by Zoey Derrick
Just as his words leave his lips, there is a roar of motorcycles from down the street.
“Get in the safe room, now!” he growls as he stands up. “Do not come out until you know it’s safe. Do you hear me?”
I stiffly nod, not understanding what he’s implying or what’s happening.
After my parents died, Kellen went a little crazy. Paranoia was his middle name and it showed. He spent thousands of dollars turning a closet into a safe room. A room we’ve never had to use until now. After he’d finished the project, he spent weeks teaching me how to use it. Anytime he made upgrades to the room, he would always spend time showing me the new features. There are cameras that cover every inch of the house, every detail, and most importantly, the pictures are crystal clear.
“I mean it, Lily, go, and do not come out until you see it’s safe. No matter what happens.”
I stand up and he pulls me into the tightest hug I’ve ever felt from him. He kisses the top of my head. “Love ya, kid.”
I squeeze him a little tighter as the reality of what’s about to happen starts to wash over me. I start to sob.
He grabs me by my shoulders and pushes me back. “Promise me, Lily. Promise me that you will stay in there. Promise me?”
Through tear filled eyes, I nod my head.
“Go, now,” he orders as he stomps from the room. I go out the door of my room and I place my hand on the knob. My fingerprints open the door and I step inside.
Tears flow down my face as I close and press the switch to seal the door.
I never understood why Kellen had this thing installed, until a couple of unexpected club members showed up and he sent me into the room to hang out until they left. I never thought anything of it.
Until I walk into the room tonight.
I shake my head in disbelief as it occurs to me that maybe this is more than paranoia with Kellen.
He’s been protecting me, keeping me safe. Keeping me away from the club meant keeping me away from someone who wants to hurt me. By keeping the guys away, by keeping the families away, he’s been keeping me safe. “Damn you!” I curse him loudly.
I shiver. The room is cold and grey, with steel walls and no windows. There’s a bed, a couple of computers and a wall of monitors tied to cameras all around the property. Apparently, paranoia is his motivation and protection was his game.
I watch the monitors as two bikes pull into the driveway. I immediately recognize Loki, but his face is grim. He’s staring daggers into the back of the head of the other guy he’s with. I don’t recognize the guy from anywhere, but their cuts are obviously Wicked Angels, the same as what my brother and father wore. Though Kellen wears one with similar patches to the one my father wore, Loki’s isn’t all that different from theirs, but it’s enough to be able to tell them apart.
I continue to watch on the monitors. Kellen has made his way into the kitchen. He is standing stiffly with his hand on his hip, no doubt grabbing hold of the gun he always carries at his side.
Something is off.
Something is wrong with this situation.
I don’t understand what’s going on and I fight every ounce of my being to not flee the room. I look at the wall. “Dammit,” I mutter as I realize that Kellen got in here first. I shake my head as I watch the countdown clock slowly tick down. Twenty-nine minutes and fifteen seconds left. Twenty-nine minutes before I can even consider opening the door. “You bastard,” I growl at the screen.
Something is off, something is very wrong. I’m so confused. Nothing makes sense. They’ve come for Kellen, why? Tears start streaming down my face, again.
The room is not only a safe room, but also fireproof and soundproof. Nothing happening in here can be heard outside this room and vice versa. I return to the cameras and press a couple buttons, increasing the volume so I can hear what’s happening in the kitchen and throughout the rest of the house.
I know where all the cameras are, but you can’t see one of them from any room in the house. I don’t know how he did it exactly, but he’s managed to conceal every single one of them, which makes it easy to record everything and no one is any wiser.
I hear a door burst open through the speakers and my eyes land on the living room camera. The two men, Loki and the other man, come stomping into the house. The older guy calls out for Kellen. “In the kitchen,” he replies. His voice is calm, steady and there is conviction in his voice.
“Where is it, you son-of-a-bitch?” the older man snaps as he steps into the kitchen.
“What the hell are you talking about?” Kellen asks with a cold stare in his eyes. I’ve only ever seen that look when Kellen was lying to my parents about something. It’s like his own little way of ensuring he can’t be read.
“The money, motherfucker, where is it?”
What money? Not that Kellen would tell me anything, but money isn’t something he’s ever had a problem with. Why would this asshole be looking for money from Kellen?
Kellen just shakes his head and my eyes wander over to Loki who is looking at my brother, pleading with him behind the old man’s back.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Kellen says and I watch as Loki shakes his head in disbelief. It’s almost as if Loki believes that Kellen has done whatever it is that’s gotten them to this point. But I know Kellen, and he’d never do anything to put himself in danger like this.
Then everything shifts and the next thing I know, Kellen and the old man are pointing guns at each other. “No!” I scream.
“One more chance. Where’s the money?” the old man snarls.
“Go fuck yourself,” Kellen states as he steps closer to the old man.
Everything falls into a surreal slow motion.
Yet it all happens so fast.
Loki pulls his own gun from his side holster, under his cut, and points it directly at my brother.
Then everything shifts again.
Shots go off.
I can’t tell for certain, but it looks like they come from Loki’s gun.
“Noooo!” I scream.
The shots stop.
Kellen’s chest is splattered red with blood.
The old man drops his gun and grabs his shoulder. He’s hit, right? Please tell me someone got him.
Kellen’s limp body goes crashing to the floor. His head ricocheting off the refrigerator.
His eyes meet mine in one of the cameras.
Tears pour down my face, making it impossible to see anything. I swipe at my eyes, clearing them as best as I can, just in time to see the light in my brother’s eyes go out.
“No, no, no, goddammit, Kellen,” I cry.
My eyes roam to the other cameras and I see Loki step over to my brother and place his fingers on his neck. “He’s gone.”
“Fuck you! Goddammit, Loki!” I scream at the camera.
“Good, let’s get out of here.”
“If you’re so fucking convinced he stole the money, why aren’t you looking for it?” Loki questions him angrily. He’s trying to sound hard, but I know Loki well enough to know that he’s anything but alright after that. His best friend is dead.
“We will,” the old man growls in irritation. “Let’s just get out of here, let the heat cool off, clean up this fucking mess.” He points to his shoulder. “Then we’ll come back to search and level the place.” He heads for the front door, leaving Loki behind with my brother.
The screen door slams shut and I jump. The sound ricochets around the eerily quiet safe room from the speakers.
“Lily,” Loki says softly as his eyes look up at me through the camera. His voice is a soft, an unwanted comfort. Without thinking I reach out to touch the monitor, secretly wishing I was touching him instead. “I know you can hear me. I’m sorry, but you have got to get out of here, now. You know what to do.” He disappears off-screen.
I wish I could respond to him. Tell him that I don’t want to go anywhere, that I can’t leave, but he won’t hear it. He also won’t let
me deviate from Kellen’s plans. No matter how hard I beg him to let me stay.
My eyes roam over to the driveway camera. The old man is still clutching his shoulder as he fires up his bike. Loki follows him, swinging his leg over and starting the engine. I lower the volume on the monitors and the roar of the bikes fades into the background.
The old man backs out first and Loki’s eyes find the driveway camera. They’re narrowed at me, pleading with me. I know what has to be done, but I don’t know if I have the strength to do it.
Loki backs out of the driveway and takes off down the street. Within a second he’s gone from the camera’s line of sight and I’m left alone. Locked in a safe room, unable to get out, unable to do anything. What if they come back before I can get out of here?
My eyes roam back to my brother. His eyes have closed some, but they are facing the direction of the camera. “Fuck you, Kellen,” I cry into the camera.
The house is eerily quiet.
Dark.
Scary.
I’m alone.
Not even two weeks from turning eighteen and I have no parents, no brother, and no family.
“You’re gonna pay for this, you dirty old son of a bitch,” I growl.
Chapter Two
LOKI
My hands are still fucking shaking when Gunnar and I pull up in front of the club. I climb off my bike before Gunnar even has his turned off and I storm into the club. Slamming the door back as I go.
“Is it done?” Rooster, the President of Roswell’s Chapter of Wicked Angels asks as I enter.
I ignore him and walk up to the bar where the prospect behind the bar slides me a shot of whiskey and I slam it back. I’m so fucking numb right now that I barely even feel the burn. I nod to the prospect again and he produces another shot.
Rooster steps up behind me. “Is it done?”
I glare at him. “It’s fucking done, but you know as well as I do that Tryke had nothing to do with this,” I growl at him. It’s about the hundredth time I’ve used the argument today, and it was a futile. Case in point, where we’re at right now.
Finally, Rooster says nothing. Thank fuck for that.
I know damn well that Tryke had nothing to do with it. In fact, I’m certain this is all Rooster’s doing. He knows Tryke was getting close, getting the right amount of people to stand behind him when he challenged Rooster for Pres. Now I just have to find a way to prove it to the club's President in Tucson. That’s easier said than done. If I could have proved it before now, I would have and Rooster’d be the one going to ground, not Tryke. Tryke was moving in on Rooster’s position and Rooster knew it. He also knew that Tryke has more respect in this club and throughout the entire Wicked Angels MC than Rooster will ever have. Rooster had to do something and he found the perfect excuse to do so. No doubt a similar excuse was found when Tripp, Tryke and Kiwi’s father, was killed four years ago.
Despite the events of the night, I fight the urge to smile at the memory of Lily when she was just three or four years old. Her strawberry blonde hair was in pigtails as she walked through the kitchen. She had two brownish green orbs in her hands. “Unkie Loki, want some?” she’d asked, holding one of the orbs up to me.
I knelt before her with a smile on my face. “What you got there, kiddo?” I asked her.
“Kiwi.” She smiled.
That wasn’t the last time I saw the kid double fisting kiwis in her hands. It was, and still is, one of her favorite fruits. Hence the nickname I gave her. I’m sure I fell in love with her that day. I’ve always felt protective of her, even at fourteen, just like tonight.
Rooster has very few men in this club in his back pocket. Though every member respects Rooster as Pres, it doesn’t mean they like him, but as the chapter Pres, they don’t have much choice unless they’re going to take Rooster down.
There’s one man in particular that’s crawled so far up Rooster’s ass he’s tasting Rooster’s food for him. That would be Gunnar. The dumbass hasn’t a fucking clue what he’s doing. He was supposed to be the one to pull the trigger tonight, but I beat him to it. Kiwi is going to hate me for the rest of my life because of it. I can only hope that one day I get a chance to explain it to her, to explain why it was me who put three in her brother. But for now, I have to comfort myself with the fact that it was a pact Tryke and I made a long time ago. I can only hope that one day Kiwi can forgive me for what I’ve done.
Rooster talked Gunnar into doing his dirty work tonight. Though I can’t say I’m surprised. Gunnar was once a notorious hitman for the Angels. He’s a hot-headed, short-tempered motherfucker who will do anything if he feels it’s justified, or if Rooster orders him to do it.
In Gunnar’s eyes, Tryke’s death is justified. Regardless of Rooster’s order, Gunnar was gonna do it anyway. His justification comes because he’s trying to cover someone’s ass. Rooster’s or his own is the mystery of the moment.
The door slams open again and I know it’s Gunnar. I don’t bother looking. I simply slam back my shot and nod to the prospect for another.
“We still got work to do, asshole,” Gunnar grunts behind me. His voice is hoarse; obviously that gunshot to the shoulder is taking a toll on him.
Good.
Bastard.
I purposefully nailed Gunnar in the shoulder right before I shot Tryke. I knew if Gunnar had his chance, he’d have made sure that Tryke was good and dead. I had to take the chance in hopes that maybe he would survive. I may be a biker, but Tryke and Kiwi are my family.
I put my hand on my chest, feeling the cool metal of my father’s dog tags pressing to my skin. I look to the ceiling – toward the sky – silently asking my father for guidance and forgiveness.
My father spent fifteen years in the service before he was wounded and discharged. He and Tripp were good friends. My father loved to ride, and Tripp gave him the golden opportunity to join the Angels. My father was beyond thrilled to be a member of the club, but despite his best efforts, he never earned his 1% patch. He died when I was ten from colon cancer. My mother succumbed to the bottle after that. Tripp and his old lady, Tryke and Kiwi’s mom, took it upon themselves to look after me after dad died. I lived with my aunt, my mother’s sister, but I was rarely ever there. As soon as I was allowed, I pledged to the Angels.
“We should have taken care of it before we left,” I growl back at him. I knew Kiwi would be safe, even if we tore that house apart looking for the money they were looking for. Tryke knew what was coming for him and he had a choice to make- protect her, as he’s done since their parents’ deaths, or run. Tryke wasn’t the running type.
“Fuck that, let him rot for a while. That son-of-a-bitch deserves worse than what he got.”
I turn around and grab Gunnar by his cut and slam him against the wall. “Fuck you,” I growl as I press my right fist into his shoulder. Gunnar doesn’t make a sound but sweat beads on his forehead from the added pain I’m inflicting. Looking into his eyes, I see something I’ve never seen before from him.
Fear.
Good. I push into his shoulder a little harder and his teeth grind together. “Get your fucking ass cleaned up. I’ll handle Tryke’s house.”
“Like hell you will,” Rooster chimes in. “Get off him, now.”
With Tryke dead, Rooster has everything to gain from this. He will have no one pushing for Tryke’s position and more importantly, he thinks he will gain the respect of the club members by killing off Tryke. But the truth is he’s lost what little respect he had earned in the last four years.
The Wicked Angels have a long-standing tradition that the presidency is a handed down position. The club was started by Tryke’s great-grandfather and his two brothers. When he moved on, Tryke’s grandfather took over the club’s operations until Tripp, Tryke’s father, did. When Tripp died, it would have been handed down to Tryke, but he wasn’t old enough and had only had his cut for about a year before Tripp’s death. Big Daddy D – head of all Wicked Angels – suggested Tryke learn the ro
pes, earn the respect, then take over. Tryke was working hard at earning the respect a true president deserves even though he didn’t have the title. His fight was because he refused to let Rooster take the club down a path none of the Roswell charter members want to go down.
Aside from learning the ropes, at least as much as Rooster was willing to teach him, Tryke and I began investigating what happened to Tripp and his old lady. We did everything we could, including taking out a couple members of Roswell in an attempt to find out the truth. Someone ordered Tripp to be killed. Someone was dumb enough to follow the order and it was just a matter of figuring out who ordered it and who carried it out. Or if that person is one in the same.
The best we could come up with was pointing the finger at Rooster. Without solid proof that Rooster is responsible for it, the other heads won’t act. Come to find out, Rooster is a great-nephew of one of the founding members of the club and the Wicked Angels are a family first organization. Prospecting with the Angels is a given if you have Beaumont blood running through your veins. What you do as a prospect determines whether or not you get your colors and cut.
At the time of Tripp’s death, Rooster was desperately trying to push Tripp in a different direction with the club. Sure, we do our fair share of illegal shit, but there are lines that Tripp, Tryke, myself and several other club members of Roswell won’t cross. Like human trafficking.
I release Gunnar.
“I’ll take care of the house,” I snap at Rooster as I grab my shot off the bar and slam it back.
“I want it leveled,” Rooster says.
“It will be,” I tell him as I nod at the prospect again. One more should be enough to numb the pain.
“I want pictures.”
“Yup,” I tell Rooster as I finally look around the clubhouse. It’s nearly empty. No wonder Rooster is out here running his mouth about shit.
The clubhouse being nearly empty on a Tuesday isn’t unusual. But on a night like this, when everyone knows shit’s going down, they scatter. When Rooster gets on a power trip, no one’s safe and it’s made worse by the fact that the shit is Tryke. No one will go near Gunnar for a least a week. When he’s amped up like this, there’s no telling what he’ll do.