Existential (Fallen Aces MC Book 4)

by Max Henry

  I’m not leaving anything behind that was promised to me. I came, I stayed, I learnt a few hard truths, and now I’m leaving to try my luck again. I’m young, so many opportunities ahead of me, so why does it hurt to leave something I’ve only known for a short while behind?

  I turn and look back the way I’ve come, at the majestic house as it peeks out from between the trees, at the grey clouds rolling across the sky. The place is picture perfect, yet it’s what’s inside that I appreciate the most.

  Belonging. A sense of community. People who, no matter how things get twisted upside down, stick together.

  If only it was my path to take. This is Hooch’s world, not mine. I have to remember that.

  Hanging my head, I turn back to the gates and restart my walk to town while giving myself a pep talk about strength, independence, and trust. I’m so lost in my thoughts that I don’t realize there’s anyone coming toward me until the earth shakes beneath my feet.

  The bike slows and stops before me, the one man I didn’t want to see during my hasty exit staring back at me with clear confusion written across his disturbingly handsome features.

  “Didn’t think you’d be leavin’.” Digits drops both feet to the ground, balancing his bike as he regards me with his arms folded. “Where you headed?”

  “Nowhere you’ll be.”

  He clicks his tongue, grimacing. “See, that’s where you’re wrong.” He chuckles, quiet at first, the sound building as he shakes his head.

  I mentally map out my best exit strategy while he’s preoccupied with his own madness.

  “Hop on, Dagne. I’ll give you a lift.”

  Any other day, and I might have trusted a man with such boyish charms. But behind those stormy eyes lies destruction and desolation. I shake my head, sidestepping to carry on toward the gate.

  He looks down at my feet as I pass, pulling an unimpressed expression. “Not really walking shoes, are they?”

  My boots have done the job until now. My feet will harden up again. “So?”

  “Just get on,” he demands.

  “Do you really think I’m that stupid,” I scoff.

  “I’m counting on it.”

  “Well,” I say, raising both eyebrows. “I’m afraid you’ll be bitterly disappointed then.” I set off at a quick step, hugging the side of the driveway where it’s more difficult for him to ride the bike at a slow pace over the rough edges.

  I don’t need to turn around to figure out the click and crunch is the sound of him kicking the stand out and getting off. I don’t even need to hold my breath to hear his as he charges after me.

  Clutching my bag to my chest so it doesn’t bang against me, I break into a run, sprinting for the gates. What shelter they’ll provide? I don’t know. But something about aiming for that target makes the struggle worthwhile. If I can just make it—

  My legs folds awkwardly beneath me as I tumble to the dirt, my teeth clenched in anticipation for the break. By some miracle, Digits’ weight misses me as he crashes down after me, my ankle rolling painfully, but not too far as to snap a bone.

  I grimace and push to my knees, grappling for purchase in the dirt as I try to launch for the gate like a sprinter at the blocks. A cry breaks free, Digits’ hand wrapped around my injured ankle as he tugs me down again.

  I stare up at the asshole and frown to save from crying in frustration. “What do you want from me?”

  “Leverage.” He stoops down and scoops me off the ground, tossing me awkwardly into a fireman’s hold.

  I bounce on his shoulder as he turns for the bike. Not ready to quit this fight, I hurl my bodyweight into my side and manage to slide out of his grasp, crashing to the dirt painfully on my ribs and hip. He turns to retrieve me, but this time I’m ready and I shunt the heel of my boot as hard as I can into the back of his knee.

  He wobbles, yet regains his balance before he falls.

  It’s not enough time.

  I scramble backward and scream, out of options other than hoping by some miracle I’ll be heard back at the house. A flock of small birds sets flight in the trees nearby, my scream breaking to a hoarse cry as my throat pains with the effort.

  Only problem with screaming that hard? It requires your eyes to be shut.

  Which is why I never see his fist coming.

  FORTY-ONE

  Hooch

  “You want me to ride ahead to the destination anyway?” Crackers asks, hand rested on my bars.

  “No,” I answer, my fingers twitching to twist the throttle. “No need. I’m hedging bets on the whole thing being a setup, and I don’t need you walkin’ in there underprepared.”

  He nods solemnly, letting go. “I’ll be right behind you then.”

  Times like this I’m thankful that the brothers have my back. They don’t question my decisions, they simply follow me where I lead. And right now, I don’t exactly know if that’s the right way—I’m operating on a hunch. A fucking hunch.

  What if it’s wrong?

  Crackers clips his helmet and starts up behind me, giving me a nod in my mirror to say he’s ready to leave. We cruise out of the parking lot of the motel as Murphy emerges from the office having settled a little extra for the damages two of the guys created last night after one too many. The old man raises his hand, holding up a single finger to indicate he’ll be right behind us.

  Timmy-boy will travel back with Jo Jo once their heads are in the game. Yeah, things are urgent right now and I’d like as many men at my back as possible when the shit hits the fan, but I’m not going to ask a man to ride when his balance is still impaired from alcohol the night before.

  I’m not that much of an asshole.

  Usually.

  The ride passes quickly, the cloud over the sun providing much needed relief considering we only stop for gas. I’ve never been happier to see the trees that constantly drop shit all over the driveway as I have now. And I’ve never felt more uneasy at the fact everything is quiet when we roll in to the yard.

  I leave the bike running.

  “Hey,” Beth greets with a confused frown as I come barreling in the front doors.

  “Where’s Dagne?”

  “She uh … she left.”

  “What the fuck?” I holler loud enough to send an echo down the hall.

  “She left you a note upstairs,” Beth explains, her hand shaking as she points to the staircase.

  I take the risers two at a time and stride down to my room, my eyes darting over everything in quick succession the moment I step in the door. The phone King gave her sits atop the nightstand.

  “Fuck, Dagne!”

  It shatters as it hits the baseboard.

  How the fuck am I supposed to reach her now? I twist, turn, and pace around the space trying to find her note. A slip of yellow peeks out at me from under the edge of the bedding. Tucked in to where I would have laid my head, is the notepaper I so desperately need.

  My ass hits the mattress as I unfold the sheet, my chest clenching at the gentle loops of her handwriting.

  It’s short, simple, and to the point. Five brief lines that cement my guilt at why she’s left. One line stinging more than the others.

  If you always shut love out, you’ll never know it.

  Damn it. Beth remains where I left her, Crackers now by her side, as I leap down the stairs three at a time.

  “Where’s Digits?”

  “With you?” Beth looks to Crackers for reassurance.

  He shakes his head, lifting a hand to her face to comfort her.

  Fuck, fuck, fuck. The asshole cut and run from the motel while the rest of us slept. Considering I was the last to bed, his departure was more than planned, it was deliberate. All I keep thinking back to is that goddamn phone call he was on. Who was he talking to? And why?

  “Boss,” Crackers says quietly, breaking me from my anger-induced daze. “I just got this from Tuck.”

  I take the offered smartphone, tapping the small triangle to play the video in the message
. It’s security camera footage, grainy, but clear enough to make out definite outlines. Especially that of our club patch.

  Knowing the asshole chooses to keep our colors on while he fucks us over ignites a rage I’ve never felt—even when confronted with Dad and Dana’s death.

  My hand shakes, the adrenaline surging through me as I watch the final seconds of the clip to confirm the location. Tuck has safe houses all over the country for his operation shutting down the skin trade, and half of them are anonymous. Which means Digits has walked into one believing it really did belong to the street gang that currently resides there.

  He has no way to deny his guilt now. None.

  “What the fuck are we waitin’ for?” I say, tossing the phone to Crackers. “Better hope you’ve got enough left in the tank because there ain’t any way I’m stoppin’ this time.”

  ***

  We pull up outside the safe house with Murphy. Our sergeant at arms caught up as we left the clubhouse, asking no questions, just falling into line as we rode out. There’s only three of us, but I can guarantee Digits will be alone. He’s cocky enough that he’d think he could take us on without help.

  I gesture to Crackers to head around back, and he takes off up the side path with his gun drawn as Murphy and I approach the front. The door flies open, and some spotty kid who can’t be a day over sixteen bursts through with a handgun held wildly toward us.

  One of his messengers, I bet.

  “Steady on, boy,” Murphy coaxes. “We’re not here for you.”

  “You want anyone in this house, then you got beef with me, old man.”

  Jesus. Where do they find these sheep?

  “Set it down, okay, and everybody goes home today.” I step toward him, and he swings the weapon toward me.

  “Stop right there. Only person leaving in a body bag is you, asshole.”

  Kid has no idea what hits him. I take his forearm and twist, distracting him enough that Murphy can duck in and relieve the boy of his weapon. He drops the clip from the gun and flicks the bullets into his palm one by one as he stares the kid down.

  I check over the boy’s shoulder, expecting company, yet the house is eerily quiet. What you doin’, Crackers?

  “Here’s a tip,” Murphy says as he shakes the bullets in his hand. “If you’re goin’ to be the fuckin’ guard dog for a gang house, at least get some lessons in self-defense.” He pulls his arm in and then flings the handful of bullets out across the lawn, tossing the parts of the gun in the opposite direction. “Fetch.”

  The kid scrambles for the front steps, but much to our amusement, he doesn’t head to retrieve the weapon. He takes off down the street, half running, half walking, trying to retain some sort of image as he does.

  I shake my head and hold my weapon out before me as we approach the doors. The single-level dwelling is rectangular in shape, a central hallway running front to back between the two halves. The back door is ajar, which indicates Crackers is already inside. He meets us as we finish sweeping the right of the house, having come up empty on the left.

  “That kid wasn’t alone,” I whisper, “otherwise he would have run before we even saw him.”

  Murphy holds up a hand to ask us to stay put, and then quietly backtracks to the front of the house. He disappears outside, returning a short time later.

  My heart races with impatience to get to Dagne. What the fuck could that sadistic asshole have done by now?

  “Place has a basement,” Murphy whispers.

  “I never saw a door,” Crackers whisper-hisses, brow in a hard line.

  “Well then,” I grit out. “We check again.”

  The guys split off in different directions, leaving me to retrace my steps through the front rooms. The house is filthy clean, if that’s even possible. Everything’s stacked away, nothing on the floor, but there are piles and piles of useless shit everywhere: magazines, washed out food containers, unopened rolls of dishcloths, and a box of fucking diapers. What the hell?

  I guess when Tuck calls on these places, he needs them to be equipped for whatever comes through.

  Crackers enters the bedroom where I stand at the foot of the single bed, scratching my temple with the gun.

  “I don’t know man,” I say with a shrug.

  He widens his eyes, jerking his head to the bed in question.

  Oh, snap. Of course. I lower to my knees, slow and careful not to make sudden noises. Using the bed to brace myself with one arm, I peer under.

  A single metal loop cuts a definite line through the worn carpet. If I hadn’t been looking for it, I might have missed the handle. But there it is, clear as day, a trapdoor.

  Of course: the house probably has more than one “safe zone” in case of intruder when the slaves are in transit.

  I stand and grip the foot of the bed, sliding it carefully away from the wall. Crackers steps in the gap and grabs the headboard, guiding it sideways as we shift it toward the window. Murphy joins us, hanging back in the doorway as I raise my gun ready for whatever I’m about to find and reach for the handle.

  Crackers steps forward, foot on the trapdoor, and places his hand over mine. “I’ll do it, brother.”

  I nod, well aware what he’s offered is worth more than a humble thanks. If Dagne’s hurt, injured, or if the worst has happened … I’m guaranteed to lose control, which is something I need if we’re to keep on top of Digits.

  Crackers lifts the square panel and shifts it over the carpet toward the bed. He moves around the hole, checking all angles before he tentatively places a foot on the ladder that’s fixed to the outside wall of the basement.

  Seconds pass, minutes stretch on, and all the while I feel chills worse than any the detox from coke and heroin gave me. Murphy moves to the trapdoor and squats, tipping his ear to listen closer.

  Crackers’ gun emerges into the light first, followed quickly and noisily by his head and shoulders.

  “They were there,” he says with an apology in his eyes, “but he’s taken her somewhere else.”

  “How do you know?”

  He lifts his other hand, the strap of Dagne’s bag clear as he lifts it above ground. I drop to my knees and grab the flimsy fucking thing in my hands as my body shakes with rage.

  “Trust your brothers,” you’re taught from the get go. Believe in the club.

  Only thing I fucking believe in right now is slow and painful death.

  FORTY-TWO

  Dagne

  The handle has been broken off on the inside of the truck door. Only the end of the cable shows through the hole it’s left in the panel.

  “Not much further,” Digits announces cheerily as we fly down a dirt road toward God only knows where—probably my death.

  I grunt in answer, my fingers creeping over the rim of the metal to try and get enough purchase on the cable. If I can open the door, I can tumble out. The impact might injure me quite bad, but would it be worse than whatever Digits has planned?

  We stopped off at some shitty house this morning, and he shoved me down a trapdoor to a dusty basement while he went about his “club business.” Whatever it was, I’m pretty damn sure it doesn’t belong to the same club he displays on his back. More likely this shady asshole has started a new one, gone out on his own to pet his ego.

  “What kind of leverage am I?” I ask quietly, curiosity getting the better of me.

  He said that’s what he wanted me for, but so far I’ve seen no evidence of him trying to use the knowledge that he has me for any greater good.

  “Insurance policy,” he answers, turning the wheel and guiding us around a right-hand bend.

  The truck comes to an abrupt stop, and he twists in his seat to smile at me. I inch toward my door.

  “I wouldn’t bother tryin’ to open it,” he says smugly. “I’ve got the kid-lock on.”

  Shit. I move my redundant hand to my mouth instead, tapping out a frantic pace on my bottom lip.

  Digits climbs out, rounding the vehicle to let me out a
lso. I slide up in my seat, taking in as much of my surroundings as I can in case I’m able to call for help later. It’s no use; trees and cornfields could place us anywhere. I try in vain to spot a road sign, property name, or letterbox anywhere as I climb down from the truck cab, but it’s to no avail.

  We’re literally in the middle of nowhere.

  “This way.” He takes ahold of my arm and jerks me roughly in the same direction as him.

  I stumble along behind, wincing every time my foot slips on the uneven ground since his grip tightens in response. We trek into an open field, through the rows of corn, and to a small four-foot square clearing with a scarecrow perched in the middle.

  “Perfect.”

  I note for the first time the bag in his other hand as he drops it to the ground with a puff of dust. His hand releases my arm, and I decide that if I’m going to die I’d rather do it trying to be free.

  I turn and strike my first footfall when the crack of a gun has me diving for the cover of the corn. Some fucking heroine, I am.

  “Stupid fuckin’ girl. You want me to knock you out again?”

  I roll to face him, shaking my head.

  “Then get over here and do as I say.”

  I push to my feet and walk to the scarecrow, standing at the base of it as he keeps the gun trained on me.

  “Rip that fuckin’ thing off the post.”

  I draw a deep breath, eyeballing the notch on the end of his gun as I nod. The hay protruding from its weatherworn clothes scratches at my skin, yet I persist in the knowledge this crazed man behind me could inflict so much worse.

  The scarecrow lies in a heap at my feet in no time at all, and I turn to face Digits again, waiting on my next instruction.

  “Strip.”

  Fuck. No.

  “Why?”

  “So I can paint you in oils, Dagne,” he snaps. “Why the fuck do you think?”

  I’m going to die in a cornfield. A motherfucking cornfield.

  Digits frowns as I break into raucous laughter, my sanity slipping away in the direness of it all. I hazard a glance at him as he stands perplexed, and the sight makes me laugh more.