THE DEVIL’S BABY_The Smoking Vipers MC

by Naomi West

  “I’m not in the mood, Mickey,” I growl. “You got actual business to talk about, or you just here to stage an intervention?”

  “Both, I guess,” he says. “There’s a guy waiting at one of our checkpoints that says he’s got a new batch of green that he owed us from like six months ago. Says he needs to be rid of it, acting real nervous.”

  “Think he’s a cop?” I ask, taking a swig of my drink. “I would guess he’s a cop or an informant. I have no record of anyone owing us squat, and I told all our usual farmers to hold back for a while.”

  “How did you find him out there?”

  “Regular routes,” he says. “I was with three guys out on the Pennsylvania border and we saw him sitting in his car, looking suspicious. We pulled up and asked if he needed a jump for his car or something.”

  That’s our code with our farmers when they deliver. They drive up and park in one of our pickup zones. We ask if they need a jump and then they say yes, and they’ve got the cables in the trunk. When they open the trunk, one guy grabs the product and moves it, and the other grabs the cables and does a fake jump. We toss the money into the trunk with the cables when we’re done. We’ve got a few friendly cops who know us and let things slide on account of the nice bonuses we pay them, but we still go through the motions in case someone besides them is watching.

  “I assume he did not need one?” I ask.

  “You are correct,” Mickey says. “So we made to leave and he got real nervous. Got out of the car and flat out said, ‘I’ve got a delivery for you. It’s late, but Rod said I should bring it whenever it was ready.’ I said Rod wasn’t around and I don’t know anything about any delivery, and that he needs to go back home and find someone else to help him out. He said he absolutely has to unload this. He needs the money. I told him I don’t know him from Adam and to beat it. He said he’d wait for someone with authority to come and talk to him.”

  “Did you tell him you’re someone with authority?” I ask.

  “Nah,” he says. “I just turned and left with the guys.”

  “When was this?” I ask.

  “Late last night. I sent a guy out today and sure enough, the guy is still out there. I suppose he’ll get bored or hungry and leave. He’s probably some little rat, trying to get out of a sentence by helping the cops bust us.”

  “I’m half tempted to go out and bust his head,” I say.

  “That’s the booze talking,” Mickey says.

  “Mmm,” I grunt. “Prob’ly.”

  “You’re not a heavy drinker,” he says. “I don’t know what’s going on with you and it’s none of my business, except that you being drunk on a risky mission seems like a disaster waiting to happen.”

  “What do you want, Mickey? You want me to call it off?”

  “Maybe we should,” he says. “You yourself ordered us all to lay low, to stop regular business for a while. That was a level-headed order. This … this is not.”

  “I ain’t callin’ it off,” I say. “Just ’cause I can’t have what I want doesn’t mean Rod shouldn’t have what he wants. He should be with his family, away from all this shit. I’m gonna make it so that happens for him.”

  “His sentence is really light,” Mickey says. “He won’t be in longer than a year and a half.”

  “I’ve got five guys who are ready and willing to help make this happen. You don’t like it, you can sit out,” I say. “A year and a half is too long. He’ll miss all that time with his kid. Unacceptable.”

  “I just think …” Mickey starts.

  “No,” I say. “Take the night off. Go see a movie. Leave it to me.”

  He runs a hand through his hair. “I just don’t think the club will survive it if we lose you, too. Either you get shot or arrested, and we end up with no leadership. It’s not smart. And it’s not how you operate. You ain’t you lately.”

  “Fuckin’ tell me about it,” I scoff.

  Mickey, frustrated, leaves the office. But not before telling me one more time to think about calling this off. To think about it when I’m sober.

  Rod doesn’t even know about this plan. Neither does Lipstick. I figure it’s better if they know as little as possible, in case we get intercepted. Plausible deniability and all.

  I refill my glass while I think. I never knew I liked whiskey so much.

  This rescue mission is really about me, though. I want Millie. I want to be with her, and I want to be a dad to that baby. And she doesn’t want a thick-headed biker as a baby-daddy. I’m good to fuck, but not to have as a partner. I’m not good enough for her, and she’s gonna stay with that putrid asshole because he’s got a nice white-collar job and a college education and a retirement savings plan. Or whatever. He’s someone she can take home to family dinners and shit. But fuck him. He’s a piece of garbage and he can’t love her the way I can.

  But fuck me. Too fucking bad. So I’m going to make sure Lipstick and Rod get away from this town and this bullshit and get to go off and have this baby and be together without all this drama swirling around them.

  All I’ve got to do is get Rod safely out of a moving, armed vehicle without getting anyone hurt or killed.

  ***

  Millie

  I’ve decided I need to clue my parents in on my pregnancy.

  Of course, I’m not sure I needed to do anything other than show up.

  I haven’t seen my parents since Easter, so it’s been a while. And as soon as I take my coat off, my dad’s eyes go straight to my belly.

  “Phillip knocked you up, huh?” he asks, his face a mask of disapproval.

  Oh yeah, and I never told them Phillip and I were no longer engaged.

  My mom comes in and says, “What? Knocked up? Who’s knocked up?”

  “Our precious baby girl, that’s who,” my dad says.

  My mom looks at me. Looks at my stomach. “Phillip’s, I assume? Guess you better get planning that wedding, then!”

  “Can we …” I start. “Can we just sit down and talk for a minute?”

  We head into the kitchen. All Jones family discussions happen at the kitchen table, over a meal. My mom’s got dinner almost ready, a big spread since she hasn’t seen me in quite a few months. When I called and said I was coming home to see them, she shrieked with joy. It’s not like Sandusky is that far from Cleveland. It’s like ninety minutes away, but my dad hates highway driving, so they have only come to see me once in two years, when Phillip and I first bought the little house.

  “I made fried chicken, collard greens, homemade macaroni and cheese … all the things you like, baby girl,” my mom says.

  “Thanks, Mama,” I say. “It looks great.”

  “Marrying into a black family sure did things for your cooking, Evelyn,” my dad says with a wink at my mom.

  My mom makes a humorous noise at him and says, “So, Millie, why don’t you tell us all about your good news?”

  “I’m not sure it’s good news,” my father says.

  “Derek Jones,” my mom says tersely. “A new life is always good news.”

  “I agree,” I say. “It is good news. But it’s not Phillip’s.”

  Both of my parents’ eyes go wide. My dad’s hand stops, the food he’s ladling onto his plate hangs in midair.

  “Not … Phillip’s?” my mom says meekly. “So you … you slept with someone who’s not your fiancé?”

  “Phillip’s not my fiancé anymore,” I say. “He hasn’t been for almost a year now.”

  “I don’t … I don’t understand,” my mom says.

  “Well, tell us all about it, then,” my dad says, slopping the food onto his plate.

  “I guess I should start at the beginning,” I say. “Maybe ten months ago, I caught Phillip in bed with another woman. I threw him out, gave him back his ring, told him we were done.”

  “Well, good,” my dad says. “Never liked that one anyway.”

  “Derek,” my mom says. “Are you sure he was actually …”

  “Mom,�
� I say. “They were both naked. He sure as heck wasn’t having her fix the plumbing.”

  My dad chuckles and my mom pouts. I go on. “So he stayed away maybe three months, got his seeds sown or whatever, and then came back, asking for me to forgive him. Then, one day when I was looking at, like, the millionth text message from him that day, I hit a guy.”

  “You hit a guy?” my dad asks. “Like, punched a guy?”

  “No, like hit him with my car,” I say. “He was on a motorcycle. He didn’t go when the light turned green. I wasn’t paying enough attention. I hit him.”

  “When did this happen?” my mom asks, her voice a little hysterical. “Why didn’t you call us?”

  I shrug. “He was fine, but his bike had some damage. It was one of those expensive, custom types. I don’t know. So he came over to talk about how I was going to owe him like ten thousand dollars.”

  “Ten thousand dollars!” my father yells.

  I just shake my head. “Anyway … we hit it off. I liked him. We ... got to know each other.”

  “In the Biblical sense, I suppose,” my dad says.

  “Yeah, Dad, hence the baby in my belly,” I say more sarcastically than I mean to. At my dad’s sharp look in return, I say, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. But yes, we had sex. And it resulted in a baby.”

  “And who is this man?” my mom asks.

  “His name is Keaton King,” I say. “He goes by Axel.”

  “Axel?” they both say at the same time.

  “Yep,” I say.

  “Why does he go by Axel?” my dad asks.

  “Because he’s in a motorcycle club,” I answer. “I honestly … I’m not sure how I feel about it, about him … for the long term.”

  My parents launch into the expected lecture about being disappointed that I hadn’t been more responsible, especially in a situation that was merely casual. But once they get past that, my mother asks how I feel about having a baby on my own.

  “I think I’ll be okay,” I say. “But I know that Axel will want to be involved. I don’t think he’ll just disappear. I just have to decide how invested I want to be … with him.”

  “Do you care for this man? This Axel?” my mom asks.

  I nod, my vision getting a little blurry as I tear up. “I do. But we’re very different. He’s big and tattooed and he’s in this motorcycle club.”

  “I don’t think any of those things disqualify him from being a good partner or father,” my dad says. “I was big and black and your mom still married me.”

  My mom giggles at this, even though I know it wasn’t easy for her to choose my dad over her parents’ feelings about interracial marriage.

  “But Axel is … his work can be very dangerous,” I say.

  “Being a firefighter is dangerous work, sweetheart,” my mom says. “What a man does for a living is just one piece of a man. And he can choose to do something else, other work that isn’t so dangerous, if he wants.”

  “How can you sleep at night, knowing Dad runs into burning buildings all the time?” I ask.

  “I can’t,” she says. “But that’s what I signed up for. Honey, tell us what you like about this Axel.”

  “Well, I like how he makes me feel,” I say.

  My dad snorts and looks pointedly at my belly. “Well, that seems obvious.”

  “No,” I say with an eye roll. “I mean, he makes me feel like I’m the most beautiful woman in the world. I feel protected when I’m with him, cherished. But I hardly know him, you know?”

  “Love is funny that way,” my mom says. “It picks for you.”

  “Look,” my dad says. “I never liked that Phillip. I never felt like he was respectful of you, or that he valued your intelligence.”

  “You’re not wrong about that,” I say. “He said he wanted to help out with the baby, but then he said some pretty terrible things the last time I saw him. And honestly, I’m glad he’s gone. We never really clicked … not in the ways that would have meant a good marriage. I think we just felt like we had to stay together because we’d been together for so long. If I really think about it, I haven’t loved him for a very long time.”

  “That’s a very mature way to think about it,” my dad says. “I can’t say I’ll ever go easy on any man you bring home because you’re my little girl, but I can promise that if a man cares for you, respects you, and treats you kindly, I will reserve judgment on all other matters. For the most part.”

  “Thanks,” I say.

  “You should bring him home to meet us,” my mom says.

  “I’ll think about it,” I say.

  “Now, can we stop talking about love and get our grub on?” my dad asks.

  “You’re eating for two,” my mom says, putting a huge helping of collard greens on my plate. “We need to make sure my grandbaby is fat and happy.”

  ***

  Axel

  “Sid,” I bark. “Report.”

  “He’s being transported in a standard-issue van, sir,” Sid says. “Word from my friend in the jail is that they’ll load him and one other guy up at ten and head out to the state facility from there. The route is as we assumed.”

  “How many guards?” I ask.

  “One driver, one in the passenger seat,” he says.

  “All right,” I say, clapping my hands. “Here’s the plan. Two in the front, one on each side, two on the back. We’ll enter from the point we discussed. Driver’s side will instruct the pull-over. Passenger side will be responsible for the armed guard. Two front drivers are lookout and backup, two rear drivers are passenger release. I want the guards tied up and put in the back of the van before we leave. No bloodshed unless absolutely necessary, got it? The goal is to grab Rod and get out. He goes straight to the rendezvous point, where Team Two will meet with Lipstick and a transport out of town. We need them on that last flight out at one in the morning. Any later, and they’ll get caught before they can get out.”

  “Reminder,” Sid says, “Black masks. No faces. No colors tonight.”

  The guys call out affirmative and ask a few questions. We head out to change and fuel up.

  An hour later, we’re off to the entry point. The prison is in Youngstown, maybe an hour or so from the local jail he’s been in. There is a nice dark stretch of highway that we’ve plotted out as the best place for this to go down. The guys I’ve picked are all hard-asses, not afraid to get their hands dirty. They’re all loyal to Rod respectful to me as his VP, but loyal to him to a fault.

  When we get to the spot, we wait. And wait. And I start to get a little worried that Sid’s intel is wrong. But then we get word from our lookout a few miles down the road. Here they come.

  As soon as we see the van’s headlights, we head out. The roar of our bikes is a beautiful and powerful thing. I’ve still got a little liquid metal in my veins, the whiskey taking the edge off as we surround the van. I’m on the back end. I want to be the one to grab Rod, which means I put a hell of a lot of faith into my guys to make this go the right way.

  The big issue is the radio. We need to work quickly because if that driver gets a location out to dispatch, we’ll have the police on us in no time.

  We get into formation. I’m on the tail of the vehicle with a big, bearded brute who we call Satan. No joke. Satan, because he’s a cranky bastard with no qualms about putting people through hell when needed.

  Satan’s on the right; I’m on the left. The van’s driver is obviously freaked, because he keeps tapping the brakes. I can imagine just how the conversation in the cab is going. A panicked decision do we call for backup? Is this what I think it is?

  I veer out just a little, to see what Jason is doing on the driver’s side. He’s got an AR-15 pointed at the driver as he shouts instructions. Pull over, you will not be harmed if you pull over.

  It’s only a half a minute before the van pulls over. The guys get to work up front. I see the two jail guards get out, hands in the air. There’s a lot of yelling. Get the fuck down on the ground. Hands
behind your head. One of my guys tosses me the keys and I unlock the back while he ties up the driver. My heart’s beating a million miles a minute.

  Rod’s eyes go wide when he sees two dudes in black ski masks coming at him. The second prisoner looks at us and squints, like he’s trying to see through the masks. He looks from me to Rod, out the van, back to me. I turn my back on him and face my best friend.

  “Your bike gives you away,” Rod says, nodding at my motorcycle.

  I work on undoing his cuffs. As soon as I get them off, I turn and motion him to the edge of the van. But he doesn’t move. He just sits there.