Shelter (Red Rebels MC Book 5)

by C. D. Breadner

  “Shit,” she muttered, getting more shots close up. “They removed the easiest ways to identify.”

  Officer Martin leaned over to pry the jaws apart, adding “Yeah, and the teeth are gone too.”

  “But we have kuttes with road name patches.”

  Martin shook his head as he straightened back up. “Yeah, this is a warning to the Rats. They just declared war.”

  “Who did?” she asked lightly, taking a few more photos of the congealed stumps before moving on to photograph the gaping, blood-and-dirt-coated mouth.

  “Come on, Dani. You know very well who.”

  She lowered the camera. “This was the Rebels pissing on their hydrant?”

  “Absolutely. I might not know everything going on, but this I do know. The Rats never had interest in this town while the Mad Gypsys were running things in Hazeldale. They see a weakness in whatever deal the Rebels have going. They’re pushing Sunshine, they want it in Markham and moving through Markham.” Martin scratched his forehead. “Fuck. I hope they sort it out, too. Because I’m about done with this shit.”

  She couldn’t blame him. And yet, the initial shock of understanding what she had stumbled upon now worn off, it was unsettling how knowing Knuckles and his friends had done this really didn’t bother her.

  She wasn’t an idiot. She’d taken criminology, for fuck’s sake. She knew how these clubs were meant to operate. From the minute she’d met Knuckles she’d had that guard up, and it didn’t really drop until he showed himself to be trustworthy with her family. There was a gun fight outside her house, a window was broken. Scary, absolutely. And yet the world was full of stories of people with no ties to any kind of criminal enterprise dying by violent means.

  Her ex-husband wasn’t a criminal when she met him, and he was still capable of hurting them. Not by proximity, but because it was a compulsion and he lacked control. Knuckles could get them hurt, but it would never be because he was looking to do them harm. He would only want to protect them.

  Or, that would have been the case. If he hadn’t dumped them like a pile of laundry.

  She spent the rest of that very warm afternoon, and well into the evening, photographing the bodies as they were removed from the mass grave. It was hell on her stomach, but she fought through. The heat didn’t help, but downing a few bottles of water got everything back under control.

  Then the bodies were transported to the hospital’s morgue, and she set to work cataloguing the clothing and any other injuries. First priority was grabbing one of the odor respirators. Then, with protective gear on overtop of her clothing, she washed the first body, assessed, and moved on to the next.

  One man had a broken neck, three men had been strangled; one with not a lot of damage, just a dark bruise on his temple, that had to have been suffocated, based on the petechial hemorrhages she could see, even with all the dirt. One man’s belly had been opened in such a way she knew it had to be a shotgun blast. Another one’s face was nothing more than hamburger; she wouldn’t be able to tell facial structure. And with the teeth gone, the jaw was an open mess of broken bone. Actually, the teeth were probably a hell of a task to remove on that one.

  All of them had patches of skin missing from their arms, chests, backs. She was guessing tattoos.

  It was almost midnight when she was done, throwing away her last pair of latex gloves. Stomach still feeling a bit sour, she turned off the lights once she’d cleaned everything up, and returning to the sheriff’s department that late at night did not make for a pleasant drive. Stomach aside, she just wanted to go home, but after firing off a text telling Grace and Annie goodnight she started on her official reports. Troy found her at her desk, and he set a hot mug of coffee down for her.

  “Oh my God, thank you,” she groaned, reaching for it and downing half of it on one go.

  With a chuckle, he informed her, “I made a whole new pot just for you.”

  “That was one of my more disgusting experiences,” she muttered, going back to her computer’s keyboard. Her stomach would have to put up with it.

  “How long have they been dead?”

  She shrugged. “Preserved a little since they’d been buried in the ground, not left out in the elements. I can’t go by insect activity. No rigor mortis, so it’s been longer than forty-eight hours. Eyes were beginning to liquefy. There were some gases trapped in the body, wherever the wounds weren’t gaping.” Shit, this was tricky. She knew exactly how long it had been. Again, her gut clenched. This time it must have been the stress of having to avoid being completely honest.

  “Best guess?”

  “A week.”

  “Cause of death?”

  “It’s a homicide sampler. One was shot in the stomach, shotgun. He was obvious. I had one broken neck. Two strangulations, one asphyxiation. And one suffered massive head trauma. His cheekbones were busted, jaw broken in six places. And that wasn’t from tooth removal, but it had to have made that part a lot more difficult. They had skin cut away, so I’m guessing tattoos.”

  “Wow. So, we had a rumble in Markham one night that no one called the cops about.” Troy rubbed his brow, sighing heavy. “Fuck.”

  “You seeing Federal interference on this one?”

  His laugh had no humor. “Oh, hell yes. I do. Dead gang members. Known to be trafficking Sunshine, and we’re already tagged as a point of interest on both of those topics. So yes, we are about to get a hell of a lot of interest.”

  She sighed, too. “I’m sorry.”

  Troy shook his head. “Don’t be. It might actually change things around here.”

  She kept quiet, even as her stomach rolled uncomfortably. Maybe it was from not eating.

  She was thankful Troy hadn’t brought up her relationship with Knuckles since that day after he’d seen the territorial response the man had just as the sight of her putting her hand on a co-worker’s arm. Troy would let little comments fly at times, but it was never overtly mean. She could feel his frustration, and she knew he was fighting to stay a good, clean cop.

  “You want another coffee?” he was asking, just as her head swam slightly.

  “Um, no. I think I better leave it at one,” she said, just as her entire body suffered a wave of nausea. Her hand went to her forehead, skin suddenly feeling clammy.

  “Are you okay?”

  No, she really wasn’t. The sudden urge to throw up had her closing her eyes and resting her head on the desk. She didn’t even try to answer.

  “Are you going to be sick?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Shit. Wait a second.”

  Like she had a choice. He took off in a flurry in footsteps. After breathing through her mouth for about thirty seconds Troy returned, his hand on her back. “I brought you cold water. And a bucket if you need it.”

  She couldn’t even find his panicked tone humorous. She grabbed the open bottle of water and took a sip, then looked up at him. “That’s better. Thank you.”

  He looked relieved, and then she threw up in the bucket he’d brought her.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  The United States Army sergeant that had found him in the midst of his first-ever Red Mode episode turned out to be from Illinois, which was one place Knuckles had never been. While they took up defensive positions in the growing shadows of the rubble that was the protective wall around the Iraq Foreign Ministry, Sergeant Kelly Glover and Greg spent their time talking about home.

  It was surreal. His ears still rang from the explosion, and the arm that had been nicked by that sniper bullet was starting to ache. But here he was in the fucking desert, across the ocean, with a sergeant that still had acne asking him all the places he’d lived.

  It was grounding. He calmed down, the adrenalin was ebbing away a lot smoother, and his focus seemed a lot less intense. He could breathe.

  People were coming and going. More and more soldiers returned to the ministry, still prepared to defend the perimeter. Just as life was calming down, the rocket attacks started
. Mortars, raining down just one block over in the international zone. Constant explosions that shook the ground, pounded into his chest, and made him flinch like someone was beating on him with each hit.

  All he could think of was how little he wanted to be there. He’d rather be anywhere in the fucking world than in Iraq. Jesus Christ, he had to get out of there. He longed for home; not the building his parents were living in now. Just American soil, where the sky didn’t explode and the smoke in the air was from someone’s fire pit and not burning cars.

  The urge to weep was on him just at that thought. He gripped the AK-47 tight to his torso, across his chest, and he crouched low behind a partially-intact brick wall next to Glover, who kept nattering on and on about his girlfriend.

  Greg tuned him out eventually. He was staring off in the distance, in whichever direction left him open to another bullet or anything else that could kill him. The smoke was still rolling away from the decimated vehicle that had started all this chaos, and, like he used to do looking at clouds in the sky as a kid, in the billowing shapes his eyes picked out the shape of animals and plants and people—

  “Fuck,” he said, bringing the AK into position as something not made from smoke moved through the white ether, heading right for them. Not wearing desert camo. All in dark clothes, moving fast. Running, full tilt.

  “Shit, that guy going to blow himself up?” Glover was just saying as Knuckles took the shot.

  It really was that easy. When someone’s running at you, closing distance, but still too far away to make out any specific details, it’s simple to pull that trigger and end it. Did he think it was an incoming attack? Of course he did. But if he’d just waited, a little longer, he would have noted that the form wasn’t really that big. Smaller than him, even, and he’d never be a hulk. Far from it.

  Even closer still, and he’d notice the roundness of the face, and the smoothness of a complexion that wasn’t even shaving yet.

  It wasn’t until later he’d see all that. Once the world had stopped exploding and making noise, the screaming died off. He and Glover would walk over to the body he’d taken down, just in case they needed to call a bomb tech to defuse anything.

  Not a suicide bomber. Just a kid, scared, running for his life. Or maybe help. He’d never know for sure what made that kid come running through the smoke to the ministry.

  But now, at this moment, it was that simple, single, guilty thought that ripped him out of sleep with a yell, a cry of anguish.

  A kid. Just a fucking kid.

  Letting the tears come, Knuckles remained flung out on his back with the blankets strewn all over from his flailing in sleep. All he could do was ram the heels of both hands into his eyes, and let his heart break.

  A kid. A fucking kid, again.

  He’d had to tell the club as soon as it had happened. He could tell it bothered them, and he couldn’t help but feel judged even as they assured him he couldn’t have known what would happen, they would have done the same, yada yada.

  It hadn’t been them. That was the point. It was him. It was always him. Everything he touched he ruined.

  The lack of lighting coming in around his dorm’s windows told him it was night. Not that it mattered. For days—or more likely weeks—now Knuckles was in the dark at all times, and the only thing keeping him from going completely off the deep end was the fact that everyone was still checking up on him.

  All the fucking time.

  It’s not that he wasn’t aware of how drastically he’d changed. He hadn’t been out of this room since the day after that last hit for Guidinger. Sweetbutts were bringing him two meals each day, and his brothers were on a steady schedule of trying to get him to talk.

  They were scared for him. Or maybe of him. This wasn’t a good thing; this constant care. This was his club trying to decide if he could still be part of the family. He could feel their uncertainty. A brother that was losing his fucking marbles was a liability. Kudos to them for trying to head it off before it could get worse, but he was hell bent on worse. It was his new destination.

  Control was slipping beyond the tips of his fingers. The days didn’t matter; they had no real shape or form. Like the figures in that burning car’s smoke; what was real, what he’d imagined, what he’d feared, were all the same half-real, half-dream things. Haunting him.

  Life consisted of eating when he was fed, pissing, and sleeping. And crying, don’t forget the crying. It only happened when he was alone, thank Christ. But short of a fire, nothing was getting him out of bed. And maybe not even that would be enough.

  Ending it would be easy. The constant images and voices in his head, reminding and insisting that he was shit. That he ruined things and left the world a shittier place. These weren’t new curses against his own existence; back after he’d returned from Iraq he’d had a whole year of suicidal behaviour. Why the fuck had he bothered straightening out? And Jesus, was that really only five years ago?

  The strangest part was that he didn’t remember the two years he’d served in Iraq until that Wednesday in August of 2009. Not a single day or incident stood out. Fucking Baghdad and one fucking car bomb.

  Selfish thinking. Attacks had been carefully calibrated all over the region. So many people had been killed that day, and he’d literally been grazed by a bullet and almost lost his hearing in one ear. That was it. Spared from worse...and for what?

  Just for fate to give him a few more hours to shoot a twelve-year-old.

  With a curse, Knuckles shoved himself out of the bed and walked naked to the bathroom. Not to shower, just to drain his bladder again, and wash his hands. Yes, washing hands was important.

  With an ache, his brain reminded him that people cared about him. Not just his brothers, who were worrying themselves sick yards away across the asphalt lot, but another place. On a residential street, in a home so warm with love he hadn’t even noticed how much he’d come to depend on it. Standing in the dark bathroom, drying his hands on a rough towel, he wanted that. The warmth and security of knowing that these people were his, and he was theirs.

  He was an addict. He couldn’t love. He could only crave and need.

  No one here was bringing him booze or H, fortunately or unfortunately. Maybe a good overdose would do the job, bring him under easy and low like he remembered. Until everything was gone. Him. His bullshit. His broken heart. All his bad deeds.

  Shit, he felt drunk from this.

  Back in bed, he rolled to one side to stare at the wall. Maybe this self-pitying was the wrong way to go about it. There were ways to do good, if he could find a way to serve both purposes that might be his way to redemption.

  He shook his head. Fuck, he was confusing himself.

  If there was one thing he didn’t want, it was to go out as a coward. Not shoving a gun in his mouth or opening his veins in the bathtub. A hero’s finish. The way it all should have happened, back in the sandbox days when they were all such fucking heroes.

  Like a bolt through the blue, the plan took shape. The real problem with everything that had started this runaway train was obvious. And since he was technically alone on that train, crashing it could only help the situation. But a controlled crash, before it could jump the rails and hurt anyone else.

  Just...crash it all.

  Knuckles felt the first stirring of purpose, just as the dorm room door opened. A soft and tentative “Knuckles?” had him looking over his shoulder, then he rolled back to face the wall.

  No, he didn’t have the energy for this.

  “Knuckles?”

  “Go away, Jolene.”

  “I just want to know you’re okay.”

  He squeezed his eyes shut and counted to five.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Everything’s fine. You should go back to the clubhouse. You shouldn’t be in here.”

  “You haven’t left this room in three weeks.”

  “Is that all?”

  “What?”

  “Nothing.” He closed hi
s eyes, willing himself to fall asleep to end this attempt at conversation. It worked with everyone else.

  “Talk to me.”

  “No.”

  “Tell me what happened.”

  “Fuck off, Jolene.”

  She sighed, and he listened to her cross the room and sit on the edge of the bed.

  “I’m fucking naked under these covers. Get the hell out of here.”

  “Make me. That might actually require you getting up and out of bed.”

  Irritation cut through the funk. “You’re a pain in the ass.”

  “And you saved my ass. Twice.”

  “I’m starting to regret that.”

  There was a pause. He was just about to tell her to get the fuck out again when she spoke. “What about your woman? Did you break up with her or did you just leave her hanging?”

  “Fuck off.”

  “That’s a shitty thing to do to her. She seemed nice.”

  “Jolene—”

  “And her kids were cute. Is it true the oldest one is knocked up? By that kid, Wallace’s nephew? The one that got murdered?”

  He was stunned she’d been paying that much attention. Christ knew, the sun could have imploded in the last week and he wouldn’t have really noticed.

  “Rough lesson for a girl. But, she’ll get to have kids later. That’s good. She’s doing a really special thing.”

  “Is there a point to you suddenly being interested in anything other than drinking and getting fucked by strangers?”

  “I’m just surprised that you’re this weak. That’s all. You were always so strong for Gertie, and for me. I don’t know what happened, but...it’s surprising.”

  “You don’t need to worry about it. I’m not your concern.”

  “Yeah, but everyone’s worried about you and you could give a shit. I was just there, Knuckles. It’s a shitty place to visit. Don’t stay there.”

  He sat up, making her jump, and jabbed a finger close to her face. “You have no fucking idea where I am right now.”

  “You’re not really telling anyone, Knuckles.” Her eyes were wide and flashing. She was sober. Or, at least more sober than she’d been.