by Ivy Black
“Milo! Please!” she pleads. “Don’t let him take me. Please. I’ll do anything—”
“And I’m going to give you the chance to prove that,” Rollins tells her with a greasy laugh.
“How do we know you’re keeping your end of the bargain?” I ask.
“You’ll just have to have a little faith,” he replies. “I’m a man of my word.”
“I’m going to need a little bit more than that,” Prophet says.
“I’ll send you a video of me burning the evidence. Will that suffice?”
Prophet shrugs. “Sure. That’ll do. Just don’t go double-crossing us, Agent Rollins. We’ve got very long memories around here. And believe me when I tell you there is nowhere you can go that we can’t get to you.”
“I have no desire to double-cross you,” he says, still not taking his eyes off Hadley. “In fact, I never want to have to see or think about any of you dirtbags again.”
He leads Hadley down the stairs. She struggles in his grip, trying to get away from him. She’s screaming and trying to break free, the desperation in her voice and her movements breaking my heart every step of the way.
“Milo! Please! Stop this!” she screeches. “Don’t let him take me!”
Rollins stuffs her into the back seat of his car and manages to get the door closed. I can hear the sound of her kicking the glass window frantically. Rollins turns back to us and gives us a mock salute before turning to the driver’s side door of his SUV. Before he can get it open though, cop cars come streaming into the compound. Rollins jumps back but quickly gathers himself. He reaches into his jacket and pulls out his badge. As Sheriff Singer and his men climb out of their cars, Rollins holds up his badge for all to see.
“ATF,” he calls out. “Agent Christopher Rollins.”
“Excellent,” Singer says. “Agent Christopher Rollins, you are under arrest. You have the right to remain silent—”
“What are you talking about?”
“You’re familiar with the Miranda warning, I assume? Because that’s what I’m doing here.”
“For what? Have you gone mad?”
“Kidnapping for one. Human trafficking. Accepting a bribe. Corruption,” Singer says. “And anything else I can come up with.”
“This is ridiculous. I just saved this girl—”
As Rollins engages with Singer, I rush down to the SUV and rip the rear door open. I reach in and pull Hadley out of the back seat. I quickly cut the plastic cuffs off her and give her a quick kiss.
“You were amazing,” I say. “I had no idea you could act like that. That was brilliant. Oscar-worthy for sure.”
She shrugs as a triumphant smile crosses her face. “And to think, my mom said those years I spent doing theatre in high school would never pay off.”
We share a laugh, and I catch sight of Rollins glowering at us. Singer is keeping a close eye on him, but I know Rollins is lightning quick. I know he could get to us before the sheriff even managed to get his weapon out. So I put Hadley behind me, keeping myself between her and Rollins.
“This is bullshit. This isn’t going to stick,” he snarls. “I mean, this is cute and all, but you’ve got no proof. And you’ll never win a case without proof.”
I give him a wide grin when I flash the recording device I’d been wearing under my shirt. Rollins’ face pales but when Singer’s men move in and put him in handcuffs, his face darkens with rage.
“You can’t do this. This is bullshit. This will never stand up in court,” he screams. “Get your fucking hands off me.”
They stuff him down into a car. I turn back to Hadley.
“You really were amazing,” I say. “You should have been an actress, not a lawyer. Thank you for doing this, Hadley. I know it had to be scary as hell but I’m so grateful that you were willing—”
“Honestly, it was as much for me as it was for you,” she replies. “Getting Rollins thrown into prison for a long time benefits me just as much as it does the club.”
“That’s a good point,” I say. “But even still… thank you.”
She laughs and throws her arms around me, squeezing me tight. I can still feel the slight tremble in her body. She’d been scared. Not that I blame her. Being in the custody of some psycho who is willing to take you in exchange for burning evidence has got to be terrifying.
“It’s over,” I say. “It’s all over. He’s going away for a very long time, and he is out of your life once and for all.”
She kisses me then pulls back and lays a hand on my cheek. “You are a frighteningly brilliant man.”
“Yeah,” I say. “I guess I am.”
Hadley turns her face up to me and smiles. “I’m ready,” she says.
I cock my head, not sure what she’s talking about. “Ready for what?
She pulls me down into another kiss, one filled with heat and passion and something even more. Something deeper. Hadley slowly pulls back, the smile on her face never wavering for a moment.
“I love you,” she says.
It feels like I just got kicked in the gut yet strangely, in the best way possible. My heart lurches inside of me, and I can’t even think of anything intelligent to say in return. So I simply lean down, press a gentle kiss on her mouth, and smile.
“I love you too,” I say.
We stand together, hand in hand, as we watch Singer’s SUV pull out of the compound lot, whisking Agent Christopher Rollins away, bound for a nice cozy cell. It’s a fantastic start to our day—to our life together. She lays her head on my shoulder, and I revel in the feeling of her body pressed so close to mine.
And in the moment, everything feels almost perfect.
Epilogue
Hadley
Three Weeks Later
The bike rumbles under me, the rough vibrations reverberating through my entire body. I lay my head against Milo’s back and wrap my arms around his middle a bit tighter, squeezing him and relishing the feeling of his strong, solid body. The cold wind whips by, my hair flapping behind me.
The sun is slipping toward the horizon, casting the sky in fiery shades of red and orange. The Pacific is a glittering pool of gold, and the waves in the distance are crashing against the shore, sending their white spray high into the air. It’s one of those typically beautiful California days that people talk about. One of those perfect California days that make people move here in droves. Or at least, talk about moving here in droves.
The last few weeks have been a whirlwind of insanity. Thankfully, there had been no reprisal attacks by the militia they fought at the warehouse, which I’m grateful for. Seeing the graze wound on Milo’s arm had been bad enough. It had terrified me. He took great pains to assure me that he was all right but still, when you see blood on somebody you care about, your first thoughts aren’t always rational.
Other than that, we’ve been interviewed by Sheriff Singer half a dozen times and a crew of ATF agents half a dozen more. The Feds tried to circle the wagons, as they tend to do, but even they couldn’t dispute the audio recording of Rollins offering to burn evidence in exchange for me. But they certainly tried.
Rollins himself was shipped back to Virginia to await trial; and the moment he crossed the city boundaries, I swear to God I felt a physical weight lift off my shoulders. Rollins actually had the balls to call Brent to ask him to represent him. But after everything I told Brent about the situation, he told Rollins that he wasn’t going to let him get within a thousand miles of me then cordially invited him to fuck off. It’s a conversation that still makes me smile and made me love Brent all the more.
I fear that he’s going to get a slap on the wrist and be out of prison in no time flat. I fear that he’ll come back to Blue Rock looking for revenge. But the prosecutors out there are assuring me they’re pressing for the max and that he’ll be in prison for a very long time. I can only hope they’re right. I am not looking forward to having to go back to testify. But I keep telling myself
that I’ll get through it because Milo will be by my side.
Milo pulls off the highway and follows the little narrow track down to our bluff. He pulls to a stop and cuts the engine. The sudden silence is nearly deafening, but I still feel like my body is vibrating from the rumble of the engine. Milo climbs off the bike then turns around and helps me off the back.
“Perfect timing,” I say.
“Didn’t I tell you we’d have a romantic dinner at sunset?”
“And at Dale’s to boot,” I say. “You must be trying to get into my pants again.”
He shrugs. “I just might be.”
We share a laugh, and after that, he reaches into one of the saddlebags and pulls out a red and white checkered blanket. He carries it down to the edge of the bluff and lays it down. Then he comes back and reaches into the other saddlebag and pulls out the drink carrier and the bag of food. He flashes me a smile as he walks over to the blanket.
“You coming?” he asks.
I smile and follow him over to the blanket and sit down. Milo drops down next to me and starts fishing around in the bag. He comes out with my burger and fries then sets them down on a paper plate he’d brought with us. It’s such a simple thing but it means so much to me. Ever since I fell back into Milo’s orbit, things have been amazing. Robin has remarked on the difference she sees in me more than a few times. She says I’m practically glowing—which makes me laugh.
But she says she’s really happy for me and is pretty much already planning the wedding. That makes me laugh even harder. As good as things have been between us, I don’t think Milo and I are quite at that point. But who knows? Maybe at some point in the not too distant future…
“Thank you,” I say as I take my plate.
“Anything for you, m’dear,” he replies then hands me the big cup. “And one peanut butter and chocolate shake.”
“Now you’re talkin’,” I say with a laugh.
After he gets done serving himself, we tuck into our meals, eating in a companionable silence for a little while. I like being with him. Just being in his presence not only calms me but it also brings me incredible happiness. And those feelings have only grown over the last few weeks. It’s crazy but I feel like we’re closer now than we’ve ever been. And I do mean ever.
All my fears about Milo have dissipated, and I’m absolutely convinced that he has changed for good. Even after the incident out at the warehouse, Milo had told me he was afraid that he’d regress. But he didn’t. He said in part, it was just being with me—though I think that’s a load of crap. But he also said that Spyder had told him it was all a choice. That he could choose to regress or he could choose to keep using the tools his therapist had been teaching him to deal with his issues.
He has then happily opted to continue using the tools his therapist has been teaching him. And things between us have been incredible. Amazing. It’s just strange that it took me walking away from him, risking never having him in my life again, to get us to this point. It occurs to me that I needed to walk away from him to help each of us discover ourselves—which in turn has led us to finding each other all over again and creating something even more beautiful than before.
The Japanese art of kintsugi repairs broken pottery—bowls, cups, and the like—by filling in the cracks with gold. The end result is something beautiful. It’s a road map of your history but the gold within the cracks shows that you don’t have to hide the broken pieces and can make something beautiful out of it.
I think it’s the perfect metaphor for me and Milo. Like those repaired pieces of pottery, our life together hasn’t been perfect but it is something special and something beautiful.
* * *
Enjoy the following preview of
Volt (Dark Pharaohs MC Series Book 5)
Volt Preview
Chapter One
Volt
“Don’t worry, kid,” Prophet says. “Everything’s gonna be fine.”
“I think we’ve got very different definitions of the word ‘fine’,” I reply.
Kneeling next to Prophet with our hands bound behind our backs on the ground of the old, derelict warehouse, I take in the sight of the half dozen men packing AR-15s in addition to sidearms milling around us. And as I do, I don’t know how that statement can possibly be true—I’m pretty sure this isn’t going to turn out fine—though I appreciate his optimism.
It’s kind of hard to feel sunny and bright when two of our guys are sprawled out on the floor behind us, their bodies riddled with bullet holes, laying in pools of their own blood.
“This is the last place I ever figured I was going to die,” I mutter. “I kinda hoped it would be in my own bed about a hundred years from now.”
“You’re not gonna die,” Prophet hisses. “Get that fuckin’ thought out of your head right now, kid. You hear me?”
“Copy that, Prez.”
As if it’s that easy when we’re surrounded by guys armed to the teeth. The men standing guard are all wearing gaiters that cover the bottom half of their faces. Their black gaiters are painted with the lower half of a white skull, giving them all a menacing appearance. I can’t see much about them other than they’ve all got dark skin and dark eyes. If I had to guess, I’d say they were Mexican. But I can’t be sure unless one of them speaks—which none of them seem inclined to do.
I don’t even know how this happened. Everything seemed normal and then went off the fucking rails in a heartbeat. It’s been a hell of a year for the MC and after our blowout with that ATF prick Rollins and the militia that jacked our shipments on top of that a month ago, things seemed like they were finally settling down. We were finally enjoying some downtime and peace as things returned to normal—or at least, our version of it.
But when we showed up for our meet with Cort this morning, we walked right into an ambush. Our suppliers were dead when we got there, and this six-pack of assholes rolled out and took us hostage. They brought us here to this warehouse and immediately killed Beaker and Axle. For whatever reason though, they kept Prophet and me alive. They’re obviously waiting for something—or somebody. It’s a thought that sends a chill racing down my spine.
“What are we waiting for?” I finally ask. “Who are we waiting for?”
“Callate, puto,” one of them replies.
So they are Mexican. Good to know. I exchange a glance with Prophet and see him frown. Ever since our battle with Miguel Zavala, we’ve been waiting for his sicarios to get organized and work up the nut to take a run at us. A final fight with the remnants of his cartel has been hanging over our heads like the goddamn Sword of Damocles. Apparently, that time is here. And they caught us with our fucking pants down. It would be embarrassing if it weren’t such a shit show that was likely going to end up with both of us laying in pools of our own blood.
“This isn’t good, Prez,” I whisper.
His face tightens but he doesn’t say anything. He just gives me a curt nod, which tells me he’s a lot more freaked out than he’s letting on. That does nothing to settle my nerves. I struggle to slide my bound hands into my back pocket, drawing the attention of one of the guards who points his weapon at my face and starts screaming at me in Spanish. The tension in the warehouse crackles in the air around us, and our lives are teetering on a razor’s edge.
“Jesus. You guys already patted us down,” I say. “You did everything but give us a fucking cavity search.”
The man with the weapon in my face looks hard at me and gives me a sharp nod then says something to the other sicarios, which gets them laughing. I can only imagine what they’re saying as sweat rolls down my face. Prophet gives me an uneasy look and lets out a long breath.
The sound of an engine echoes around the warehouse, and a black SUV pulls in and stops. The engine is shut off, and I think the ensuing silence is all the more ominous. The windows are smoked, making it impossible to see who’s inside. But then the driver’s side door opens, and a tall Mexican ma
n in a dark suit with sunglasses on gets out. He’s bald and has a crown of tattoos on his scalp. The work is small and intricate so I can’t see what the symbols are. He’s lean and has a thin mustache and a small soul patch just below his bottom lip.
The man doesn’t even seem to notice Prophet and I kneeling there as he walks around the front of the SUV and goes to the rear passenger door. He opens it with all the solemnity of a Secret Service agent letting the President out of his ride. The man who gets out is dressed in an expertly tailored designer three-piece suit that’s dark blue with pinstripes. Beneath his coat and vest, the man is wearing a blue shirt that’s got a white collar and a bloodred tie. He buttons his jacket and turns to Prophet and me.
He’s tall. Probably about six-two or six-three and lean. He’s broad through the shoulders and narrow at the waist. He looks like a guy who takes care of his body. Probably has a personal trainer or something. His dark hair is cut short and parted on the side, and he’s got a neatly trimmed goatee that’s got a small patch of gray at his chin. He’s got tawny skin and bears an uncanny resemblance to Miguel Zavala.
As his driver closes the door behind him, the man eyeballs us for a long moment in silence. His face is expressionless. But behind his dark eyes, I see the fury that’s burning inside of him. It’s that cold rage I see simmering in his veins that scares me more than anything else about this situation. He’s a man who is so filled with wrath, he’s capable of the most monstrous things. What’s more, he seems like a man more than willing to do the most monstrous things.
“Do you know who I am?” he asks Prophet.
“No fucking clue. Care to enlighten me and tell me why you’ve murdered two of my men and have been keeping us in this warehouse for the last couple of hours?”
The man’s lips twitch, and a corner of his mouth curls up in a feral smirk. His dark eyes burn holes through Prophet, and I get the idea this is personal between this mystery man and our club prez. The kind of hate I see in this man’s face can only come from one place—the loss of a loved one. Everything I’ve noticed since this man got out of the SUV combines to tell me this man is related to Miguel Zavala. And given the similarities between them, I’d go so far as to say it’s his brother.