by Cathryn Cade
Sheesh, this was not a scary movie. She was not running screaming for the house like the dumb blonde heroine.
A soft, grumbling whine sounded from the black shadows of the hedge. Sara froze, her gaze canted sideways, the hair standing up on the back of her neck. The sound came again, and then a black shape slipped from the shadows, straight toward her.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
The creature stopped a few feet away, two ears perked alertly. A long tail twitched twice.
"Oh, my God," Sara breathed, letting out a whoosh of breath. "It's you, dog."
The dog made the sound again, this time more of a whine than a growl, and moved closer. Sara slipped her phone out of her purse, held it up and clicked the screen. A muted light shone on her visitor. Large, dark eyes gleamed in the light, and a damp nose twitched.
They watched each other in silence.
"So, hey, boy," Sara said gently. "You gave me one heck of a scare, you know? I'm glad that was you, and not the boogeyman, which I'll admit I thought you were, just for a second there."
The dog cocked his head, and she laughed softly. "Listen to me, standing here talking to you as if you understand me. It's been a long, weird day. What do you say you walk me to my back door, I get rid of this stuff, and then bring you some food and fresh water, huh?"
The instant she moved, the dog flinched away, and disappeared into the shadows. Sara shook her head. Yep, that was the way her day was going.
But when she dumped her things in the living room, flipped on some lights, and came back out with a big scoop of dog food, the dog was waiting for her in the yard, at what he evidently considered a safe distance. He watched silently as she filled his dish, used the hose to fill the water dish, and then retreated to the back stoop to sit on the step.
He trotted into the shadows, and she heard the rustle and crunch of him eating the dry kibble. He ate steadily, paused, and then lapped up a long drink of water.
She waited, not moving, until he emerged, head up and ears perked toward her. After a long moment he walked a few steps into the open lawn and lay down—again, at a safe distance, head up, facing her.
"You're welcome," she told him. "Glad you could make it over for dinner. Guess it wouldn't do any good to invite you in, and anyway, I don't know if you're house trained, do I? So have a good night, sir. I'll see you at breakfast."
The dog's tail thumped twice, and then he rose and trotted away, back into the night.
Sara rose and went into the little house. Despite her fears for Stick, and Keys and the other guys, and for her brother, she felt a small, warm glow in her middle, as if at least one thing had gone right in her day.
Amazing what animals could do for one's mood, and this one was mostly wild.
Knowing she would never sleep, worrying about everyone in the Tri-Cities, Sara made herself comfortable in the living room with a glass of wine and her e-reader. She tried to call Seth, but again no reply.
She fell asleep there, and woke with a kink in her neck, slumped sideways on the sofa. Her phone said one twenty-five am. She got up, used the bathroom and splashed water on her face, then went back to the sofa, wide awake again. Much, much too early to be making coffee. She laid down, her head on some pillows, an afghan over her legs, and her tablet on her lap.
Before she flipped through the list of movies on her Netflix account, she tried one more time to call her brother.
But before she could press call, her phone rang. The screen said 'unknown caller', but at this point Sara would've talked to the Devil himself if he had news from the Tri-Cities.
"Hello?"
A sibilant 'Sh-shhhh...' was all she heard through the phone. Euww, a crank call.
"'S me ... Seth," a voice whispered. Actually it was more of a whispering mumble, but Sara sat up straight, dislodging her tablet, which fell to the floor with a soft thump.
"Seth? Oh, my God, I'm so glad it's you. How are you? What've you been doing?"
Silence.
"Seth?" she hissed, the hair standing up on the back of her neck. "Is this really you? Or is this a prank call?" It was a sad fact that in the dark, weirdos came out of the woodwork.
"Sh-shhhh,' she heard again. She hit the volume button on her phone pushing it up as high as it would go, pressing the speaker portion to her ear. "Sa..ree ... berree."
Oh, God, it was Seth, it had to be. He'd called her Sarey-berry when they were kids.
"Okay," she whispered back, frantic now. "Okay, honey. I know it's you. What's happening? What's wrong? Are you hurt?" Had he been in a car wreck? But if that was it, why was he shushing her?
"Sa-ra ... gotta whi'per ... Jus' ... lissen...n-nn ... Ge' he'p."
Sara was on her feet, gripping her phone so hard her fingers hurt, her ear ached, but she hardly noticed.
"I'll help," she breathed. "I'll help. Where are you, Sethie?"
"Laht ... up." Ragged breathing. "T'ra'r pahk. P .. Passco-o. I see ... tru' sto sigh."
"What? A—" Think, Sara, think. Someone had her brother locked up? God, she should've known he wouldn't wait so long to call her back unless he was in trouble. Okay, he was at a trailer park in Pasco. She tried desperately to recall the roadsides there.
What would he see from a trailer park? Oh! There were trailer parks along the interstate. She remembered looking down on two or three when she'd driven through last spring on her way to see a friend. And the interstate meant big trucks.
"A truck stop? You see a truck stop, uh, sign? What does it say?"
"'Esss ... B-biig l'r enn .. Li ... en .. uh ... enz."
N of Ns. No, that didn't make sense. N&Ns ... M&Ms candies! Seth loved them, and always left them in the cushions of furniture, and on his car seats, ready for his unwary sister to get smears of chocolate on her ass. She'd never been so grateful that he was a slob.
"Okay," she panted, on her feet and moving out of the house. "You're in a trailer park, in Pasco, and you can see a big M on a truck stop sign. Okay. I'm, uh, I'm staying on the line, little bro, but I'm getting you help.
He whispered something, and she stopped, in the middle of the drive, gravel biting into her bare feet. "What? What?"
"N-noo ... coss. Sh-shhhh ... no coss."
"No cops?" she repeated wildly. "But—" Okay, shut up, Sara. Stay calm and keep him calm.
"Okay, so, uh, I just happen to know some guys," she whispered. "They're in Pasco now—or they should be." She hoped to God they were. "They'll help you."
At least Keys would. The rest of them, she wasn't sure about. But right now, the only hope of getting hold of Keys without hanging up her phone was using someone else's. Someone close by.
She shoved her way through the hedge, scraping her left cheek and her right shoulder on the branches of the hedge. Her sweater caught on the metal, and she yanked it free, then catapulted across Stick's driveway and up the steps to his house, past a big, shiny motorcycle. Bright lights flicked on around her. Good, she wanted them to know she was here.
Sara held the phone to her chest to muffle any sound it might make, and banged on the door, hard.
A tall, broad-shouldered man appeared in the lighted kitchen beyond the mudroom. For one wild second she thought it was Stick, but it was his younger look-alike she'd seen at the club.
He was holding a very large shotgun in one hand, pointed at the ceiling. Sara nearly dove off the porch. Only Seth's dire need for help kept her there.
He jogged to the door, pulled it open, and pulled her inside.
"What's wrong?" he demanded. "Who's after you? How many?"
Sara slapped her hand over his mouth and shook her head frantically. "We have to—have to be quiet," she panted.
She took a deep, shaky breath and managed to quietly repeat as much as she could remember of what Seth had told her.
Peter Vanko gave her a long, strange look.
"I'm not crazy," she told him in whisper. "I'm not, I swear."
"How d'you know it's your brother on the phone?" he asked
just as quietly.
"H-he called me Sarey-berry. No one else would know that." Her voice cracked, and she swiped tears impatiently from her eyes. "He's in trouble. Bad trouble ... he sounds awful. He can barely talk. And whoever hurt him m-must be close, because he said I have to whisper."
He nodded, held out his hand, and took the phone. "You there?" he whispered, then listened. "All right, man. I'm gonna make a call, get some guys in there. But I'll tell you now, if this is a set-up ... you're a dead man."
Sara flinched, and reached for the phone, but he held her off, his big hand enclosing hers.
Whatever he heard next evidently convinced him, because he gave Sara's hand a squeeze, then let go and gave her back the phone.
"Stay in here," he murmured, waving his hand at the kitchen. "I'll go in the other room and call Stick."
Sara nodded, and turned.
A small, slim, older woman stood by the big granite island in the center of the kitchen work area. She wore a startling red negligee and matching mules, and her hair was held back in a black velvet band.
"I'm Velvet," she said quietly. "You're Sara, Kit's friend. You in some kinda trouble, girl?"
Sara nodded, and then shook her head. "No, my brother," she whispered, and pointed at the phone cradled in her hand. The call was still active, thank God.
"I'm here, Sethy," she told him. "We're getting you help."
Then she paced to the big windows that were shuttered against the night, and back to the mudroom door. Back again, and forth, Back and forth. She whispered to Seth a few times, and received garbled, slow replies.
Velvet watched her closely, turning now and then to peer into the other room, where Peter Vanko was talking to someone. Finally, Sara could stand the suspense no longer, and went to the open arched doorway through which he'd walked. He stood with his head down, free hand on his lean hip.
"Da." He said. "Da. I get it. But ... all right." To Sara's horror, he sounded resigned.
She ran to him, and grabbed the phone, trying to wrestle it away from him, holding her phone to her breasts.
"Who is this?" she hissed. "Who are you talking to?"
"My brother," he hissed back, scowling. "And if you'd let me finish—"
"Let me talk to him." Something in her face must have convinced him, because he let her take his phone from him.
"Stick?" she asked, her voice annoyingly shaking.
"Da." said a deep, cold voice in her ear.
Sara wanted to scream. She wanted to smash the expensive smartphone against the floor and stomp it into oblivion. Instead, she took a breath and tossed her pride onto the carpet at her feet.
"If you'll help my little brother, I'll sell you my property," she told him. "You name the price ... it's yours."
Silence echoed in her ears.
"And I'll—I'll move away," she went on. "I'll go right away. You won't ever have to see me again, I swear. I'll move to Seattle." Her voice broke on the last word as tears filled her eyes. He had to help, he had to.
"Blazinka," he growled, "Shut your mouth and give the phone back to my brother."
"No. No, I won't—you have to help him. He's my baby brother. Please! I'm begging you."
A large finger pressed to her lips. "Sh-shhh," Peter Vanko said in her ear. "Sh-shhhh. Hey, hey. Chill, Sara. He's gonna do it."
Sara gaped at him. "He is?" she mumbled around his finger. "You are?"
Pete grinned at her, and the effect was startling. He looked a lot like his nephews when he smiled. Stick, she wouldn't know, as she'd never seen him smile, except his smug little smirk. "Yeah, he is. So you can stop."
"Oh, okay," she breathed. "Stick? Thank you. Thank you so much. Thank you."
Then she handed the phone back to his brother, and sank onto the couch, dizzy with relief.
"Seth?" she whispered into her own phone. "They're coming. They're coming."
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
An hour later, Stick Vanko leaned back, planted his booted foot on the flimsy door of the single-wide trailer's second bedroom, and shoved. The door burst inward, and he shone his big flashlight into the tiny room.
The lone occupant of the stifling room was a tall, skinny male curled awkwardly on a filthy mattress, hands cuffed before him, linked with chain to a steel post that had been bolted into the trailer. He wore only a pair of jeans, and the stench in the room said he'd soiled himself more than once.
"You ... here t' save ... me, or ... end me?" he croaked, squinting one eye against the glare of the flashlight beam. The other eye was swollen shut, that side of his face battered.
"Here to get you out," Stick told him, reaching for his knife as he moved into the room. "You Seth Cannon?"
"Yeah," the kid croaked, and then gave a groan of pain as Stick used a tool on his knife to key open the cuffs. The chain and the post were unfortunately not cheaply made as the trailer, because from the blood, the kid had done his damnedest to get free. Stick was sure others had before him, as well, from the stench and the old stains on the mattress.
"Wa'er," he croaked. "Plz."
"Get him some water," Stick ordered. Then he moved aside so Moke could squat beside the kid and do a quick assessment. The big Hawaiian asked a few quiet questions in between feeding the kid drinks from the water bottle Cooter handed in.
"Bruised ribs, can't feel any give, so don't think they're broke," Moke announced. "Pupils are same size, so concussion if he had one has settled. I ain't a doc, so that's all I can tell you. Lotta blood, but external wounds bleed a lot."
The Hawaiian might not be an MD, but he was an experienced EMT, who had treated many injured bikers, and a few old ladies.
"He needs a shower, and somethin' else to put on," Stick said. "Can you stand up, kid?" He exchanged a look with Moke that said if not, they'd carry him outside and leave him for an ambulance crew to pick up.
"F' show'r?" Seth Cannon mumbled. "Dam' str't."
Moke chuckled. "You got balls, kid, give you that. C'mon, let's get you up."
"M' phone," Seth said, peering around him. "Drop' it."
Stick shone his flashlight around, and found a cheap cell phone on the floor. Considering the state of the floor, he did not pick it up.
"Phone's dead," he said. Jesus, Seth was lucky it had lasted long enough to get help.
Stick left Moke to help the kid clean up, and stepped back outside the trailer, taking a deep breath of the warm night air.
"Bad in there?" Bouncer asked.
He, Snake and Cooter leaned against a shiny, late model Dodge pickup. A truck the owner would never drive again, because he and the other Hispanic ganger who had been sharing a joint outside the dingy trailer had taken one look at the Flyers appearing silently from the shadows, and gone for the semi-auto weapons leaning against their chairs.
They hadn't reached the guns. One of them had gone down with a bullet in his chest from Rocker's silenced pistol, the other with Snake's knife in his throat.
Keys was posted out by the entrance to the trailer park, on lookout in case any of the gangers' amigos decided to ride in at the wrong time. Also because since he was nomad, not a patched-in Heights member, he didn't need to see any kills they had to make.
"Bad," Stick agreed. "But, least he's alive."
He thumbed his phone and held it to his ear, waiting for Peter to answer. "Tell blazhinka we have him. He's injured, but not too bad. He's safe."
He waited only for Peter to say, "I'll tell her," before ending the call.
Bouncer smirked. "You just got yourself some prime, blonde, pay-back pussy."
Stick gave him a chin lift, but didn't answer. For some reason, instead of chuckling along with his sergeant, and Snake and Cooter, he wanted to shove his fist in the other man's face. Sara was not to be talked about like some club whore.
"Man what are the odds of this happening when we're down here?" Snake asked, shaking his head. "Fuckin' weird coincidence we're here, right when your latest woman's bro gets snatched."
&n
bsp; It was, and Stick had enough of his superstitious Russian mama in him that he did not like coincidences. He was going to be having a talk with Seth Cannon when this business with the Rattlers was settled, find out what shit the kid was into. Maybe he wasn't quite as law-abiding as his older sister.
"As soon as the kid's ready," he told Rocker, who waited silently in the inky shadows of a big willow bending over the riverside trailer park, a note of natural beauty contrasting starkly with the dingy trailers and dirt yards around them. "You or Moke drive him to the motel in the truck, drop him off. Then take the truck and run it into the river."
"Waste of a nice machine," Cooter said, but it was more of a commentary than a protest. They all knew the bodies had to disappear for long enough that the gangers' deaths wouldn't be connected to their presence in town.
"Truck was bought with drug or extortion money," Rocker said. "Kinda poetic justice the little shitheads goes down with it."
This was true, and it was a justice Stick was happy to deliver, but now he was ready to move on.
Moke helped Sara's brother out of the trailer, and half carried him to the pickup truck. The kid was now clad in a pair of baggy gym shorts and a Seahawk's jersey, his feet bare. When he was seated, he lifted a hand to Stick. Now that he was clean, his damp hair was as light as his sister's. Stick could also see the family resemblance in his battered face.
"Thanks," Seth Cannon said, his voice still weak, but clearer. "I owe you, man. Owe you big."
Stick nodded, but didn't answer over the muted roar of the truck's engine as Moke started it up. The rest of them mounted up, and followed the pickup out of the park.
Proof of how little any of the neighbors thought of the gangers, not a single person peered out to see them go.
* * *
When Pete Vanko informed Sara that his brother had saved her brother from his kidnappers, she could hardly speak. She sat on Stick's big leather sofa and stared at Pete, struggling for words.
"Seth is safe?" she managed at last. "Stick has him?"
Pete nodded, watching her with a lazy, but intent gaze.