MC Fight Club: Iron Banshees: (Complete Series: Parts 1-5) An MC Fighter Menage Romance

by Juniper Leigh

  “Your ‘friend’?” Tommy chuckled and crossed his arms across his chest, in a gesture that I instantly recognized as one Oliver had inherited. “That there is your wife, and Old Pete’s lovely daughter.” He looked past Lucky and right at me. “Hello, dear,” he said, “I’m so sorry about your father.”

  “How can you say that?” I hissed, before thinking better of it. “How dare you say that, when it’s because of you that he’s dead?”

  “Nothing personal, lovey,” he said. “Just business.”

  “You’re a monster,” I said, and something in his expression darkened.

  “Harper, please, just… stop talking.”

  “No, son,” Tommy said, “She’s right. What I done, that’s wrong. And I’ve a penance to pay for the taking of that life. But that there’s between me and God, aye. So, we’ll be movin’ on to the discussion of the business part of the matter.”

  “Business? Even if you tripled the amount you owed us, we would never work with you again. And if you think otherwise, you are out of your goddamned mind.”

  “That’s unfortunate, son,” he said. “I was afraid you’d say that.” Two of his goons came up from behind me and curled their fists around my arms. I jerked free, stumbling into Lucas, but the lot of them were descending on us, not trying to hurt us, just trying to keep us still, restrain us, maybe take us.

  “Get your hands off of me!” I shouted.

  “Let her go, Flynn. She’s off limits.” There was a desperation in his voice that I had never heard before, and when I looked at him, his wide eyes were full of pleading. “She’s not a part of this. Please. She has a son.”

  “Aye. Your son,” Tommy said. “I know. I’ve done my homework.”

  “What’s your game plan here, man? To piss me off further? To ensure that not only do I never do business with you or your organization again, but that I want to fucking kill you?”

  “You wanted to kill me before, son,” Tommy said, evenly. “This move here is to ensure you give up that idea.”

  His goons began to tug me toward the SUV. “No, let me go.” I struggled to break free and Lucas struggled to get to me.

  “Put her in the back of the car,” Tommy directed.

  “Oh, hell no,” I said, and kicked my legs out, dropping myself to the pavement so that I was dead weight. They held me up but it slowed their pace. The other men were all focused on keeping Lucas from getting to me.

  “You son of a bitch, I swear to God—”

  “Here is the deal, Mister Whalen,” Tommy Flynn said, his hands clasped in front of him. “We’re going to hold on to the lovely lady until you’ve had a chance to calm down. Until you’ve had a chance to talk to your club and talk some sense into everyone. That way, they know that I can come back to town, resurface, and continue on with business as usual. That not only is my monetary debt wiped clean, but so is the blood debt.”

  “You’re fucking insane, Flynn,” Lucas spat, full of vitriol.

  “Well, son, you see, I think that’s true,” he said. “Because here’s what we’re going to do to ensure your cooperation. You see we’re going to give you six hours, and every hour, we’re going to cut off a part of your pretty little wife and we’re going to send it to you. That’s motivational, isn’t it?”

  My heart thrummed in my chest as I was overtaken by fear, as my fight-or-flight response kicked in. Flight, it was very much flight. I looked at Lucas, who also looked stricken and pale, and I knew I could not let them take me. I didn’t want to know what they would do to me, but more than that, I didn’t want to know how their possession of me would impact Lucas. I tensed my muscles and stomped down on the toes of one of the men that held me. It startled him more than anything else, and he let go enough for me to kick the other guy in the crotch and make a run for it.

  I darted off as fast as my legs could carry me, past the abandoned gas station and down a long and empty road. I didn’t look back over my shoulder, I just ran, ran until my lungs burnt, ran until my legs ached.

  Ran until something hit the back of my head and everything went black.

  Breaking Bonds

  (MC Fight Club: Iron Banshees: Book 4)

  Juniper Leigh

  Copyright 2014 Enamored Ink

  Breaking Bonds

  I began to surface slowly back into consciousness, my senses turning on one by one. First, I could feel cold, damp concrete beneath my cheek and the hard, steady thrumming of my pulse in my chest and at the base of my skull. Then I could smell something dank, like rusted water and wet dog, and something else, like copper and seawater. Next, the taste of salt on my lips, of blood in my mouth, tangy and sweet, that left a thickness in the back of my throat and burned when I tried to swallow it down.

  After that, I could hear the restless pacing of feet on solid ground, the slow, easy murmurings of men in a friendly kind of disagreement; the clinking of coins, maybe, or of glasses. Finally, I opened my eyes, and the world came into soft focus: a concrete floor with an old drain; a set of stairs, maybe five, that led to a heavy wooden door; a naked bulb hanging overhead that cast the room in a gritty yellow glow. I was alone in this windowless room, which was maybe ten feet long by ten feet wide, and the voices I heard were just outside the door.

  I forced myself to sit up, and felt a wave of nausea wash over me as the timpani beat in my head crescendoed into a fortissimo and drowned out all of my other senses. I squeezed my eyes shut and lifted one hand to take stock of my injury: a blunt object had made contact with the base of my skull, and blood was oozing from the wound at a slow but steady pace. I made myself open my eyes to examine the blood on my fingertips and determined that I would likely not need stitches and that the wound wasn’t, in fact, life-threatening.

  I was probably concussed, however, and noted that I would have to do my best not to drift off to sleep — a prospect that didn’t altogether thrill me, given my current circumstances. I moved slowly, shifting so that I could sit cross-legged on the concrete, and tore a strip of fabric from the bottom of my tee shirt. I tied it around my head, hoping it might stem the blood flow entirely, and used my fingertips to press gently on my face and the rest of my skull. The flesh underneath my left eye was tender: I’d probably hit it the hardest when I fell. Because I had fallen, hadn’t I?

  As I continued to press at the sensitive areas of my body, I tried to recall precisely what had happened, and where I was. I’d been with Lucas… We were going to get my car… Then what had happened?

  Men, in SUVs. Tommy Flynn. Yes, that’s right: Tommy Flynn was back, and he wanted the blood debt — and the monetary one — wiped clean. And I was his bargaining chip. I took in a series of deep breaths and tried to steady my heart rate as I looked around the room — it truly was just a concrete box, no windows, one door, a drain in the floor — and I wondered what they used this place for, then saw the old, rust-colored stains near the drain, which gave me a pretty good idea as to what went on here…and I shuddered where I sat, recalling how Flynn had made the grisly promise that, after six hours had passed, he would cut off a piece of me and send it to the club, every hour, on the hour.

  When I heard the locks on the door start to click and snap out of place, I froze: what was best, I wondered? Should I rise to my feet to face my captors, or pretend to still be passed out, in the hopes that they would leave me alone until I came to? My eyes darted around the room, trying to ascertain whether or not there were cameras in there, and, seeing none, I resumed my previous position, with my cheek pressed against the cold floor. I closed my eyes and tried to breathe in small, quiet gulps, hoping the ruse would fool them and they’d just go away again.

  “Still unconscious,” I heard one of them say after the door swung open. A pair of feet descended three of the stairs and paused there.

  “She’s no bother to us if she’s asleep,” came Flynn’s familiar voice. “We just want to make sure there’s no screamin’ or hollerin’. I’m trying to run a business, after all. That is the point
of all this.” So I wasn’t in some isolated location — I was in a room connected to one of Flynn’s businesses, somewhere where someone might hear me if I screamed. A cellar, then. Perhaps an old vault. I must be underground, but that door must lead directly into a populated area. A bar, maybe? A gym? I wracked my brain. “Leave ’er be. Whalen has five hours left before we need to send him something… motivational.”

  “You sure? She’s a pretty thing. Might be we could clean ’er up, have some fun wit’ ’er.” He was like some stock villain, this anonymous man. I could practically hear him drooling over me.

  “Honestly, Callaghan,” came Flynn’s voice, obviously displeased, “what kind of man do you take me for?”

  There was a brief pause. “One who has no problem cutting up girls, but won’t give ’er to ’is men to have a little fun wit’, which don’t make no sense to me.” He wasn’t the smart one.

  And Flynn knew it. “I don’t pay you to think, Callaghan. You’re the muscle.”

  “I know, but—”

  “All brawn and no brains. I’m pulling you off this detail, understand? Have Leary stand watch.”

  There was a grumble of distinct displeasure. “Aye, boss,” the voice replied. I could hear the click of Flynn’s shoes on the concrete as he scaled the stairs once more, then the door slammed shut and the locks clicked back into place. I sat up. So, I had been out for an hour, then.

  I made myself stand up and nearly fainted when all of the blood rushed out of my head. I steadied myself against the wall and climbed up the small staircase, trying to peer underneath the door.

  I could see a warm orange glow, and the shuffling feet of a number of different people. I could smell cigarette smoke, and hear the soft din of conversation. Where the hell was I? Think, Think, Harper Grace.

  I had always fancied myself a rather industrious woman — I was clever, despite a string of poor decisions, and capable, with a good head on my shoulders. But try as I might, I could not think my way out of this. I just had to trust that Lucas would come through for me. But I hated the idea of just sitting there, waiting to be rescued. That simply wasn’t the type of girl I was.

  I thought about my son, Jamie, and how he wouldn’t know where to find me. I thought of my poor mother, who had just buried her husband, and what she must think about a missing daughter. If she even knew — she might just think I’d run out again, and left Jamie for her to take care of. I began to tremble with frustration, hating the impotent feeling of being entirely out of control.

  “Get it together,” I said aloud to myself. “No sense in falling apart now.” I tried to think of what tools I had at my disposal, but I had been relieved of my cell phone and my purse — not that I thought my wallet and my makeup bag could’ve gotten me out of this situation. All I had were my wits, and I couldn’t think myself out of a concrete box. So, I mustered all of my strength and I pounded my fists against the heavy wooden door.

  After only a moment the locks clicked open and the door swung outward on its hinges, granting admittance to one of Flynn’s goons. He was tall and wiry, like you might imagine an Irish bare-knuckle boxer to be. He was in his forties, probably, with tired green eyes and a prominent mustache that was the same mottled grey and white as his hair. He had a bottle of water in one hand, and a gun in the other. “I see you’ve rejoined the waking world, lassie,” he said, closing the door behind him. He tossed the bottle of water down to me, which I caught, and twisted off the cap to drink greedily down. “How’s your wee head?”

  “It’s pounding,” I said, panting as I came up for air. I’d finished off the bottle of water all in one series of gulps.

  “Aye, I imagine it would be at that. I am sorry for it.”

  “It’s not your fault,” I said, almost reflexive, before canting my head to the side, “or is it?”

  He chuckled low in his throat and gave a shake of his head. “No. I wasn’t with the rest of ’em when they nabbed you.”

  I made my eyes wide and watery like two reflecting pools and locked them on his face. “Do you think they’ll kill me?” I asked, tapping into the real fear I felt to try to manipulate him into taking pity on me. And I must have been a pitiful sight, in my jeans and torn tee shirt, my black hair matted with blood.

  “No, lass,” he said, his voice calm and kind, “I dinna think they’d go so far as that.”

  “But you think they’ll keep their promise?” I pressed, inching closer to him. “To… to… cut me up?” I felt my eyes well with tears, not entirely sure if I was putting on a show or if I was really frightened enough to cry. Perhaps a little bit of both.

  “No sense in weeping, lass,” he gently intoned, “no one wants to cut up a pretty little bird like you. And I imagine your husband will come through for you.”

  “Husband,” I hissed, blinking rapidly so that a few tears spilled over my eyelids and slid down the slope of my cheeks. “Some husband. You know, we’ve been separated for three years?”

  “Have you, now?”

  “Yeah, and I’m back in town for just a few days and… and…” At this point, I really dialed up the waterworks, allowing the stress of the last few hours to well up and explode. I produced a series of genuinely wracking sobs, appealing to this goon’s sense of humanity. Fortunately for me, he approached and patted me gently on the shoulder.

  “There, there, lass,” he murmured. “There, there.” I pressed myself into his shoulder and he curled his arm around me. I felt him rest his chin on my head as he continued to pat my shoulder, and I opened up my eyes just enough to see exactly where the gun was. He was holding it in his hand, rather loosely I thought, with the safety on. I continued to weep, loudly, with my eyes open, and I snaked one arm around his waist, hugging him tight.

  “I’m so frightened,” I whimpered, trying to sound as pathetic and defenseless as possible. I knew I would have only one shot to grab the gun; I knew that if I missed, it could mean my death. I also knew that I wasn’t about to let Tommy Flynn and his goons cut me up piece by piece to send to Lucas and the rest of the Iron Banshees.

  I was pure adrenaline, practically shaking with nerves, and totally unsure of my next move. But when he began to lift the gun up, as though to encircle me with that arm as well, I reached out with surprising quickness and grabbed the gun from his hand. I tried to spin away, but he was quick, too, and he clung to me, squeezing me around the neck.

  “Now, lass, you’re gonna want to be givin’ that back to me, now,” he growled in my ear as he curled his fingers around my wrist. But then he heard me turn the safety off, and froze where he stood. His eyes bore down into me, as though he wanted to see if I would really shoot him. I was curious about that myself — I’d never shot anyone before. Oh, sure, Lucas had taught me years ago how to shoot a gun, and I knew how to handle the kick, knew well enough how to aim, and how much force it actually took to pull a trigger. But a paper target was nothing like a human being.

  “You seem like a very nice villain,” I said shakily, sniffling through my tears, “and I’ve never killed anyone before, but I’m not interested in being a pawn in Tommy Flynn’s game, so if that means you’re collateral damage, well… I can live with that.” I pressed the barrel of the gun into the fleshy part of his abdomen. “I think you should let go of me, and I think you should stay quiet.”

  “Whatever you say, lass,” he said, letting me go and stepping back. “I’m curious to see how far you get before someone shoots you in the skull.” I stumbled back toward the staircase, holding the gun in two shaky hands.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, “but I can’t really have you following me.” I aimed the gun at his legs and fired just as he was beginning to raise his hands in protest. The bullet tore through his knee, doing much more damage than I had intended, but I wasn’t exactly a fantastic shot. At two feet away, however, I knew I could at least hit my target somewhere. He let out a bellowing cry and dropped to the concrete. I knew, now, that everyone would have heard the shot and his shouts of pain
and would be running in to see what had happened. So I stood and waited at the top of the stairs for the door to open.

  And soon, it did: another man with a gun came darting past me, spied his compatriot, and I felled him with a bullet to the calf before he had the chance to turn around and see me. I was surprised at how I handled the kickback from the gun, clutched as it was in both hands. I thought of my son; I thought of his face. I thought that I would do what I had to do to stay alive and in one piece for my little boy.

  When another man passed through the doorway moments later, he pointed the gun directly at me around the corner before stepping into the room. I stayed frozen as he locked his eyes on me, holding out his free hand toward me. “Give me the gun,” he demanded, “or I swear to God, I will shoot you.” He was sweating profusely; he was young, and fat, and I could tell that he very much did not want to be there, pointing a gun at me.

  “Is that what Tommy Flynn really wants you to do?” I asked, and sidled slowly along the wall toward the door as he considered his answer. He hesitated just a moment too long, and I fired, catching him in the shoulder and sending him spiraling down the stairs to join the others. I darted out the door and slammed it behind me, locking it, but when I turned to examine the room, I saw that it was overcrowded with men, men much larger than I was. Many of them looked surprised to see me, and I figured out where I was: at an underground casino. There were men smoking cigars with cards in their hands and chips stacked in front of them; there were women in slinky dresses, sipping glasses of champagne; there were dealers in white shirts and black vests; and there were men around the perimeter carrying weapons, some concealed and some not, patrolling everything and making sure that everything went according to plan.

  I was not, however, going according to their plan, which became blatantly obvious when several of the goons came toward me, weapons drawn. I glanced between the women, wondering if they’d heard the shots and the moaning, wondering if they cared. I wondered if they’d been there when I was thrown into that tiny room, and if even one of them had thought to themselves, maybe she’s somebody’s mother; maybe she’s somebody’s daughter. But they all looked vapid and empty, like they were drunk or high or both, and like they were there to be beautiful trophies on the arms of the men who brought in the most cash. They were there to be fucked, and they let these men fuck them in exchange for their drug of choice, be it booze, money or actual drugs. They didn’t care who I was, except that I was decidedly not dressed for the occasion, smeared as I was with dirt, sweat, and blood.