by SE Jakes
Trapped.
Betrayed.
He stared at Sweet.
Not again. Not ever again.
He’d hit the wall—his personal breaking point. In seconds, Bram had Sweet’s own gun trained on him, thankful that Sweet underestimated his survival skills. “I’m walking off this compound quietly. If you want to live, I suggest you join me.”
Sweet knew Bam was strong, but he’d underestimated how fast Bram would bounce back from the drugging . . . and also underestimated that Bram would have the criminal side down pat as well, because the gun he held was Sweet’s own.
And, in his other hand, Bram held Sweet’s knife . . . and cell phone. Fucking pickpocket, just like his brother. “You prepared to kill me, Bram?”
Bram motioned for him to turn around without answering, and Sweet decided it was safer for everyone involved to go along quietly. Maybe the Heathens wouldn’t kill Bram if Sweet was with him.
Maybe.
Bram slid cold steel cuffs around Sweet’s wrists, closing them with an authoritative, definitive click.
“Is this necessary?” Sweet kept his tone purposely bored.
Bram grabbed him around the neck in a chokehold that Sweet wasn’t sure he could get out of even if he hadn’t been wearing cuffs. The hold was half strangulation, pure submission-forcing, and he allowed Bram to shove him forward, his steps shortened because of the hold and the gun at his carotid.
Gypsy saw them first, and then Tug and Ozzie were running over, pointing weapons of their own.
“Stand down,” Sweet managed thickly. He saw other members approaching. “Don’t stop him—let Bram’s truck off the property.”
Gypsy shook his head but Bram interjected, “I’ll kill him. I’ve got nothing to lose. I’m a dead man either way—the only question is whether I take your boss with me.”
Bram did have something to lose—Linc. But he’d sounded convincing and he was coming off the drugs. Sweet was a good judge of character, but something inside of Bram had snapped with Sweet’s threats. No matter which way Sweet played this, he’d have lost.
“Stand down,” Sweet ordered. “I’m going with him. That’s it.”
Bram shoved him into the passenger’s seat of his truck, then climbed through the back seat to get to the driver’s side, holding the gun on Sweet the entire time. Sweet noticed that his members had guns trained on the truck—Bram’s didn’t have the bulletproof windshield that Sweet’s did. But Sweet shook his head and no one fired.
When he started the truck, Bram also reached over and quickly duct-taped Sweet’s upper body to the back of the seat.
“Not necessary,” he told Bram.
“Shut up.” Bram floored the truck, nearly taking out anyone in his path. As they went down the hill, Sweet held his breath.
At times, these hills around Havoc had a mind of their own. When there was danger coming in, bikes and cars of Havoc’s enemies tended to stall out for no reason at the bottom of the hill, leaving the men they carried helpless. That’d been happening since Sweet’s grandfather—Finn—founded the club with three of his Army buddies, fresh out of Vietnam. Sweet always felt his grandfather’s presence strongly at Havoc, like he was being looked after.
And when Bram’s truck left the premises without issue, Sweet chose to take that as a sign that he’d judged Bram correctly.
Now it was time for Sweet to undo some of the damage he’d unwittingly done. “Stay off the back roads,” he ordered Bram now.
“Want me to gag you?”
Sweet kept his tone mild. “Didn’t know that was one of your kinks.”
“Fuck off, Sweet. No blowjobs tonight.”
“Are you sure? That’s calmed you down before, helped you to think rationally. I’ll offer up my services,” Sweet said calmly as Bram kept his eyes, and full control, on speeding up the road in front of them.
Seeing Bram in action was fascinating. The man was seamless when he slid into roles, but this? This was where he shined—in control, in command.
And threatening to kill you.
But the Bram who’d spent the past days letting Sweet fuck him? That man was the real thing too. It was the guy pretending to have no direction or plan that was the fake Bram. Or were they all facets of the same man?
He was Linc’s brother, so it shouldn’t come as any surprise that he was as mercurial as hell. But the man next to him with a gun, an obvious case of PTSD, and a death wish promised a scenario that wasn’t exactly the way Sweet had imagined this going down. “It’s okay to ask for help.”
“Don’t talk to me like I’m a fucking mental patient,” Bram snapped, then glanced at himself in the rearview. “Fine. You can. But I won’t like it.”
Sweet sighed. “What’s your plan?”
“You shutting up.”
“I’m not down with that.”
“Sweet, I’m going to have to kill some Heathens before they kill me. I’m sure MCs other than Pagans will have a bounty on my head. The faster I move away from Havoc, the less reasons the Heathens have to suspect that you conspired with me. So my plan is to keep alive long enough to find Linc.”
It all made sense—Bram’s aversion to his rocker that first night, and to the bar and the compound in general.
Shit. Sweet could definitely understand that, because he knew how the Heathens operated. They treated their members the same way they treated their enemies. And when Sweet had threatened him . . . “Bram, I can help.”
Bram snorted. “I’ve got all the help I can manage.”
“You can’t win this.”
“You think I don’t know that?” he exploded. “The fuck, Sweet? You think I’m that goddamned stupid? Least I can do is get you off the hook for my shit. I didn’t want to bring that onto Havoc. I just want to find Linc—that’s it. That’s all. But you pushed—wouldn’t let me leave. What did you expect me to do—fight you and the Heathens at the same time?”
“No, I didn’t. But I didn’t know about that until now.” Sweet paused. “You say it’s about finding Linc . . . but what about you, Bram? What’s going to happen to you if you leave?”
“I’m dead,” he said flatly, with a bluntness that made even Sweet’s hardened nerves startle. “That’s how this shakes out. All of this is just prolonging the inevitable. Prolonging it enough to find Linc.”
“That’s bullshit. You wouldn’t have made it this far if you really believed that.”
“Thanks for the psychoanalysis. The psycho part’s fitting.”
“You don’t know the half of it,” Sweet said darkly.
“I know more than half.”
“You know about the Heathens. How they run their shit. Don’t even pretend that my club’s anything like that shithole.”
“Right. You’re just ‘clubs.’ All protective and shit. Wanting to live out your days the way you want to, without outside involvement.”
“We police our own. We stay out of the town’s business except to contribute to their economy and keep them safe, yes. And you? You’re protected, right?”
Bram didn’t answer that, just said, “Shut the fuck up.”
“I don’t do that for anyone,” Sweet shot back. Because he wanted to see just how far he could push this. “And why’d you get involved with the Heathens in the first place? Plenty of other clubs would’ve been happy to have you.”
Bram laughed darkly. “Little late for that now.” He paused. “A friend from the Army said there were like minds there. A place I should look into. I worked so much, never stayed in one place. I thought a connection—any connection—might help.” The truth of the last sentences caught audibly, bitterly in his throat.
“Guess that backfired.”
“You have no idea.”
It was only then that the pieces began to connect for Sweet. They should have immediately, but the intel had come at him, fast and furious. The drugging and the accusations, being dragged out of Havoc at gunpoint . . .
Bram.
Heathens.
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Beating. “They did that to you,” Sweet said. “The scars. The anxiety around MCs.”
Bram didn’t answer. Didn’t need to. His silence, coupled with the tension radiating off his body, told Sweet the truth of his statements.
“Dammit.” Sweet put his head back against the headrest as Bram’s truck hurtled down the highway. “Now it all makes sense. Fucking comparing us to Heathens. Thinking we’d kill you any second.”
Bram laughed darkly. “Prove me wrong yet?”
“I could ask you the same thing.”
“As long as we’re trading truths, why don’t you tell me what Linc really did, besides jumping bail?”
“He took out credit cards in Gypsy’s name, right before he got arrested the third time. Gypsy got notice of the credit card fraud.”
Bram nodded tightly. “Did you ask Linc about it?”
“No, we were just keeping him close. Keeping an eye on him.”
Bram glanced at him. “And we all know how well your protection works out, don’t we?”
Bram exhaled, fought to remain calm and rational. He needed to get Sweet to a safe spot, get him the hell out of the truck and then . . .
And then . . . “When were you going to tell me about Linc and the credit card shit?”
“I wasn’t.”
“So that’s another reason I’m here. You’re watching out for all your money, waiting for me to bring Linc back to you. You’re going to fuck with my brother and make me betray him to you.”
Sweet didn’t deny it, because he couldn’t. Bram wasn’t sure if he was more pissed at himself for getting suckered in or at Sweet, who put himself out there as an awesome family guy. “You know the fraud is bullshit. He was set up,” Bram snapped.
“You know he’s an admitted thief.”
Bram was already shaking his head. “He wouldn’t steal—not from Rush. Not from friends, which I’m guessing he thought Gypsy was—and Havoc too.”
“Then stay with Havoc and we’ll find him together and sort this out,” Sweet said reasonably.
“Guess what? No matter how much you talk to me like I’m a fucking mental patient, I’m not finding Linc for you.”
“Not much I can do to challenge that right now, except find Linc myself,” Sweet reasoned.
“I’m going to pull over soon. I’ll call Gypsy and tell him where I’m leaving you. Then you’re getting the fuck out of this truck.”
“Come back to Havoc with me. Please, Bram.”
If he didn’t lie to Sweet, make Sweet hate him, Sweet would attempt to save him—maybe because he truly wanted to but mainly in order to get his hands on Linc. That wasn’t happening. “I’m a dead man walking. I took advantage of you and your club.”
Sweet’s expression hardened. “Let me help you.”
“Why? So you can kill me afterwards?”
“Is that what you think?”
“We’ve known each other for what, less than a week. What should I expect?”
Sweet stared at him. “You should expect everything, Bram. Sometimes it takes forever. Sometimes you know in twenty-four hours.”
Bram felt like a hand had literally reached into his chest and squeezed his heart. But he knew that it was only a matter of time before he heard Harleys revving up, loud engines, roaring on their way to catch him. But his truck was equipped, thanks to his undercover job on an illegal racetrack, to give him the extra speed to lose the bikes. Plus, he’d always been good at evade and escape, so this panicked race was really in his mind more so than on the road.
Still, he was outnumbered. They would circle him and eventually catch up, especially if he stayed in town. And having Sweet next to him? Helped at first but now was a definite liability.
At that point, the chances of finding Linc alive . . .
Fuck it. He yanked the wheel into a parking lot, even though he had to cross two lanes to do it.
“Didn’t know stunt driver was a part of your résumé,” Sweet said wryly, seemingly unperturbed by his stint as a hostage.
Because he was a damned good actor. “You only want Linc back in order to punish him. Now get the fuck out.”
“Bram—”
“No. No more explaining or psychoanalyzing. Get out now or I’ll knock you out and throw you out of the damned car.”
“I think you should consider other options.”
Right. Like confessing I’m ATF. “I’m out of options.” Bram unlocked the doors as he pulled his weapon.
“You wouldn’t.”
Bram fired, the bullet whizzing past Sweet into a telephone pole. “I wouldn’t shoot? Try me again.”
When Sweet didn’t move, Bram shot again, and this time, blood blossomed along Sweet’s forearm.
“You motherfucker.”
“Out,” Bram ordered, and Sweet listened this time. Bram took off with the passenger’s door still open, using a wide turn to slam it shut. And he didn’t look back once in the rearview.
Looking back would do nothing. And that’s what he was left with.
Nothing. Just like he’d had before.
And the shit was about to hit the fan. The dark vibrations of angry motorcycles trailed him nightly in his dreams, but this? This was no dream. In his rearview, he could now see the clear line of single headlights on his six.
Foes, not friends. Up ahead, a Heathen-made roadblock.
They don’t know you’re ATF.
But he wasn’t sure if that was better or worse. At this point, it probably didn’t matter either way—the beating he’d endure this time would hurt just the same. And whoever it was who turned him in—Sweet or Gypsy or Tug—didn’t matter.
Granted, if it had been Sweet . . .
Ah, fuck it. He’d always known he couldn’t trust anyone anyway, should’ve stuck to his own rules and gotten the hell out of Shades and Havoc as soon as he realized what Linc had done.
He glanced in the rearview, feeling his body calm down, the way it needed to in situations like this. Panic would get him nowhere.
He dialed his phone without looking. “Dozer, listen—they know.”
“Know what?”
“Where I am. Literally. They’re tailing me.” Another glance in the rearview confirmed it, but his heartbeat had slowed and his foot pressed the gas into the floor.
Dozer cursed. “Bram, I never—”
“I know, man. Not why I’m calling.” He jerked the car hard and fast, off-road. Defensive driving was something he could do in his sleep. Losing the tail wasn’t the problem—it was what happened when the next tail found him. “I’m just calling to tell you, so you know . . .”
“No way, Bram—not like this. I’ll send in backup.”
Bram shook his head, like Doz was sitting next to him to see it. “No, you can’t.”
“Bram—” Dozer managed to sound calm, not desperate, which helped.
“Just listen. If I don’t come out of this, you’d need to find Linc.”
“What the fuck.”
“Sorry to put this on you.”
Dozer’s anger sizzled through the phone. “Don’t you fucking act like you’re dying on my watch. No way, Bram, because I plan on strangling you myself for putting yourself in danger. So plan to stay alive long enough for my hands to go around your throat,” Dozer threatened, and for the first time that night, Bram actually laughed.
And planned. The radio was on low, mainly to soothe his jangled nerves, to turn him back into that soldier he once was. He slipped on that persona like a well-loved, well-worn overcoat, an armor, a layer of protection.
Yeah, he was going to go fuck some shit up.
Twenty minutes later, Ozzie was escorting Sweet into the truck parked outside the diner. There was a second truck parked behind it and for now, all four men got into one of them as they discussed their next moves.
“What the hell happened?” Ozzie demanded when Sweet clicked on the overhead light and began digging through the glove compartment for gauze.
“It’s just
a graze,” Sweet muttered. Burned like hell, the same way the anger did. He wasn’t sure who he was angrier at—Bram or himself. “I’m fine. Bram’s not.”
Tug let out a low growl but didn’t say anything. He was busy keeping eyes out for both trucks, because tonight they were too vulnerable for bikes. Half of Havoc was guarding Havoc and the others were out on the road, looking for Heathens and ready to back Sweet up.
“Who gives a fuck if Bram’s not fine. He used the club,” Gypsy said angrily.
He used you was the bigger, unspoken allegation, but Sweet ignored the sentiment. Whether it was because he didn’t buy it or because he didn’t want to believe it, he wasn’t sure. Both he and Bram had betrayed each other. There wasn’t time to argue about which was worse. “We’re not handing him over to the Heathens.”
“Bram’s one of them,” Tug said.
But Sweet couldn’t get a handle on that supposed truth—it didn’t connect or make sense. He’d met Heathens, grown up near enough of them to learn their mindset. The ones who didn’t belong stuck out like sore thumbs, and they tended to get out quickly—often painfully, as was the case for several ex-members who Havoc actually respected.
Sweet could call on them now to investigate this shit further, or he could go with his gut, since that’s what got him through wars, on this soil with the MC and overseas with the Army. It’s what put him in the position to run Havoc.
He hadn’t risen to leadership by being indecisive. He wasn’t about to change that now. “We’re getting Bram back. He stays at Havoc. We get Linc back. Prepare to deal with those consequences.”
Gypsy shook his head slowly. “Sweet—”
“Since when do we let anyone tell us what to do?” he demanded.
“When a Heathen is—”
“Asking for our protection,” Sweet finished. “Doesn’t seem like he wants to be a Heathen anymore, right?”
“He was a part of them for two years,” Tug pointed out, while Ozzie remained quiet, watching and waiting.
“Isn’t that enough time to learn a lesson?” Sweet growled. “Everyone makes mistakes.”
Before anyone could answer, Sweet’s phone began to ring, a number he didn’t recognize. Tonight, he answered anyway. “Who’s this?”