A Broken Vow: Inked Angels MC

by Zoey Parker

  “Keep talking,” I instruct.

  “At the surrender tonight. He’s going to kill every last man. Please, God, don’t hit me again.” His eyes are hazy with pain. He looks like he’s about to pass out. “He’s got dozens of men and containers full of guns on the cargo ship, ready to go as soon as they’re in position, but oh, God, please don’t do anymore.” He’s a whimpering, blubbering mess, oozing blood and bone chips.

  I turn away and close my eyes to think for a moment. Shit, shit, shit. My worst fears have been confirmed. I can’t let Vince go blindly into a death trap. I just hope it’s not too late to stop him. I need to find a way to get in touch with him. But how? I don’t have a phone or a car. Shit, shit, what do I do? If I don’t do something, Vince and every man in his club are going to die.

  The whoosh of an outgoing text message catches my attention. I pivot back around to see the Diablo cuffed to the chair with a cell phone in his hand. He looks up at me and tries to grin through the damage to his face. “Get ready,” he mumbles. I scream and crack the baton across his face. He’s out instantly.

  I barely have time to turn back around before the door flies open. The other Diablo bursts in, a knife raised above his head. I’m firing solely on animal instinct as I leap to one side. The knife goes hurtling down through the space I just vacated to bury itself in the leather booth lining one wall. Before he can tug it out, I lower my weight, cock the baton back behind me, and then swing it upwards between the man’s legs as hard as I can.

  A repulsive crunch sounds as the hardened plastic ruins the Diablo’s genitals. He erupts into a feral, keening wail that pierces my ears, his hands dropping the knife immediately to attempt futilely to contain the pulpy remnants of his member. I don’t hesitate to swing again, this time at his skull. He collapses to the floor instantly, a pool of sticky blood beginning to flow into the carpeting.

  It takes a few long seconds of panting before the bloodlust dims. When I come to my senses, I drop the baton, step outside, and seal the door behind me, leaving the two limp, unconscious bodies locked within.

  A cocktail waitress walking by notices the blood shining on the back of my hand. Her eyes widen. “You okay, hon?” she says in alarm.

  I stare her down as I reply, “Tell everyone not to interrupt me in there for a while. I’m just getting started.”

  Chapter 25

  Vince

  Midnight. The night is cool and damp. The stars hide behind smog. They don’t want to see what’s coming.

  Our footsteps trudging on the slick concrete make little noise as we advance towards a broad clearing in front of our warehouse. Flies buzz around the crackling bulbs of high-powered lights that cast an eerie, dreamlike glare over the scene. Drizzle falls from the sky like someone above is spitting on us. It’s the worst of Galveston nights. Fitting.

  We step into the light. I lead the pack. Behind me are the men I call my brothers. We all wear the same leather jacket, emblazoned on the back with the Inked Angels insignia. On each of our shoulders is the same tattoo. It might mean different things to each man. That’s the power of the club. A man takes from it what he puts into it. The club gave me my life, so I’m willing to give it right back.

  We assemble, a crowd teeming with more scars and tattoos than you could shake a stick at. Together, we’ve got more miles under our belts than just about any other group of men alive. We’ve seen shit, real shit.. But now, the wheel of life has seen fit to crush us under it. The only way to go is the way I plan on going: with guns blazing and my head held high.

  There’s a lot I’m leaving behind if things don’t pan out perfectly. A woman who loves me. A child bearing my name. I swore to myself the day my dad left that I wouldn’t leave a son without a father, but sometimes the world just gets in the way. Not every promise can be kept. It’s what we do with the shards that matters. For my part, I intend to use them to slit Carlos’ throat, if I can just get close enough to do it.

  “Never thought I’d see this day,” says Sliver.

  “Neither did I, brother,” I reply solemnly. “But here we are.”

  “Here we are, indeed,” he echoes, shaking his head. “What’s that you always used to say? That thing about God?”

  I answer, “That he looks after drunks and idiots.”

  Sliver laughs hollowly and slides a flask from his hip pocket. Unscrewing the top, he tips it back, drains the thing, then tosses it aside. He smacks his lips after he swallows. “Well, now I’m drunk, and you’re definitely an idiot, so let’s hope the Big Man is smiling.”

  I chuckle. After all, what’s death but the next great ride? I just hope it’s on the back of a bitchin’ engine.

  A figure emerges from the shadows a few dozen yards away. The hubbub amongst the men falls silent as Carlos approaches. He walks towards us, then stops a short distance off. He folds his hands in front and looks at us with eyes as calm as a Hindu cow. “Gentlemen,” he says.

  “Furthest thing from it,” I shoot back.

  He blinks. “If you say so. I take your arrival to mean that you have agreed to my terms.”

  “You give us back our men. We give you the keys to our stash, the rights to our territory, and we all leave town. You won’t see any of us again.”

  Carlos inclines his head. “Yes.” He extends a hand and takes a few more steps towards me. “The keys, please.”

  I take the metal ring of keys from my pocket. They punctuate the night with a rusty jangle. I start to offer them to him, then pause. “Mortar and Steezy,” I say sternly. “I want to see them before I give you a damn thing.”

  “You’ll get them as soon as I have the keys.”

  “I want them now.”

  “You don’t really have much bargaining power here.”

  I raise an eyebrow. “I’m using what little I have.”

  Carlos sighs and drops his hand. “Very well.” He turns to face the direction he came from. “Bring them out.”

  I crane my neck to look into the darkness, but I can’t see anything aside from the rustling of vague silhouettes. I peer closer. Still can’t make out a damn thing.

  The sudden flash of motion takes me by surprise. Carlos whirls back around and brings a fist careening into my forehead. He’s shockingly strong. The blow is hard enough to stagger me backwards. I reach down to fish the knife from my boot, but before I get halfway, strong arms tackle me to the ground and wrench my hands behind my back. I look around me and see that, on all sides, Diablos in black tactical gear are doing the exact same to the rest of the men. It takes only moments before we are all prostrate and subdued on the wet pavement with our wrists zip-tied together.

  “I didn’t want to do that,” he says, standing over me. From the way my face is jammed into the ground, I can see only the tops of his shoes. Their black leather surface is polished so brightly that my face is clearly visible. My eyes are pools of anger. The knee of the Diablo crushing between my shoulder blades is not helping matters. “Oh, well,” he murmurs. “Take them onto the ship!”

  I am yanked to my feet and men on either side of me grab me by the crooks of my elbows and start to drag me forward. I see the dozens of Diablos carrying the rest of the Angels behind me. We leave the circle of light. It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to the darkness, but gradually, a gangway leading up to the hull of a massive cargo ship comes swimming into clarity. The footsteps of my captors change from heavy thuds to hollow echoes as we leave the concrete port floor and step onto the ramp.

  I can feel the indentation of Carlos’s knuckles where he struck me in my forehead. The motherfucker has some zip to his fist. I am taken up a winding staircase, my ankles clanking painfully into every step, and brought out onto the top deck. All around me, containers in various shades of rust are stacked high, like a giant game of building blocks. I shudder to imagine what they might contain. Knowing the Diablos, it could be anything—prostitutes, drugs, weapons, or any of a million other things that might be used to inflict suffering on a mass
scale.

  We step into a fifty-yard square clearing in the midst of the boxes. The men holding me drop me on the floor against one long container and pat me down for weapons. They take a gun from each boot, another tucked along my calf. As each Angel is thrown next to me, they do the same, adding our armaments to a growing pile in the middle of the ship.

  I look down the line. A few of the men look roughed up. Some have bloody gashes or welts rising on their faces. Others are coughing blood from vicious kicks to the abdomen. So far, we are not faring well. I hope to God our luck turns.

  Carlos steps up onto the deck after the last of us have been stripped of weapons. His men assemble behind him, holding automatic rifles clutched against their chests. He walks over to the pile of confiscated weapons and plucks a knife from the top of it. Tossing it back and forth in his hands, he strolls towards where I am seated on the ground.

  When he reaches me, he kneels down and presses the knife tip underneath my chin. It’s gentle at first, but as he stares me down, he presses harder and harder, until I can feel my skin split and a drop of blood well up against the length of steel.

  “You brought quite a lot of weapons for a surrender,” he remarks.

  “Can’t blame a man for trying,” I spit back. I hadn’t planned on him being so stupid as to let us break out in an open gunfight, but I need him to feel like he has the upper hand. It’s the only way this suicidal plan of mine has any chance of succeeding.

  He smiles palely and stands. “Where are the keys?” he asks the men who patted me down. One of them steps forward and hands him the key ring they’d snatched from my pocket. Carlos tosses it up and down in his palm. The crash of waves against the ship is a low rumble in the background.

  “Where are they?” I ask hoarsely. “Where are Mortar and Steezy?”

  Carlos nods. “You’re right. They should be here, too.” He turns and gestures to a man standing by the staircase we’d come up. The Diablo disappears for a moment. We hear groans and clanking from below, then he re-emerges with two men in tow.

  I breathe a sigh of relief. Mortar and Steezy are alive—for now, at least. They look pretty banged-up, though. Steezy is limping and Mortar winces whenever he puts weight on his left leg. It takes them several long minutes to hobble their way to where we are sitting. The Diablos surrounding them shove them to a seat beside me.

  “Hey, boss,” I say to Mortar. “Hey, Steez.” They smile back sadly. “I fucked up, guys. I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be sorry.” Mortar grimaces. “Mistakes happen. I made plenty.”

  Steezy nods in agreement.

  We turn to face Carlos. “Now what?” I ask him.

  “Now, unfortunately,” he replies, “is the finish line. This is how your world ends. Not with a bang, but with a whimper.” His face is devoid of expression as he raises an arm and points at the youngest prospect, a skinny, shivering boy of fifteen. He’s so green that the ink on his winged skull must still be fresh. I want so badly to look away, but I force myself to watch. I owe him that much.

  Two Diablos step forward and pick him up roughly by the arms. They carry him over to the edge of the ship. All eyes are riveted on them. Carlos follows a few yards behind. They stand the boy facing out into the dark ocean. The railing is low, just below his knees.

  Carlos pulls a gun from his belt. He squares up behind the boy, raises it, aims at the back of his head, and pulls the trigger. A sharp report pierces the air. Blood sprays. The boy crumples limply over the side of the ship and vanishes from our view.

  I nearly vomit at the sight. I’ve seen men die in some horrible fucking ways. But this is too cold. Too brutal. Not a shred of fucking humanity in sight. That prospect was barely more than a child. I look at Mortar next to me. He’s unreadable, but Steezy’s face on the other side is a wrenched mask of tortured emotion.

  I see something break the uniform outline of the stack of containers. Just above the uppermost edge, a man’s head and shoulders pop up, then duck back down. Boulder. Right on time.

  “Next,” Carlos says coolly as he checks the clip in the gun. Two Diablos grab Sliver and jerk him to his feet. They start to drag him towards the same spot, when suddenly all hell breaks loose.

  I feel it before I hear it. It’s like the rumble before a belch, this sub-sonic tickle that quickly escalates into something magnitudes more powerful. A wave of hot air ripples past my face. The Diablos turn to look at the containers behind them. One, a dark blue crate, bulges outwards for the briefest of moments. Then it explodes.

  The boom is deafening. Fire and shards of steel erupt in a thousand directions at once. The Diablos who’d been standing between us and the explosion take the brunt of the damage from the flying debris. I see at least a dozen of them drop to the ground screaming as molten steel eats through their clothing and flesh, turning the black garments into puddles of searing pain.

  I don’t waste time to do my own part. Squeezing my fists, I flex my forearms as hard as I can. A spring-loaded steel blade fires out along each wrist. A little trick picked up from Steezy. I use the serrated edge to slice through my bindings and free my hands. I leap to my feet. Two Diablos directly ahead turn back from the explosion and see me rising upwards. They start to lower their weapons towards me, but I’m too fast. I dive towards them, taking down one with each arm. We hit the floor with a grunt. Rolling over one, I grab his gun and fire two quick bursts. The bastards stop moving.

  All around me, steel is sizzling. The container must have held clothing or something else flammable, because mounds of burning clothes writhing with flames are scattered across the deck. Smoke fills the air, cloying and stinging, but I fight through. I spin around to see a Diablo charging at me with a knife. Ducking, I use his momentum to roll him over my shoulders and send him flying into an open flame. I fire another round into his body to be sure he is dead.

  Most of the Diablos are running for cover. Turning back to face where my men are all fighting to regain their feet, I see Mortar headbutt one viciously, taking him down despite his hands still being tied behind his back. Steezy sweeps the legs out from underneath another, then delivers a savage heel straight down into his nose. Everywhere, Angels are grabbling with Diablos. Some have managed to free their hands, while others are making do with tripping the Diablos into the raging fires.

  Behind Steezy, a Diablo points his gun. A one millimeter twitch of his finger and Steezy will be dead with a bullet lodged in his brain. I roar, “No!” and try to intervene, but I’m too late.

  Boulder isn’t, though. The whining drone of a sniper bullet fills my ears before it slams into the Diablo’s chest. A cloud of blood puffs outwards as his torso is pulverized by the high powered ammunition. I look up and spy Boulder, still up on top of the crates, swiveling his sniper to take out his next victim.

  But I have only one victim in mind: Carlos.

  I whip my head around in search of the bastard who started this all. Where the fuck has he gone? Then I notice a flash of color disappear behind a container. “Found you, motherfucker,” I growl. I take off after him.

  The sounds of the fighting recede as I give chase through the labyrinth of boxes. I hear his footsteps ahead, pounding on steel as he sprints to the far end of the ship. Still clutching the automatic rifle, I sprint hard. Stitches of pain are lancing through my sides as my lungs beg for air, but I don’t stop. I want to end this shit right now. The bastard needs to die. And who better to fight with the White Devil than an Angel himself?

  I round corner after corner, when suddenly, his footsteps stop. I come to a halt and perk up my ears, listening for any sign of him. “Where are you, you son of a bitch?” I’m answered by the whirr of an engine at my rear. Whipping around, I have just enough time to dive to my left before Carlos drives a forklift into the crate behind me. It collides violently, the sharp industrial tines piercing a yard deep into the corrugated steel. One tine catches the skin along my thigh, tearing open my flesh in a deep bloody smear. I bellow into the night a
s pain rips across my body. My finger squeezes the trigger of the gun, unleashing a storm of bullets against the windshield of the machine. I fire until the clip is empty and choking. When there is nothing left of the ammo, I struggle to my feet. There’s no motion in the cab of the vehicle. I lurch carefully towards it. Reaching the door, I pause for a moment before yanking it open.

  As it opens, Carlos bursts forward, snarling like a wild animal, hands outstretched towards my face. He crunches into me and we both fly backwards. His knee lands on my chest, knocking the air from my lungs. I wheeze and try to shield myself from his blows. He delivers strike after strike, pummeling my forearms and face with tight, bony fists. I feel my wrist give way below successive punches.