The One We Answer To: A Shifter MC Novel (Pureblood Predator MC Book 3)

by Daniels, May Ellis

  The road rises into the foothills of the eastern Cascades, then narrows as we hit the first of several winding ravines that lead up into the mountains. A few pine and fir trees appear and the sage thins as we gain altitude. We pass a couple remote settlements: old hangouts for hippies and back-to-the-landers and anti-social fucks who’d had enough of the city a few hundred miles to the west. Burned out gas stations. A leveled trailer park. Smoldering cars. Corpses littering the road.

  I glance at the Harley’s fuel gauge. Only a quarter full.

  Scarcity.

  That’s the name of the game now. How to get the shit you need to survive. And from the look of the gas stations and shit-hole diners and corner stores we pass I can tell we’re late to the party.

  There won’t be any fuel here.

  Nash rolls up beside me while I slow into the mountain turns.

  “The Collazo Cartel’s claimed the entire western half of the continent as its territory,” Nash says while we dodge around a burning school bus. “From Mexico City on up to Alaska. They got what’s left of the Mexican army pushing north into Cali.”

  “Apex predators need room to roam,” I say, grinning.

  “That’s what I was thinking.”

  “How about the good ‘ole United States of America? What’s our fine Skin President and his army have to say about the Mexicans moving north?”

  Nash shrugs, shouting over his Harley’s roar. “TV news went out a week ago. Radio still works sometimes. The President’s redrawn the nation’s borders. Consolidating what’s left of his power around the eastern seaboard. Basically said thanks for the good times but fuck you to everything west of Denver.”

  “Pioneers made it to the west last. Makes sense it’s the first to be abandoned. Let the west run wild. Don’t know about you but I’m feeling damn fucking feral.”

  Nash laughs, then says, “What’s the plan, Prez?”

  We crest through the Cascades and begin descending towards the Pacific. “I don’t give a fuck who’s claiming what stretch of dirt in some rat-invested hellhole of a country. And I sure as shit don’t care about the Mexicans. But I do care that Collazo’s crew fucked us right here on our own soil. Sold us out. And tell you what: I kinda like this part of the world.”

  “Us too,” Nash says, glancing back at the MC. “Feels like home, if you ask me.”

  I nod. “Yup. Let Collazo’s cunts come on up and take a shot at booting us out. We’re not going anywhere.”

  Nash looses a throaty barking laugh.

  “Where’s Collazo now?” I ask.

  “Mexico City. Rumor is he’s teamed up with a real badass motherfucker. A Stricken, from the sound of it. Former cage fighter. Dude likes to call himself all sorts of shit. Spotted Stalker. Lord of near and Nigh. The Night Wind. Fucker had the Mexican President assassinated.”

  “Who’s running shop in the Westcoast cities?”

  “Collazo’s using locals to maintain control. All our old associates. The Ah Hong Syndicate in particular.”

  A growl develops in my throat. I slide the Harley to the shoulder, then say, “The Sin Crew. That backstabbing motherfucker Tao.”

  “Yeah,” Nash says, pulling in beside me. “Chinese military’s using the Sin Crew as their advance troops. Paying them well—cash and weapons—to take a shot at claiming the Westcoast for the Chinese. Course the Sin are like us: they don’t give a fuck about nation-building. They just want their piece of the action. There’s money to be made during the end of the world, Aaron. Rich assholes buying muscle to protect their property. Nations and armies making bold moves and paying well for guys who don’t mind murder for hire. Skins looting one another and trading for anything on offer. Drugs. Food. Water. Gasoline. Guns. It’s a whole new economy. The black market moved into the light of day. The Cartel and the Sin have strongholds in every major coastal city. Seattle. Portland. San Fran. L.A.”

  “Then we pick them off one by one.”

  “Maybe,” Nash says.

  “What?”

  “We got less than thirty guys, Prez. We need an army to hold the Westcoast.”

  He’s right. But we don’t need an army to take out the local Sin. “Let’s cross that bridge, huh, VP?”

  I think about those Stricken bikers, the Satan’s Spawn, selling Skin flesh beneath the warehouse, then glance back at my MC, step off my bike and yell: “From now on we, the final chapter of the Pureblood Predators, will be known as the End Days Chapter. We’re at war, motherfuckers. Collazo Cartel. The Sin. The fucking Stricken. Maybe even that original asshole, the First Fallen. You remember him?”

  A few boos. A few violent war cries. A few wary glances.

  “We’re at war with ‘em all. Any of you got a problem dying?”

  Silence.

  “Any got a problem killing?”

  My MC looses a round of screams and hollers and snarling, bloodthirsty howls.

  “Good,” I say, straddling my Harley and throttling her hard. “Then let’s get our fucking kill on.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  LILY

  THE NEW WORLD Order are even worse than I imagined.

  This isn’t an MC or an army. It’s a mob, united only by greed and bloodlust and the realization that the strong can do whatever they want during the end of the world.

  Chaos. Anarchy.

  They’re only sexy if you’re holding the biggest gun.

  It takes Mia and a wiry tattooed guy she calls Earl murdering three of the nastiest bastards just to keep the assholes from raping us. Earl is Mia’s main enforcer, and without him keeping the rest of the meatheads in line I think she would’ve lost her title as queen of the greaseball jungle.

  The problem is Earl’s as greasy as the rest of them; his thin pock-marked face made even nastier by a narrow mustache and watery white-blue eyes. Worse, he seems to have taken a shine to Trish, and I don’t think he intends to offer my girl his hand in a loving lifelong union. But Earl’s quick with a blade; he had one buried in the throat of the first guy to challenge Mia before the dude finished his second sentence. Earl seems loyal to Mia, but one look in his eyes and I know he’s an opportunist. He’s biding his time for the right moment to take Mia out and assume lead of the Order.

  Now Anik’s imprisoned in the tank of an empty gasoline truck and the rest of us are squeezed tight in the back seat of Mia’s crew-cab pickup. The pimple-faced kid driving the pickup can’t be more than sixteen. He’s decked out in military fatigues several sizes too large. Earl’s sitting bitch up front, a loaded Special Ops M4 resting on his lap. Mia’s sitting beside him, chain smoking out the open passenger window, scanning the burned out suburban neighborhood as the convoy swerves around rotting bodies, the smoking husks of destroyed cars and anything else that stopped moving in the middle of the road.

  Earl keeps glancing in the rearview at me and Trish. Trish is doing a fine job of reigning in her mouth, but her jaws are clenched tight and her hands are wringing against one another and every now and then one of her knuckles cracks with a loud pop.

  “We need to kill a freak or two,” Earl says. He speaks out the side of his mouth, in terse, declarative statements that make me think he’s former military.

  Mia nods.

  “Give the troops something to write home about, Admah. Show ‘em your still worth listening to.”

  “We need to take a freak alive to scent for us,” Mia says. “At least one.”

  Earl glares at me in the rearview.

  “How much you figure they’ll fetch?” he asks, jerking his thumb at us.

  Mia casts an appraising eye at me, Trish, Shiori and Pimniq. “Should be pretty good. Especially the young one. Enough fuel to half fill the tanker.”

  Earl runs his gloved hand along the M4 barrel.

  The pimply driver swerves too hard to avoid a four-foot wide crater in the road. Mia’s head smacks against the pickup’s door.

  “Fucking easy on the wheel, Flea,” Earl growls. “Cuz if you can’t handle driving y
ou can go right back to spotting on top of the tanker.”

  Flea hunches low and tightens his grip on the steering wheel.

  “How far until we reach the Blood Market?” Mia asks.

  “Please…please…no,” Pimniq moans. She’s doing a good job of faking being terrified.

  If she’s faking.

  Earl turns and smacks Pim on the side of the head. “One more sound and I’ll let Flea here gag you with his cock, got it little girl?”

  Pimniq leans as far away as possible, cups her hands over her face and begins weeping.

  This was a shitballs idea.

  Super-shitballs.

  Trish stabs me in the leg with her index finger.

  She’s thinking the same thing.

  We drive for a few miles in silence. Now that I don’t want her near my creature’s close to the surface, screaming and howling and gnawing, begging to be freed so she can tear these assholes limb from limb.

  “You smell something burning?” the kid named Flea says, sticking his pimply nose in the air.

  “The entire world’s burning, son,” Earl says.

  “No. I mean in here,” Flea says in a high-pitched, nervous tone that tells me he’s afraid of his father.

  Trish elbows me in the ribs, and when I turn and glare she nods at my lap. A thin wisp of smoke rises from my jeans, over the knee where the fabric’s stretched tight.

  Fuck.

  She’s coming.

  “Yeah, I smell it too,” Earl says.

  “You idiots smell my cigarette,” Mia says, sneering behind her mirrored shades.

  Earl shakes his head. “No it’s not—”

  Flea hits the brakes so hard all of us rocket forward. Mia smacks her head again and screams she’s going to gut the little idiot herself. Earl gives his son a quick punch to the jaw, sending the poor kid’s head snapping back. Flea recovers quick, points up ahead and says, “What in holy fuck is that?”

  “Watch yer mouth, Flea,” Earl growls.

  I look past them, up the road.

  A slow shiver creeps down my spine.

  Trish tenses beside me.

  Mia flicks her cigarette out the window, leans out, slips her sunglasses down her nose and peers ahead. “Yeah,” she says, her voice grim. “That’s a damned good question, Flea.” Then she punches the door open, leaps outside and screams, “Zoar! You get that fucking freak scenting. And the rest of you! Look sharp. Anything moves you open ‘em up!”

  Earl tells Flea to stay in the truck and keep a damn close eye on us, then jumps out beside Mia and begins directing the bikes and cars into a defensive formation.

  “You all right?” Trish says to Flea.

  Flea goes bright red, then grinds his teeth, turns to look Trish straight in the eye and says, “Mind your business, bitch.”

  Trish bristles but stays quiet.

  I slip my hand into hers.

  Shiori leans forward, peers down the road and says, “The pyramid. I’ve seen this strangeness before. The Guardians—”

  “The what?” Flea asks, turning halfway in his seat and pointing a Glock straight at Shiori. It’s Trish’s Glock. Mia left it on the seat when she hopped out.

  The gun trembles in the boy’s hand.

  The safety’s off.

  “Please, Flea,” I say, trying to sound calm and soothing, “don’t point the gun at her. Please? We won’t do anything. We’re tied,” I lift my hands to show him the rope wrapped around my wrists. “We can’t go anywhere. Please. Don’t point the gun at her.”

  “You afraid?” Flea asks, his thin lips going white and his eyes narrowing as he swings the gun at me.

  “Yes,” I say. “We’re all afraid. Please.”

  “Wasn’t asking you,” Flea snaps, whipping the gun back at Shiori. “Asking the slant.”

  Shiori stares blankly at Flea for so long the gun in his hand starts shaking violently back and forth. He sees it shaking and his eyes narrow even more and a muscle in his jaw clenches as he tries to hold the gun steady. “I said, are you afraid, you fucking ugly slant?”

  “Yes,” Shiori says, her voice buzzing slightly. “I am very afraid of you, Flea.”

  “Stop calling me that,” Flea says. “Only my father calls me that.”

  “All right,” I say. “Just don’t point the gun at us. Please? What should we call you?”

  “Guess I could make you call me anything I want, huh?”

  “You could,” I say.

  “Like…King?”

  “Yes. We’ll call you King.”

  Flea smiles, licks his lips, then shakes his head. “Nah. Just the name my mom gave me. Call me Steven. Not Steve. Steven.”

  “That’s fine, Steven. That’s a fine name. Now could you—”

  “Yeah, yeah,” the boy says, lowering the gun. “I’m just fucking with you anyway. I’d be in a world of shit if you got hurt on my watch. We’re gettin’ paid for you.”

  “Thank you, Steven.”

  A shrill scream rises from somewhere behind us. The guy Mia called Zoar must be using the orange powder on one of the chained Stricken.

  “Don’t call me my real name in front of Earl, though, okay?” Steven says after the screaming subsides.

  “Why?”

  “Major Dick? My father? He hates it. Hated my moms, too.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” I say, meaning it.

  Steven turns to stare out the front window. “He loves this shit, though,” he says quietly. “Waited his whole life. Never shut up about it. Spent all our money—which wasn’t fuck-all since the army screwed him on injury payout—stockpiling survival shit in our basement. Weapons and ammo and food and a whole bunch ‘a other shit. Bet he even fucking dreamed of it. And now here we are. The old prick was right.” Steven sighs, slumps forward against the wheel. “That’s the worst part. Him being right. Parading around like he’s all that. But he’s not so special. It’s Admah that’s special. She’s a born leader. The men respect her. My father’s just another asshole ex-soldier with something to prove.”

  “I’m sure your father…we all make mistakes,” I say.

  Steven gives me a scathing sneer. “Yeah. His mistake was me. And my moms. Basically anything besides killing is a mistake to old cowboy Earl.”

  “Your father got hurt in the army?”

  “IED. Blew off his left foot.”

  “He moves around pretty good.”

  “Yeah. Hides it. He’s proud of how little it slows him.”

  There’s a sharp buzzing sound.

  A wasp as large as a thumbnail lands on Steven’s arm.

  “Holy shit,” the boy says, holding his arm up and peering at the insect while slowly bringing his other hand over to kill it. “Only seen these fuckers hunting in Arizona with Major Dick. Didn’t know we had them here. Never saw one this big, though.” Steven’s hand hover’s six inches above the wasp. “They take a real fucking chunk out of—ouch!”

  Steven leaps six inches off his seat as the wasp bites him, then smashes his hand onto his arm, trying to smash it. The wasp buzzes out the open passenger window. Steven rubs at a spot of blood on his arm. He looks about to cry.

  Shiori.

  My blood burns. Her lack of control will get us all killed.

  “We’re all gunna die anyway,” Steven says, staring up the road. “Look at that! The sicko freaks.”

  I follow Steven’s gaze out the front window. Thirty yards ahead, stretching across the road, are a dozen twenty-foot tall pyramid or teepee-like structures made from trees with the bark stripped from them. Suspended from each one is a naked human corpse, males and females of all ages, wrapped in twigs and vines.

  The corpses are suspended by their ankles.

  Their heads are missing.

  Dark pools of dried blood shimmer on the pavement.

  “What do you think it is?” Steven whispers.

  “I don’t know,” I say.

  “Some kind of sick fucking warning,” Trish says.

&n
bsp; Steven glances at her in the rearview. “Yeah. I think that’s it. I think they’re close. This must be like…their boundary. Their turf.”

  Trish gives me a quick look. I shake my head no.

  I don’t scent anything except the reek of Skin blood coming from the corpses.

  Earl leans into the cab and orders us to pile out. We do, blinking against the light. My legs are numb from sitting crammed up for so long. Earl’s organizing a group of guys. I watch him move, and now that I know what to look for I spot the limp on his left side.

  Mia hurries to us, taking long, determined strides, her eyes are invisible behind her shades, but her lips are pursed tight. “Gotta do this, sorry,” she whispers, holding a rag in front of my face. “The men…they don’t trust the freak we got scenting for us. Worse, it seems…most of them don’t trust me anymore.” Mia stuffs the cotton rag down my throat, then does the same to Trish, Shiori and Pimniq.

  “We’ll be right here,” Mia whispers. “Anything takes the bait we’ll be right here, ready for them. I promise. Anything gunna hurt you it’ll be me. Won’t let a fucking Stricken do my wet work.” She casts a suspicious glance over her shoulder, then says very quietly, “Whatever happens, you’re Skins. Remember! No animals! No matter what.”

  I look at Shiori.

  She gives me a mocking bow.

  New World Order soldiers hurry about, loading and checking weapons, putting on kevlar vests, taking long swigs of booze.

  No one speaks.

  A wooden sign in the middle of an immaculate lawn says we’re in the Meadow Estates, a once-posh suburban development. The few houses that haven’t been burned to the ground would’ve been called mansions when I was a kid. I smile, glancing at the corpses strung from the makeshift gallows in the middle of the road.

  Might be a dip in property values around the Meadow.

  There’s a loud clang. Anik and a paunchy white-haired senior citizen emerge from the gasoline tanker. Anik blinks into the sun, glances around, then sees us bound and gagged.

  His eyes flash with fury.

  Anik or Shiori? Who’s gunna break first?

  The old guy nearly tumbles off the top of the tanker while reaching for the ladder. Anik snatches him by the shirt collar at the last second, likely saving his life.