that doesn't really have anything to do with why I'm here. Although... your brother did fuck me on the product."

  Gustavo breaks into a hearty laugh, which I would have expected to grab the attention of the other people in the bar, but it's like they can't hear him
at all. I'm starting to piece together the little puzzle he's given me. Going off the look on his face as he recovers from his laughter, he can tell.

  "They're your men, huh?" I point at the other customers, who've been stuffing their faces all afternoon. "Just luring me into a trap."

  "It wasn't hard, Logan. Don't take it personally."

  "I'm not. If it's money you want, just spit it out. I don't have time to be dealing with you or your brother, I need revolver ammo. I got shit to take care of up in Arizona."

  "Oh," Gustavo says, a bit of surprise in his voice. "So that's why you decided to come take a vacation down in Mexico? Family problems?"

  I clench my jaw and narrow my gaze on him, but don't bother humoring him with a reply. His grin is sardonic and spiteful in a way I've only ever seen Zero... or Rifle look at me. I don't know what I did to set him off, but he's certainly got my number.

  He takes a long sip of his beer. After waiting for a few seconds, he pulls out a cigarette from his jacket and lights it up. The smoke wafts up and greets my hungry nostrils. I want a cigarette even more now. He grins and continues to wait for a reply that won't ever come. I fold my arms and lean back against the booth, creating some distance between us.

  After another drag on the cigarette, he speaks as the smoke leaves his mouth between words. "What are you going to do with the ammo? Kill everyone?"

  "Target practice."

  He laughs again, and that sick sound is more irritating than anything he could say. He takes a drag from his cigarette and shakes his head. "Did you bring the girl that started all this trouble? What was her name..." His eyes search the ceiling in a mock fashion, like he doesn't remember. I'm clenching my jaw so hard I feel like I could crush my molars if I wanted to. "Cassie? Or did you leave her behind in Arizona?"

  "What's it matter to you? What do you get out of all this?"

  "Competition, mi amigo, which is good for business. If I have your two scrappy crews fighting over our drugs, it makes everything better for us. But I can't have you killing each other... that's a bit too much."

  "Yeah? What are you going to do then? Kill me? I don't think that'd go over so well with Surge and my crew."

  He finishes his cigarette and snuffs it out on the glass tray on the table. He sighs and nods with a slight tilt of his chin. "You're right. That would be bad for business too, but there are other ways of dealing with an insect besides killing it."

  He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small package, roughly the same size as the one Jimmy gave me. I reach for it after giving him a look and open it. .40 caliber ammo for the revolver.

  He answers my silent stare. "I have connections, Logan. I have more and they're closer knit to me than anyone else. If I were you... I'd go back to your crew before they get swallowed up."

  "You don't even care," I say. I pocket the package and firmly shove my hands into my jacket. I stand up from the booth and get ready to leave, noticing the glares from Gustavo's lackeys. "Why give me this then? Why bring me to this bar if you could've talked to me in the other one?"

  "Time."

  My eyes go wide and I finally realize what he's been doing. Cassie... Damian... I rush out the front door, only barely aware of the laughter behind me. I have to get back to the apartment. My Harley screams to life and I don't let it settle as I kick it into gear and swerve off the side of the curb. I'm going so fast I'm nailing the end of each gear with a scream from the motorcycle as I kick it into the next and the next. I'm not that far from the apartment, but it feels like a decade, even at 100 miles per hour.

  You don't have to kill an insect, but you can cripple it.

  . . .

  I break the back tire loose with a twitch of the brake and swerve into the alleyway leading to Damian's apartment. I nearly slam the bike into the brick wall next to the front door as I skid to a stop, hydroplaning on the trash and water still pooled in the shaded alley. I jump off the bike and race inside, knocking the door open with my shoulder.

  "Cassie!" I call out. The apartment doesn't look any more destroyed than normal, but that's just downstairs. I grasp the railing on the stairs and ascend as quickly as possible, the banging and creaking of my boots on the wood reverberating throughout the entire house. The door to our room is parted and I whip out my pistol and ready myself. I kick the door open and dart around, looking for anyone or anything that might be waiting for me.

  The bed is a wreck and one of the desks is knocked over. The duffel bag that I hid under the bed is pulled out and laying like a split open corpse. It's completely empty, but worse yet, Cassie isn't here.

  I lower my gun and run my hands through my hair. Where the fuck could they have taken her? Is she safe? I pace the apartment and move back and forth, trying to figure out how I can get a hold of her, locate her, do anything. If I had my crew... no. I don't. I have to settle this myself, like a man should.

  I try to think of clues... where's Damian? I shout for him but there's no answer - only the gentle whir of a ceiling fan downstairs. I race down the stairs and peer into the side room where he was on his laptop earlier. I pull it open and find a map leading into the desert.

  That can't be right. That's where the shooting range was, but that wouldn't make any sense. Damian wouldn't need to map that out... It's too obvious. A trap.

  What else can I do though? If she isn't here she has to be... somewhere.

  I slam my fist on the laptop and shatter a couple of keys with a loud crack. "God dammit!" I yell.

  In the kitchen, I find bags of groceries on the counter. One bag is knocked to the floor and some fruit has rolled out, with one being crushed underneath what looks like was a boot. I kneel down and study it as if I could glean any information from a half-crushed tangerine. It's better than nothing though, and the only lead I have is that stupid fucking map.

  Fucking shit.

  . . .

  The air is so full of dust and sand that it's cutting my face as I race on the road back to the firing range. My hands ache from getting smashed with rocks and bugs, but I can barely feel the pain at all. Cassie needs me more than ever right now.

  This is my fault. If I hadn't dragged her into this whole mess, she wouldn't be down here with me. If I hadn't left her alone at the apartment, she wouldn't have gotten snatched. If I had just trusted my gut... I could have done more.

  I'm pushing more than a hundred miles an hour and feeling it strain the engine. My bike screams for me to stop, but I need it to last a little longer. My steed needs to carry me. The handles vibrate wildly as the pavement goes from decent to destroyed, and I maintain my balance and control over the beast while I correct her.

  I curse into the wind and can't even hear my words as they are sucked past my head. I lean down over the tank and try to hide behind the small excuse for a fairing. I have to keep my eyes peeled.

  The range is a couple of miles out, and I feel a special kind of anxiety in my chest that I haven't felt in a long, long time.

  Fear.

  CHAPTER 4 — CASSIE

  I'm heading back from the grocer's, with whom I barely could communicate. Despite my language handicap, I still managed to get some food. I thought escaping to Mexico would feel like a punishment, like I committed a crime and I was being sent to prison. But it isn't at all. I note the building coming up that it's the one facing into the alleyway for our apartment, and I turn into the alley, feeling carefree.

  Logan's bike is still missing, and I frown. I wish he would hurry up already. Especially since I got all this food, and I'm sure he'll be hungry... doing whatever he's doing. I open the front door and head inside, and Damian is back at his desk, on his laptop.

  He looks up at me and waves weakly, which is strange. He's usually more chipper. I guess I shouldn't hold him to my first impression of him. I turn into the kitchen and put the groceries on the counter. I reach for a bag to start unloading it, but something is wrong. I feel like... I'm being watched. Damian is in the other room, I saw him, so it can't be him.r />
  Hands reach around my body and squeeze me tight. My first thought is it's Logan, but the grip is too tight, too aggressive. I squirm and try to break free, screaming, "Damian!"

  Damian steps into the kitchen, but doesn't look surprised to see me getting manhandled. "Do something!" I shout at him. He looks remorseful and pitiful.

  "I'm sorry," is all he says. A crack makes lights spark behind my eyes and I can't see anything, I feel my body go limp, and my consciousness drift into a deep sleep.

  . . .

  When I come to, I feel claustrophobic. Dry, hot wind and sand scratches at my face, and I squint my eyes to try and see through the bright sunlight. I have no idea how long I've been out, but I recognize where I am. The firing range. Long bands of silver duct tape are coiled around my body like a snake, binding me to what seems to be a forgotten telephone pole.

  I stare down the range where Logan and I were shooting yesterday and try to make out my captors. There's three men. One I can tell is Damian, because he looks like a fucking rat. The other two are unrecognizable to me, especially from this distance. I scream against the wind and squirm, the raw wood against my back cuts through my loose shirt and scratches my skin raw.

  I can still feel the bulge of my gun in my pocket. Why the fuck would I still have that? I guess... there's no reason why they would have thought I'd have a gun. I didn't even have a fucking purse when they grabbed me.

  "What the fuck?" I try and yell. I can tell the two men are talking, but I can't make out their lips from here. When they don't acknowledge my yell, I scream again, even louder.

  They stop talking and look down the range at me. One shields his eyes from the sun with his hand and the other lifts his arms. My jaw drops and my eyes widen. They're going to fucking shoot me. I squeeze my eyes shut and brace myself... if I hadn't fucking left the room... maybe this wouldn't have happened.

  A loud crack sounds off and a bottle explodes next to me, the shards striking my body and landing at my feet. I shriek in terror from the shock and I hear one of the men laugh. The other one starts walking toward me, and I summon my courage to not look like a slobbering fool when he gets close. I wish I could wipe my fucking face so I wouldn't have makeup smearing down my cheeks.