That was before the call.
Leaving Tug’s house, she’d gotten Hoss’ address from him and assured Tug she’d be right over. After abandoning her house so ill-prepared, she’d wanted to change from her pajama top and at least put socks on her feet. Bike parked, she’d been in the house when her phone rang with an unfamiliar number. With so much up in the air right now, she’d answered immediately, expecting to get an update from someone. Even if Tug couldn’t call her, he’d promised to keep her updated.
“Hello?” Zippers loosened on her boots, Cassie grunted as she pried them off her sweaty feet.
“This Hoss’ woman?” The question took her off-guard, and Cassie paused before she responded. “This his old lady?”
“Yes?” Her response was as much a question as her initial hello had been, and she shook her head, hating this tentative side of herself. I was getting better. Still, she’d fought her way free from the clutches of a full-blown attack today, forcing it away to make sure the right people knew what was happening with Faith.
“Listen to this.” A beat of silence, then a girl’s scream, sounding tinny and far away. “Don’t please. Oh, God. Please.” Cassie’s chest seized, no air moving through her lungs as she listened to what had to be Hoss’ little girl being tortured. “Please.” Silence again, then the man’s voice, rich with an unfamiliar accent, asked her, “You want her to die?”
“No! Please, no.” Cassie gripped the edge of the kitchen counter, holding herself up when her knees threatened to give way.
“Come here then.” He rattled off an address, demanding she repeated it back. When he was convinced she had it, he told her, “Ride the bike. And bitch?” Cassie couldn’t answer him with words, but whatever noise she made must have sufficed, because he finished with a terrifying directive. “Hurry.”
That was two hours ago. She’d taken two minutes to finish dressing appropriately, texted Hoss’ phone, and then roared out of her garage for the second time that day. All the way to here, where she sat staring at a house placed away from the road, she’d tried to stay on autopilot. Riding aggressively but carefully, she’d pushed her bike’s small fuel tank to the limit, not stopping for anything. The phone in her pocket rumbled for the first time since she’d left, and she toed the bike’s transmission into Neutral to dig the device from the front pocket of her jeans. The same unfamiliar number had texted her. No response to the one she’d sent Hoss, and she refused to let that hurt her. No time for this now.
She stared at the text. Come on in.
Phone back in her pocket, she punched the bike into gear, took in a deep breath before she eased off the brake, and rolled closer to the house.
A man stood on the porch as if to greet her. He was Hispanic and tall, his skin and hair dark with evidence of his heritage. That explains the accent. Without rushing, keeping Hoss’ lesson in the forefront of her mind, she rolled the bike forwards, then pushed backwards to park with the front wheel aimed back up the driveway. The bulk of the device in her other front pocket was reassuring as she unmounted from the bike, and Cassie held her head high as she turned to look at the man.
He stared at her a moment, then something crossed his expression, his lips twisting in what looked like anger. “You, for her.”
Faith’s screams sounded in her mind, and Cassie didn’t hesitate when she replied. “Yes.” She didn’t offer threats of reprisal, of revenge. For all she knew, Hoss wouldn’t bother, not after their fight and his silence. But she couldn’t let him go through losing someone he loved again. Not after he’d talked to her about Hope. How he’d never stopped loving her. If something happened to his daughter, the child he shared with Hope, he would be devastated. I can’t let that happen to him. “Let her go, and I’ll stay.”
“Bedlam,” he called over his shoulder, and the door behind him opened a few inches. “We have her.” A man’s head poked through the gap, the smile on his face poisonous when his gaze landed on her. “Bring the girl.”
“No.” The door opened wider, and Bedlam strolled out. “We keep ’em both. Gonna be war one way or the other. She’s good collateral, man. We need to keep power tilted in our favor, keep all the leverage we can get our hands on. That’s the way of war. We keep ’em both.”
The first man squared up with Bedlam, giving Cassie his back in a move that she didn’t understand. Shouldn’t he keep me in sight or something? “I said, bring the girl.” Enunciating carefully, he repeated his words from before, following with a menacing “Now,” as he leaned forwards at the hips.
“No, mi compadre. I think not.” Bedlam sneered and pushed his shoulders back, puffing up his chest. He’s crazy. This man was named appropriately, and Cassie’s blood ran cold as he again defied the first man. “Not today. Not right now. Not ever, I think.”
“Then you should not think.” She saw the man’s shoulders shift, muscles rippling under the shirt covering his back. There was a holster with a gun on his hip, and she saw the outline of another gun at the small of his back. He held his arms out slightly, as if to facilitate a faster draw. “Take yourself back inside, now. And bring me the girl.” His fingers twitched, and Bedlam looked down, then back up at the man’s face. “Unharmed.”
“Enzo,” Bedlam sneered the name, and Cassie jolted because hatred was clear in his tone. “You ain’t the boss man here.”
“Neither are you.” There was a brief pause, then he finished with, “Friend.” His tone mocked Bedlam’s.
“Then we wait for my prez. Cut and dried, plain and simple. You ain’t the shot caller.” Bedlam moved back to the doorway, the edge of danger that had been so oppressive easing off by millimeters. “Bring the bitch inside.”
Enzo turned, and stared at her then he gestured with one hand. “Cassie. It seems we are stalemated. It is your life for hers, and you should know that before you come inside.”
Cassie took a step forwards, then another, and head high, she told him, “I still say yes.”
***
Garrett
“Oh, shit, Dad.” He lay belly-down in the field within shouting distance of the house and had overheard every word of the exchange that just happened. “Did you hear? Cassie’s here.”
“Yeah, boy. Gimme a minute here. Don’t move yet.” Mason’s voice was dark and filled with anger and gravel, rage overtopping whatever barrier had been holding it back up to now. “Myron, if we roll now, how fast can we get there?”
“Minimum two hours, Mason. As soon as we knew what was going on, I checked with the clubhouse closer than we are here, and they headed out then. It’s still at least thirty before they get there in force. At least thirty minutes, Mason. A lot can happen—”
Silence fell abruptly and the quality of the call had changed enough for a telltale.
“Don’t mute me,” Garrett whisper-shouted into the phone and the tone changed back. “Dammit, Dad. I’m here now. Now. And they’ve got both Faynez and Cassie. We can’t let them get hurt.” His mouth flooded with bitter bile and he spat, trying to clear the taste. “I can’t let them get hurt. You’ve told me for years that our job is to take care of those more vulnerable than we are. Well, I’m not vulnerable. I’ve got a gun, and a knife, and I know how to fight. You and Chase saw to that.” They had, too, Chase taking it on himself to pass along the lessons Slate and other RWMC members had taught him. “I’m not waiting any longer.”
Shouted words overlapped and he picked out the voices of Tug, Hoss, and Myron, but his father was silent. He gave them a minute to them sort themselves out, and then once he was certain his father could hear him, Garrett told him again. “I’m not waiting.”
“Don’t hesitate.” Strength and trust flowed into him through the connection they shared. Emotion thick in his voice, Garrett’s father gave him orders he heard and committed to memory, knowing this was a defining moment in their relationship. Before this moment, and after, they would forever remember it as a turning point. “You go in, and you don’t hesitate. Check your loads, know what y
ou’ve got to use. Then when you see someone, you plug ’em.” There was a pause and Garrett slowly closed his eyes, understanding the struggle inside his father right now. “Gar-boy, if you hesitate, if you falter, you’ll fail. There are too many men in there for you to give an inch, son. Those women are depending on you. You love Faith, yeah?”
Garrett nodded as he forced out a quiet, “Yeah.” He opened his eyes as he took in a deep breath, then admitted in a stronger voice, “I love her, Dad.”
“Then bring her home, son. You go in there, get her, and bring her out. Bring her home. Bring them both home.”
We need to believe
Mason
Myron’s hands were a blur as he worked the keyboards of two computers, moving back and forth to organize and carry out Mason’s demands. There hadn’t been time to verify anything other than the intel their on-the-ground man had provided, but Garrett had been clear and concise as he described what he’d seen.
Mason ignored the terror still churning his gut, tightening his fists as he tried to separate his fear for his son from what needed to be done. Knowing the men in that house would be focused inwardly with the addition of Cassie to their hostages, he’d instructed Garrett to make an approach. He’d told his boy to keep his phone on until Myron had shaken his head.
“Taking unshielded electronics within twenty foot of that house is a bad idea, boss.” Myron pulled up a schematic and waved Mason over to look alongside him. “I’m going to assume they’re up to date on the latest, and either they’ll ping him right away as an unregistered device, or they’ll have blockers in place that’ll fry it. He’s gotta kill it to go inside.”
Mason stared at the man, a friend, a brother, and right now, his worst enemy telling him to serve his boy up on a platter to men who hadn’t balked at involving family in club business. “This is what we’ve been fighting against.” Myron nodded, having followed Mason’s logic. “Anything happens to my boy, I’ll kill ’em all.”
“In line behind me.” Hoss’ words came out on a growl and Mason dipped his head, acknowledging the man’s claim. “I’m not waiting more. I have to do something, brother. Brute and Gunny already left. They’re forty-five ahead of me. I can catch ’em. I need to do something.”
“You are doing something, the hardest thing.” Mason gripped his shoulder and tightened his fingers down until his joints ached. He stared at Hoss for a breath, then turned back to the phone. “Garrett. Phone off, boy. And go. Go fast, go silent, and go smart.”
“Yes, sir.” The call disconnected.
“Jesus Christ.” Myron whispered.
Mason stared at Hoss who’d parked himself in a doorway, fingers stretched overhead to hook at the frame, dragging his body tight with the strain on his muscles. Mason understood the need to have a physical burn to anchor him to the present moment. “This.” He shook his head. “This is why we do what we do, so this kind of shit ends. Family should be above, should be safe.” Mason twisted and gazed around the room, still filling with club members as word passed man-to-man about what was going down. “Family is what makes us strong, and what we fight for.”
“How long’s it been, Myron?” Hoss’ voice cracked and he cleared his throat. “How long since Garrett went inside?”
“Ten minutes.” Myron sounded distracted and Mason looked at him. “I got a drone headed in, fucking finally. I’ll be onsite in fifteen. It’s a long wait but the only one with the capabilities I needed was in Columbus. Took longer than I wanted, but I’ll have eyes and ears in fifteen, boss.”
“A lot can happen in twenty-five minutes.” Tug’s voice reflected the exhaustion the man’s face showed. “A fuck of a lot.”
***
Garrett
The living room of the house was empty. Garrett surveyed what was visible of the inside of the house through the gap between curtains on the front window, surprised at how normal the building seemed. From the looks of the couches and chairs, you’d never know kidnappers lived here. Dangerous men, who had taken something that mattered to him. Someone he’d do anything to get back.
The pistol swung loosely and casually from his hand. His dad’s weapon was heavier than what he was used to, but having a gun in hand was comfortable. They’d spent enough time at ranges through the years that he didn’t have to look at it to work the magazine loose, pressing his thumb against the top cartridge in the mechanism to ensure it was full. One eye still aimed through the curtains, he slipped the holder back into place, listening for the metallic snick as it locked.
He took a deep breath and moved to the front door. Garrett opened it slowly, listening both inside and outside the house for any noise. Nothing. With a nod, he closed the door behind him and locked it, verifying he could still easily leave by twisting the knob. Control access if possible. The door to the basement stood open on one side of the short hallway leading to what had to be the kitchen. He heard the shuffle of footsteps from that direction and bolted, running soundlessly towards the dark rectangle as he sorted out three separate voices.
In the dark, he eased to the side as he pulled the door closed. No lock from the inside, which meant it was outside, but he gritted his teeth and still gave the door his back, making his way down the wooden stairs carefully. From the numbers, he had to assume the men were stationed three up and three down, which meant he had a trio of obstacles to get through before he found Faynez and Cassie.
There was noise in the distance, but nothing close to where he was. That gave him the confidence to finish descending to the floor where he looked around, his breath coming faster. So many rooms. There had to be a dozen choices in view from where he stood. Rooms with numbers painted above the doors, red paint slopped on without care, leaving dried runnels of crimson against the gray concrete walls. Garrett rested a hand against the first door, listening intently. After a few seconds of continued silence, he opened the door to see a small, square room with a drain in the floor. Exactly what his father had told him he’d find, these were rooms where secrets were spilled, along with the blood of whoever had held them.
Please, God.
He moved down the hallway, taking only seconds per door to verify he wasn’t leaving anyone at his back, that he wasn’t passing Faynez by mistake. The hallway turned at the end, and he stopped there, protected by the angle as he listened. Squatting on his heels, he placed one knee on the floor and dipped his head sideways to peer around the corner. Two men stood on either side of a closed door, the number bleeding into the cement above it proclaiming 16.
Garrett jerked back to settle back to the wall and controlled his breathing as he slipped his knife from his pocket. The advance and ambush games he and the other Rebel kids played were a weak comparison to what he needed to do, but from the controlled chaos of their regular combat, he knew exactly what needed to come next. Divide and conquer. Soundlessly, he entered the room beside him, verifying he could open the door if closed, that he wouldn’t be stupidly locked in by a simple mistake. Licking his lips, Garrett blew out a slow, steadying breath, and then very deliberately cleared his throat. The door opened inwards, so he left it cracked slightly and crouched low behind the solid steel.
“The fuck was that?” One voice.
“Fuck if I know.” The second voice called louder, “Trey?” Garrett waited through several beats of silence and then heard a quiet curse. “I’ll go look.”
Footsteps neared and Garrett tensed, blade in hand. As he expected, they slowed as they approached the open door. The guy went for stealth and didn’t tell his companion what he’d found, just tried to open the door wider. He was looking for things at eye level, and Garrett’s posture and the shadows in the room helped mask his presence until the man was mostly in the room.
Exploding from the floor, Garrett sliced at the man’s neck. He felt the knife dig deep, saw the man’s eyes go wide as he started to shout a warning. Garrett slapped his hand over the man’s mouth and yanked the blade free, slicing again, this one traveling more side to side. Hea
t covered his hand and arm, bitter salt finding its way into his mouth and Garrett silently spat as he eased the body to the floor. He grabbed the man’s boots and pulled, hoping the clothing would be quieter sliding across the cement floor than shoe leather.
“Trey? Amos?” Voice number one. Garrett hadn’t had time to fully embrace what he’d done, what he’d had to do, and here came the second man. Nothing I can do about the blood. The floor and doorframe were dark, stained with the arterial spray from the wound Garrett had inflicted. His heart felt like it was about to leap out of his chest and Garrett shook his head hard, not allowing the panic he feared to overwhelm him. “Amos? What the fuck, man?” That was just outside, and Garrett tried to crouch back down, but his legs refused to fold up, holding him upright against his will. The door opened until it bumped against Garrett’s foot, and he saw the top of a man’s head begin to peer around the door. Stiff-armed, Garrett slammed against the door, capturing the man’s head with the edge of the jam. He shoved at the door again, hearing a crunch that time. When the door swung back from the impact another body hit the floor. Garrett swallowed, trying not to spew at the sound.
Quickly, he went to work again, moving the man in alongside the other. He pressed two fingers to the man’s neck, but not feeling a pulse didn’t mean anything. As much as Garrett’s hands were trembling, he wasn’t certain he was actually feeling anything. He stared down at the man and considered leaving an enemy at his back, something he knew his father would counsel against. But he’s not here. Garrett couldn’t do it, couldn’t take that final step, and he didn’t know what that made him. I’m not a coward, but I’m not going to do that.
Back in the hallway, he walked to the door they’d stood in front of. Filling his chest again and again, he sucked in air as if the entire basement of the house had suddenly decompressed, not enough oxygen to sustain him. He stared down at his hands for a moment, then folded the knife and returned it to his pocket, pulling the gun from behind his belt. Another breath and he opened the door, slamming it wide.
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