Wild Ways

by Tina Wainscott

  Chase handed Risk the headphones he’d found, then stopped. They were crushed.

  Risk dropped down beside Rath and checked his vitals. Chase pulled out another set of bones and shoved them at him. “I have a feeling we’re going to need to stay in touch. Julian’s riding a van to who-knows-where. Well, we’ll know as soon as I can access the app, because I put a GPS tracker in his phone. Be ready to move, because if he can hold on long enough, he’s going to lead us right to either their stronghold or the place they’re holding this orgy. And you need to be ready to fly.”

  “On it.” Risk took off into the night.

  * * *

  Scotch was on his Harley with two of his brothers, trying to catch up to Damon, when his phone rang. He wrangled it out of his pocket and answered.

  “Scotch? It’s Zonk.”

  He had to strain to hear him over his muffler noise. “Yeah? You take care of the bodies?”

  “Uh, that’s why I’m calling you. First, there was only one body in the bin.”

  The statement thudded against him. “No way. I put one guy in there, and the other fell in. And I shot them for insurance. The bullets should have gone through the guy on top. The other guy’s underneath, buried good. Check again.”

  “We looked, and there’s only the one. And it’s Edge.”

  The bike wobbled out of Scotch’s control. He pulled off to the side of the road, avoiding the debris of wrecks and tires scattered along the shoulder. “No, that can’t be right.”

  The two others pulled over, giving him questioning looks.

  “I know Edge,” Zonk said, his voice hoarse. “He’s my sponsor. It’s him.”

  Scotch’s throat went tight and dry. “No. I talked to Edge after he pushed the guy off the roof. He had his vest.”

  “Edge isn’t wearing his vest. That guy must have put it on.”

  Fury and outrage flamed through him. And guilt. He’d shot the guy in the bin. He’d shot Edge. He wouldn’t say a word about that. “Get him out of there.”

  “Already did. He’s in the trunk of my car. I’ll take him to the clubhouse. But what about the missing guy?” The guy who should have been dead. His friend had pulled him out. It hit him then, that he’d gone from thinking both enemies were dead to the only dead man being one of his own. “Go get any King inside the club and search the parking lot. Find them. And kill them. The one I threw in the bin is hurt, maybe dead. He can’t have gotten far.” The glimpse he’d gotten of his opponent didn’t coincide with the guy who’d shot at them at the Ship’s Inn. “The one who was on the roof has to be the son of a bitch who killed Greaser and the St. Louis patch. You take either of them out, and you’re patched in.”

  “On it,” Zone said and disconnected.

  “Edge is dead,” Scotch told the other two, keeping his voice carefully modulated. He waved for them to follow and pulled back out onto the highway, fighting the urge to go back to the club. He didn’t need to see Edge’s body. He would go to the Ball and make Mollie pay for yet another King whose life she was responsible for taking.

  He took a shortcut and caught up to the old van that held her. Imagine that, her coming right in and giving herself to them. If she hadn’t brought her friends, it would have been perfect. He wanted to know who these guys were. And she would damn well tell him.

  Something on top of the van caught his eye. He slowed to get a better angle. Holy shit, a man was hanging on for dear life. He bet he knew exactly who it was, too. His fingers twitched to pull out that pretty gun and wipe him right then and there. But that would cause a commotion, and with everyone taking videos from their phones these days, he couldn’t chance it. Look what had happened with that motorcycle gang in New York last year, footage of the group surrounding an SUV all over the news. It had proven the bikers guilty, and the irony was that the video had been taken by one of the gang members.

  Scotch hung farther back so he didn’t tip him off. He called Damon in the van. “It’s Scotch. I’m behind you. You have a guy on your roof.”

  “What?”

  “The one who was with the woman last night.”

  “I thought he was dead,” Damon said, his voice low.

  “Me, too.” No need to tell him that both “dead” guys had escaped. “The son of a bitch put on Edge’s colors so I’d think it was him. It was Edge who took the toss.”

  “He killed another one of our guys? Shit, Scotch, we need to fuck this guy up big-time. And he’s on top of the van? Right now?”

  “He must have hopped on when you left. Look, this can work in our favor. Take him for a ride he’ll never forget.”

  Chapter 17

  Chase hung up after his conversation with the police chief, who would notify hospital administrators that the guy with the massive injuries was part of an undercover op so security would let Chase leave the premises. He stepped out in the hall and hailed Julian.

  “Yeah, I’m still here,” he answered. He gave him another street as the van turned. “Rough neighborhood. Not a lot of traffic. How’s Rath?”

  “In the hospital now. Looks like he’ll be fine. Have you determined if Mollie is in the van?”

  “My gut says she is.”

  “Risk and Sax are back at the club, but we’ll be heading your way. I installed a transmitter in your phone, so I know where you are.”

  “When did you do that? And why?”

  “The last time I saw you, and because I was worried you’d go off and do something crazy to save your beloved. I wanted to be able to keep track of you. Here comes the security guy. I’ll clear up things on my end and get to you ASAP.”

  “As soon as we get to what looks like the destination, and they start slowing down, I’m bailing. I’ll give you a heads-up and wait.”

  As long as they didn’t hurt Mollie. Julian might react because once again, one of his J-men had gotten emotionally involved with someone in the case. Bad idea, but he had to trust that they wouldn’t cook under pressure.

  “Keep your cool,” Chase reminded him anyway.

  “How did you know that querida meant beloved?”

  “I looked it up.”

  “What the hell? They’re speeding up. They’re—”

  He heard a whump and then nothing. Before the security guy could say word one, Chase asked, “You talk to the chief?”

  “No, but—”

  “He’ll clear me. I’ve got a man in trouble.” Chase called that out as he tore down the hallway.

  Brick was in the waiting area. Chase had insisted he get checked. “Hey, I got the all—what’s going on?” he asked as Chase ran toward him.

  “Stay here.”

  “No way.” Brick fell into step next to Chase. “I know these guys. I can help you.” He was already out of breath.

  “If you can keep up, you can come. But you’ve got to do what I tell you.”

  “Yes, sir.” Brick was falling behind.

  “The first thing is, if you’re not at the van by the time I reach it, I’m leaving you.”

  Brick picked up his pace. “I’m doing this. I want to find Birdy. I need to make this right for her.”

  Chase launched himself into the van, wishing he’d brought his number one: Artemis. His associate/driver/friend had offered to break away from a situation he was dealing with, but Chase had given him a pass. He started the van and pulled out of the spot. Brick closed the door just in time, huffing and grimacing in pain.

  Chase shoved a tablet at him. “Turn this on. I’m going to give you two cross streets to program in.” Once Brick had them on the map, Chase gave him the address for the bar. “And shut up. The narrator is going to recite directions.” The last thing he needed was the guy blathering on about his mistakes and how much he loved the woman he’d left with a bunch of outlaws. Chase radioed Risk. “I’m on my way to get you. Julian’s in trouble.”

  * * *

  Mollie was tied up in the back of the van, her feet and hands bound. At least they’d unwrapped the plastic they tied her
up in to carry her outside. Two men were up front. One was Damon, by the sound of his voice. She couldn’t see them from her angle, but she could hear them talking about which chick they were going to visit with first.

  A shudder racked her body as they discussed the various girls’ attributes. She thought of Di. Katie. Even Lilliana. Women who had slipped into bad situations. Who deserved another chance at life.

  “I’m taking first dibs on this one,” Damon said.

  Her. He meant her. Her stomach jolted.

  “I figured Scotch would object,” he went on. “But he just wants to finish her. I don’t know. A lot of patches are going to want a piece of her for the trouble she’s brought to the club.” He laughed. “There might not be anything left.”

  She had to fight not to throw up. Of course, they’d blame her. She hoped they didn’t do it in front of Di. No, she had to keep her hope alive. Chase and the other two J-men were still out there. And Julian. She couldn’t accept that he was dead. Scotch said they wouldn’t be able to help her, not specifically that they were dead.

  A phone rang, and Damon answered. “I thought he was dead.”

  Julian. He had to be talking about Julian, who wasn’t dead. Thank you, God. What about Rath?

  “He killed another one of our guys? Shit, Scotch, we need to fuck this guy up big-time. And he’s on top of the van? Right now?”

  Julian, here? She lifted her head to look out the window. From her vantage point, she could see the tips of four fingers at the edge of the roof. He was there! Her knight to save her.

  And the enemy knew. She tried to scream, to warn him, but the duct tape over her mouth muffled her words.

  “Shut up, bitch,” Damon growled.

  She thrashed against the side of the van.

  “Get ready,” the driver said.

  Ready for what?

  The driver was speeding up. She heard their seat belts snap into place and braced her body. The van came to a bone-jarring stop, pitching her forward against the back of the seats.

  “Run him over!” Damon shouted.

  She lurched up in time to see Julian sprawled on the road. “No!” she shouted.

  Julian started to get to his feet, but the van hit him, sending him flying against the front of a boarded-up building. There were people standing nearby, but no one intervened. The two men in the van flew out and started beating Julian. Three bikes pulled up, and the riders dove into the fight. They wore the black vests with the ram’s head on the back. It was an ambush. Even injured—Julian had to be injured after all that—he fought them. Slammed his fist into one guy’s face. Kicked one man so hard that he knocked two other guys over.

  His face was scraped, and he favored one leg, but she saw the cold precision of a soldier as he fought. Julian was fast. Damn, he moved with lethal grace as he ducked one blow, another kick. He dove through five of them, rolling, coming up and launching himself toward the van. As he came around the open door, one of the bikers slammed the door shut on him. He hit the jamb with a sickening thud, giving the swarm enough time to grab him. Still, he fought, but there were too many.

  Tears streamed down her cheeks as she screamed. No one paid any attention to her.

  “Don’t kill him!” Damon yelled. “Crimson’s going to want to take care of him personally. Maybe we’ll sell tickets for a chance to smash his balls. Who’s got the ties?”

  One of the guys produced a handful of those cheap plastic ties she’d seen in the hardware store. Mollie strained to peer through the driver’s window. All she could see were the backs of several bikers crouched over him. Damon had said not to kill him, which meant Julian wasn’t dead.

  One of the bikers lifted a broken headset. “The guy was wearing this. What the hell is he? A cop?”

  “Check his pockets,” Damon ordered. He inspected the headset as they searched him roughly.

  “No wallet or ID, but we found this,” one guy said, lifting Julian’s gun.

  “And this,” another said, holding up a knife.

  “Throw him in the back and let’s get out of here. He was talking to someone. We don’t want to be here when they come.”

  One of the bikers pounded his fist against his open palm. “Or we could ambush them, too.” He grinned, showing a gap between his teeth.

  Damon shook his head. “I don’t know who these guys work for, but in case they’re Feds or something, I’d rather not tangle with them.”

  Julian was thrown into the back, and the door slammed shut. His face was bloody, his lower lip swollen. The van lurched away from the curb, escorted by the bikes. The music blared again.

  “Julian,” she tried to say, scooting closer to him.

  He groaned, but his eyes opened. “Mollie …” He seemed to assess her. Then he leaned forward as though he were going to kiss her. Instead, he tore off the duct tape with his teeth.

  “I’m sorry,” they both said at the same time.

  “I’m sorry I got you into this. I tried to warn you that they were going to do something,” she said. “But I couldn’t scream, obviously. I threw myself against the sides of the van.” The utter helplessness flooded her again.

  “I could feel you, but I didn’t know what it meant. I knew they were up to something when they accelerated. I was about to jump when they hit the brakes.”

  “Julian, I was so scared for you.”

  “Shh, it’s okay. I’m fine. Can you move your legs?”

  “No, they’re tied together at the ankles.”

  “Mine, too. I was thinking I could distract them and you could run. But you won’t get far with your legs bound.” He was maneuvering, and grunting in pain. “Damn, they took my cell phone. Or it fell in the struggle. When we get to where we’re going, and they take us out of the van, I want you to scream your head off.”

  “Did you see the people standing around watching those guys beat you? They did nothing!”

  “I know, querida, but we have to do what we can.”

  “They moved up the Ball because of us. It’s tonight.”

  The radio’s volume lowered, and Damon leaned between the seats. He must have heard them talking. He left the music low. “You, Mister Spiderman, who do you work for?”

  “No one,” Julian said.

  Damon aimed a gun at him. “Rethink your answer. You were talking to someone on these.” He held up the mangled headset. “You’re armed, and you’re a fucking nuisance.” He racked the slide on the Glock. “Now tell me, who do you work for?”

  “I have my own firm. JR Security. My buddy and I started it after we got out of the military.”

  Damon swung the gun her way. “And she hired you?”

  “Dude, lower the muzzle. No need to point with the damned thing. She didn’t hire us. We—I—sort of took her on as a client against her will.”

  Damon fell silent for a moment. He turned and made a call. “Scotch, did the guy you tangled with have a headset? Just checking … Yeah, we have the other son of a bitch. We’re almost there.” He settled back in his seat, apparently satisfied with the story.

  Did Chase know where Julian was? Was Rath all right? So many questions, but she didn’t dare ask them. Julian’s bound hands were now in front of him. He was twisting them, though she couldn’t tell exactly what he was doing.

  Houdini. That was his other nickname. He could get out of anything. Hope surged again. If they had enough time …

  The van slowed. She lifted her head to see a fence stopping their continuation on the street. But a man in the familiar black vest standing at the center of the gate opened it. The pack of bikes went through first, they followed, and he closed it again. It was darker here, no streetlights, houses, or other structures. Just open land, which didn’t make sense in a city as built up as Chicago.

  The road was paved, and in the moonlight she saw concrete pads for what had once been buildings, she guessed. To the left was a long concrete wall, about one story tall and crumbling apart in places. Lights glowed from the other side o
f the wall. Something had occupied all this land once. They followed the road to where it terminated in a cul-de-sac. Two roads snaked off it and they took the one made of dirt.

  “This is the perfect spot,” Damon said to the driver. “I know Crimson likes to move the Ball every year, but I’d keep holding it here.”

  “At least until they develop it into some neighborhood shopping area,” the driver said.

  “But they’ve been talking about that for years. I guess someday it’ll happen. But if it’s still vacant next year, I’d vote for a revisit.”

  With Damon faced forward, Julian had maneuvered to the rear door.

  “Hey! Lay the fuck down!” Damon barked from the front.

  Julian slowly lowered himself to the floorboard. The expression on his face, though, was far from complacent. He was plotting. Scheming.

  The van slowed to a stop next to the long wall. Through a gap, where it had crumbled away completely, she saw two men stringing up lanterns along the top edges of the wall. Di was here somewhere. Several men came forward, and she recognized the bikers who’d pummeled Julian. Including Scotch. They approached the driver’s window and started talking.

  “Scratch the screaming,” Julian whispered. “No one’s going to hear you. The wind is blowing eastward, and I don’t see any civilization that way. All I see is lake.”

  “How … never mind.” He was a SEAL, accustomed to being aware of his surroundings, of figuring a way out of any situation. She hoped.

  As the men got out, Julian asked, “Can you swim?”

  “Yes, I grew up on the ocean.”

  “Good, because you need to be ready to make a run for it. If I say ‘go,’ you run toward the water.”

  The prospect of that tightened her throat. “But we’re tied up.” They’d sink like stones!

  “We had to do this in BUD/S. Swimming with our hands and feet tied. I’ll hold on to you and keep your face above water. I’m Aquaman, too. Remember, that’s what SEALs are about. But we need them to cut these things off our ankles.”