Indebted: 'Til Death Do Us Part (Teal & Trent Book 3)

by Inger Iversen

  The towns out in Blackwater were filled with those who didn’t give a fuck, or were only able to stay since their government check kept coming. It was the ghetto in its truest form.

  Trent’s hand tightened on the steering wheel, as he drove past condemned homes. Those who thought him a racist had no fucking clue. There was no one race responsible for the rise or fall of minorities. Yes, whites had owned slaves in the past, and now in the present, blacks were still trying to find their footing in a slippery world that often made them feel wholly unnecessary. He wasn’t stupid, he got it.

  Trent had lived in the ghetto for most of his life, and had seen that the battle shouldn’t be between black and white, but against the system that focused on keeping a wealth disparity between Americans, then sicced underprivileged people on one another by using lies through the media to incite race wars.

  He’d been in his head for the whole ride, and nearly missed the turnoff hidden by overgrown weeds and grass. Slamming on the brakes, Trent turned the wheel and made the turn, kicking up dust and rock, all while jostling a few of the men in the back of the van.

  Dillon smiled wild in his seat, amped up and ready from whatever he’d snorted off the dashboard before they’d taken off. “Fuck yeah!” He whooped crazily, as Trent struggled to get the van back to rights.

  “Shut the hell up, man,” someone hollered from the back.

  Mark stuck his head up front and pointed. “There’s the marker.” Trent nodded and pulled the van into a veil of high shrubs and weeds. The men were to hoof it to the plant, while Ace, Mutt and Gator had left an hour earlier to make sure the run had started off right sending most of the men away from the clubhouse. They’d also be able to get an accurate count of the members who’d be there.

  Trent’s head ached and his chest tightened at the thought of the mayhem to be wrought tonight. He hadn't killed a man since leaving the military, and though he was sure he could do it again, he was mostly afraid that he wouldn’t be able to stop if he found this child dead.

  He glanced up at the building the MC had renovated into a compound for the top members and Elite Five. The floor plans showed ten bedrooms, a main area, and a bar with a stage.

  Opening the door, Trent stepped out of the van. “Grab the shit,” he called out to the men as they exited the van. Glancing at his watch, he noted that they had less than ten minutes to get into position. The hike through the overgrown grass leading to the field would hold them up, but not by much. Still, Trent felt antsy. He looked around at his men, who were all locked and loaded.

  While Trent had served in the Marines, Mark and Jason had served time with the Army and knew how to execute missions like the one they were about to attempt. Reno and Dillon were exact opposites, while Dillon moved with jerky and overly excited movements, Reno moved through the weeds with a silent deadly grace that had Trent wondering if he’d not done this before.

  A few minutes later, the men had spread out, surrounding the building just as they’d planned, waiting on the signal to storm the proverbial castle. Trent crouched as low to the ground as his big body allowed. The late-night darkness made it nearly impossible to see the face of the two prospects guarding the front door, but the second the signal came—in the form of both men slumping forward and falling to their knees—Trent stood, gun aimed straight in front of him, as he moved with a renewed speed.

  It was his job to get the girl.

  He was unsure of why he’d been tasked with finding the basement-like room, and getting the girl, when either of the MC members with him would have been better suited for the task. But he didn’t complain.

  The sounds of gunfire had Trent picking up his pace. When he made it past the two guards on the ground, Trent made a sharp left and headed toward the back of the building. A dark figure flashed in his peripheral, and Trent took a second to fall flat to the ground. Bullets flew over him, blasting into the ground beside him causing grass and dirt to explode around him. He rolled until his back hit the cement wall, and he was safe around the corner.

  “I got you,” Mutt called out. Trent turned to watch the man coming from around the side of the building. His face covered in blood to the point it nearly distorted his features. “You hit?” he asked as he knelt beside Trent and checked his clip.

  “Nah.” Trent moved into a crouching position.

  “That’s Jackey.” Mutt snapped the clip back into place. “Not sure why he’s down there, but I’m gonna keep him alive long enough to find out.” Trent nodded. “On three?”

  Trent steadied his aim and nodded again.

  “What the fuck?” Mutt yelled. “Jackey, I got ‘em. Get the fuck over here.”

  Trent noticed Mutt’s gun wasn’t up. When Jackey rounded the corner, there was a good chance he’d shoot Trent. He moved back a bit as he heard footsteps headed his way.

  Mutt winked and said in a low whisper, “Remember, don’t kill him.”

  A second later, a large man in a cut and low-riding unzipped jeans came running around the corner. Trent lifted his gun, taking in the man’s surprised expression as he pulled the trigger. The shot was clean and hit the man in the shoulder, sending him barreling and spinning back.

  Trent was up and around the corner before the man had even hit the ground. Gunshots sounded behind him, as the men fought to take command of the compound. Trent’s goal was one thing, and one thing only—get the fucking girl.

  The second he entered the building, the smell of piss and shit hit his nose. Ace had warned him it was a place they held turncoats, and he would probably want to kill them when he got the girl out. He glanced around and realized that shit was true.

  Tucked in the back of the room, in a dark corner, was a small, prone figure on the floor. Trent immediately noticed the torn and tattered school uniform of Elena. His boots made wet slapping noises as he neared her, causing her to jolt up and scream.

  “No! No more, please.” Her torn shrill voice broke through the silence. Her dark hair lay matted to her face, her tear-stained cheeks were bruised and swollen, and her lower lip had been busted open. Her dark eyes roved over Trent, fear so evident Trent could almost taste the bitter flavor on his tongue. Her arms were dotted with bruises, and he cursed when he saw that she was in fact chained to the wall. When she opened her mouth to scream again, Trent raised his hands.

  “I am here to get you out. Jellybeans,” he uttered the code word Ace had given him to say when he got to her.

  Her eyes widened in recognition and she glanced over him again. Then she nodded and pointed to the chains. “You’ll have to shoot them off. They took the key.” Her stoic voice and hard eyes surprised him. He’d expected a victim, but had found a survivor.

  Trent moved forward and quickly examined the chains. “Sit back as far as you can.” When she obeyed, he pulled the chain forward and aimed several inches away from her hand.

  It took four bullets, but Elena was finally free.

  “Can you walk?” he asked, turning to gauge her weight and how long he could run with her.

  She stood on wobbly legs, favoring her right foot, and nodded. “How are we getting out of here?”

  Trent glanced over her, taking in a few more injuries he’d missed when he’d first looked at her. He reached down and pulled a knife from his boot, then handed it to her. “I’m here with some friends, but if anyone tries to grab you, slice the fuck out of them.”

  Her stern glare and pursed lips told him she’d have no problem doing that shit.

  He eyed the door. “Let’s go. It’s too quiet out there.”

  Trent eased out of the building with his gun up and ready to shoot. When no one stopped his progress, he motioned for her to follow. Slowly, they made their way around the building, stepping past a few unfortunate members who’d had no clue they were on the wrong side of the club that night.

  He reached for Elena’s hand when they made it to the main entrance.

  “Behind me,” he ordered. When she obliged, Trent pushed open the d
oor to see members of the First Sons, kneeling in front of Ace. Mutt, Gator, and all of Trent’s men stood with weapons at the backs of the members.

  Ace looked up just as they walked in the door. “Good.” He clapped his hands together. “The judge, jury, and executioner has finally joined the party.”

  All heads, except Mutt’s, turned to Trent and the girl. Trent took in the group of men who were most likely taking their last breaths. Some were full of fear, while others looked pissed and ready to fight.

  Trent noticed when Gator shoved his fist into Mutt’s side, pointing to the girl. Unsure of what the actual fuck was going on, Trent pushed her further behind him, but not before dark eyes widened when they took her in.

  Ace smiled—all teeth and utter destruction. “The insurrection is here . . . and there will be blood.” He held a hand out to Elena, but Trent grabbed her arm, unsure if he should let her go over there or not. There were men on their knees, guns to their heads, and hell, he thought she’d seen and been through enough.

  But Elena thought otherwise. She pulled from his grasp. Trent stared down to her in confusion as she turned back to him. Flipping the knife in her hand so the handle was facing Trent, she lifted the knife. “Here, I won’t need this anymore.”

  Trent shook his head. “Keep it, just in case.”

  Elena put the blade in the pocket of her tattered school uniform jacket. “Thanks.” She limped over to Ace.

  A growl rippled throughout the room. “You dirty, snitching, traitor motherfuckers!” A man spat from the head of the line. Trent couldn’t see his patch, but guessed he was Prez, as two men Trent didn’t recognize stood at his back with guns to his head.

  The man was fucking large, and his beard hung in a braid from his chin to the middle of his chest. Graying blonde hair was pulled back at his neck, and tied tight with a leather strap. His neck displayed so many tats that it turned his skin a faded black. The man turned and eyed the men holding his club at gunpoint. The First Sons emblem was tatted in the middle of his neck, along with a phrase Trent couldn’t make out.

  Gator chortled. “You calling us out, child fucker?” He spat in the man’s direction.

  Ace took Elena to the front of the line. He handed her his gun. “Remember what my note said?”

  Trent had no fucking clue what was happening, but some of the men on their knees sure did. The one Mutt had called Jackey started to shake.

  Elena nodded.

  Ace moved her to the first of eight men lined up, Prez.

  The man glared up at the girl and sneered. “Fucking little whore.” He spat the words at her, as if he knew something the rest of them didn’t.

  Ace ignored his words. “Was he one of them?” he asked in a smooth and calm voice.

  Elena glared right back at the man, nostrils flaring, hatred spilling off her as she answered. “No.”

  Trent had expected her voice to shake and tremble at the very least. Instead, it sounded louder and fuller than before. Her screams and cries from whatever these men had done to her had roughened her voice, yet hadn't silenced her.

  Ace took her to the next man. “Him?”

  Elena eyed the man carefully. “Not sure, make him talk.” With viper like reflexes, Ace punched the man in his stomach. After a coughing fit, the man righted himself. “What would you like him to say?” Ace asked.

  Her voice cracked with her next words. “If there’s grass on the field . . .” She didn’t finish the statement, and she didn’t have to. Everyone there knew the disgusting meaning behind the phrase when it came to the age of consent.

  The man coughed again and repeated what she’d said, then added, “I ain’t touch her. Not once. Swear it. I ain’t into kids.” He tried to move back when Ace knelt beside him, but stilled the instant his flesh made contact with the cold hard muzzle of the gun in the hand of the man behind him.

  Ace pulled his smokes from his pocket. “But, did you stop anyone else from touching her, Mason?” He lit the cigarette and offered it to the man.

  Mason took it between his lips and took a long draw. He nodded his head, then motioned over to Jackey. “Fuck yeah, that bitch was trying to get in there yesterday. I sent him away.”

  Ace stood and nodded, straightening his cut. Trent then noticed his Elite Five patch was missing. He glanced around to Mutt and Gator, noting their patches were missing, too.

  “This one?” Ace continued as he moved to the next man.

  Trent’s gaze moved back to Elena and Ace. Elena nodded and a growl emitted from Mutt’s chest. Trent couldn’t see the man’s face, but he witnessed his body trembling just a bit. As if following unspoken instructions, Gator took several steps back and to the side. He moved and held his gun to the head of another man that Dillon was set to watch. Dillon had two guns in hand, aimed at two men. Gator took over for the man on the right.

  Ace stepped behind Elena and gently touched her elbow. “Make sure you aim at the middle of his forehead.”

  The man spewed apologies and shit, but no one listened.

  Ace continued speaking. “You don’t have to cock it.” Before he got out another word, Elena fired. The back of the man’s head exploded and his body fell forward.

  Jackey tried to stand, but a butt of a gun to his head stopped him.

  Gator pumped a fist in the air. “Fuck yes.” No one seemed shocked, as if Trent were the only one here who didn’t know this was part of the plan.

  They moved from man to man, putting three men down along the way, until Elena stood in front of Jackey. Ace didn’t have a chance to open his mouth before she’d pulled the trigger several times.

  Trent caught a glimpse of her face before she moved to stand behind Ace. She may have been strong, and she may have just gotten the MC’s brand of justice, but Trent had seen that exact expression before. Shayla had shown it to him a million times, and he’d not understood what he was seeing until now—a true loss of innocence. The realization that no matter how many shots are fired, no matter how many bikers were in your corner, life as you fucking knew it was over.

  Hours later, Trent was heading back to the van as he heard his name shouted. He turned to see Ace walking up to him. Trent sent his men back to the van and waited for Ace to appear beside him.

  Ace pulled a cigarette from behind his ear and lit it. “Before y’all head out, I just wanted to remind you that you still owe me that debt, and I do plan to collect.”

  “I know.” And Trent did know. He hated to be in anyone’s debt, but especially after what he’d seen tonight, he’d be paying in full. “What’s going to happen back there?” He motioned to where Prez and the remaining men still knelt, gagged.

  Ace threw a glance over his shoulder. “Like I said, the insurrection is here, and there will be blood.” His lip curled into a cruel smile. “Today marks the death of the First Sons and the takeover of the Blackwater Renegades.” He pulled his gun from his belt and walked back to take care of business. “Don’t forget my debt, Marine.”

  Trent headed in the opposite direction, wishing he was the type to beat a woman; ‘cause Lord knew, Shayla deserved it this time.

  Chapter 6

  Sex, lies and mayhem…

  Trent threw back another shot, allowing the burn of the whiskey to flow through him, burning up the very essence of his soul. In two weeks, he still hadn't been able to get the scene of Elena shooting four men out of his head. Such a young life, ruined at such a youthful age. To make matters worse, Ace had called him to the club to talk, and Trent had obliged. So, here he sat, feeling like a fucking fool. Women danced on the stage, while men snorted their drug of choice, eyeing him like a damned snitch.

  “Brother!” a familiar voice called.

  Trent threw back another, before turning to see a shirtless Gator, bottle in one hand and a busty blonde’s ass in the other. “The fuck you doing here? You ain’t supposed to be here until Monday.” He took a swig of liquor.

  Trent raised a brow. “It’s noon, on Monday.”

&nb
sp; Gator gawked at him, then turned to the blonde at his side. “Damn, Crystal, we’ve been fucking for three days?”

  The blonde jiggled her tits in his face and giggled an unintelligible response.

  Trent sat back in his seat, enjoying the view of the hot blonde. “So, does he know I’m here or what?” The blonde moved from Gator’s side and sloppily took a seat at the bar.

  Ace strode up in his cut, with a new patch that read President in bold white letters.

  He nodded to the big patch on the left side of his chest. “BWRMC? What happened to—”

  “Last we chatted, I told you the insurrection was happening. The First Sons are no more.”

  Shock lit Trent’s body. The FSMC had been around for decades; how the fuck had Ace eliminated all the members and created a new MC? He glanced around, taking in all the shit going on. The First Sons had ended, yet the club still seemed to be pumping with action.

  Ace bared his teeth in a brutal smile. “The ones who didn’t come on board with the Blackwater Renegades, are out back, rotting in the ground.”

  Gator slid beside him, pushing Crystal off the barstool. “Put ‘em all to dirt.” He handed Trent a bottle.

  He turned the bottle over to view the label. The label read Jim Beam signature craft bourbon whiskey. Popping the top, he took a healthy swig. The sweet mix of flavors hitting his tongue damn near made him come in his pants. Ripe cherries and licorice, shadowed by a smoky sweet vanilla and cinnamon—fuck it was good.

  “Shit tastes better than pussy, don’t it?” Ace asked, and Trent had no qualms with agreeing. He leaned against the bar, his bare chest displaying the spread eagle inked on his chest. He slammed a fist against the ink. “Blackwater Rebels drink the good shit.”