Hazard (Wayward Kings MC Book 3)

by Zahra Girard

  “Come on, hun,” Sam whispers to me as she guides me back to my bike. She squeezes my hand hard enough to make me blink away some of the nightmares consuming my vision. “I know you’re hurting right now, but you need to ride. You need to go back to the clubhouse, ok?”

  I incline my head and manage a grunt.

  She takes hold of me by the chin, pulls my eyes to look into hers. They’re cold as steel and lit with fury.

  “This is no time for bullshit. This is not the time to go on some fucking flight of fancy or wherever the hell you are in your head,” she growls. “Something is happening that could put us all in the fucking ground. So I don’t give a damn what you need to do, but you pull it together and you get your ass to the clubhouse.”

  Then, hard enough to make my eyes spin in their sockets and to split my lower lip, she slaps me square in the jaw. Pain hurls me back to earth and I spit a thick gob of blood on the ground. Chill air fills my lungs, resuscitating me, and I blink until my eyes focus on the world around me.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  The club thunders down the road, bikes roaring like beasts and war set in our eyes. My heart and mind are still in chaos, but I will myself onto the bike. Every turn, every straightaway, takes all the effort I have. My body is on full alert for a threat I can’t see, expecting death around every corner.

  One by one, we reach the clubhouse.

  A column of soldiers ready for war against an unknown enemy that’s already stolen one of our own from us.

  The lot is empty, the approaching night is full of heavy, portentous quiet. The air reeks of pine and exhaust.

  There’s a crate sitting in front of the door. Crafted of thick board, maybe five feet long, and three feet wide by three feet tall, it sits right on the doorstep. Waiting for us.

  Nobody moves.

  That collection of nails and lumber sits there, daring us to open it. Taunting us.

  Gunney goes forward, each step steady and deliberate. The lid to the crate comes off without much effort — a hard pull, the creak of wood disgorging nails, the clatter of the wood to the pavement as he hurls the lid aside.

  Silence.

  An unmistakable smell emanates from the wooden box. Coppery and rancid. The day-old stench of a body in the beginnings of decay.

  We’ve found grease.

  He sways and puts his hand down on the crate to steady himself. The color drains from his complexion, and creases carve lines in his brow. Then, carefully, he reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. A stroke of his finger brings flame, and the tip of the cigarette turns to a glowing red ember.

  He turns to face us, a ring of smoke puffs from his mouth.

  “We’re going to kill them all. Every single one of these ratfucking bastards. I want each of you to come forward and look in this crate. And I want you to remember what you see. I want you to burn it into your memory, in that place alongside your first fuck, your first kiss, your first love, and whatever other sentimental bullshit you have buried inside you. I want you to remember so that when you come across one of the pigshit sons of bitches that did this, you know exactly what to do to them.”

  One by one, we take our turns approaching the grim show. Bear first, his face a mask of rage. Ozzy, eyes downcast and a solemn frown on his face. Rog, who mutters what might be a prayer. Preacher, who spends the longest time of all staring into that crate.

  Then, it’s my turn.

  I step forward and I look inside.

  Amidst the grisly collection of limbs, of innards, of congealed blood and exposed bones that bear the marks of a crude hack-job amputation, a familiar face stares back at me. He’s missing half his lower jaw, the lid to his left eye, and an ear. What’s left has been carved into a crude approximation of a smile.

  It’s sick. What remains is hardly human. But there is no mistaking who gazes back at me from that pile of gore inside the box.

  Grease.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Selena

  Shuddering wheels and a shoddy transmission carry me southward. I ride the damn bike as hard as I can, until gears grind and every time I work the throttle my heart hitches while the bike protests and whines beneath me. Tears of frustration and fear wet my cheeks until my ducts run dry. I urge the bike faster, faster, but it’s still not fast enough.

  My son is waiting for me.

  That, or my death.

  But if I can’t have him, I might as well take my final out.

  I can’t run from my problems anymore.

  Five miles south of Portland, my bike dies. A shuddering, smoking death on an unwelcoming stretch of highway. All around me are suburbs, some fields, farms, and a beaten-down billboard advertising a 2-for-1 dining special going on at some crappy buffet called ‘The Lumberyard’.

  “Son of a fucking bitch,” I scream as I coast the bike to the shoulder. I hop off and shove the bike to the ground, kicking it again and again. I kick it until my heels bruise and my lungs burn.

  Twenty-five miles to go to Salem.

  Cars whizz past me, not a single one slowing to check on the person frantically kicking her bike. I decide to walk. This bike is as lost of a cause as I am. One step at a time, I start forward, clinging to the hope that my son is still alive, a hope that slips through my fingers like so much sand.

  Beside the road, smoke rises from a small brushfire burning in a ditch. Choking, sharp smoke twists in the breeze, small flames fanned by the wind.

  Just great.

  A mile on, the suburbs turn to total farmland. Golden, waving stalks of amber that smell like cow shit and pesticides.

  I can’t walk fast enough. My body aches. But I can’t stop.

  “Please, not yet,” I say to myself, imploring my blistered feet to keep going. Praying to whatever god there is that I’m not too late.

  I know my odds of making it out of this alive are non-existent. I know I’m walking into enemy territory, that every biker from here to Reno is likely hostile. My honest hope is that I get one more look at my son — alive — before they kill me. And if I’ve earned any mercy from God, maybe I’ll take one or two of those assholes with me before I die.

  All I have left is the hope of bitter revenge.

  I picture my son’s face. His sweet smile. His bright eyes.

  I tighten my grip on the pistol I’m carrying with me. If they’ve snuffed that light out, I will spill every drop of my own blood to make them pay.

  I can’t run from this. I can’t plot and scheme my way out, I can’t manipulate some hard-cocked ex-soldier to do my dirty work for me. This rests on my shoulders.

  After five miles, my feet falter. I stumble, once, and catch myself just barely before I fall. My calves cramp and my knees ache. The afternoon sun beats on my back, pushing me down, pressing me towards the hot asphalt. Blistering sunburn forms on the back of my neck, my ears, my cheeks.

  But still, I grind on.

  Cars and trucks speed by, not a one aware of what I’m going through. Not a one caring enough to even stop and offer me a hand. Then I hear a sound like approaching thunder. A familiar chugging engine.

  I turn.

  I squint against the bright light and shimmering heat reflecting off the road.

  It’s him.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Jarrett

  My dead friend’s busted head stares back at me.

  I lean in. Take a closer look. They defiled his skull. Skin’s missing from his cheeks, a crude attempt to carve a smile. I can see each one of his teeth, aside from the missing lower jaw. He’s even gold a gold filling on one of his back molars. But otherwise, he’s got a nice set of teeth.

  I don’t feel myself take a step back. The fog of war descends over my eyes and my ears. But for once, this feeling of war sits right with my heart.

  I’m ready to kill. I want to kill. I want bloody, bone-breaking vengeance.

  These motherless bitches killed one of our own.

  I don
’t hear Gunney’s voice calling for everyone to get inside for church — not until he grabs my shoulder and practically screams it in my ear.

  I turn my head, look at him. Blink away the haze in my vision.

  It’s just four of us remaining in the parking lot. Me, Bear, Ozzy, and Gunney. And I know Bear and Ozzy are only there out of concern for me; they’ve both got looks on their faces like someone facing down a feral dog and they’re unsure of whether that animal’s going to strike or want to play fetch.

  “Where’s your head at, Jynx?” Gunney says.

  I frown.

  Jynx?

  That’s right. Grease and the others probably didn’t get around to telling him.

  “I’m not Jynx,” I say. My voice sounds hollow.

  “The hell are you talking about?” Gunney says.

  “Jarrett never gambled in Reno. He borrowed the money to help Selena. So, yeah, we talked it over and he’s not ‘Jynx’ anymore. I still think Jerry might be a good name for him, but that’s up for debate.”

  Selena’s name hits me like a bolt of lightning.

  She’s got to be involved.

  I need to see her.

  Something about how she left isn’t right. I know what it sounds like when she lies, and I know what it sounds like on those rare occasions when she’s telling the truth. She wasn’t lying when she told me she loved me. And she wasn’t lying when she begged me to forget about her.

  The fear and desperation in her voice is too potent to fake.

  Something’s got to be behind it. Someone’s got their claws into her.

  Her disappearance and Grease’s death aren’t just a coincidence. There’s no way. Somehow she’s mixed up in this.

  And if she’s mixed up in it, her kid is too.

  Jake. My fists tighten and my heart roars thinking about that kid being in danger.

  I’ll kill them all. Nothing’s going to save them if they even fucking touched that kid.

  For all Selena’s faults, for all the crimes she’s committed, she doesn’t deserve to have anything happen to her kid. And that kid? If he’s even half as good and innocent as I remember, he deserves so much better.

  I don’t realize I’m on my bike until I hit the ignition.

  “Where the fuck are you going?” Bear says, grabbing me by the shoulder.

  “I’m going to find her,” I say.

  “Out in the whole wide fucking world? Have you lost it, brother?”

  “Bear, I think she’s involved in all this. Somehow. But I don’t think it’s by choice,” I say. Judging by the look on Bear’s face, I know he thinks I’m full of shit. “Listen, I know her the same way you know Roxy. The same way Ozzy knows Maria or Gunney knows Sam. Trust me.”

  Gunney and Ozzy come over to stand by Bear’s side. All three of them look concerned as hell.

  “We’ve got church, brother,” Gunney says. “These cocksucking eunuchs killed one of our own, and we need to stick together.”

  “If I’m right about Selena, then we’ll all be ending up in the same place: on the doorstep of these motherfuckers,” I say. “And if you want my vote for church, fine, I can give that to you. Here’s my vote: I vote we kill them all, that we burn their clubhouse to the ground and salt the fucking earth and whatever ashes remain.”

  “We’ll be behind you, mate, once we make sure everyone here is safe,” Ozzy says, ignoring the side-eye from Gunney. “But how are you going to find her?”

  “You remember that lighthouse story you were telling earlier? Gimme your phone, Ozzy.”

  “I don’t think now’s the time to make a reservation at a lighthouse, bro. Besides, it’s all the way in New Zealand. It’s a good spot, though. Scenic. Maybe after we figure this mess out I can book it for you.”

  “No, goddamnit. I’m talking about that app shit. Where you looked your phone up and tracked it.”

  Ozzy pulls his phone out, works on it for a second, then hands it over to me. “You put your phone number in, you put your account login with your mobile provider, then you can track it. It’ll give you the coordinates on the map there. All that flash GPS and stuff in live time.”

  I grunt and follow his instructions. In a second, I’ve got a blinking dot on a map. She’s heading south on the interstate. She’s got a good head start on me, but, for once in my life, I’m thankful my backup bike is a piece of shit — cause, for all the time she’s got on me, she’s still got a long ways to go and that bike she’s on will not take her above forty-five miles per hour.

  “Thanks, Ozzy,” I say, checking the map one last time before shoving the phone in my pocket.

  “No worries, brother. But if my wife calls before I get ahold of her, make sure she knows to get somewhere safe.”

  “Brother, I think it’s the other way around — the world needs to be kept safe from her. Anyone who comes for Maria is signing their own death warrant,” I say.

  “Yeah, she’s pretty great, isn’t she?” Ozzy says, smiling.

  “That she is.”

  “Take care, brother,” Bear says, clapping me on the back.

  “Give ‘em hell. And don’t fucking die,” Gunney says as he gives me a hug.

  I shake the hands of all three men, knowing full well it might be the last I see of either of them. I hold no illusions that this is going to be easy. Or anything but brutal and bloody.

  But if the woman I love and her kid are trapped in this mess, I’ll fight until my last breath leaves my body just to make sure they’re safe.

  This could be my last ride.

  At least I’ll get to die for a good cause.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Selena

  My brain tells me he’s a mirage at first. Some kind of hazy figment of my imagination, conjured up by the heat and my exhaustion. Something comforting to give me hope.

  But my heart begs for him to be real. Even now, after all I’ve done to him.

  Except the look on his face is anything but comforting. It’s frightening.

  There’s a far-off look in his eyes, like he’s already down the twenty-some miles of highway between here and the Bloody Jackals clubhouse. Like he’s already in the middle of slaughter, with blood on his hands and people dead on the ground in front of him.

  “Jarrett?”

  I venture his name with hesitation.

  I don’t know whether I want him to be real or not.

  For a moment, he looks at me, and I can see his pupils focus and the far-off look leaves his eyes. He grins at me, and it’s crooked and warm.

  “You look like you need a ride.”

  “What I need is to know why the fuck you’re here.”

  “I figured you were in trouble. And that you were lying about why you had to leave,” he says.

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because the Selena I know has two priorities in her life: money and her kid. You’ll lie, cheat, and steal for those two things. And, well, when you left and I still had the two-hundred and fifty-two dollars in my checking account, I figured it had to involve your kid,” he says, then rolls his shoulders. “Then our VP turned up dead and I figured it had to be serious”

  I put my hands on my hips. Partly because the edge in his voice is rubbing me the wrong way, and partly because I’ve got my pistol tucked in the back of my jeans. I want to be ready in case I need it to protect myself.

  “You still haven’t told me why you’re here.”

  “You can put your hands down by your sides, Selena. You don’t need your gun. Or my gun. Whatever. If I were going to kill you, I’d have shot you by now.”

  I do as he says, even though I’m not so sure of his answer.

  “Talk to me, Jarrett,” I say. I can’t keep my anxiousness out of my voice. Every second we’re standing here is another second my son doesn’t have to spare.

  “You’ve got blood on your hands, Selena. You’ve thrown my club and my family into chaos. You fucked with my heart for god-knows-what reasons. You deserve some punishment.
But none of the consequences for that should fall on your kid. Whatever’s going on between us, we can sort that out another time,” he says. Then, he looks at me in a way that he’s never looked at me before, and his voice takes a tone I’ve never heard before: pity. Pity that I don’t deserve. “Tell me the truth, Selena. Tell me what you’ve gotten yourself into.”

  There’s something caught in my throat I can’t swallow, though I try time and again before I open my mouth to answer him. I don’t want him to hear me like this. Or see me like this. Broken. Beaten. Ready to die. I thought when he saw me in Reno I was at my worst — just a mother struggling for her freedom, fighting to hold it together for her kid, and hoping for some small measure of revenge against the fucking monsters who ruined her life.

  But that was nothing compared to this.

  Here I am, on a crowded, lonely stretch of highway, tenaciously clinging to a whisper-thin fantasy of revenge. All I have to my name is a gun and a prayer that rings false even to my own desperate ears.

  I give up trying to swallow that knot in my throat. Because fuck my pride and the lies it’s built on.

  “Jarrett, I never settled my debt with the Devil’s Riders and the Bloody Jackals. I ran. I grabbed Jake and the money and I ran.”

  I pause. It hurts to even say these words out loud.

  “Keep going,” he says. “After all these years and all the pain, the truth is going to take more than a few words. You owe me.”

  He’s right, and I have to fight myself from getting my guard up. I’m at war with my stupid arrogance and pride as much as anything else.

  “I ran because I thought I could get away with it. I saw my chance to give a giant ‘fuck you’ to these people that had ruined my life and killed my brother. For two years, I thought I got away with it. I found some tiny town in Oregon, and I lived quiet, and I thought I was free. And it felt so, so fucking good. And then one day, I wasn’t free.”