Walk For Me: Club Avalon Book 4

by Kay Elle Parker

  “Eat up, sweetie.” Connie perched her hip on the edge of the bed.

  “You’re not going to lecture me?”

  “There’s only so much the brain can absorb. I know Thane will have said his piece and he knows how to get his point across. Me adding to it won’t make a difference.”

  That was an understatement. Sighing, Alicia took an unenthusiastic bite of the sandwich, then moaned as hot cheese filled her mouth. The perfect blend of bread, cheese, and grease. Devouring both halves quickly, she peeled the banana Connie had brought and wolfed that down too, followed by the pain meds and a juice chaser.

  Connie remained dutifully quiet, up until she nudged the glass of water across the tray. “Drink that, sweetie. Wash the alcohol through your system.”

  “Will you be in trouble for the wine?”

  She snorted, her lips quirking. “If Att has an issue with a quarter-glass of wine, he hasn’t got enough to do. Besides, the man is essentially a giant teddy bear.” She reached over to Alicia’s chair and picked up the forgotten Mr. Bear. Nimbly, she took the glass of water from the tray and set it on the bedside table, then took the tray off Alicia’s lap and replaced it with the bear. “There’s nothing he won’t do for his friends, Alicia.”

  Alicia tugged Mr. Bear under the covers, folding her arms around him as Connie brushed her fingers over her cheek and said goodbye. She laid there in the semi-darkness, eyes open and staring at the ceiling while she grieved for something she couldn’t have, before she finally succumbed to sleep.

  *

  Halfway home from an entertaining afternoon with Braun and a heavily pregnant Bodie, Atticus’s thoughts were focused on his princess and how to get things back on the right track with her. It wouldn’t be easy, he was aware of that, because by being honest, he knew he’d damaged something fragile.

  Spending time with his friends had solidified his desire for more. The companionship, the love, the familial bond they were building every day set the standard for his own dreams, and Alicia was the one who could make them come true.

  They could be everything he imagined and more.

  The whine of a high-powered engine coming up behind the truck at speed drew his attention to his mirrors. A black and chrome motorcycle, rider suitably attired in safety gear, roared up behind him, hesitating for a split second before veering around and gunning the engine.

  Smooth overtake, Atticus noted, slowing his own speed a fraction as the bike zipped back in front of him, but traveling too fast. The roads were full of idiots who saw an open road and didn’t take the conditions—or wildlife—into account when they opened up the engine.

  He hissed between his teeth as the bike seemed to shimmy. His foot was already on the brakes as the rider tried to correct it, and went too far. The tires lost their grip on the hot asphalt, sending the bike and rider skidding sideways down the road. A moment later, the motorcyclist let go of his ride—which bounced and tumbled for a good distance—and did some painful bouncing and tumbling of his own.

  “Fuck.” Atticus slammed the brakes on and was out of his truck before he thought twice about it. Running over to the downed rider, he landed on his knees beside the prone form sprawled on its back.

  He quickly assessed the heavily padded limbs without touching them, hopeful there were no breaks judging by the uncomplicated angles. “Okay, pal, you’ve wiped yourself out good. Can you hear me?”

  A muffled groan echoed from within the helmet.

  Not unconscious, that was a positive sign. Atticus flipped the visor up on the scratched, dented helmet and studied the brown, bewildered eyes staring up at him. Male, maybe late twenties. “Do you have any pain?”

  “Nah, man.” Another groan. “Shit, I fucked that up.”

  “Yeah. Good job you’re dressed for the occasion.” Att tapped a fingertip on the crack in the helmet. “Your head would’ve been smashed on the road like a pumpkin. Don’t move, okay? I’m going to call the EMTs, get someone here to check you out. I can’t rule out spinal injuries.”

  “Nah, I’m okay.” Still groaning, the guy rolled onto his side.

  “That’s really not a good idea,” Atticus warned him, then offered a silent prayer to the heavens for idiots who wouldn’t listen when the biker rolled again onto his belly.

  An alarm went off in his head, instincts screaming as the guy staggered to his feet. No one who lived through a crash like that just got up and walked away, not unless the luck of the angels was on their side…or they were trained to do exactly that.

  Fuck.

  Atticus was the first one standing, but it didn’t matter. There was already a gun drawn, pointing at his head. Directly between his eyes, in fact. He lifted his hands, already understanding what this was about, but uncertain about how it would play out in the long run. “Guess if I ask, you’re not going to tell me your name.”

  “You can call me Jakub—my boss is gonna wanna know I delivered her message, so make sure you use it.” The helmet came off, tossed aside, and those brown eyes were no longer bewildered. Another young man drawn into the web of lies created by the McGees. “That truck you’re driving, it belong to you?”

  Atticus glanced over his shoulder. “That beautiful hunk of junk? I wish. Belongs to my boss, I’ve just dropped a delivery off up the road there. Gotta have it back to the boss by five.”

  Jakub frowned, and the shift of his features revealed a network of old scars running through his skin. He didn’t seem like the brightest spark plug in the engine, but the hand holding the gun was steady—a feat in itself considering the adrenaline surge that came with a potentially lethal motorcycle accident. “You saying you’re not Heisler?”

  “My name is Bryan Crayton,” Atticus lied seamlessly, not hesitating for a second. “I don’t know what shit you’ve got going with my boss, but can I remind you this is a public road on a Saturday afternoon? I don’t want to get shot because a van full of tourists drives past.”

  “Heisler is supposed to be driving that truck.” The gun jabbed toward the vehicle. “I’m supposed to give him a message from Fable.”

  “Look, dude, I don’t fucking know who Fable is, but I don’t want no part of this, okay? You wanna give me the message, I can pass it on, but that’s as far as I’m sticking my neck out.”

  “Yeah. Yeah, I can do that.” Jakub looked torn about the decision, obviously weighing up the penalties for delivering the message to the wrong person or not delivering it all. “Fable wants the girl. The wheelchair bitch.”

  “No idea who you’re talking about, but go on.”

  “Heisler drops the cunt off at this address,” Jakub pulled a plain white business card from his ripped-up leather jacket and flicked it toward Atticus, “and there’ll be no repercussions. He’s got until Monday, midnight, to make the drop. If the girl ain’t there, that fancy house he lives in ain’t gonna be more than ashes. Fable gets what she wants.”

  Deadlines. He hated the fucking things almost as much as he thrived on them.

  “Okay, okay. I’ll make sure he gets the message, all right?”

  “Good. Oh, and one last thing, just to make sure you know she’s serious…”

  Atticus saw it coming, the slight adjustment of Jakub’s wrist, the testing flex of his finger on the trigger. Getting shot was not on his agenda for today. He lunged forward and to the side as the weapon fired, missing him by inches. The gunshot cracked the air, and a second later, he collided with the asshole, sending the gun skittering across the asphalt and out of reach.

  They went down together, Jakub on the underside, and Atticus took a blow to the face. Growling, he rained blows into his competitor’s midsection, only to realize that the guy had on more padding than he anticipated. Punches that should have rendered him breathless were simply ineffective.

  “Not my first stunt crash, fucker.” Jakub clapped his hands against Att’s ears, hard enough to make his head ring, then shoved him aside. Little bastard was stronger than he looked. “Gonna have to send you
r boss a message of a different kind now.”

  As Jakub got to his feet, Atticus twisted and lashed out with his foot. The toe of his heavy boot struck the weak point in the guy’s knee, sending him onto hands and knees. Moving hurt, the throb in his head disorientating him, but Atticus wasn’t deterred. He’d been in worse positions, he reminded himself, against opponents with deadly skill sets.

  He wasn’t getting taken out by a goddamn junkie biker.

  Getting to his feet took effort. Standing without toppling like a redwood required more than just effort, it took every last ounce of training, stamina, and refusal to quit.

  Jakub scrambled forward—Atticus went after him, yanking him up by the hair and hitting him with enough force to have those brown eyes rolling up in their sockets for an instant. Again and again, until blood coated the asshole’s face and sprayed liberally over Atticus’s shirt.

  “Message received,” he spat, then dropped Jakub in a heap.

  He braced his hands on his thighs, bending over to dispel the fading ringing in his ears. It would pass in the next few minutes, it wasn’t the first time he’d had his brain rattled in such a manner. But one thing was becoming crystal clear.

  He really was getting too old for this shit.

  Grunting, he walked over to the helmet, picked it up, then went to retrieve the gun. A few deft movements unloaded the weapon, and he shoved the bullets in his pocket. With the gun in the helmet in one hand, he grabbed Jakub by the collar of the leather jacket and unceremoniously dragged the unconscious messenger over to his truck.

  He threw the gun and helmet in the footwell of the front passenger seat, then dug through the glove box for his roll of duct tape. Keeping an eye out for approaching traffic, he patted the man down for weapons, then bound him in an incredibly uncomfortable hog-tie, and finally heaved his deadweight onto the backseat. As an afterthought, he shoved a hank of rope into Jakub’s mouth as a makeshift gag.

  “Fucked with the wrong guy, Jakub. Bad career move.” Satisfied the area was clear, Atticus climbed into the driver’s seat and drove slowly down the road to where the wrecked bike had come to rest on the verge.

  Leaving the engine running, he backtracked on foot, picking up any noticeable debris. It all went into the back of his truck. There were a few signs of an accident—gouges in the asphalt, the glitter of glass, splinters of plastic and metal—but only if someone knew where to look.

  Close inspection of the motorcycle told him it was fit for nothing but scrap now. He kicked the front tire, noting the buckled forks. The fuel tank was leaking shit over the road, and the radiator was cracked. What had been a decent bike was now needlessly broken.

  Atticus cursed as a car headed in his direction, willing it to keep on going, but the Good Samaritan in the driving seat pulled to a stop beside him. He forced a smile onto his face as a sunburned male—early-sixties, balding and ruddy cheeked—peered at him through the open window.

  “Looks like you’ve had a spot of bother there. Need me to call anyone for you?”

  “Thanks, but I’m the recovery team.” Att laced his voice with a distinctly southern drawl as he patted the mangled handlebars beside him. “Stupid young kid going too fast on his new bike, took a spill.”

  “Good Lord. Is he okay?”

  “Yessir, he’s doing just fine. Cuts and bruises for the most part.” Bending to grip the tire rim, Atticus locked the fingers of both hands around it and felt the bruised muscles in his back whimper. The bastard was heavy, but with those busted forks, he couldn’t wheel it over to his truck. “You drive safe now, y’hear?”

  Metal scraping over the road drowned out whatever the nosy driver replied, but Atticus was too focused on the task at hand. He was vaguely aware of the car driving away as he walked backwards, towing the awkward weight of the bike with him.

  Christ, he had more important things to deal with than this. Picking the junkie cockroaches off one by one was time consuming and completely useless. Jakub would be replaced with very little effort, one of the younger generations eagerly stepping up to fill his shoes and take his cut.

  Fable had brought the fight to him, Atticus thought, without realizing he was willing to annihilate the entire gang, right down to the last straggler begging for mercy. By threatening him, demanding he hand over Alicia as though she were fresh product, the little girl trying to be drug dealer of the year had seriously shortened her life expectancy.

  Already mentally cataloguing his team into those assigned to cases, those who could be urgently reassigned, and those who were too deep to extract, Atticus finally hauled the bike to the back of his truck, and dropped the tailgate.

  His calves and thighs were reprimanding him sternly, lecturing him on why he shouldn’t neglect his gym duties. The muscles sang, reminding him he actually loved doing physical tasks, even if that meant deadlifting a fucking motorcycle into the bed of his truck by himself.

  “Why can nothing ever be simple?” he asked himself, loosening up his neck and shoulders. “Want a night with my princess? Not a cat in hell’s chance. Instead of a nice, quiet night with Alicia, I get this jackass thrown into the mix, just for fucking fun.” He crouched, rubbing his hands on his jeans before finding strong holds on the frame of the bike. “The rude little bastard can sit in a cell until tomorrow. Fuck!”

  The last word came out on a savage growl as he used his legs to lift the clumsy weight of the bike off the ground. The growl deepened, lengthening with determination. His biceps strained, his jaw clenched against the pressure of standing upright with the deadweight.

  The ruined front wheel slid onto the tailgate, kept going as he got it as far as he could before he had to let it go. The entire truck bounced on its shocks when the weight of the bike fell into the bed. A few more hefty shoves, and it was secure.

  Atticus slammed the tailgate shut, muttering to himself about inconveniences as he made his way back to the driver’s seat. Sweat from heat and exertion trailed down his face, soaked his shirt. He sighed gratefully as the aircon swirled cool air around him, wicking away the uncomfortable moisture.

  Checking his mirrors, Atticus put the truck into gear and pulled away slowly, keeping alert and focused on the road. He didn’t know if there might be other pitfalls on his way home, but he wasn’t going to fall into one blindly. This one had been close enough for his liking.

  They knew where he lived, which didn’t come as a huge surprise—Koda had warned him they had eyes on Alicia. The loss of his privacy was a pain in the ass, yes, but one he could deal with. In fact, it might even come in handy when he was ready to make his move.

  The deadline concerned him slightly—two days seemed an exorbitant amount of time for a psychopath to wait for her new toy. Atticus had a small advantage in terms of gathering data on C-Note and Fable, but not nearly sufficient to piece together everything in time for a showdown.

  Maybe his new biker friend would have some additional information he’d like to share…voluntarily, of course. Jakub would not enjoy holding his tongue if Att decided to break out some of his less pleasant interrogation techniques from his box of tricks.

  The boy would hold his tongue in a literal sense.

  Pressing the button on the steering wheel, Att initiated a call to Patrick. When the call picked up, he said without preamble, “Did you pick up those groceries I asked you to get?”

  “Yes, boss. We got everything you need. We got home about half an hour ago, so I unpacked everything for you. Didn’t want that ice cream to melt.” Patrick laughed lightly. “Anything else we can do for you?”

  Koda was safe. Excellent news—one less problem to worry about. “Yeah, that computer issue I told you to take a look at tonight has been bumped up to urgent. It’s bringing up all kinds of old data I don’t need. Get it fixed asap, and upgrade the online security while you’re at it.”

  “It’s next on my to-do list, Atticus, but technology really isn’t my forte, you know? Erik’s hanging around, scratching his ass and waiting for
his date to hit him up—he’s got magic fingers with computers.”

  “See what he can do. If he can’t do anything with it, call Harry and Zach over.”

  “No problem.”

  So far, things seemed to be on track. Koda was stashed in the safehouse until Atticus figured out the best place for him to go. Once the gang was no more, he could remain in Phoenix if that’s where he wanted to be.

  Patrick and Erik were in control of the security at home, with Harry and Zach coming in as additional backup. Patrick was probably already making the call to them, relaying Att’s orders. One thing all his guys had in common was their ability to follow an order without questioning it.

  He made another call, this time to one of his lower ranking team members. Paul hadn’t been with the firm for more than six months, but he was proving himself to be cool under pressure, eager to learn and for action, and he didn’t talk anyone’s ear off.

  “Ferrara.”

  Case in point. “Paul, I need you to meet me in the parking bays in thirty minutes. I’ve got one vehicle to dismantle and dispose of, and one guest in need of a room for a few nights.”

  “Acknowledged.”

  “Always a pleasure talking to you, Paul. See you in thirty.”

  Short and sweet. Atticus knew the guy had a wife and a toddler, which made him wonder what happened behind closed doors in their home. Surely they had to engage in meaningful conversation at one point or another.

  Shrugging it off as a question he’d never know the answer to, Atticus glanced over his shoulder at Jakub, satisfied the prick was where he’d left him. He put his foot on the gas, prayed for a lack of police presence on the roads, and headed for home.

  Daddy had a date with his princess.

  Chapter Ten

  “Has she been a good girl?”

  “Was there any doubt? Get your act together and claim her if that’s what you’re going to do, Atticus. She’d do anything to prove to you she can be what you want her to be. She just wants to be loved.”