Wild Ways

by Tina Wainscott

  And still, the son of a bitch jumped up and bashed him in the head. Something moved just behind the man, and Scotch saw a bat come around and slam into the back of the guy’s head. Finally, the guy dropped. Damon’s face materialized in the darkness. He patted the bat. “Thought I’d better come out and help your sorry ass.”

  Scotch grunted, his whole body aching. “Help me toss him in.”

  They picked him up and hoisted him over the edge of the bin. The moment the body hit the garbage, Scotch searched for both his knife and the gun. He found them, and went to the side of the bin to finish the bastard.

  As he aimed into the mass of bags and shadows inside, a sound had him turning. Looking up. Two men fought at the edge of the roof. Scotch aimed upward, but he couldn’t tell who was who. The two were about the same build, and he couldn’t see his brother’s vest in the dark.

  Hell, they were awfully damned close to the edge. One slugged the other hard. He wheeled his arms as he lost his balance. Scotch moved off to the side as he fell, a sick feeling in his gut. But no, the guy falling didn’t have a vest. He landed on the opened lid of the bin with a sickening thud, then slid inside.

  Scotch looked up at the silhouette. “That you, Edge?”

  “Yeah,” the guy said, his voice hoarse. “Son of a bitch tried to strangle me.”

  “Where’s your colors?”

  “He tore off my vest.” The guy swiped it up and held it out, then shrugged into it.

  “You okay?”

  Scotch breathed out in relief. His brother would ask that. “Yeah. But it was close.” He felt along the length of the other guy’s gun, coming up on what felt like a suppressor. “They’re both in the bin. Perfect, huh?” He aimed the gun over the edge and let off some shots. The bullets hit with satisfying whumps. “Nice piece, with a can and everything. Call for someone to get rid of their bodies. I’m heading inside.”

  * * *

  Mollie swallowed back panic and reached for the outfit Crystal held. Even if it covered barely nothing, it was better than being naked. She wrangled her way into it and followed Crystal to the room she’d been in last night. She searched the two women who were getting ready. “Is Katie working tonight? Lilliana?” she asked Crystal, hoping to make conversation and get information.

  “Nope.”

  “Were they selected for this ball I heard about?”

  “You ask a lot of questions, you know that?”

  “Sorry, I just felt a connection with them. I was hoping they’d be here.”

  “They’re not.” Crystal led her into the back room where Lilliana had been sprawled on the couch. She opened one of the drawers and proceeded to pour a line of white powder onto a mirror.

  Mollie’s insides clenched. Besides that last time, she had seen her mother snort coke only once, when she’d walked into her bathroom and startled her. Powder had flown everywhere, and her mother had been furious. Over being caught or wasting the drug, Mollie didn’t know. Her mother had given her some lame story about sinus infections and put the mirror and razor blade away. Only later did Mollie discover what she’d really been doing, though she’d instinctively known it was something wrong by her mother’s reaction.

  Crystal set the mirror on the coffee table and shoved a short straw at her. “Go ahead. You’ll feel better.”

  Mollie had a feeling this wasn’t just cocaine. She’d heard stories about meth, people getting addicted after one use. She knelt down, mindful of the angle that would block the view of what she was really going to do. Her hair fell over her shoulder, and she made a sniffing sound before blowing the powder into a skewed line. It wasn’t flying away. She started coughing, as Katie had, completing the mission.

  Something tugged at her hair, and her head was wrenched up, forcing her body to awkwardly follow. She came face-to-face with Scotch, a triumphant smile on his face. He had one hand in her hair; the other came up to her throat. “Yeah, this is her, all right.”

  He was talking to Damon, who was standing nearby. He leaned around behind her. “What’s the patch for?”

  With her hair all twisted up, it was obviously showing. “I’m trying to quit smoking.”

  Scotch ripped it off. “Suffer the cravings, bitch. That will be the last of your worries.”

  Panic pulsed through her. Phone, gone. Patch, gone. Calm down. You still have Julian and Rath outside monitoring the situation.

  Crystal crossed her arms over her chest. “She was asking about the Ball. And where Katie and Lilliana were.”

  “They’re getting ready.” Scotch was clearly happy to inform her of that by the smile on his face.

  She tried to look surprised. “But it’s not until tomorrow.”

  “It got moved up, thanks to you nosing around. Cr—the guy who organizes it decided to avoid any problems.”

  “Where are her friends?” Crystal asked.

  Her friends? They knew?

  “In no position to help.” Scotch jabbed his finger at his chest. “See, I figured out it was you here last night, so we were ready.”

  No. No, no, no. Another wave of panic washed over her, nearly knocking her to her knees. Flashes of Brick’s burned flesh crossed her mind. These animals would show Julian and Rath even less mercy.

  Scotch jerked her to within an inch of his face. He smelled of cigarette smoke and beer. “I knew you’d find your way here, being the burr that you are. We had a nice chat with Lilliana about everything you two talked about. Which gave her a one-way ticket to the Ball.”

  “No, that’s not fair. She—”

  “She was already going. But you did give your sister a ticket. She became a problem, with you dogging us.”

  Guilt heaped upon guilt. Di. Julian and Rath. Mollie’s search was responsible for all of them being hurt. Or worse. No, they’re SEALs. They survived ambushes, sieges. And that’s what had happened tonight. The Kings were expecting them. But they didn’t know about the others. “Why didn’t you just let Di go then?” she asked.

  “We form attachments to the people in our club. We don’t like to let them go. You saw Brick, I assume.”

  “No. I haven’t been able to find him.” She wasn’t going to be responsible for his death, too.

  “How’d you know about the Ball then?” Damon asked.

  “I put the pieces together. Overheard stuff.”

  Sax and Risk were yards away. Would they hear if she screamed? Probably not over the music, but the song was ending. At the soft point between songs, Mollie inhaled and opened her mouth to scream.

  Scotch slapped his hand over her mouth so hard that she felt the inside of her mouth split against her teeth. “Oh, no, baby. Save your screaming for tonight. The guys really like that.”

  Damon chuckled. “I get first dibs on this one. She’s got nice tits.”

  Everything was falling apart. The coppery flavor of her blood filled her mouth. She couldn’t even spit it out with his hand mashed over her. But that was nothing compared to the fear that pulsed through her veins.

  “As long as I get to finish her,” Scotch said.

  Damon flicked a glance at him. “But you’re not going to the Ball.”

  “Never asked to be invited. But I want justice. There’ll be a few guys who will be happy to see her as an offering. It’s her fault that two of our brothers died. They can have their fun with her.” He grabbed her breast and squeezed harder than Damon had. “As long as I’m the last face she sees before she dies.”

  Chapter 16

  Julian stood at the edge of the roof, waiting for the two shadows below to move out of sight. He controlled his breathing and willed his heartbeat to slow. And he controlled his fear that Rath was dead, along with his urge to jump down immediately and check on him. The bad guys thought Julian was dead, and he needed to keep it that way.

  He checked his phone, seeing no movement from Mollie’s transmitter. None. Was the damned thing working? There’d been nothing since she’d gone into the back room.

  Rath hadn�
��t responded to his hail, but Julian had had to find his bones after his altercation, so Rath’s were probably on the ground somewhere. They’d been ambushed. Not the first time. Julian couldn’t see any sign of movement in the bin, as hard as he stared. He hailed Chase as the men turned out of sight and gave him a brief rundown.

  “Already heading your way on foot,” Chase responded. “Notified Risk.”

  Help was coming. “Keep your eyes open, Chase. They’re going to send a couple of guys to clean up the bodies.”

  “Copy that,” Chase said.

  Julian shed the nasty-smelling vest and was about to jump to the ground when he heard a car’s engine. He crouched and looked over the edge of the roof. A seventies-era VW van pulled around the side of the building and backed up to the rear entrance. Two guys exited; one opened the back doors while the other went inside. Music poured out when the door opened, then dimmed again.

  Julian got a total hairection watching that van. His gaze went to the bin and back to the van, continually scanning. He checked the map on his app and still saw no movement of the little yellow dot. As close as he’d zoomed in, he should see the transmitter move at least a little bit. But no, nothing. It didn’t feel right.

  A shadow moved in from across the street. Chase probably.

  The club door opened again, and a large parcel was carried directly from the door to the back of the van. A parcel large enough to be a body. The men exchanged words Julian couldn’t hear, then climbed into the van.

  Julian had two seconds to decide: stay here where Mollie supposedly still was, and check on Rath, or follow his gut and take a ride on that van. Following his gut had kept him and his team alive on more than one occasion. They all recognized the importance of the hairection.

  The moment the club’s door closed, Julian leapt to the ground directly behind the van. He grabbed on to the back door handles as it pulled away, careful to stay out of view of the rearview mirrors. The impact of landing reverberated down to his marrow, and he carefully shook out first one leg, then the other, as the vehicle pulled around the back of the lot toward the road.

  He needed to get on the roof where he would be less conspicuous once they were in traffic. As they passed through a dark area between two buildings, Julian pulled himself up to the roof. He tried to look inside the wide back window, but it was too dark inside. He flattened himself out spread-eagled, his fingers gripping the curved edges. If the driver took a sharp turn, Julian would probably go flying off. Loud rock ’n’ roll blared from inside, keeping him from hearing a woman who might be captive in the back screaming for help. Damn, if he only knew for sure.

  His hairection had been working just fine the day they’d sneaked into the compound in Mexico. He’d just been too stupid to heed it. Too pissed at the idea of the organization pretending to be good in order to elicit help from the United States.

  He whispered into his headset, “Chief, I’m going for a ride surfer style on a white piece-of-shit nineteen-seventies-something bug van. Rusted out, dent on rear-right quarter panel. Heading east on … wait, we’re about to turn. I’ll give you the street in a sec. I think Mollie may be inside. What’s the word on Rath?”

  “We have company.”

  Hell. The guys sent out to clean up. Julian wanted to be there, but he needed to be here more. He didn’t communicate further. He tracked distance traveled as the van passed train yards, then turned into an area of the city sensible people did not venture into. He could only hope no one would spot him up there and point him out to the driver.

  People did notice him. They passed a bus, and two passengers’ eyes widened when they saw him. Luckily, they were left behind before they could think to open their window. If they even bothered. Maybe they’d think it was some stupid stunt.

  His fingers ached at holding on to the sides. His thigh muscles quivered with the effort to brace his lower body. In the distance, he heard distinctive Harley engines. Please, not Kings coming to the party. Especially with my balls to the wind.

  The bikes came up fast. Julian tried to lower one hand enough to go for his gun, but he started sliding the moment he loosened his grip. Damn, he was a sitting duck. The bikes split, each one going into the lanes on either side of the van. The ram’s head identified them as the enemy. They waved and went around the van, speeding ahead. Julian breathed out in relief. He’d dodged that bullet.

  * * *

  It was the hardest thing, wanting to get somewhere fast and having to walk out slow and casual-like. Risk’s throat tightened as he patted his pocket, like he was looking for his cigs. Couldn’t smoke in bars here, so it would seem normal to go out for a smoke. He passed the bouncer and headed around to the side of the building. Sax stayed inside, keeping an eye on things from his place at the end of the bar, nearest the entrance to the back room.

  The moment Risk hit the parking lot, he drew. A soft whistle pulled his attention to a man looking as casual as he had a second ago, crossing the street. Risk surveyed their surroundings, seeing no one else, and slipped around the corner. As soon as Chase passed the bouncer’s visual range, he ran. The guy was quick and armed. He might not have military experience, but he knew what he was doing. He damn well had experience in something.

  Risk fell in line behind Chase as they skirted the wall toward the dumpster. He picked up a faint shifting sound from inside. Alive. Please let him be alive.

  Rath was too ornery to die.

  Chase stepped on something that cracked, then picked up the bones. A blast of music preceded voices coming from around back. Chase tucked the bones into his waistband and gestured for them to squeeze behind the bin.

  “Why do we get these shit jobs?” one guy asked.

  “ ’Cause we’re prospects, Zonk. We don’t get invited to the special Ball, whatever that shit is, but we have to get rid of—”

  “Shut up, Putz.”

  Putz grunted.

  Unfortunately it sounded like Putz and Zonk wouldn’t be helpful for giving them anything on the Ball. Damn, he was so ready to do some interrogating. But they sure couldn’t let them haul away Rath, no matter what condition he was in. Once a SEAL, always a SEAL, and the credo applied: “Never leave a man behind.” But for their teammates, it went deeper than that. Leave no brother behind.

  “Holy shit, it stinks!” Putz said. “I’m not climbing in there.”

  “We gotta do what we gotta do.”

  “You know, I’m not cut out for this. I’m quitting.”

  “Don’t be a Putz,” Zonk hissed as they stopped next to the bin, and only around the corner from where Risk and Chase stood. “Remember what happened with that prospect who wanted out? He had to play a round of Russian roulette. He got lucky. You might not.”

  One of them gagged.

  “Let’s get gloves and something to jam up our noses.”

  Their shoes scraped across the concrete, and then the music poured out as they went back inside.

  “Move fast,” Chase said, but Risk was already leaping onto the edge of the bin. He could smell plenty, but he couldn’t see much. Once you smelled a rotting body, something they’d all had the pleasure of while walking the streets of Kabul, garbage wasn’t all that bad. “Rath,” he whispered.

  “Mmph” came from below.

  A low-light flashlight illuminated the scene below, courtesy of Chase. The first thing that registered was only one body, a male, lying on top of bags and loose garbage. His face was so smashed, it was unrecognizable. Risk’s chest lurched as he scanned for anything he could identify. Hair, too long. Body, too lean. Maybe. He reached down and pressed a finger to the carotid artery. Nothing.

  Well, no fucking wonder. Risk now saw bullet holes in the guy’s chest. Though not a lot of blood, which meant he was probably dead when he landed in here. He studied the shirt, trying to remember what Rath had been wearing. This body had no vest, and patches didn’t remove their colors for less than a good reason. But the T-shirt with a skull design on it wasn’t Rath’s style. />
  Something grabbed his hand at the same time he heard that eerie sound again, and Risk bit back a shout as he lurched. Fingers stuck out of the mound of garbage next to the dead guy’s arm, like a hand pushing up from a grave. Whaaaa?

  Chase pulled the dead guy over a few inches, revealing Rath lying directly beneath him. His face didn’t look a whole lot better, but yeah, it was Rath, and he was alive. And buried underneath the dead guy. Chase joined Risk in shoving the body aside and helping Rath up. His breath was ragged, his hand gripping his shoulder. Blood glistened in the light. Risk checked his pulse. Thready, but strong enough.

  Music poured out of the open door in the back again. Hell, the two putzes were returning. They clearly had nothing to do with this, and Risk didn’t want to have to hurt them. Nor did he want to alert them of their presence. They needed to get out before they arrived.

  Chase and Risk pulled Rath out of the bin and hauled him to his feet. Rath held his own as they crept along the wall and around the corner right before the putzes would have stepped up to the bin.

  “Hell, you stink,” Risk said, as a test once they reached the street.

  “Ambushed,” Rath said, as though pushing out that one word took all his strength. “Two of them. Stabbed. Thrown in dumpster. Guy comes flying in from … hell, somewhere. Landed right on top of me. Asshole shoots us.”

  No “fuck you,” or any kind of smart-assed response to Risk’s olfactory assessment. Rath wasn’t doing well. “We need to get him to a hospital,” Risk said. “He’s lost a lot of blood.”

  Rath shook his head. “I’ll be …” He stumbled. “Fine.”

  Chase said, “I’ll take him to the nearest hospital. You stay and monitor what’s going on inside.”

  They maneuvered Rath into the van, laying him on the floor. Risk held back a hiss as he took in his brother. “Dude, your face is ground beef.”

  “Brass knuckles,” Rath supplied. “Took my Glock, too.”

  “And tried to shoot you with it. Good thing you were wearing a vest.” More worrisome was the knife wound in his shoulder, just missing the edge of the Kevlar vest.