Out of the Shadows (Renegades)
Page 1
Table of Contents
Ana Stone
Renegades Book 1
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty One
Chapter Twenty-Two
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Ana Stone
Out of the Shadows
Renegades Book 1
Copyright 2017, Ana Stone
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, businesses, places, events, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used factiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2017 Ana Stone
Cover by Syneca Featherstone
All rights reserved.
Renegades
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Renegades Copyright © 2017 Ana Stone
Cover art by Syneca
This book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the publisher, Syneca Featherstone
Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded or distributed via the Internet or any other means, electronic or print, without the publisher’s permission. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000. (http://www.fbi.gov/ipr/). Please purchase only authorized electronic or print editions and do not participate in or encourage the electronic piracy of copyrighted material. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.
This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the authors’ imagination and used fictitiously.
Chapter One
There it was again. That feeling. A complicated blend of dread, regret and need, mixed in uneven parts over a foundation of confusion. It was an unappealing concoction, like a bitter draught that met her every time she woke.
Forget the sounds of the birds singing outside the window of the small room where she slept, or the streams of light filtering through the cheap blinds announcing the start of a bright, sunny day. The feeling overshadowed any joy that the peace and beauty might offer.
The shame of it was that she accepted it as the norm. For the last year it had been her one constant companion. It was that which drove her through life, dictated her path and actions.
War or peace, feast or famine, heartache or happiness, nothing had erased or diminished the feeling since the day it claimed her. There was nothing that could strip it from her. There would be no ease to her particular pain until she found it. The problem was, she didn’t know what it was. She only knew she would know no peace or happiness until she found it.
And it was not here. Whatever whisper had led her here had lied. She was no closer to her goal.
Where are you?
Even now, after all the time that had passed since she was taken hostage by the unwanted feeling, the question that rose in her mind, crying out like a lost and frightened child baffled her. Who or what was she crying out for?
With an annoyed expulsion of air, she threw back the bedcovers and rose. It was time to go.
*****
Zeke straightened from his task and turned to look out of the opened bay door of the garage. How many times had he stood in this same spot, looking out at the compound? When he was a child it had seemed like the world, big and full of exciting things like bikes and cars, tools and men who treated him as if he were something special. Now memories of that time were like shadows in darkness, insubstantial and murky. Instead of wonder and a sense of belonging, now the gray metal buildings and tall chain-link fence seemed more of a prison. A world enclosed within metal that hid things not so pretty or clean.
The car behind him, a 1969 Boss 429, was nearly ready for its owner. When the Boss debuted in 1969, Ford fans thought the Boss would be the car to rival the best of the Vettes. Didn’t turn out that way. It just wasn’t designed to be a street dominator.
That didn’t stop people like DeWitt Matthews from snapping this one up at auction and spending a small fortune to have it tweaked out like new, only to park it in a garage and have someone crank it once a month.
That kind of excess in spending was beyond Zeke’s ken. Probably because he’d never had excess.
But for the moment, people like DeWitt and his obsession for collecting paid the bills, and allowed Zeke to feed his own obsession. Bikes. Not bicycles. Motorcycles. He loved them. Always had.
That was probably because he grew up around them. Like his father Raff before him, Zeke had been born into a motorcycle club, the Renegades. He’d spent more of his childhood in the club’s garage than at home.
Zeke shoved aside thoughts of his father and his childhood. It was the club and the life it offered that had prompted him to enlist when he was eighteen. He knew if he didn’t, he’d either end up like his uncle Reese; in and out of prison, or like his father, gunned down and left dead on the street.
As much as he loved the club and all the people in it, he didn’t want to spend his life following in his old man’s footsteps. Leaving the club wasn’t an option. He was one of the youngest members to be patched – to be given the opportunity to wear the club’s cut that signified him as one of them. It was more serious than entering the priesthood, akin to being made family in the Mafia. Once you were in there was no turning back.
No, there was no walking away from the club. He was in for life. The only way out was the military and that wasn’t getting out, it was being granted leave.
He probably would have never left the military and returned to Harmony if he’d been given the choice. A bullet in his back in Afghanistan made the decision for him. It took him six months to get back on his feet from that, five of which were spent learning to walk again.
The doctors had predicted that he would never walk again. He couldn’t accept that. He would walk. He would run, he would fight. He would not return home.
But here he was. When given the choice between a desk job and retiring, he chose the latter. He couldn’t sit behind a desk. He wasn’t a clerk. He didn’t have the patience or interest. He was a soldier, a warrior, a trained killer who excelled at what he did.
Not that he didn’t try. He did. For a year he tried riding a desk. One long, painful year of seeing his unit leave and return. One long year of hearing their tales about their missions. One long year of feeling trapped and unhappy.
He couldn’t take it. So, he retired. A week before his discharge he was approached by the SAD, the Special Activities Division, a division of NCS, National Clandestine Services, within the Central Intelligence Agency. There was a job for him if he wanted it. Zeke gave it serious consideration. One of his buddies, West Franklin, a guy he’d grown up with in Harmony who’d enlisted at the same time as Zeke, had left Delta for NCS a few years earlier.
NCS is responsible for covert operations, or “special activities”. SAD, the child
of NCS is comprised of two groups, once for tactical paramilitary operations and the other for covert political action. The division interested in recruiting Zeke was SOG, the Special Operations Group. It is a department within SAD responsible for operations that deal with the collection of intelligence in hostile regions, and all high threat military or intelligence operations that the government does not want to be associated with.
The SOG is considered to be the most secretive special operations force in the United States, and its operative are selected from Delta Force, 24th STS, DEVGRU and other special operations forces within the military.
Zeke considered the offer, but after doing research on past operations, decided against it. He had no trouble with the military and its decisions in protecting the citizens of the United States. He never questioned orders and believed in the right of the military. The CIA was a whole other sea of fish as far as he was concerned, and he didn’t think he wanted to toss a line in their water.
Twenty years and too many missions to count and suddenly he was a civilian again. A civilian with no clue what to do with his life.
So here he was, back where he’d started. Harmony. The Renegades. Home.
Shit on a stick.
“That rich bastard’s gonna be here in an hour.” The voice behind him had him turning toward the door leading to the office.
His uncle Eli stood framed in the doorway. At nearly sixty-five, he was still a bear of a man. Well over six feet with shoulders like a linebacker. His hair, now gray was still thick but worn cut almost military short. Sure, he sported a gut and the lines on his face stood testament to a life that held too much fighting and booze but he was still solid and strong.
Eli ran the garage. It was owned by the club, of course, but was run as a legitimate business. Nothing illegal touched Renegade Custom Rides. Those parts of the club’s business operated in Selma, the next town over. Harmony was hallowed ground, protected by the Renegades for three generations. This was home, and nothing tainted home.
“It’ll be ready. Just gotta get Billy to rag it down.”
“Just put on a fresh pot of coffee,” Eli replied.
Zeke nodded. “Yeah, I’ll grab a cup in a minute. Need to clean up.”
Eli grunted and turned back to the office. Zeke stood there for a moment longer, and then grabbed his shirts from where they were draped on the tool chest and headed for the restroom.
“Jesus!” He barked when he opened the door. Did no one ever clean this damn place? Twice this month already he’d scrubbed the bathroom. Now it looked like it hadn’t been cleaned in six months. Damn nasty bastards.
He washed off as best he could, using his button up to dry off with since there was not a paper towel to be found except those on the floor. After pulling on his t-shirt, he made his way to the office.
How they managed to find anything in this place was a miracle. The wall to his right housed an old metal desk, piled with work orders, receipts, invoices and god knew what, along with a line of four old metal filing cabinets. The wall to his left sported a smaller desk but larger chair and a door leading out into the parking lot. The wall across from him was lined with four additional chairs and a small table bearing a coffee pot and a stack of Styrofoam cups.
Stella, Eli’s wife and Zeke’s aunt, sat at the desk to the right, clicking away on the computer. In her mid-fifties, she was still an attractive woman. Long braided hair that changed colors for the seasons now boasted of the color you’d see in spring daffodils. She glanced over her shoulder as he entered.
“You look like shit.”
“Love you too, Stell,” he replied and poured himself a cup of coffee thick and black enough to stand without a container.
“That Boss ready to roll?” She asked.
“Need Billy to give it a rub and she’s good to go.”
“You tell him?”
“No, ma’am.”
She barked a colorful phrase and got up to stomp out of the room, muttering how it was always left to her to make sure things got done. Eli chuckled and lowered his stocky frame into the empty seat at the second desk.
“Dice and Razr making a ride over to Selma later. Reese wants you to go with ‘em.”
“Why?” The last thing Zeke wanted to do was go with them to check on the whores or the guns. He hated the whorehouse. Regardless that he’d grown up with it, he couldn’t understand why any woman would debase herself like that.
The guns? That was even worse. Zeke loved guns. Loved the look, the feel, the touch and the smell of them. Being around them woke something he tried to keep asleep. So far he’d resisted having anything to do with the illegal aspects of the club. He’d made it clear he was out of that. He’d work in the garage and had the club’s back if push came to shove, but he wasn’t part of their criminal activities.
The only reason Reese, the club president, accepted that was because Zeke was a war hero. And the son of his best friend and wife. Zeke’s mom, Carrie, had married Reese a few months after Zeke’s father, Raff was killed. Reese protected her like the freaking Queen of England. She was goddamn royalty in the club. The wife of a former and present president and daughter-in-law to a founding member.
Zeke used her status to his advantage. So far she’d supported his decision to stand apart from the club’s illegal activities, but he had no doubt that her support would be short lived. In the years since his father’s death, Carrie had become as greedy and corrupt as Reese.
Eli’s response brought a frown to Zeke’s face. “Got some muscle trying to move in on the whores. Last night one of them got the shit beat out of her. She was told to give us a message. The Renegades are done in Selma. The Raptors are moving in.”
Raptors. Fucking bird of prey, his ass. A more apt name would have been Buzzards. Carrion who feasted off the remains of others. They were notorious for trying to move in on established operations. They weren’t particularly bright or resourceful when it came to establishing a financial base for their club. What they took over they ran into the ground within a year then abandoned and went in search of another enterprise to raid.
Their only asset that he could see was numbers. They were one of the newest and largest clubs in the country. They took what other clubs rejected. And like any good soldier knew, sometimes a battle was won simply because of the number of troops.
The Raptors had the numbers. Which meant, the Renegades had to rely on their wits and their strength.
Zeke didn’t want to go to war. Didn’t want to have to put his mind to coming up with a solution. But he knew that was what Eli was asking. Access the situation and form a battle plan.
Shit on a stick.
Chapter Two
This wasn’t good.
It didn’t take a genius to figure out that something was going down when a dozen bikes roared into the parking lot of the flea bag motel. Even with the noise of the water in the shower and the clank that came from the pipe she recognized the sound.
She hurried to finish her shower. It was definitely time to get the hell out of Dodge.
She’d called an hour ago about a job opening she saw online this morning in a place called Harmony. The name of the town had jumped off the screen at her. Harmony. Just saying the word was like answering the call of a siren. Why? Chances were life in Harmony was no more peaceful or harmonious than in any other place. Chances were, what she sought would not be there.
Still, she’d picked up the phone and called. Perhaps it was an omen that she’d been asked to come in tomorrow for an interview. She’d immediately agreed. It was only twenty-five miles east of Selma. She’d drive over after she checked out of the motel and spend the afternoon wandering around to get a feel of the place.
Now she figured she’d leave sooner rather than later. If there were biker gangs in Selma, she definitely wanted to make a hasty exit. She hated them. Always had.
Maybe because she’d grown up with a father who’d spent his life in one. Were it not for his lifestyle, she wouldn�
��t have ended up in the hospital at fifteen, gang raped and beaten nearly to death by a rival gang. She wouldn’t have run way before she turned sixteen. It wouldn’t have taken her living on the streets and doing things she was ashamed of to survive.
As far as she was concerned, bikers were the lowest of the low. To hell with their creeds of loyalty to the club and their brothers. Their loyalty and protection only served to keep people prisoner to their way of life. Only served to turn young girls into club whores, and if they were lucky, into someone’s “old lady”.
No way in hell she was going to live that way. Even if it meant starving and stealing and occasionally whoring herself to survive. She’d done what she had to do. She’d managed to graduate high school and immediately enlisted in the army. It offered a life that was predictable and orderly. At least until her last tour in Afghanistan. Then it all went to hell in a hand-basket. One bullet changed everything.
She didn’t even remember being shot. She just remembered waking up to discover she was not alone. The feeling woke with her. Other things did not. Like her memory. Almost five years of her life was gone. Only bits and pieces remained, disjointed and foggy like a steamed up mirror that reveals only vague shapes.
Cerebral embolism. At least that was the official word. She was lucky to be alive.
She shoved aside thoughts of the past and focused on getting dressed and packed.
Zeke saw the line of bikes in the parking lot. He looked over at Dice who rode beside him. Dice gave him a nod. Zeke growled in frustration. No doubt about it. It was going to get nasty. The thing he’d avoided so hard was getting ready to slam into his face whether he liked it or not.
He didn’t fear getting hurt. Battle was second nature to him. Killing came easy. That’s what scared him. It was one thing to kill for the sake of your country. Killing for the sake of territory, well where was the honor in that?