by Naomi West
There were beer bottles and dirty socks all over the floor. A pile of something unidentifiable in one corner. He smiled wryly. And Katrin thought he was bad?
He crawled a few feet across the floor, then got to his feet and headed out into the hall. If he could just get to the basement, he ought to be able to scrounge up some weapons.
He tried not the think too hard about what this silence meant. Did it mean all the others were dead? Where was Kong? Had he known about the set up? It was hard not to blame Kong for leading the Blackened Souls into this mess. Pistol allowed himself a few moments for another pang of grief to wash over him. Deion — always smiling, good-natured, going with the flow. Ready with a quick joke or a word of advice.
Pistol’s world had changed when Deion arrived at the clubhouse. Pistol had finally felt like he had abrother— as opposed to a group of men he was supposed to trust, supposed to work with, but whom he frequently treated with all the contempt of a sullen teenager. Once he’d felt that brotherhood with Deion, it had opened him up to bond with the other Blackened Souls. To truly allow his club to become his family.
He remembered Deion walking into the clubhouse — tall, lanky, with an easy smile on his face. Pistol had been at the kitchen table nursing a beer, shoulders hunched defensively, not at all sure he wanted to meet this newcomer.
Kong had introduced them, and Pistol had barely looked up. But Deion had slung himself down at the table across from him and started talking up a storm. Shooting the shit, easy as you please. Then he’d taken out a deck of cards and started dealing, and before Pistol quite knew how, he was playing Texas Hold ’Em with the bastard.
Rage flared in him, twining with his grief. How many of those brothers were left? Had the only family he’d ever known been destroyed before his eyes? He debated, not for the first time, texting the others — the ones who hadn’t gone on the mission last evening. But there was a strong possibility Smith had either killed or imprisoned the remaining club members. If Smith had control of their phones, Pistol risked giving himself away.
He ought to at least text Kong. Or call. But how could he be sure Kong hadn’t had anything to do with Smith’s plan?
He was startled by a sound from the back of the house. He crouched, heart pounding. Someone was coming through the back door. Multiple people. They were loud, laughing. Glass shattered. He heard the sound of items hitting the floor, breaking.
“Nothin’ good here!” someone shouted. “The boss already checked.”
“Well,” said another voice, “He told me we’d better fuckin’ check again. Thoroughly.” More glass breaking. The crash of pans in the kitchen.
“You feed the dogs yet?” asked a third voice, deeper than the others.
What the fuck? Dogs?
“Why feed ’em?” asked the first voice. “When we’re just gonna put ’em down?”
Pistol felt queasy. He had a not-so-funny feeling these guys weren’t talking about actual dogs.
“Hey, there’s Doritos,” someone said.
“We don’t need Doritos, asshole,” said the deep voice. “We need their guns and their fuckin’ drugs.”
Pistol listened as the voices moved into the meeting room. He heard something — a crowbar, probably — smashing against the gun safe. Then the whoop as the men finally got the safe open. He could hear the guns being passed around.
Shit. He was now in this house with who knew how many men who had, not just their own weapons, but the Souls’ main stash as well. Should he try to go back out the way they came? He didn’t stand a damn chance of confronting them and winning, not without a weapon.
Before he could decide, footsteps approached the bedroom.
Shit. Shit shit shit.
Pistol looked around frantically, searching for a place to hide.
“I’m gonna check back here,” yelled one of the goons. Y’all get the prisoners ready for transfer.”
Prisoners?
Pistol’s heart leapt. Did that mean some of the Blackened Souls were still alive? But if so, for how long? He needed to find out, but now he was trapped like a fucking animal.
The man outside the bedroom door had paused to laugh at something his buddies were saying, but now a floorboard creaked and the knob started to twist. There was no time to think. He had to get out of sight, now.
Feeling ridiculous, like a little kid playing hide and seek, Pistol got on his knees and crawled under one of the beds.
This was awful. This was so fuckin’ stupid. He’d be found within seconds. But it was too late to change course now. Just had to pray.
He froze as the door flew open and the goon barged in. All Pistol could see were dirty jeans cuffs and a pair of dusty leather work boots. The man stormed through the room, pulling out dresser drawers and hurling them on the floor. He ransacked the closet, tossing clothes onto the bed. Pistol figured he only had thirty seconds at best before the asshole hunkered down and peered under the bed. He prepared to attack. At the very least, maybe he could knock the fucker out, then bolt out the window.
But …the prisoners.
There were prisoners somewhere in the house. And who else would Smith’s men be holding hostage besides the remaining Souls? Pistol needed to find his brothers, help them. He could hear the goon shifting, grunting, breathing hard.
He flinched as the goon pulled up the mattress and shoved it down one side of the box springs. It landed with a massive thwap on the floor, obscuring Pistol’s vision out one side.
He jolted as the blade of a knife pierced the fabric of the box springs near Pistol’s head, then made a giant slash. For the love of fuck, what was the guy expecting to find here? Pistol curled away from the slashed place, holding his breath and praying the guy couldn’t see him. Blood pounded in his head, and it was all he could do to keep from panting in agony as the new position wrenched his injured shoulder.
The goon slashed again, tearing the fabric nearly right above Pistol.
There was nowhere else to go. Next slash, and he’d have to try to grab the guy’s wrist and take the knife.
And then what? You think he ain’t got guns, too? He’ll blow your fucking brain out before you can say Jack Robinson.
In the couple of seconds of inaction that followed, he felt a strange connection form between himself and the goon. Both of them breathing hard, predator and prey sensing one another, preparing for the bloodbath.
Then, one of the other men called from down the hall, “Diaz! Van’s here, c’mon. We gotta go.”
The van?
Pistol heard Diaz shift and call, “All right. Christ.” Diaz remained in place for a couple more seconds, and Pistol wondered if he was going to finish tearing the bed apart.
But Diaz stepped away and crossed to the door, calling, “Nothin’ good back here anyway.” He left the room.
Pistol breathed out a long sigh of relief. As soon as he judged that Diaz was far enough away, he rolled out from under the bed, brushing off dust and lint and old condom wrappers. Diaz had ostensibly destroyed the place, but really, it didn’t look much different from before.
Pistol made for the window and crawled out, landing in the side yard. He crept toward the front, hiding behind a yew. A windowless white van had pulled up to the garage, its engine running. And as Pistol watched, one by one, five Blackened Souls members were led to the van, their wrists tied behind their backs. Pistol could make out Kong, Ford, Viking, Jackson, and Rhino. Ford looked like he was about to try to break free from the goon who accompanied him and launch a rebellion, but given the amount of heat the goons were packing, he must have decided it wasn’t worth it.
Good call, Ford. They got you cornered.
Ford got into the van when it was his turn, but not before spitting at one goon’s feet. The goon clobbered him in the side of the head and shoved him into a seat.
The garage was too full of bikes and gear for the van to have pulled inside, but the loading process was taking place close enough to the garage that the action was li
kely hidden from the neighbors. Not that the neighbors would have questioned anything they saw going on at the clubhouse, at this point.
Diaz had come outside too to supervise the loading. But once all the Blackened Souls were in the van, another good said to Diaz, “All right. You and Moreno finish searching the place. Then meet up with us when you’re done. You got one hour, or we start the party without you.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Diaz waved a hand dismissively. “I’ll be there.”
“Cool.” The goon clapped Diaz on the back. “Find us somethin’ good, okay?”
“See ya at the boss’s house,” Diaz said.
So they were going to Smith’s house. Pistol wasn’t sure exactly where that was, but Katrin would know.
Katrin. He had to get back to her. He only had an hour to get her out of the desert and somewhere safe before he had to make a decision, once and for all, about what he was going to do.
He watched the van pull out of the drive. Watched Diaz and another guy — Moreno — go back into the house.
Shit, this was hopeless.
He could have taken two guys on his own, if he’d been armed. But he wasn’t, and between the two of them, Diaz and Moreno had enough firepower for a small army. But if Pistol didn’t at least try to stop them from ransacking the house completely, then they might find the Blackened Souls’ secret weapons cache — and Pistol needed that cache if he was going to try to launch a one-man assault on Smith’s entire empire.
Right. Because I stand a chance of succeeding there.
A thought came to him, one he’d had many times before.
Why not just take Katrin and go? Ride away, far away from Rialto? Most of the Blackened Souls were dead, and those who weren’t would be soon. Did it make him a shitty person if he chose to protect his wife before his brothers?
Kong’s voice came to him then:“You’ve got potential, but you’re reckless. Learn some patience, some humility. It’ll serve you well.”
Yeah? Well a fat fuckin’ lot of good patience has done for me these past few weeks. Maybe if I’d been more reckless that first night in the desert, we wouldn’t be in this mess. Maybe if I’d fuckin’ pulled the trigger the second that skinny white dude got out of his BMW, the Blackened Souls wouldn’t be enslaved by a madman. And what about you, Kong? You wanna talk about reckless? You haven’t thought about protecting your men, my brothers. You’ve thought only about money.
The anger boiled up in him — age old. Katrin was right, he was mired in the past. But only because the past had been such a raving bitch to him.
So now it’s time for me to think about something that’s important to me. Something outside of the club.
He straightened.
I’m going back to Katrin. And I’m gonna take her somewhere safe. Somewhere she’ll never have to be afraid again.
I’m done with this bullshit.
I survived, didn’t I? That’s always been my specialty—surviving. Not playing the hero. Not saving the say.
Just fucking surviving.
With one last look at the van retreating down the road, he took off through the backyard and onto the side street, heading for the church where his bike was parked.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Katrin stood at the base of the hill. She didn’t feel like climbing. The heat was making her dizzy and she’s already thrown up the handful of trail mix she’d eaten for breakfast.
Apparently, morning sickness didn’t waste any time making your life hell, once you got pregnant.
Still, she wanted to do something useful. Wanted to try to climb a hill and get a cell signal.
Who would we call? Pistol had asked last night.
While it was true they didn’t have many options in Rialto — no one they could fully trust with the story about her father — there was still Maddy. Maddy, whom Katrin had put off contacting even though she should have gone to her right away, back when this mess started. No, it wasn’t like Maddy could rush down here, pick Katrin up from the top of a hill in the desert, and whisk her away. But if Maddy could start driving south, and if she and Pistol started riding north, maybe they could meet somewhere partway between Ohio and Texas. They could book rooms and transport on Maddy’s card and pay her back later in cash, and Maddy would do whatever she could to help Katrin and Pistol get new lives, new identities.
And if Pistol tried to insist on staying in Rialto, on staying and trying to fight her father’s empire, she could put her foot down. Tell him she had their escape all planned out.
It was so fucking confusing. She kept telling herself she was going to be her own person, wasn’t going to docilely obey the instructions of the men in her life. And yet, was it right to give Pistol an ultimatum? What if she was wrong, and escaping with Maddy wasn’t the best solution? What if she got them killed with her insistence on escape rather than resistance? Trusting others rather than relying on themselves. What if all they did was drag Maddy into something horrible and dangerous from which none of them would ever escape.
She started to climb. Her skinny jeans were too tight to make this a fun endeavor, and her flats offered zero support as she stepped over rocks and through patches of sand and prickly scrub.
A few yards up, she pulled out her phone and checked. One bar. Her heart leapt hopefully, in spite of the knowledge that a phone call was unlikely to solve her problems.
What if she used her phone to call the police instead? She knew Pistol wasn’t okay with that. But was there any chance they’d understand? That they’d do their best to protect Pistol in spite of his involvement with her father, and in spite of his various questionable activities as part of the Blackened Souls? Would she be blamed for her role in all this? For going along with her dad’s plan, for not reporting it sooner? She’d always thought of the police as a source of aid and protection. Now she had no idea who she could trust.
She climbed around a small boulder, scrabbling a little, then rested for a moment, panting. One hand on her belly.
She hated feeling helpless. She hated feeling like she had no say in whether she would be protected and how. What did Pistol think he’d accomplish by going into town in search of “help?” What he meant was that he wanted to look for a means of perpetuating the same violent cycle. He wanted to find weapons. He wanted to confront her father, find his missing brothers, play the hero. It was frustrating as hell, and it was exactly that mentality that made her nervous to tell him about the baby.
Because he’ll never leave that life behind, will he? He’ll never stop putting himself in danger, never stop prioritizing adventure over domestic life. And I want adventure too, but I also want my child to grow up safe. I’d rather have my baby grow up with no father at all than a father who might not come home one night because he’s been killed in a gang fight.
She climbed some more, breathing hard. This was taking more out of her than she’d expected. She paused to throw up again on the rocks. The sun was beating down hard on her. She took out her phone, took a deep breath, and dialed Maddy.
The call was dropped immediately, and a No Service message appeared.
Shit.
She pocketed her phone and started to climb again. She was almost to the top of the hill.
She stepped onto a rocky ledge. Wobbled for a second, then started to take another step. Part of the ledge gave out from under her, and she let out a startled cry. She scrambled as pebbles showered down the side of the hill. She reached for any handhold she could find, but there was nothing. As she started to fall, a ray of sun caught her side of the hill, nearly blinding her, and she thought, for just a second, that she heard her mother’s voice, somewhere far away. Out of reach.
Chapter Thirty
When Pistol arrived back at the desert cave, Katrin was nowhere to be found. The blanket was still spread out on the cave floor, and there was a half empty pack of trail mix next to the saddlebags, but no sign of Katrin. His stomach plummeted.
Jesus, tell me she didn’t do anything stupid.r />
Or, more to the point: Tell me Smith didn’t get to her before I did.
He left the cave and searched the surrounding area. The bike was still there. Katrin’s jacket was slung over the seat. His gaze landed on a small hill nearby, a light-colored shape huddled on the side of it, nestled amid some rocks.
He raced for the hill, heart thudding. “Katrin!” he shouted. “Katrin!”
He climbed the hill, calling her name until his throat was raw, ignoring the agony that ripped through his shoulder as he attempted to find holds on the rocky embankment. He picked his way around stones and shrubs, and finally he saw her — lying on her back, one hand flung up over her head, her dark hair matted and fluttering in the warm breeze. Blood stained her jeans — a small patch of it around her crotch, spreading down her left thigh. The fear that took him then was unlike anything he’d ever felt.