Stormy's Thunder: Satan's Devils MC Utah

by Manda Mellett

  Well, it would cross the mysterious woman off the list, I suppose. A bone to offer the club, a small one. One which shouldn’t have necessitated a journey to Kentucky to find out.

  Unless dear Catherine’s up to her neck in this shit. If she is, she’ll soon wish she wasn’t. I start to hope that’s the case and consider how best to get information out of her. Swift might be the enforcer, but never fear, I’ve a few interrogation techniques of my own.

  I’m stiff, every muscle hurts as I near the town limits of the place where she resides. By now the moon has risen in the night sky. Over the miles, I’ve refined the details of my plan. I’ll check out the house, talk to Catherine if she’s still up. If she’s innocent, I’ll go find the nearest motel for the night. Right now a park bench would do—anything that would allow me to stretch out. If she’s not, well, we’ll both be in for a long night.

  Ah, there it is now. The house isn’t set in a town, instead it stands on its own, surrounded by a decent sized piece of land. In the pasture I can see a horse, sleeping with one of its back hooves bent in a posture of total relaxation. I envy it. But of course, the noise of my engine wakes it fast and it scatters, going from standing to snorting and tossing its head.

  Switching off my engine, I coast the final few yards, noticing the house is in darkness.

  When I last checked, it was only nearing twenty-three hundred hours, perhaps she goes to bed early? But if she’s got livestock, maybe it’s understandable. This does look like a farmhouse.

  Maybe I won’t knock, maybe there’s a barn and I could find some hay and hole up for the night, and wait to confront Ms Beeswick in the morning.

  I know my racing mind won’t let me relax, not when I’ve travelled so far to solve this mystery. I’ve spent many a wakeless night when I was protecting my country. One disturbed night for her is nothing in comparison.

  Sure, I’m an asshole, but I’m going to be waking her up, and I won’t take no for an answer.

  Husband, boyfriend? Lover, brother or son? They won’t get in my way, I’ve got questions to ask. The sooner I have what I want, the sooner I’ll be out of the house and on my way, hopefully with information to satisfy my club.

  Dismounting, I take my gun out of the hidden holder on the bike. Looking around, I see and hear no threat, so I go to slide it inside my cut. When the weapon meets air, I sigh, and place it instead in the waistband of my jeans. Putting my hands on my knees, I breathe in deeply, then kicking out my legs, I shake them, first the right followed by the left. I roll my shoulders and ease back my head. Fuck but I’m sore.

  Right. I’m ready. Approaching the front door, I bang on it, sighting a doorbell I ring that too.

  No answer.

  Whoever’s home, they sleep like the dead. I could be anyone, a burglar or murderer.

  After knocking and banging once more, I step back, and make my way around the house. The curtains aren’t drawn, my flashlight beam illuminates a pleasant enough interior, comfortable furnishings in the living room, a kitchen with elderly but clean and serviceable appliances, everything put away except for two cups left out on the countertop.

  Can’t mark her down for leaving out cups. Everything else is tidy. I’m just about to turn away when my light falls on something else. I move in closer, cupping my eyes against the reflection of the moon behind me. There’s a smashed plate on the floor. Surely someone as house proud as this homeowner would have cleared that up before going to bed?

  Hairs rise on the back of my neck, and I slide out my gun, feeling it’s comfortable weight in my hand.

  It could well be nothing. Maybe she’s not here and went out in a rush, and will clear that up on her return.

  Or, maybe, she’s had a home invasion.

  Coincidence? I don’t believe in them.

  But Kincaid, Hughes, McGregor and Dean are dead.

  What if someone else was working with them? That would make sense. It might not just be me she’s a loose thread for. If she made the booking for them, she’d have known at least one of their names, maybe even what they were doing.

  I hesitate only to consider the best way to proceed. I need to get into that house. Walking around the perimeter once more, I check for any signs of a security system. The most I can see is a Ring doorbell at the front, so I head back to the kitchen and the rear door. Taking out my small toolkit I always carry, I make short work of the lock, and soon, soundlessly, I’m pushing open that door.

  Using the skills I learned as a SEAL, I proceed stealthily into the house. On first inspection it reveals nothing more than I’d already learned from looking in through the windows. Every few steps I wait and listen. There’s no sound other than a buzzing of flies. Maybe there was food on the plate I saw smashed?

  I round the kitchen island carefully, stopping when my foot touches something soft. I drop to my haunches and direct the beam of my flashlight. Shit. I can tell the dog is long dead, cold and stiff to the touch. Bastard. My jaw clenches. While I’ve never had a dog myself—it has been more a matter of convenience than inclination—we had dogs on the teams. I admired them a lot. This poor fucking thing’s been stabbed and is lying in a pool of blood. Uselessly I swat the flies away, then rise once again, frowning down at the animal. By my estimation it’s been dead for days.

  What happened here? Where’s Catherine Beeswick? Whatever’s gone down, it’s clear it happened some time ago and the trail has gone cold.

  I was right to come here, but I hadn’t gotten here soon enough. Has Catherine been kidnapped like Swift? Or killed like her dog and been buried somewhere? Or, is her body still here?

  My hands clench at my sides, knowing I have to check upstairs and make sure the woman’s not lying dead in her bed. Or see if there’s a sign of a struggle which would prove she was abducted. If so, I’ve a feeling it’s got something to do with Kincaid. But what, why and how, given that the man himself is dead? Those are questions I have no answer for.

  With a heavy heart, and every expectation I’ll find a body, I climb the stairs. I remain quiet and vigilant, but am fairly certain whoever caused trouble in this house isn’t here now.

  The first bedroom I come to appears to be the master. The bed’s unmade, but apart from that, there’s no sign of any trouble. Inspecting the laundry basket, I see it’s full of dirty clothes, just as could be expected.

  She’s neat. Tidy. If she left of her own volition, she’d have made the bed.

  I try the remaining two bedrooms. One, like the master has sheets lying in disarray, but there’s no other sign of anything. Maybe she’s not such a good housekeeper. Maybe the downstairs is tidy in case visitors turn up.

  But what about the dog? Who leaves their house with a dog, dead or alive, lying on the kitchen floor?

  Damn. I wish Honor or Duty were here. As ex-cops, they might be able to see things I’m missing. But I can hardly give them a call. I don’t even know if Catherine or this mystery has anything to do with the club, except for that Airbnb booking. And even with all the questions here in this house, it’s still in the cards she had nothing to do with Kincaid who might have unbeknownst to her used her name and address.

  Returning downstairs, I go to the dining area and notice a desk with a computer on it. I start opening drawers and pulling correspondence out, putting it all in a pile I’ll go through in a moment. I reach for the switch to bring the computer to life, when something, an instinct, makes me turn, and I notice a hitherto unseen door under the stairs.

  The hairs on the back of my neck tingle. A closet? I don’t leave anything unsearched, and certainly not a hiding place where someone could be waiting to sneak up on me. I go to check, but when I open it, find some old stone steps. Yes. This is an old farmhouse, it probably leads to a root cellar. Maybe there’s something down there?

  Whether there is or not, I need to take a look.

  I take out my flashlight again, holding it in one hand and my gun in the other. It could be my imagination, but some sixth sense warns me I�
�m not alone.

  Silent, not switching my light on, I inch my way down, stopping when I come to the bottom. I pause, holding my breath, but I can hear nothing at all. My hand, feeling the wall, touches a light switch.

  Holding my Glock out in front of me, I flick the switch. A single bulb provides little illumination. Now using my flashlight as well, I let the beam shine into the corners, almost completing a circuit before pulling it back. An unpleasant odour hits me, making me reel back. It smells like something had crawled in here and died. I shiver slightly, like many cellars it’s dark and dank, the sun doesn’t permeate down here.

  There’s a bundle of old clothes. Or, is it? Stepping closer, I see there’s also a wig, dirty and dishevelled.

  Wait. That’s no fucking wig. In two strides I’m across the space, falling to my knees. My light reveals a body of a woman. Well, I rock back on my heels. I’ve found her. Or so I presume.

  I’m too late.

  Damn it. Reaching out my hand, I gently brush the auburn hair off her face, touching her skin as I do.

  She’s cold, but not icy, and soft, her skin is yielding.

  My eyes widen, and I move my fingers to her atrio venous pulse, holding them there for a second, not breathing myself.

  There’s a weak beat.

  She’s alive.

  Barely.

  13

  Stormy…

  I’ve found Catherine Beeswick, or that’s who I assume this is, and she’s breathing but in a bad way.

  I’m a bastard, everyone knows that. I’ve been an asshole all my life. What I should do is call 911 and get paramedics here to help, but in my head I see them whisking her away, and me losing any right to question her and find out what she knows. So the decision is easy, I’m keeping her here and will do what I can to care for her myself.

  Quickly I check her out to see what I’m dealing with. She’s so fucking cold. How long has she been this way? She’s probably dehydrated and depending on how long she’s been left, starved. There are empty bags around her, but no food. If she was left any, it’s run out by now. A rustle in the corner gets my gun back in my hand… Fucking rat. I turn back to her again. Or the food was stolen by rodents.

  I examine her more closely. There are no visible wounds that I can see, but maybe there’s more under her clothes, not that she’s wearing much. When I pry the too-thin blanket away, she’s in shorts and a tank, as though she was dressed for sleeping. Fuck, could she have been abused?

  She’s not the old woman I’d expected given the décor in the house. She’s younger than me by quite a few years, but that’s as far as my disimpassioned thoughts go. If I’m going to get questions answered, I’ve got to ensure she stays breathing.

  The padlock keeping her chained was clearly beyond her, given that her nails are broken and bleeding, but is child’s play for me to release. As I get her free, I run through triage and treatment in my head.

  Warm her up. That’s the first thing she needs.

  Gently lifting her in my arms, I carry her up the stairs, and then up the second set that leads to the bedrooms above. I lay her on the bed in the master suite before searching for what I need. Finding an old claw-footed tub in the main bathroom, I turn on the taps, pleased when I test the temperature that hot water flows. Using my hand, I make sure it’s warm, but not scalding, and return to the bedroom.

  Her clothes are soiled, but hell, I’ve seen worse. Clinically, I ease the blanket off of her, quickly stripping her out of her meagre amount of clothing. Soon she’s back in my arms, and I carry her to the tub.

  Gently, I ease her down in the water, keeping one arm around her shoulders to keep her from going under. With my free hand, I start massaging her arms.

  When the water cools, I run some more hot in, slowly raising the temperature. I could do with a thermal blanket, but all I’ve got is this and that will have to be enough.

  If she doesn’t stir soon, I’ll need to call in the experts. Fuck, I hope it doesn’t come to that. I want my chance to talk to her.

  While I’m working on raising her core temperature, with a dispassionate eye, I run my eyes over her, noting the rawness around her wrists, and the way one is lying, swollen. Broken or badly strained is my diagnosis. Her skin is dull, dehydrated. Her ribs show, but she’s been imprisoned for fuck knows how long without food.

  Slowly her skin begins to lose that bluish complexion, going white, then slowly morphing into pink. Testing the water, I check it’s not too warm—by my judgement, it’s just right. Do I know what I’m doing? I should call for help.

  But I never trust others to do what I can myself. I got this. Haven’t I?

  Jeez, I hope that I have as I gently brush some strands of red hair off her face, wishing she’d open her eyes. What colour are they? Fuck, what does it matter? I’m here for info.

  Lifting my hand and drying it, I slide my phone out of my pocket. I can’t estimate how long it’s been since I found her, but I’ll give it another half hour. If she doesn’t stir when that time has passed, I’ll dial 911. While I hate to admit it, I’ve no idea what she’s been through or for how long. Saving her might be beyond me. Fuck, even if I get her to come round, she might still need expert help. All I need is her conscious enough to answer my questions, after which I’ll gladly let the professionals take her. At least now she’s naked, I can see no other injuries, no bruising or wounds that would suggest sexual abuse. Of course, the bulk of those would be internal.

  I still. Was that a murmur? Wasn’t her mouth closed? Almost without breathing myself, I stare at her chest, watching it rise and fall. Is it wishful thinking, or is the movement getting stronger?

  Suddenly and so fast it makes me startle, her eyes open wide. Water sloshes as she screams and tries to cover herself.

  Green, I notice with strange satisfaction—the colour of her eyes is a vivid green.

  “Wh-who?” “Wh-who are you?” she tries again. Her whole body is violently trembling. It could be shivers that she’s still cold, but more likely from terror. Her voice is croaky, her throat dry and probably misused from futile screaming.

  “Hush,” I say fast, trying to find words to calm her. “I’m not here to hurt you. I’m just warming you up. You were so fuckin’ cold, I couldn’t think of anything else.” Except calling for paramedics. Yeah, maybe I should have done that.

  Her pain-filled eyes flutter wildly, one of her hands covers her breasts, and the other her mound. I’m tempted to roll my eyes. No matter that she’s half dead, her modesty is more important than her health. Just like a fucking woman. Would a man first think of covering his dick? I think not. Though if he was as cold as her, he wouldn’t have much worth hiding.

  As her terrified eyes stare at my face, I try to gentle my voice, or at least, speak less gruffly. “Let’s get you out of here.” When I reach for her, she feebly tries to push me away, but she’s too weak to make anything more than a token effort.

  Ignoring that I’m getting wet, I reach my arms around her, pulling her slender form into my arms. Balancing her against my shoulder, I grab hold of a towel, wrapping it around her.

  “I…” she croaks.

  “Hey, stop. I’m trying to look after you. You’re cold and dehydrated.” And fuck knows what else. “Let’s get you settled on your bed, then I’ll go and get you some water, okay? I needed to get you warm first.”

  She starts to wriggle, and her lower half, slippery with water, escapes my hold. She tries to take her weight, but her legs, unused for fuck knows how long don’t hold her. Again, I sweep her up into my arms, getting a firmer grip this time, and take her into the bedroom. There, I sweep her dirty clothing and soiled blanket off the comforter and lay her down. I rub her limbs to get her dry and cover her up.

  I feel her sigh of relief now her body’s no longer revealed to me.

  “Stay here,” I instruct, though I doubt she can move far. “I’ll be back with some water.”

  Knowing how adrenaline and shock can quickly overcome
a person, I waste no time. Taking the stairs fast and entering the kitchen, I grab a bottle of water, then, opening cupboards, find a can of soup which I open. Tracking down a bowl, I heat it in the microwave and grab a spoon.

  I’m back with her within minutes.

  “Let’s sit you up.” I move in close, perching on the bed so I can get my arm around her. Holding the water to her lips, I caution her to take it slow. “Don’t drink too much, else you’ll just throw up. Little and often, okay? You think you can manage some soup, sweetheart?”

  She’s compliant, half still out of it I believe, but it suits my purpose as I hold the spoon to her lips. She slurps some of the soup, some of it dribbling out of the side of her mouth, but I ignore that, more thankful when she gestures for more. Before she’s finished, I pull it away.

  “Let’s see how that stays down first, okay?”

  There’s a little frown on her face, but I know the dangers of eating and drinking too fast. The mind wants more than the body can take.

  I note she’s got more colour in her face now. It brings out her freckles. “More water?” Her nod is a little more energetic. “Just a little. Small sips.” When she appears to be sensible about it, I release my hold on the bottle. Nodding at her left wrist that she has avoided using, I ask, “Can I have a look at that?”

  A shy up and down of her head grants me permission. She seems to have got the message I’m here to help. Gently, I take her arm, carefully supporting it. “Can you move your fingers?”

  She tries, winces, but I’m pleased to note there’s slight movement. “I don’t think it’s broken, but you’ve obviously wrenched it. Have you got a first aid kit? I can bandage it to support it.”

  Her eyes come to my face. “Who, who are you? Are you a friend of Weston’s?” I clench my jaw seeing fear making her tense as she mentions the name.

  “Weston?” The name triggers loud bells in my memory. “Weston Hughes?” I can join the dots as well as the next man. “Tiny? Who is he to you?” Shit. She’s involved in this right up to her neck.