by Nicole Fox
Plus, I knew how the Minghelli family treated whores. About the same as the Devil’s Wings, actually.
Night fell. Me and the other guys waited in the meeting room for midnight, smoking and playing cards. Maps of the Minghelli compound (stolen from online) were splayed out on the table, but people had stopped looking at them long ago. There was only so much you could cram inside your head, then it was just pointless.
At last, a clock chimed somewhere. We were ready.
Joey, two other Devil’s Wings, and I mounted our bikes. Paul, the guy with the semi-automatic, climbed into a nondescript black sedan along with another man. Many bikers looked down in disdain on such cars, but I knew they were important. It was easier to shoot from the back of a car, and who knew how many wounded we might have to take back? Who knew what state Honi would be in when we got to her?
I was surprised to realize that I was officially thinking of the girl as “Honi.” I guess I’d finally made up my mind. She and Princess’s lies only made me more determined.
We took off.
Joey and I went north. The other biking pair went south. The black sedan went east. We would all converge in the middle, joining right at the same time but without the conspicuousness of traveling together.
It was a clear night. The moon was high, full, and beautiful above us. I cursed it. It would make us easier to spot.
The Minghellis had a number of different places as their strongholds. Restaurants, a taxi station, even a laundromat. But we believed that Honi would be held at the Minghelli estate itself, a gothic, sprawling architectural wonder from a different age. I had only seen it once before, and my first impression was that somehow it had been teleported from old Europe itself. And that had been in daylight. Now, as we pulled up to it, bathed in starlight and nestled in a mountainside, I expected to see German aristocrats in flowing, fur-lined robes emerging from its ornately carved doors.
But this wasn’t a gothic horror story, and we weren’t in Europe. This was America’s own brand of aristocrats: the Minghellis, top mob family for four generations.
Joey and I killed our engines before we got to close. Then, dressed all in black leather to hide us in the night, we crept forward, pushing our bikes with us for an easy getaway.
A crackle of our walkie-talkies let us know that the other groups had arrived. The black sedan would wait on the east side, in the estate’s shadow, entirely hidden in black darkness. The second pair would approach from the back. Joey and I would be approaching from the most dangerous side, the west, bathed in moonlight.
“You ready?” I murmured to Joey, drawing my gun.
“Yup,” he whispered back, following suit. “Man, we are in way over our heads.”
I had to admit he was right. Now, standing before this place, symbol of all the Minghellis’ wealth and power, I felt more and more outclassed.
But that doesn’t matter, I told myself. A good biker is made by his guts and his brain, not by the class of bike he rides.
That’s what I kept telling myself, anyway.
We saw no guards. The Minghellis were confident. That can be used to our advantage, I realized.
There was a window not far from us. I gave Joey a nod, and together we darted for it, keeping to the shadows of the old oaks and rose hedges that dotted the estate’s lawn. It was the other team’s job to cut the alarm system. Holding our breaths, we waited until the crackling confirmation came over the walkie-talkie.
“Done!” We heard, and we prepared to enter.
Once we were up against the window, I took the bottom of the heavy glass pane and pushed upward. Nothing. Just the slightest shift. Of course, it was locked. Resigned to breaking it, I raised my fist until Joey hissed, “Wait!”
“What?”
“It moved just a bit. If I can get a screwdriver in there, maybe I can shift the latch.”
“You brought a screwdriver?” I asked in disbelief, but Joey chuckled.
“Of course I did,” he said. “I got a wrench, some wire cutters, duct tape, and even a blowtorch in my trunk. Come at me, bro!”
Of course, I didn’t. I was glad Joey was so prepared.
As he said, I hoisted the heavy glass pane once again, and, with some wrenching and wriggling, Joey was able to slip the narrow bar of the screwdriver underneath the gap. A long minute passed, with me sweating to hold the ancient window up, and Joey muttering swear words to himself. At last, I heard a grinding click, and Joey yanked the screwdriver out in a flash.
“All right,” he said. “Now try.”
I took a deep breath, placed my hand carefully on the glass so I wouldn’t break it, and pushed.
With a muffled groan, the window slid open.
“Fuck,” I grumbled. “This house is so fucking old that just opening the window was probably louder than breaking it!”
Joey tutted at me. “We should be glad the place is ancient,” he said. “That’s why there was give in the window. An old, warping frame.”
“Yeah, yeah,” I grumbled, and then hoisted myself inside. It was made slightly difficult by the gun in my hand, but after a second I managed. Joey had it easier. I was able to grab his wrist and practically pull him up myself.
“Okay. Now what?” he muttered.
I pointed left, lighting a dim flashlight. “The way to the basement is down there. I imagine that’s where they’ll be holding her. Fitting. This fucking place already feels like a dungeon.”
It did. The tiny light revealed that we were in one of the spare guestrooms. Golden chandeliers dressed the ceiling and sheets hung, ghostlike, over marble busts. Imposing portraits of long-dead rich men lined the walls.
“Man, does this guy have money,” Joey murmured. “Just the crap he keeps in storage is worth more than what I’d make in a year!”
As he spoke, he reached out to touch one of the many crystals that hung from a bedside lamp. Could those possibly be rubies? Just in time, I smacked his hand away.
“Come on,” I said. “We’re not here to rob the guy. We’re here to find Honi … Farrah. I don’t want to be noticed.”
Joey nodded to show he understood, and then together we crept towards the door. It was locked, but fortunately there was a latch on the inside, and we were able to flip it open.
A long hallway greeted us on the other side. Red carpeting, lined with golden tassels, bathed the floor in softness, and as we trod silently across it I felt like my muddy black combat boots were more and more out of place …
“Rrrehh!” A terrible noise shattered the silence, and I jumped about three feet in the air before whirling, gun pointed at the noise.
“Don’t!” Joey grunted, grabbing my gun hand. He pointed his own flashlight at the source, revealing a fuzzy-haired ginger cat, hissing and spitting at us from beneath a marble table.
“Christ,” I muttered, lowering my gun as the feline darted away. “I’m so jumpy, man.”
“I know,” Joey whispered. “This place gives me the fucking creeps. Which way to the basement?”
I glanced back and forth and then replied, “This way.”
We continued forward in near darkness. I knew that Tom Minghelli and his mistresses slept deeper within the house, so we shouldn’t have too many problems, but still, I could not get over my sense of nervousness. The hairs on the back of my neck told me, “Someone is nearby!”
At last, after passing a beautiful ballroom, a magnificent library, and even a record room with albums signed by everyone from Elvis to Bob Marley, we reached a far door that waited alongside the kitchen. It was wide and unusually ornate for a basement door, but then Joey muttered that it also, in fact, led the way to the family crypt.
As if that didn’t give me the fucking willies.
Still, we had to be grateful that we’d infiltrated so far into the house without meeting anyone. The basement door wasn’t locked, though it opened with a terrible creaking.
Below, a flickering of light could be seen.
“Turn off your fla
shlight,” I ordered Joey. “We’re gonna have to ambush whoever’s down there.”
“Got it,” Joey muttered back, and the lights vanished.
Ever so carefully, we descended the stairway. Like the rest of the house, the steps were extremely ornate, and were therefore carved of stone rather than wood. This was great for us, because they didn’t creak.
We reached the bottom. An orange light danced in the distance, more like that of a candle than a flashlight or lamp. This surprised me. What, is Minghelli so obsessed with this old-fashioned architecture that he uses fucking candles?
We crept forward. Soon, a figure came into view. It was a biker, clad exclusively in leather. Though we could only see the back of him as he bent down, rooting through what looked like papers, I knew he wasn’t one of mine. He was much too small and pathetic, with shoulders no wider than a little boy’s. Since he obviously didn’t know we were there, I took a second to study my surroundings. Wooden file cabinets ran against the wall, all the way up to the ceiling. One was open, with hundreds of papers spilling out, and it was through these that the man was rustling. A handheld lighter, clicked on and left on a cabinet, provided the light.
A thought occurred to me. Why the fuck would a biker be looking through these papers at nightwith a fucking lighter? But I put that thought away. It didn’t matter why he was there. They fact was that he was there, and in our way.
I loosened my gun it its holster, but did not cock it. Whoever this was, I thought it was a pretty safe bet that I could knock him out with the butt of my gun in a single blow.
I nodded to Joey, mouthing, “One … two … three!”
Something creaked! A crumpled bit of paper underfoot! The biker whirled, bound to see us, and I raised my pistol. I had no choice now but to fire.
I stepped forward, hand on the trigger, and—
BOOM!
Chapter Twenty-Five
Farrah
As soon as Connor slammed the door and locked me in, I ran over to the keyhole to listen. Downstairs, I could hear the clamor of men gathering in the meeting hall. From the few words I could catch of their voices, I could tell that they were busy planning their attack on the Minghelli estate.
The Minghelli estate.
It was about then that the panic set it.
“They’re gonna kill Connor and Honi!” I panted. “Once he gets there, they’re gonna kill Connor, and if she’s not dead yet, Honi, for good measure. And all because of me!”
A terrible weight of guilt settled in my stomach, so horrible and nauseating that it made me dizzy.
“All of this is my fault,” I told myself. “Honi and Connor and Aunt Venus … they’re all gonna be dead, and for no good fucking reason!”
That was definitely true. Honi was going to die just because she was trying to escape whoring—which, though she’d been cruel, I could not blame her for. She was taking the bullet meant for me. And Connor … if I was Farrah, and not Princess, I could have just told the club the truth, and they would have been able to better prepare for the raid.
It was all my fucking fault.
I lowered myself back down into the bunk bed, ready to cry out of fear and frustration. But then, a wild idea occurred to me:
They did not have to die. Perhaps … it was in my power to stop it.
If I trade myself in for Honi, then she won’t have to die … Or Connor. He’s just going for Honi because Montengo is ordering him too. If he returns with her, then he won’t need to go on this stupid rescue mission at all. Montengo will be satisfied, and everyone can go home safe!
Except for me.
For a split second, I wondered if Connor would care. Would he try to rescue me anyway, even without Montengo’s orders? Part of me thought he would, but I daren’t believe it. Sure, he’s been good to you, I told myself, but that’s just because he’s good to his whores. That doesn’t mean he’s …
I couldn’t even finish the thought.
Still, I was determined. It was not right that other people should suffer needlessly for me. I needed to do something.
Fortunately, I still knew the code to the bunkroom, and I had the clothes I had stolen earlier. Wincing as every step I took creaked against the wooden floor, I crept over to the dresser and tugged out the leather biking outfit. It was about ten sizes too big, but it would have to do. Silently, I slipped into it. It was actually kind of enjoyable, strong and cool on my sore skin. I zipped up, dug my way into the boots, and then marched to the door.
I held my breath, listening. The men all still seemed to be in the meeting room, which was opposite the hallway to the door. Perfect.
But how to get past the guard?
I shifted nervously by the door, at a loss, and felt something firm rub against my breast from inside the pocket. I fished inside and found a cigarette and a lighter.
In an instant, an idea sprang into my head.
All right, Farrah, I thought. You can do this.
I took one of the cigarettes out, placed it in my mouth, and lit it. Next, I pulled the cotton hood that was attached to the leather jacket as far as I could over my face. I was careful to tuck my revealing hair deep within it, out of sight.
Staying the trembling of the cigarette in my lips, I made my way down the stairs.
The men in the meeting room didn’t hear me. They were too busy being loud and bawdy, fueling their bravery for what was about to come. Hardening my resolve, I turned away from them and marched solidly towards the exit.
There, in a small room right adjacent to the door, a guard would be waiting.
I took a deep breath, expelled my lungs completely, and then put the cigarette to my lips.
Whooooh. I inhaled as deeply as I could.
Ow! I thought, fighting the pain hard and the urge to cough. My eyes watered, and I felt myself growing dizzy, but I was able to hold my breath.
I waited a second and then inhaled again, this time not only filling whatever space was left in my lungs, but my cheeks and nose as well.
Now or never, I thought, and then I stepped in view of the door.
“Hey,” I grunted, expelling all of the smoke in one single swoosh. It billowed from my face, clogging the air and forming a stinking cloud in front of me.
I heard the guard shifting in his chair. I imagined him wrinkling his nose in disgust.
“I’m going out,” I grunted again, making my voice as low and guttural as I could. “More cigarettes.”
“Yeah, yeah,” the guard mumbled. Dimly, I could see him waving his hand. Whether he was trying to clear the air or waving me away, I never knew, for a splitsecond later I was past him and out the door. I heard it click shut behind me.
“Christ!” I swore, throwing my hands onto my knees and struggling to catch my breath. The cigarette I had was still burning between my fingers, and I threw it down it disgust.
“I’m never smoking those again,” I thought. Finally, I was able to clear my eyes enough to look around, and get to the next stage of my plan:
Stealing a bike.
There were dozens parked out and around the compound. Some new and brightly polished. Some scuzzy with earth and in need of attention. I chose one of the nicer-looking antiques. I knew it would be easier to hotwire.
“Thank you, Dad,” I muttered, as I harnessed the skills that few but the daughter of a Devil’s Wing would have had. In less than a minute, I had the motorcycle hotwired, and the engine jumped to life beneath my fingertips.
“Excellent!” I said, feeling the excitement of freedom surge through me. I mounted, revved the engine to max speed, and tore out of there.
About five minutes later, as I was nearing the Minghelli estate, I realized it was probably smarter to sneak in quietly.
Speaking of which.
How the fuck was I going to get in?
And then I realized I had an inside ally. Honi!
Feeling excited, I reached for cell phone I had stowed in the jacket pocket and checked that it still had battery lif
e. It had a single bar, which would be just enough. Thrilled with my own genius, I slipped into the driveway of the Minghelli estate—totally wowed, by the way, by its beautiful enormity—and parked my stolen bike behind a magnificent maple tree that guarded the front gate. Fortunately, dusk had fallen about an hour before, so it was dark enough for me to stay in the shadows.
At first glance, there seemed to be about a dozen entrances. The main atrium, of course, which I knew to avoid, and then a number of side entrances. Some, I assumed, were for the privacy of the occupants, while others were probably built for servants. That’s how old the house appeared.