by J. C. Emery
“About two miles in, straight ahead. But you can’t go in like that,” Fish says.
“Right.” Sneaking up on a bunch of guys with military-grade firepower and a life or death situation is a sure way to turn myself a pair of shish keballs. “Better tell him I’m coming.”
“That, too, but I need to debrief you first,” he says. Resting the large weapon on its strap over his shoulder, Fish casts a suspicious glance down each side of the highway before he rounds the SUV and unlocks the back passenger door. He pulls out another semi with a scope attached and hands it to me. Then he grabs two smart phones and eyes them before deciding they’re what he’s looking for.
I grab the rifle by the barrel, and my arm sags with its weight. I haven’t shot an AR-15 since Dad was around and he used to take me shooting on Jim and Ruby’s property for practice. Since then, the only thing I’ve practiced on are some of Dad’s old handguns Nic has hidden around the house. My sister doesn’t dislike guns—she just thinks I’m going to blow my foot off because she’s convinced I’m nothing more than a stupid fucking kid.
Fish raises an eyebrow. “You got any idea what you’re walking into?”
No, not really. I mean, on some level I guess I got an idea. But I ain’t ever done this shit before, so how am I supposed to know what I’m walking into? All I know is that they decided to let me start earning my top rocker during a really fucking dangerous time—not that I’m complaining. The pride that comes with the patch is worth the risk.
“Didn’t think so.” He shakes his head and points me to the tree line. “W formation. Two in front, three in back, a mile up. Duke’s front right by himself. Ian took off to find Sweets.” As he talks, he turns the phones on and brings up two different apps. Wyatt’s voice sounds from one of the phones before Fish turns the volume down. On the other phone, he messes with the screen. Jim’s voice booms on the line before he turns that phone down, too.
“She okay?” I ask, still half-focused on the phones as he hands them over. I awkwardly place the strap of the semi over my shoulder and hold the phones, not sure what to do with them.
“For this asshole’s sake, she fucking better be,” he says. “Knuck will skin him alive. Now listen up. This one is a one-way radio so you can hear Jim and the Italian. This is the most important tool you have right now. Priority is keeping Pops whole, got it?” he says as he points at one of the phones.
I nod my head and focus in on the phones. I don’t recognize either app, but they seem awesome as fuck. Who knew Forsaken had such cool toys?
“On the other phone, you can press the button on the screen at any time to talk to the guys. It’s like a conference call. We can all communicate as need be. It’s not a toy, and this isn’t time to shoot the shit, got it?” He pulls out a wireless earbud. “The earbud is synced to Pops, so if you have trouble hearing him over the other phone, just turn its volume down.”
“Serious business,” I say and pop the earbud into my ear. “Got it.”
Just as I’m heading in what I think is the right direction, he pulls a phone out of his pocket and presses the button on the screen. “Baby Boy is heading your way, boys. Try not to shoot him.”
“Got it,” Duke barks back, his voice echoing in not only the phone in my hand but on Fish’s as well. In my ear, I’m hearing bits and pieces of Jim’s conversation with this guy. It’s mostly filled with huffs and few words, none of which I can understand.
“Bring my bitch forth,” Ryan says with a chuckle. The sick fuck. I can actually hear the smile in his voice.
“Gave the kid one of our signatures,” Fish says, referring to the AR-15 that Forsaken’s been fond of ever since I can remember. Dad once told me the club’s got over a hundred of these babies floating around town in various places.
“Bet ya haven’t handled anything that powerful since I let you deep throat my dick, huh?” Ryan says.
I want to just keep my mouth shut and walk toward the woods, but I also want to know how this thing works. So I bring the conference phone to my mouth, press the button, and say, “No, sir, Duke’s is bigger.”
“Damn straight. Now shut up unless it’s business,” Duke says. The chatter on the conference stops immediately.
I’ve made it about a half mile or so before I finally think I see something in the distance, but it turns out to be a wayward branch. It’s all trees and a few birds here and there. I can’t find anybody. Little River is a tiny as fuck place that has like no population at all. The safe house sits far enough back from the highway—a few miles, I think—that I didn’t even know it was here until I took it upon myself to follow Ryan one day when he made it down this way to have a little “talk” with Michael. Nobody told me to follow him, but with how pissed off he was, I didn’t think it was a good idea to let them kill Ruby’s son. Thankfully I didn’t have to do shit because he hopped off his bike before turning off the highway and kicked the shit out of a poor fucking redwood that did nothing but grow in the wrong damn spot. After he calmed his shit about being pissed that I followed him, he wrapped his hand around my shoulder really fucking tight and gave me a nod. It’s the closest he’ll ever get to saying thank you. As much as he’s hating on Michael right now, he doesn’t really want to hurt Ruby.
Trying to walk through woods and not make any noise is probably the stupidest fucking goal ever. If it’s not a pinecone I’m stepping on, then it’s a fallen branch that cracks beneath my boots or a pile of leaves that aren’t wet enough to not make crunching sounds. Sure, let’s hide in the woods. Because that shit makes sense.
Since I’m just a prospect, they don’t tell me shit. But I’m starting to pick up on a few things. The guys who are the best shots are always in the front. That includes Duke, Ryan, and Ian. Ryan tries to take the lead a lot because he’s a cocky motherfucker, but it is actually Ian who consistently has the most accuracy.
“I think I’m lost,” I say into the conference. I feel like I’ve been walking forever and can’t find anybody. Pretty soon I’m going to panic that I’m going to be found and get a bullet to my skull.
“Pull up your pants, shithead,” Wyatt says over the line.
I pause in place and slowly look around but don’t see anything. I take another step before pulling my pants up a little and adjusting my belt so they stay up with my hand that’s not holding the gun.
“Where are you guys?” I ask. I’m fucking failing at this shit. Bad.
“Another twenty feet forward, Jer. And don’t fucking trip on me,” Duke says.
Without arguing, I keep moving forward and don’t see Duke lying in the grass and leaves until I’m almost tripping over him. Shit. He told me not to trip on him. Fuck this noise. I can’t go on these missions—I’m going to get my ass capped.
As I approach Duke, he seems to notice my presence but does not turn around. Instead, he lifts his left arm in the air and raises his closed fist, telling me to stop what I’m doing, and says, “Show yourselves, boys,”
I slowly turn around to find Ryan, Wyatt, and Bear taking a step away from three separate redwoods, each about twenty to thirty feet apart. I walked right between Wyatt and Bear without noticing them. They’re all wearing their own clothes and their cuts—no fancy uniforms or camouflage. Just as quickly as they’ve stepped forward, they’ve stepped back into the shadows of their trees and have completely disappeared from view again. Shit. How long do these assholes train for this shit? I thought I was joining a club, not signing up for special ops or something.
Turning back to Duke, I move forward, and as quietly as I can, I lie down on the mixture of grass and fallen leaves beside him. I don’t get too close, but I don’t want to be too far away either. There’s a fine line between two men lying next to each other at a professional distance and two men coming close to cuddling. And I ain’t fucking cuddling Duke.
He begins to talk as I awkwardly set up my position with the rifle. I try my best to mimic his stance. His AR-15 has a bandana over the top of the scope. He see
s me eyeing it and pulls a spare out of his pocket and hands it to me. I fumble with tying the fucking thing on without messing up anything. Just because Dad let me shoot these things when I was a kid doesn’t mean I know much about working a scope.
Duke shifts a little. “These two have been fucking gabbing forever now. I really kind of wish that we could just shoot the fucking WOP.”
“We find out who he is yet?” I ask.
“Leo Scavo is our best guess. Seems to fit the bill, but aside from that, we ain’t got shit on him.”
With that, Duke directs his attention back to the magnifying scope on top of his rifle and continues to watch the conversation between Jim and this guy Leo. I adjust the scope on my own rifle so that I can see what’s going down a little bit more clearly. Jim scuffles his boots in the dirt and places his hands on his hips. Ever so slyly, he adjusts the phone in his pocket. It almost goes unnoticed, but the sound in my earbud is so much clearer now. I can actually understand the shit they’re saying. I’ve never been good at distance or nothing, but from here it looks like we are probably a half mile or so away. Thanks to the phone, I can hear him like he’s a few feet away.
“Why the fuck are we so far away?” I hiss. Sure, I can hear and see everything from here. Fine, whatever. But I’d like to be closer just in case this fucking asshole tries anything on Jim.
Duke turns and glares at me. “The whole idea is to hide. How the fuck we gonna hide if they can see us?”
“Shit. Sorry,” I mumble. Fuck him and his attitude. I still want to be closer.
“Now shut the fuck up, and don’t shoot unless I tell you or there’s a bullet in my skull, okay?”
I keep my mouth shut because I’m not a fucking pussy, but I’m not cool with the image of my brother taking a bullet. Nic couldn’t handle that shit, and neither could I.
“None of this answers my question, Mr. Stone,” the Italian says.
“You been bullshitting me so fucking long, I forgot your question,” Jim says with a smirk.
“Sampling too much of your own product, then?”
“I’d give you a sample of our product, but we seem to have this issue about you and yours trying to take what belongs to me.” Jim’s tone is dark, and he’s no longer smirking.
“What’s yours, Mr. Stone? Alexandra was promised to me. That means she is mine and that she belongs to the Mancuso family.”
“So what you’re saying is Alexandra was stolen from you?”
“You transported her across the country without her father’s permission, did you not?”
“Don’t know how shit works in New York, but I’ve been trying to get my old lady to listen to me for years. Ain’t fuckin’ working. Got any tips?”
“If you’re unable to properly lead your woman, there is nothing I can say to guide you,” the Italian says. He rolls his shoulders. I can’t really see his face, as I mostly have view of his back, which is fine since it’s a wider target.
“Like your boss has control of his women?” Jim asks.
“Shit’s about to get ugly,” Duke says into the conference. When he lifts his finger off the button, he says only to me, “Ryan has a thing about people talking about his mom.”
“Got my target on his skull,” Ryan says.
“Stand down, momma’s boy,” Wyatt says. “Can’t shoot the guy unless he moves first.”
“Shit,” I say. “Good thing Ian’s not here.” If there’s one thing I’ve learned about Ian it’s that as attached as Ryan is to Ruby, Ian is worse. I wouldn’t call him a momma’s boy, though. I like breathing too much.
“Mr. Mancuso is a traditionalist,” the Italian says. “But your sergeant let on that you know more about Mr. Mancuso than you have lead me to believe.”
“I know shit about the cocksucker that would surprise you. The stories I could tell you about my old lady and Mike. Too bad none of them are happy.”
“Curious choice of words you’ve used, Mr. Stone.”
“Which one—cocksucker or Mike?”
“Nobody refers to Mr. Mancuso by his first name, much less such an informal nickname.”
“Well, I am his daughter’s stepfather. I don’t really think formalities are necessary.”
“You see, while you and your sergeant seem quite taken with this twist on reality, the Mancuso family buried Alexandra and Michael’s mother some years ago.”
“The woman who mothered those kids is not the woman who gave birth to them. The woman who had Princess and Junior stolen from her has scars you can’t possibly imagine, but I can because she’s in my bed every fucking night. I wouldn’t worry too much about your place on the totem pole, though. Mike kept that shit quiet for years. Unfortunately for him, he fucked over the wrong woman.”
“While this little walk down memory lane is intriguing, I do have to be on my way. Now, please answer my question. What will it take for you to safely return Michael and Alexandra to Mr. Mancuso?” The Italian’s voice wavers ever so slightly before he rectifies his show of weakness.
“You’re not listening,” Jim says. His voice turns cool and disinterested. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he’s bored, but it’s exactly the opposite. Ryan is so much like his father. They both grow cold and quiet before they lay waste to anything within reach. Duke tenses beside me, and I do a quick check of my equipment to make sure I’m on my game should I need to pull the trigger. “This isn’t about money. It’s about righting the wrongs of the past. A man stole a woman’s infant children from her, and then he sliced up the face of the only child he let her keep. He forced her sister to raise her stolen babies as her own. You want to know what price I’m willing to accept? Mancuso dead and served up to everyone he’s ever hurt. Anything less is an insult.”
“Very well,” the Italian says. “I will relay your message to Mr. Mancuso. My two men here will follow me out. I have certain contingency plans in place that will ensure my safe exit, so please spare yourself the trouble and don’t bother following me.”
“I’m on it,” Wyatt says through the conference.
“Road’s clear,” Fish says.
The Italian strides to his black Mercedes and climbs into the driver’s seat. From there, he slowly makes a three-point turn and then stops. His men climb onto the closed trunk and sit down, their rifles comfortably propped on their laps as the Mercedes crawls down the dirt drive and toward the highway.
“Fuck,” Duke says. “Shit is either about to get bad, or we might have made a breakthrough.”
“You mean this isn’t bad?” I say.
He snorts and smiles in my direction. “You ain’t seen nothing yet, Baby Boy.”
We stay put for a few minutes before Fish gives us the clear, and then we pack up and head down to the highway. Once we’re there, I return the rifle and phones to Fish and climb back into Nic’s car. I’ve started her up and am about to pull away when Duke climbs into the passenger seat and adjusts his dick as he gets comfortable.
“Fucked your sister in this car,” he says with a nod. My stomach roils at the thought.
“That’s great,” I say through gritted teeth. He does this—talks about porking my sister, knowing it irritates the hell out of me—all the fucking time.
“Clubhouse,” he says. “Fucked her there, too.”
I try to ignore the comment about Nic and drive for the clubhouse. On the way, he manages to tell me he’s had Nic in every room of the house and in my bed. Then he says he’s joking. Then he says he’s not. By the time we pull up to Forsaken Custom Cycle, I’m ready to run us off the road and end my suffering. We’re the first guys back, and the lot is empty beyond the clubhouse gates save for a red-and-black Harley that I don’t recognize. Sitting on a picnic bench near the front door is a tall dude about Duke’s age, with light blond hair that rests on his shoulders. He’s wearing a leather cut that looks like it belongs to us, but I ain’t got a clue who he is.
“Who’s that guy?”
“Guy from Detroit,” Duke says. “He
’s looking to transfer. Think his name is Daniel.” There’s a few tense moments between us before he speaks again, this time much more agitated.
“I would really like a fucking update on Bean and Sweets,” Duke says. His leg bounces nervously.
Just moments after we pull up, Ruby’s red Suburban peeks through the opening gates behind us.
“Ian’s back,” Duke says with a shout and hops out of the car. He slams his door behind him as he jogs for the Suburban that parks a few spaces down. Ian had Ruby’s SUV when he and Grady left to work on the clues that Scavo gave about where Holly and Mindy might be. If Ian is back, then I can only hope that means he found the girls.
I cut off the car and step out just as Ian walks around to the passenger side and opens the front passenger door. The first thing I see emerge is a pair of long, jean-clad legs, and then I see it—her pretty blonde hair. Mindy.
“Fuck, Mindy. Are you okay?” I ask as I rush toward her.
Looking up, she blinks, slightly taken aback, but then forces a tired smile to her face. “I’m not sure that’s the right word for it, but I’m unharmed,” she says with frustration clear in her voice. Can’t fucking blame her.
“How’s Holly?” My voice is drops a few decibels, and a gnarly squeak appears halfway through the question. I sound like a fucking kid, but I don’t care right now. I need an answer. If Holly isn’t okay, I fucking give up.
“Again, she’s unharmed.”
Ian gives Duke and me a flat look and nods his head toward Mindy. “Sweets is going to stay at Grady’s house. Mindy will be staying with Duke and Nic.”
“Shit, that motherfucker has got it bad,” Duke says with a laugh. He shakes his head and doesn’t even try to hide the smile on his face. Mindy huffs and looks at the ground beneath her, but I catch the smile on her face as she tips her head down.
“I’m just glad you’re both safe. I get to keep my nut sack for one more day.”