Ozzy (Wayward Kings MC Book 2)

by Zahra Girard

  Fuck. That’s not ideal.

  Blood is pouring down my leg and filling my shoe while I hurriedly cast my eyes about, looking for somewhere safer to take cover. There’s a pile of rocks on the shoulder of the road — remnants of a rock slide. I make a break for it.

  “I can’t wait to taste her. I’ll bet she’s fucking sweet,” he yells.

  Another bullet whizzes by me, cracking into the ground and sending shards of rock to pepper my face. A sharp rock catches me right above the eye and I stumble. Another bullet tears a bloody streak along my thigh and I fall face-first to the ground.

  I turn.

  He’s there, looming over me, gun in his hand. Preacher’s still too far away to help and David’s got me dead to rights.

  “What’s your name?” he says, grinning. “I want to whisper it to your girl while I fuck her.”

  Crack.

  Blood spurts from his mouth. Utter shock ripples across his face as lead rips a hole through his chest. His prison jumpsuit turns from orange to crimson in a second.

  I look behind him.

  She’s standing there, policeman’s pistol in her hands, deep purple bruises forming around her eye, tears streaming down her face.

  David collapses face-first to the asphalt.

  “Ozzy?” she says, her voice strained, confused, in pain.

  I hardly see him. I hardly feel the bullet wounds. There’s only one thing that’s important right now: her.

  Because she is hurt, she saved my life, and she needs me.

  That’s all I can think about. That’s all that matters.

  “Maria,” I call out, forcing myself to stand on damaged legs.

  I run to her.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Maria

  “Are you alright?”

  Ozzy’s voice is breathless and as hot as the blood streaming from the bullet wounds in his leg. His blood steams as it hits the cold Montana morning air.

  He limps his way towards me, walking around the fallen bodies and pausing only when he gets in front of me, ripping a strip from his shirt and wrapping it tight around the wound in his leg.

  I look over at him, hardly comprehending anything outside of the policeman’s pistol in my hand and the dead body — the person that I murdered — on the ground in front of me.

  The gun is so light. The trigger so easy to pull. It’s a decision I made without thinking. It seems almost a crime that something so monumental could happen so easily. It’s a decision I’d make again a hundred times over — I love Ozzy, beyond all doubt — but it’s a decision that’ll haunt me.

  Preacher’s not far behind Ozzy, and he reaches out with one cautious, gloved hand to take the pistol from me. “Easy there.”

  “Are you alright, Maria?” Ozzy says again.

  There’s so much concern in his voice. It stills my heart. It makes me start to feel human again after doing something so terrible.

  “I’m fine,” I stammer, though I don’t feel fine.

  He nods, pulls me close in a hug. “Good. You did good.”

  I did good?

  I feel hollow inside. Empty. Like my body is preparing itself to receive the enormity of the fucked-up emotions that I know are waiting on the horizon for me, ready to crash over me like a wave once the fullness of what I’ve just done hits me.

  There’s a dead man in front of me.

  I put him there.

  I can see the hole I made in the back of his head. I can see the shards of his skull. I can see the brain beneath the bones.

  I did good?

  Red rivers flow from his broken body, tributaries of blood form a deep crimson pool beneath him that grows faster than the thirsty gravel can drink it.

  How does he have that much blood inside him?

  When will it stop?

  This is what doing good is like?

  “Nice shot,” Preacher says, looking at my handiwork. He’s so casual about it, like this is just another day on the job. How?

  Sirens grow closer. They’ll be here, soon.

  “Where are the papers, Maria?” Ozzy says. It’s jarringly brusque, while the rest of the world seems to be moving in slow motion. My name snaps me back to some level of consciousness. My name and the mention of the papers. “The cops will be here any minute.”

  “What papers?” I say.

  “You know what papers. I love you, but this isn’t time for games. Where are they? I can hear sirens on the highway — we don’t have much time. Give us those papers and then Preacher and I can get out of here.”

  I shake my head. “How do you know about those papers?”

  “You left them out on the table. I looked at them,” he says.

  “You just went through my things? And you didn’t tell me? And how is it you even turned up here? You were planning to kill him, weren’t you?” I say. I can feel the floodwaters of anger rising inside me.

  My world is in tatters around me and my life will never be the same. I’m a murderer, now. I shot someone to protect the man I love. All I want is a moment to breathe, to put things together. A moment to hold him and feel some sort of good.

  But the approaching sirens and the urgency of everything means that’s impossible.

  “He was going to talk. He had to die,” Ozzy says. “There was no other way. Now, we need to get those papers before the cops get here.”

  It’s so callous. So matter-of-fact. So correct.

  I can’t take it. For just one moment, I want to feel like there’s some sense of decency and justice in the world, that there’s right and wrong. Not that the ends justify the means or that murder is okay because the person being murdered deserves it. But I’m not going to get that. I’m not going to get anything close to that, not even for a moment. Not even after betraying everything I believe in for a man I love.

  Instead, I have to lurch from one crime to another.

  I break.

  “The papers aren’t fucking here, Ozzy. They’re in my car, at the prison, in my bag. They’re out of your reach. Now get out. Get out. GET OUT,” I scream at him loud enough that my voice claws my throat ragged. Every bit of love, every bit of frustration, every bit of anger forces those words from me.

  Those sirens, once faint, grow closer by the second. Ozzy and Preacher share a worried glance, and Ozzy gives me this hurt and worried look that cuts me to my soul before the two of them sprint back to their bikes and take off.

  It’s only seconds before they’re out of sight.

  I’m alone.

  I stand there, despondent, gun at my feet and dead bodies and bullets all around me, while a trio of police cars — blaring sirens and flashing lights and all — pull up around the van. Officers jump out, guns drawn, voices screaming for me to get out of the van and put my hands on my head.

  Numbly, I do what they ask.

  I step forward, over the corpse that I made and the blood that I spilled, and I surrender.

  They take hold of me. They’re not gentle as they lead me like a marionette to the back of a squad car. I’m cuffed, I’m yelled at, and I’m driven into town like the criminal I am.

  * * * * *

  I’m left alone in a room of unfriendly concrete, with mirror windows and a door made out of solid steel. Minutes tick by into hours. A man comes in at some point to process me: he takes my name, where I’ve been staying, what I’ve been doing in town, and then he leaves me alone again.

  Another man comes in to fingerprint me. Another to check my hands for gunshot residue.

  Nobody tells me anything, nobody stops to ask if I’m ok or if I need to call anyone.

  I don’t blame them, really. Just as much as they’re trying to process information about what happened, I’m trying to process it, too.

  I’m still trying to understand and accept that I just murdered someone.

  I tell myself that I did it for good reasons, that I had to save Ozzy, that I had to stop David from escaping, that there was so much going on that it was only natural for me to r
eact the way that I did.

  And maybe it’s true.

  But all I see is that I blew a hole in a man’s head and spilled every drop of his blood into the dusty gravel of the highway’s shoulder.

  There’s a knock at the door, loud enough to make me start.

  “What the fuck just happened?” Ryan says, barging into the room. “One moment I’m waiting at the attorneys office for our client to show up, the next everyone is scrambling because three officers are dead, along with our client and two of the shooters that set up the ambush.”

  I look at him, feeling mute. Numb.

  I shrug. “Are you my lawyer, now?”

  “Maria, how the hell else do you think I got in here to see you? It’s a fucking madhouse out there.”

  “Thank you.”

  He sighs, pulls up a chair across from me and sits down. “Sorry. Look, it’s been one hell of a morning, and it has to have been so much worse for you. How are you holding up?”

  “How do you think?”

  “I think you’re feeling even more broken up than you look. I think you want to get the hell out of here and try and figure out a way to get back to normal,” he says. “Are you feeling well enough to tell me what happened? I mean, what were you even doing in the van?”

  I take a moment, look down at the table in front of me, at my hands resting on that table. What happened is a question that I’ve been struggling with since everything went to shit. How much do I tell him?

  “I went to see David. When I was going over his statement last night and putting it together, he’d said some things that seemed contradictory, some stuff that didn’t quite add up. I wanted to clear that up before we approached the US Attorney.”

  “Fine. And why were you in the van?”

  I look directly at Ryan. “You know our former client. He was being his usual self. Making me ride along was all part of some power play — he wanted to draw things out as long as possible. Or maybe he had this all planned, I don’t know.”

  Ryan nods. Pausing. Thinking. “Maria, what really happened?”

  I hesitate. All of my thoughts are a mess — scattered and broken pieces in my head. “I don’t know. One minute we’re driving down the highway, then there’s some talk about taking a detour because of an accident on the road ahead. They take this back road and then we’re being shot at. We crash. The officers get killed — some by whoever the hell is shooting at us, one by David — and then David gets free. That’s when the shooters try to kill David. They called him a rat. They left when the sirens started.”

  “How did David die?” he says.

  “I shot him.”

  He pauses, looking upwards. “They said he took a bullet in the head. You did that?”

  “He had a gun and he’d gotten out of his cuffs. You remember everything he’s said to me, Ryan. You know what he wanted to do. I didn’t have a choice.”

  Ryan nods. “Fair enough. I’ll head out there and see if I can get you out of here. They’re about to start scouring the highway to see if they can find any sign of whoever was behind this. There’s so many roads, I doubt they’ll find anything. But is there anything you can tell me, anything you remember seeing, that could help in the search?”

  I shut my eyes. I can see Ozzy walking around the dead bodies, walking towards me. I can hear his voice, at first so concerned, then so utterly focused. I can see the look on his face as I snap, as I vent every bit of my confused rage at him. It’s a look I’ll never forget.

  “I didn’t get a good look at anyone,” I say, shaking my head. “I kept my head down when the shooting started. When I looked up, David was free. He had a gun. He was yelling at someone — who they were, I couldn’t see — and then he started towards me. That’s when I shot him. That’s all I remember.”

  Ryan doesn’t question me. He doesn’t press me. It makes me sick lying to him. But I have to do it. I have to protect Ozzy. The man I love, even though the act of loving him him has thrown my life into such turmoil.

  “I’m sorry this happened to you,” he says, getting up from his chair and putting a comforting hand on my shoulder. “Let’s get you home.”

  Home.

  That thought scares me. It stirs inside me the kind of white-knuckled existential dread that makes vomit and bile surge in my throat.

  How do I go back to my life knowing what I’ve done?

  How do I put these pieces back together when they feel so irrevocably broken?

  How do I do this on my own?

  Chapter Nineteen

  Ozzy

  We tear into the parking lot of the no-tell hotel like two bats out of hell. I’m a fucking mess — my clothes and hair whipped wild by the wind after screaming down miles and miles of backroads and skinny, one-lane gravel paths that remind me of some of the roads in the more remote parts of New Zealand, my pants stuck to my leg with congealed blood.

  Nobody bats an eye at us here, though. I’m grateful for that because I’m in no state to answer questions.

  I can’t get over the look on Maria’s face. Every part of who I am is screaming for me to go to her, crying out all the louder because I know that I can’t right now. She’s out of reach at the time that she needs me the most.

  I have to figure something out.

  Preacher and I barge into the hotel room, slam the door, and rip the blindfold, ties, and gag off of Phil.

  “Up,” Preacher says.

  Phil blinks and looks at us like we’re both mental.

  “Get up,” I say.

  “Are you going to kill me now?” he says, noticing the I’ve-just-seen-some-shit looks on my face and the blood on my leg.

  I don’t hold it against him for asking that. We certainly look like we’re ready to kill someone — probably because we killed a few people earlier today — but the only reason for the angry expression on my face is the way I left things with Maria. Knowing that she’s out there — hurt and alone — pains my heart more than anything else in the world.

  “We’re not going to kill you. Not unless we have to,” I say.

  “Are you going to make me watch more of that show?” Phil says.

  Preacher frowns. “What’s wrong with my show?”

  “You guys look like you’re in a hurry, which means we don’t have time to go over everything wrong with it. But the last two season are really, really weird.”

  “It still had it’s moments,” Preacher says.

  “You won’t win this one, mate. I happen to agree with Phil. The whole Vampire Hepatitis thing is strange as,” I say. “But we have more important things to do than talk about the show. We have to get rid of our guest.”

  “So, you are going to kill me,” Phil says.

  I glare at him. “We weren’t planning on it, but if you keep bringing it up, well, you know what they say about the power of suggestion.”

  I don’t mean to be rude to the guy — hell, he’s got every right to be out of sorts after being locked up as long as he has and subjected to Preacher’s taste in TV shows — but I’m getting impatient. I want this over with. I want to be with the woman I love.

  “Maybe we should just kill him,” Preacher says. “It would be more convenient.”

  “No, it wouldn’t. He’s been through enough. Besides, dumping a body is too much of a risk right now. We’re sticking to the plan. Come on, Phil,” I say, motioning for him to follow.

  Preacher and I grab our saddlebags and lead Phil outside. It only takes us a minute to load our things onto our bikes. Then Preacher hops up on his bike and I motion for Phil to get on behind him.

  “Seriously, what is this?” he says.

  “We’re taking you out of here. We’re letting you go,” I say.

  “Where are you taking me?”

  “Idaho,” Preacher says.

  “Idaho? What? Why? What did I do to you?” Phil says.

  “What do you have against Idaho?” I say.

  “It’s far,” he says.

  “I’ll drop you
somewhere safe, give you some cash,” Preacher says. “There’s a nice bit of reservation land outside Coeur d’Alene. You’ll have to walk a bit to get to any kind of civilization, but you’ll be fine in the end. It’s pretty out there, too. You’ll like it.”

  “You sound like you’re doing me a favor by abandoning me in the woods in Idaho.”

  Preacher shrugs. “Listen, Phill, I feel like we’ve gotten to know each other pretty well over the last few days even though you’re a quiet guy—”

  “—You kept me gagged and tied to a chair—” Phil starts to say.

  “And, as probably your closest friend — seeing as you live a pretty sad and lonely life — I can tell you that I am doing you a favor. Because it’s either this, or we kill you and leave your body in some ditch for the coyotes to pick at,” Preacher says. “So, you tell me: do you want an adventure in the woods, or do you want to wind up in a ditch?”

  Phil looks stricken. “I’ll take the adventure in the woods.”

  “Good man,” I say. I pat him on the back and try to sound encouraging. “Look on the bright side: you get to live today. And you’re going to get a cool experience out of this to brighten up your boring life. It’s the kind of story that might even get you laid. Now, hold still.”

  I take some of the rope we’d kept Phil tied up with and use it to tie him to Preacher. There’s no way we’re letting him get away until after he’s safely out of town and away from any authorities who might be looking for us.

  I’m about finish when the sound of approaching thunder pricks my ears. More bikes. At least two, and they’re getting close with some serious speed.

  I cast a wary look at Preacher, but he’s just got a knowing smile on his face.

  “What’s going on?” I say.

  He chuckles. “Took them long enough.”

  The bikes come around the corner. There’s two of them, wearing civilian clothes, but I recognize them in an instant: Rog and Gunney.

  I must look confused as hell watching the two of them pull into the lot, because the second they come to a stop, Gunney hops off his bike and, grin on his face, pulls me into a tight hug.