Running Blind

by SE Jakes

  As Sweet continued to hold the gun to Bram’s skull, Bram’s chin lifted—defiance and pride and not an ounce of goddamned fear Sweet could see.

  Not an ounce of common sense, either. “It’s been too late for me since the Heathens nearly killed me. I’m dead either way.”

  Sweet should just shoot him, or take him back to the Heathens, guilt-free. Fuck the bounty. He’d never take scum money. But there was something about Bram . . . and there was definitely more to this story. “Start talking.”

  “I was an undercover with the Heathens for two years. I was a probie.”

  “With a death wish,” Sweet muttered.

  “Maybe,” Bram admitted. “I could’ve turned the job down, but I was a good fit. No family besides grown siblings. Military background. I’d just come off another big undercover job. I was good at getting in. Heathens liked the way I fought. I saved their road manager and some of the others from getting arrested. Right place, right time.”

  Sweet didn’t believe that last part, but it didn’t matter. “Did you ever do anything against Havoc for the Heathens or the ATF?”

  “No. Neither group wants contact with you. That’s what I was told.”

  Which was pure truth. Havoc was like the elite special ops of the MC world. Going up against them was futile. They weren’t angels, but their ventures were (mostly) legal and nonviolent. They were insular. But disrespect Havoc and all hellfire would rain down on the offender. Havoc believed in swift, nonnegotiable retribution. They’d also never been convicted. “Something obviously went bad.”

  “I gave the ATF—my sup, specifically—a lot of intel about the club and their meth trade. I helped shut things down before they started. Vipers MC helped get things started against the Heathens, and that’s when I went in, but I was able to give additional information to cripple more of their drug operation.” He paused, because Havoc knew and respected Vipers. “They’d also been working with two FBI agents who’d clear them of wrongdoing.”

  “And you turned those men in too.”

  “Yes.”

  Sweet sighed internally and lowered his weapon carefully. He moved away from Bram to stop him from attempting to grab the gun. “Do they know?”

  Bram shrugged. “I don’t know. Or I didn’t think so, but after this . . . look, my sup told me to lay low after I got out.”

  “And before that? What went wrong?”

  Bram cleared his throat. “It was the night before my official patch-in. I was going to disappear, because I knew they wouldn’t let me walk. But it was a setup. They were waiting for me. They beat the shit out of me. They found out I was planning on leaving. Fuck, I didn’t know at the time how they knew—I didn’t tell anyone but Parisi. He knew it was my last night with the Heathens. I partied as usual. Made plans to ride with the guys the next day. Went back to my apartment. I was going to leave most of the shit there, since it was a safe house and it’s not like I wanted any Heathen souvenirs.” Bram took a deep breath, and Sweet could see that he was starting to relive that night.

  “But Parisi let the Heathens know your plans.”

  “That’s the only way they’d know . . .” Bram trailed off, ran a hand through his hair. “I was leaving out the back. I was leaving the bike behind too, figured maybe the guys would think I was killed or something. I got halfway up the block and they pulled me into an alley.”

  Premeditated. When Sweet got his hands on Parisi—and he would—he’d mete out his own brand of justice. “What did you tell them?”

  “That I was taking a walk, to clear my head.” Bram laughed. They must’ve had good reason not to believe him. “I’d even thought for a fleeting second that they were going to patch me in as a surprise.” He shook his head. “I don’t want to talk about this.”

  “You have to.”

  Bram shook his head but ground out, “They said they knew I was leaving. I denied it. Told them, ‘What kind of idiot just leaves everything behind?’ They told me they knew I was going to fake my own death because I didn’t want to be a Heathen. That I was a betrayal to the club. That since I wanted to be a dead man so badly, they’d help me along.”

  “You almost died.”

  Bram nodded. “They know I’m still breathing. I look different, can’t be easily made, but according to Dozer, they know where I am. They don’t know I’m ATF, but they’ve been put on my tail.”

  “Who did that, Bram?”

  Bram stared him down. “I told you—it was my sup. Dozer’s my ATF connection—my only one. He wasn’t on the case, but he confirmed that my sup set me up.”

  “So the Heathens know you’re ATF?”

  “No. Not yet, anyway.” Bram looked away. “As far as they know, I’m just a probie they want dead to avenge their honor. I guess my sup figures dead is dead, so why get his hands—and the ATF’s—dirty. Besides, he’d have to admit that he put me in there. It’s easier for Parisi if I get killed because they thought I was a rat. The way I figure it, all the work I did goes to shit, the Heathens—and Parisi—don’t lose any money.”

  It was an unbelievable story in some ways . . . but Bram wasn’t the first to infiltrate an MC. He had the scars to prove the near-death beatdown, confirmed by word on the street and the bounty on his head. “Christ, Bram.”

  “Someone at Havoc drugged me purposely,” Bram told him.

  “You’re already on thin ice—”

  “And so is Havoc. You’ve got someone undercover on your payroll, or else you’ve got a Heathen in there. One who knows my sup.”

  “And you know this how?”

  “My files aren’t open access. I’m classified. Very few people know who I am. Only one has access to my medical records, beyond my doctors. My sup knows I’m allergic to HGB. So did the Heathens. They gave it to me the night they beat me.”

  “We’ve got a big problem here,” Sweet said, his voice grim.

  “I know. Look, it can end here. At least your involvement. They’ll leave Havoc alone if I’m gone, Heathens and ATF.”

  “And you’ll go where?”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  Why Sweet did wasn’t a mystery. “I have to.” He started the truck and pulled back onto the road.

  “What the fuck, Sweet? You can’t take me back to Havoc. Not now.”

  “Especially now. I’ve got to check your story out.”

  “And get me killed in the process? Just fucking shoot me and get it over with. And let’s not pretend I’m the criminal here.”

  “I do what I need to so my club—my people—stay safe,” Sweet told him, his voice steady.

  “So you take the law into your own hands.”

  “With my kind of people? Yes.”

  “Your kind of people?”

  “MCs deal with the rules of the road. The law can’t police the clubs as effectively as we police ourselves. It’s road justice. It keeps everyone honest and the community safe.”

  “Because MCs don’t do anything illegal, right?”

  A muscle in Sweet’s jaw jumped. “My club doesn’t hurt women or children. We don’t hurt anyone who doesn’t deserve it. MCs are made up of big boys—we all know what we’re getting into. It’s business. And I don’t need to justify any of this to you.” Sweet paused. “Unless you’re planning on taking me down?”

  Sweet glanced over, saw Bram’s hands tightened into fists on his thighs. “That’s not why this all started.”

  “If it ends that way, I’ll end you.”

  The threat hung between them, the heaviest of weights neither man could ignore. “Havoc wasn’t part of my territory.”

  “You posed as an MC member. Doesn’t matter that it was for a dirty club.”

  “Right. I deserve to die.”

  “You’re a snitch.”

  That Sweet would even consider calling him that . . . fuck. Bram fought the urge to grab the wheel, crash them both into a ditch and beat the hell out of him.

  Instead, he ground out, “Trying to take down a meth ri
ng makes me a snitch? Then that’s exactly what I fucking am.”

  There was no way to resolve this, not without blood and bullets. Bram had already dragged Havoc too far into it. Now he had to put some distance between himself and Sweet and hope his skills could come out and play before his PTSD did.

  “Are you trying to force me to kill you?” Sweet asked. “You’re not getting off that easy.”

  “Never do.”

  “Maybe it’s because you hang with the wrong group of people.”

  “Must be nice to have the perfect brotherhood,” Bram practically spat, suddenly completely angry—unreasonably so—at Sweet. “Keep them in line by threat of death and everyone pretends they love you.”

  “Threats don’t work—promises do,” Sweet intoned. “And yes, we run our club differently, but of course there are betrayals. They’re unexpected and they suck, but they’re dealt with swiftly. And by the whole club.”

  “Yeah, I know the drill, Sweet.” Bram barely choked the words out. “I know what it’s like to be dealt with swiftly by the whole fucking club.”

  Sweet paused. “How much of this—us—was a cover?”

  Us. Did Sweet think there was an us at all? That made Bram’s throat tighten, because he’d assumed he was just a fuck to Sweet, nothing more. “Guess I could ask you the same fucking question and probably get the same goddamned answer. You do what you need to for your club brothers and I do it for mine.”

  Sweet’s eyes went cold.

  Way to play your role, Bram. Way to play your role.

  It truly was the only thing he did well. He didn’t see that changing anytime soon.

  The ride back to Havoc was long and tense, maybe more so for Bram than Sweet. Or maybe the MC pres was a damned good poker player.

  Once back on the compound, the chances of Bram escaping were pretty much null, at least not with ten men surrounding him plus a hundred more placed around to secure perimeters.

  “Quite a military operation you’ve got here,” Bram said as he was ushered inside the clubhouse and into Sweet’s office.

  “Trying to get intel?” Sweet smiled and shut the door behind him, leaving just the two of them.

  “You like to live dangerously, don’t you?” Bram glanced at the window and then back at Sweet.

  “You want to kill me, go ahead. You’ve had a shitload of opportunity and yet I’m still breathing.” Sweet crossed his arms. “During your most recent undercover job, did you kill anyone?”

  Bram gazed at him. “Got a wire in that vest? Looking to sell me out to my own people?”

  “I’ll take that as a yes.” Sweet tapped his fist lightly against the desk.

  “What about you, Sweet? How many people have you killed?”

  “Like I told you, we take care of our own or mete out our own kind of justice. We’re judge, jury, and executioner.” Sweet’s expression was defiant, his tone daring Bram to question it.

  “Can’t judge you, Sweet,” Bram admitted. “I just know that shit like that changes you.”

  “Then maybe I needed changing,” Sweet said unapologetically. “We’re having church in a few. Tug and Ozzie will take you to the basement. Do I need to call in other guys for that?”

  Did he? Bram hadn’t made up his mind as to whether or not he was going to go nuts and blow Sweet’s trust . . . or if he’d just cooperate. For now. “I’m fine with those two.”

  Sweet motioned for him to turn around. When he did, Sweet slid the cold metal cuffs on him, and being restrained was way less exciting than it had been in bed. “These have been specially soldered. You’ll have a hell of a time getting out of them. Save your bones and don’t bother.”

  Bram nodded, his body taut. Ozzie came into the office and put a light hand on his biceps to lead him, and Tug followed behind, neither man saying a word or making eye contact.

  The basement was a typical cement-and-cinderblock dark, dank space, fitted with two cells, Havoc’s own version of a drunk tank. The bars were sturdy, no windows in the cells and yeah, Bram was going nowhere fast.

  Granted, he could’ve taken the keys from Ozzie’s pocket easily enough. Thought about it but the way out was up. Through Havoc.

  Dead man walking.

  Sweet gathered Gypsy, Tug, Ozzie, and Boomer around the table. These men knew Linc well, and they’d known Bram for the short time he’d been there. But this wasn’t going to be an easy church.

  “I’ve got news—about Bram,” Sweet started. “I still want to verify a few things, but in the ride over here, Bram admitted that he was ATF.”

  Dead silence met his statement. He took advantage of that to push forward. “He was working to take down the Heathens. Says he was betrayed by his supervisor. The beating he took? Heathens.”

  Tug whistled softly under his breath. “Do the Heathens know?”

  “Bram says they don’t. And I’d rather they never did. This is complicated enough.”

  “Sweet, what the fuck is he still doing here? He’s ATF,” Gypsy said. Slowly. Deliberately.

  “He’s Linc’s brother.”

  “He’s ATF,” Gypsy growled. “And now he’s inside Havoc—”

  “It’s not like he’s gotten any inside information.”

  “He’s the law, Sweet.”

  “He’s Linc’s brother,” Sweet said firmly. “Don’t ignore my instincts.”

  Bram counted four hours, twenty-three minutes, and forty-five seconds before the shaking got too bad. Fucking pain pills. Fucking withdrawal.

  After rounding off another couple of hours, he was a sweating, shaking mess. He was also half-dreaming, half-hallucinating. Hearing things. Motorcycles. Chains.

  Heathens, surrounding him. He tried to stand and fell, and he was surrounded. He heard himself yelling, but they were pulling him farther into the alley . . .

  “Leave him alone. Stay back.” Sweet’s voice. What was Sweet doing here? “Bram, it’s okay. You’re all right.”

  Bram blinked up at him. So far from it, man, you have no idea.

  “No one’s going to hurt you.”

  Bram couldn’t help it. He laughed, a crazy, uncontrolled sound. And he lay there, on the floor, with no one touching him, beating him, or threatening to kill him. But the day was still young.

  Sweet called his sister, and Misha was at Havoc within half an hour. She found Sweet half holding Bram, mainly to keep him from hurting himself. Bram, of course, fought the hold, but he was shaking badly.

  “When’s the last time he took anything?” Misha asked.

  “He was gone for at least twelve hours—his pill bottle was still in his bag.” Sweet motioned to the table where Ozzie had brought in and left Bram’s prescriptions. “He’s been back here for a while.”

  Misha glanced at the bottles, opened them, and nodded before giving Bram her attention again. They tied him down so she could get a needle in his arm, but she assured him, “I’ll untie you as soon as the meds start working, okay?”

  “No more of that shit,” Bram mumbled.

  “Slow and steady. Give me seventy-two hours and you’ll feel a hell of a lot better than if you go cold turkey,” Misha told him.

  “I didn’t think he was an addict,” Sweet said after she’d gotten the IV successfully going and began to untie his arms. He almost stopped her, but when she turned to glare at him, he stood down.

  She didn’t say anything else, not until Bram had stopped fighting and brought it down to murmuring in his sleep. Finally, she turned to Sweet. “He’s not an addict. He’s dependent because he was on these meds at the hospital. He’s having DTs because he didn’t follow the correct protocol for weaning from powerful painkillers. It would’ve happened to anyone in his position. He just checked himself out of there too quickly . . .”

  And got on the road to find his brother. “Can you really help him get better in three days?”

  “If you cooperate.”

  “Me?”

  “You can’t always bend people to your will, Sweet,” she
reminded him.

  “Misha, you have no idea—”

  “I know you’ve got feelings for him and it’s scaring the fuck out of you,” Misha told him calmly. “Because I’ve never seen you do this to a civilian.”

  “He’s a vet,” Sweet said and Misha stared at him like his argument was the weakest shit ever.

  “He’s more than that to you.”

  “He betrayed Havoc.”

  “Really?” She looked around. “The club appears to be standing. Everyone in one piece except for Bram. And Linc. Any idea where Linc is?”

  “Whose side are you on?”

  “My patient’s.”

  “He’s my prisoner,” Sweet reminder her.

  Misha just gave him that small I know more than you smile she’d been giving him since childhood, and he gave up and walked out of the room.

  He left the door open though. Just because Bram was unconscious at the moment didn’t mean shit.

  “You okay?” Gypsy asked. He was holding a container of food. “Fay sent this over for you. Said you need to eat.”

  Sweet didn’t realize he was hungry until he smelled her signature meatloaf. He sat and began to eat as Gypsy stared into the room where Misha was helping Bram.

  “Anything from him yet?” Gypsy asked finally.

  “Not yet.”

  “He’s fucked up.”

  “Tell me something I don’t know.”

  Gypsy turned to Sweet and narrowed his eyes. “For all we know, he drugged himself.”

  “To what end?” Sweet sat back, half the dish gone, wishing Gypsy could give him a minute of motherfucking peace. Then again, Sweet had given all of Havoc a heart attack, so he owed them.

  Gypsy shrugged. “Sympathy. To throw suspicion off him. Guilty conscience. Or maybe he was just trying to kill himself. Take your pick.”

  Sweet stared into the room where Misha was working on Bram. Boomer was helping her—he’d been a medic in the Marines, and he usually did a good triage until Misha arrived.

  He didn’t like pulling his sister into this shit, but she’d never had a problem proclaiming herself Havoc through and through. She also worked at a clinic downtown in her off hours from the hospital. This town knew and respected her. No one got turned away.