I allow myself a few minutes as I drive through the city to get used to the handling, finding the bike stable and easy to ride. Keeping an eye on me, Bolt matches my speed. By the time I’ve hit open country, I’m already at one with the bike. It’s now I open the throttle. Like that horse it had resembled before, the acceleration as it kicks up the pace almost takes my breath away. Speed. It’s what I live for. Bends in the road? Well, I can lay that thing down almost horizontally.
Oh fuck. There’s a bang like a gunshot. Bolt, on the inside, has swerved onto the shoulder struggling with his bike, but managing to stay shiny side up. I slam on the brakes and stop a few yards ahead. Running back to him, I notice the problem immediately….
“Blowout?”
“Fuck it. Yes. I’m fuckin’ sorry, Road.” Bolt’s kicked the stand down and kicks at the remnants of his tyre on the road.
“It can’t be helped. You stay and get help. I’ll go on my own.”
“I’ll call Mystic and Grinch. One of them can go with you, Brother, and the other can bring the crash truck and get me home.”
I eye the road that lies ahead of me. “You know how I ride, Bolt. I’ll get there and back before they even arrive. She won’t be there. I’ll be fine on my own.”
He grimaces and doesn’t look happy, but it takes him only a second before he nods. “I agree with you. This place isn’t worth the time. Go on, then, but take fuckin’ care.”
I clasp his arm, thinking again how real it feels, while he uses his other to slap my back. Then, I’m back on the ZX14R.
I’m not going to waste time. Riding even faster than I had done with Bolt, I twist that throttle hard, laughing when I catch the attention of a patrol car, passing it at one hundred and twenty miles an hour. My right hand pulls down. The bike screams like a Formula One racing car, and the cops are left in my dust. I grin.
Shit. This bike lives up to its reputation. It approaches the road like a surgeon would use a scalpel, with one hundred percent precision, nicely stable, well-balanced at any speed. The only thing I’m taking some getting used to is the forward leaning riding position, whereas on my trials bike and on my Harley I’m used to sitting straighter. Still, this way, I’m streamlined with my machine as though I’m in tune with it.
The remainder of the fifty miles fly by. Nearing my destination, I pull off the road, tap my GPS map, then set off again, following the instructions the voice speaks through my earpiece. It’s not long until I come to where the vacation rental is located. Pausing before getting close, I stop to peruse the area, raising my shades to take a better look. The building must be set back amongst the trees as it’s impossible to see the cabin from here. From the picture I saw, it was set back against the hillside, almost built into the rock. To my left is a lake that looks great for fishing. It’s picturesque, and nothing to resemble a setting where a kidnapped victim would be held.
There’s a practical looking SUV parked close to the lake, and shading my eyes with my hand, I notice a lone fisherman casting a line. He could be from the house. Or, maybe a local. At the least, he gives me an excuse to draw close.
I ride on, parking next to the other vehicle, noting it’s as ancient looking as, I find, is the fisherman himself when I approach.
He turns at my footsteps and narrows his eyes.
“Fishing good here?” I nod toward the lake, staring out across it, shading my eyes with my hand.
“Not today,” he grumbles, pointing to his empty net.
I give him a glance of commiseration. “You from around here?”
“Yeah. You?”
“Just moved to Utah.” It’s a truthful reply. “I’m checking out the area.”
“You fish?”
“Always wanted to give it a try.” I shift on my leg, exaggerating my limp. “Can’t do active sports anymore, so need to slow things down.”
He nods, then turns back to his rod. I step back, giving him plenty of room as he casts again.
“Heard there was a vacation rental near here. Wanted to check the location out before I booked it. Places advertised on Airbnb sometimes turn out not to live up to what they’re supposed to be.”
“Hmm. Only rental up here is old Pete’s place. Been done up well, but then, they spent a fortune on it. Pricy to rent though, I expect. I doubt it would disappoint.”
I shrug, indicating the price is no problem for me. “Anyone there now?”
As I suspected, a local would keep their eye on comings and goings. “Yes. Strange folks.”
“Strange?” I draw in a breath and try not to show my heightened interest.
“Never seen them at the lake. You’d think coming to this spot, they’d be down for a bit of fishing.”
“Maybe they’re into hiking?” I jerk my head at the foothills behind us.
It’s his turn to lift his shoulders and lower them. “Up to them what they get up to, I suppose. Pete’s family just wants the money from renting it out.”
“Have you seen them at all?”
“Why?” He turns and his eyes view me sharply.
Thinking fast, I come up with an excuse. “Just wanted to know if they seemed approachable. I wondered if they’d mind me checking the place out.”
“Fella seemed okay. Bit on the quiet side. I’ve not seen her.”
It’s a couple. But Swift hadn’t mentioned a woman. Sounds like it will be a bust, and the lack of fishing might mean they’re a couple on their honeymoon with better things to do than hang around by a lake. Still, I’ll take a ride up there and check it out.
I notice the fisherman is looking at me strangely, his rheumy eyes narrowed. “What you wearing under your shirt?”
“Riding body armour,” I think fast, giving him an acceptable solution. “Did my leg in coming off my bike. Makes a man more careful.”
His quizzical eyes glance at my head. Yeah, if my story was true, I’d be wearing a helmet. But I’m saved from having to come up with an answer as to why I’m so stupid when at that moment, his rod jerks in his hands and his eyes sparkle with excitement. Clearly losing all interest in me, he focuses his attention on the lake in front of him.
Limping back to my bike, I decide I’ll ride up to the property, check it out, then head back to base. Should be there in less than an hour. I wonder about calling to check progress on the other locations, but decide to do that when I can confirm I’ve had no success here. If I’m right, they’ll all be focused on the farmhouse. I’m still upset I’m not there with them, but I don’t want my call to distract them if they’re in the process of extracting Swift.
While it’s not a particularly normal thing to do, as the fisherman hadn’t seemed to question my desire to view a property I was thinking of staying in for a vacation, I decide that the same excuse would probably suffice if I’m stopped on the property, or could maybe work if, as a last resort and necessary for the process of elimination, I knock on the front door.
Starting my engine, I continue up the paved track, soon breaking out of the trees and into a more open area. I pull over and park, then continue cautiously on foot. Instead of approaching directly, I keep to the circle of trees, following the tree line. The ground is littered with twigs and fallen logs, and I pick my steps with care. Deliberately dislocating my knee had weakened it. The bandage helps, but it’s still fragile, and I can’t afford to have it pop out now. I could have done with my stick, but hadn’t thought to bring it with me, and the Kawasaki’s not equipped to carry it anyway.
I stop every so often, casting a glance toward the picturesque property innocently sitting in the midst of a clearing. It’s an attractive place and must have cost a fortune to restore as the fisherman had said. It has big glass windows which surely aren’t original, and a wrap-around porch that looks new and sturdy. A swing seat gently swings to-and-fro in the breeze. If I were really in the market for somewhere to spend a vacation, there’d be worse places to choose. If it were anywhere close to my price range, which is doubtful.
I con
centrate on my feet once more, tossing up whether to make the full circuit or to just say fuck it and walk up and bang on the front door. I turn for another furtive look—
Fuck! I’m on the ground. My ribs feel like I’ve been kicked by a horse. I try to breathe, then try once more. Christ, my chest is burning.
While I’m still attempting to get air into my lungs, I feel someone turning me over. “Fuck, Saul. He’s wearing body armour. Want me to finish him off with a head shot?”
Opening my eyes fast, I see I’m staring down the barrel of a gun fitted with a silencer and feel hands divesting me of my own weapon.
For an inane moment I want to laugh hysterically, if I was capable of moving at all. I’m in the right place, but instead of rescuing Swift, I’ll be meeting Satan much sooner than I expected.
“No.” I receive a vicious kick to my side. “Get to your fuckin’ feet.”
I try. I honestly try. I roll over, get to my hands and knees and then try to push myself up. It’s not easy. While the Kevlar had protected me, it hadn’t stopped the rib cage over my heart feeling like it’s been smashed to smithereens.
Impatient, Saul—at least the dropping of his name confirms Pip had been right in who had taken Swift—indicates to the other man who takes the hint and pulls me roughly the rest of the way to my feet.
“Take off your shirt.” The terse instruction is accompanied by the jerk of a second gun that’s appeared in the speaker’s hand.
“Look, I was interested in this property, was just looking at it to see whether it was going to suit me for a vacation.” My words tumble out one after the other. If I take off my shirt and the armour I wear under it, there’ll be no hiding who I am. Like all my brothers, I sport a full Satan’s Devils back-patch tattoo.
“Wearing body armour?” If anything, my words have only served to make him more impatient.
“I ride a bike, man. It’s in case I crash.”
But he’s not so easy to fool as the fisherman. Another jerk of his head and I lose my choice. My shirt is easily ripped away from my body, the material proving traitorous in its lack of resistance.
“Man, I—”
“Take it fuckin’ off.”
A knife flashes, and for some reason I don’t want them to touch me. I straighten my back and pull down the zipper on the Kevlar vest to which I owe this probably short extension of my life. Glancing down as I do, I see a deep red mark spreading across my chest. I don’t pause to examine it, instead, I slip off the vest.
The man who shot me turns me roughly, and I hear boss man draw in a sharp breath.
“As I fuckin’ thought. A fuckin’ Devil. Who’s with you?”
“No one.”
“Want me to check that out?” the man who had shot me asks.
“Yeah. Take West with you. And this time, make sure you fuckin’ shoot them in the head.”
His words make me relieved Bolt isn’t with me.
“And this one?”
Saul’s brow creases and he’s quiet for a moment, then he raises his eyes to mine. “Guess you already dodged a bullet, maybe it’s your lucky day.” His expression doesn’t suggest my luck is going to last long as to his companion he says, “Search him.”
With a gun in my face and bare chested, I can do no more than hold out my arms. My phone is removed from the pocket of my jeans. When his fingers try to probe deeper, I shift my body. “Careful of my junk, for fuck’s sake.”
The man’s hand moves as though he doesn’t want to be accused of fondling my cock. I suppress any sign of pleasure, then wait as my knife is taken from its ankle sheath. Then, wearing only my jeans and boots, my shredded t-shirt left lying where it was discarded, I’m frogmarched up to the house. Well, frog-limped in my case.
“West?” Saul calls out.
The biggest man I’ve ever seen in my life approaches. Oh, I’ve seen bigger, but their bulk was fat, not muscle. Even if I wasn’t still winded, I doubt whether I’d be able to take him on, or not without knowing the techniques Swift uses. He’d beat me to a pulp in seconds.
“Take our guest down to the cellar and make sure he’s secured. Then go with Dean and check out the perimeter, see if we’ve got other visitors. Find this asshole’s bike and bring it here.”
Well, at least I now know the name of the man who shot me. Dean. I file it away in case I ever get out of here. Chances are not looking good at the moment. They look even worse when West, from behind, takes hold of both my arms and effortlessly lifts me, half carrying, half pushing me toward a doorway beneath the stairs. He kicks it open then unceremoniously pushes me down a flight of bare stone steps.
Unable to prevent myself falling, I tuck and roll as I make an awkward landing at the bottom, banging hard against a door. Somehow my luck lasts and my knee doesn’t dislocate. Which is good, as seconds later, with his boot heavily on my back, West keeps me immobile as he shoots a bolt and turns the key in a padlock, dragging me into a cellar without caring about any additional injuries. His foot is replaced by his knee on my spine keeping me prone as he expertly zip ties my hands behind me. He then proceeds to restrain my ankles in the same manner, then, rendering me completely helpless, he hog-ties me.
I’m unable to move.
Heavy steps thumping up the wooden stairs tell me he’s leaving. It’s then I hear a voice ask tentatively, as though disbelieving, “Road?”
26
Swift…
How long have I been here?
I have no idea how many hours have gone by or if it’s day or night. That light bulb keeps burning, giving me no indication whether the sun’s setting or rising. I presume at least one night has passed, maybe two, but part of my torture appears to consist of them giving me no way of knowing.
If they switched the light off, I might be able to close my eyes and get some sleep, as it turning back on would wake me. But I haven’t had that luxury. So, for what I suspect is getting on for forty-eight hours, I’ve only catnapped, keeping both eyes open.
I need sleep.
Sleep deprivation was part of my training, a way of trying to get me to break. I hadn’t then, and I won’t now.
I can survive.
I’m already missing a finger. As time passes, I know it won’t be long before they come back for me, probably to chop off more body parts to persuade Pip to give himself up in exchange, or using other methods I’d find equally unsavoury. I couldn’t risk missing them approach, as the next time, I’ll go down fighting, and hopefully take at least one of them with me.
Pip won’t give himself up for me. He knows as well as I do, now that I’ve seen their faces, they can’t leave me alive. Instead, he’ll be concentrating on finding out who took me and instigating a rescue. I’ve just got to be patient until the Satan’s Devils come. Just as when I was part of a squad in the army, the Devils will never leave a man behind. Or, a woman in my case. One thing I’ve learned since riding with them, once the brothers got over the surprise, they accepted me, judging me only on my ability to fight and ride, and to live their life. I became one of them. They’ll be coming for me.
Partly to keep myself awake, partly from needing to do anything that might see me get out of here alive, I keep working at that ring attached to the wall. While neither kicks nor tugs seem to shift it, I can’t give up, remaining optimistic that eventually it will loosen. I have to remain positive.
Without being able to hear footsteps overhead, means I don’t have any forewarning that someone is approaching. It feeds a growing fear that they’ve already gone and have forgotten all about me. Now Pip’s been given the message, I might be of no more use. I’ll die here, my body simply left to rot chained to this wall. That hadn’t been the end I’d ever envisaged. Die in battle, yes, a shot to the head by an insurgent who’d snuck up on me, even having something go wrong with a parachute or abseil line. Never had I dreamed I’d die tied up like a dog.
I’d give anything, sell my soul, to be able to hear and know what’s going on. I redouble my effo
rts, trying to get loose. If they’ve already gone…
When did they last feed me? The rumbling of my stomach suggests it was long ago.
They might have left the house.
I’ve gotten into a routine. Pull, kick, tug, then jerk and waggle the chain to see if it’s loosened at all, then glance at the door. Pull, kick, tug, jerk, waggle, glance. Rinse and repeat. Ten times, a hundred, a thousand perhaps. My muscles are screaming and sore. Pull, kick, tug, jerk, waggle, glance….
There’s nothing I can hear to alert me something is going to happen, but this time I glance, I see the door shudder as though something heavy has landed against it. Is it now? Have the Devils arrived?
While every fibre of my being hopes that it is, I suppress my delight just in case I’m to be disappointed. When the door opens, I find I’m half right and half wrong. The Devils, or at least one of them, has at least found me, but as a rescuer, he’s clearly failed. When Tiny, as I call the large man in my head, has finished with him, Road is trussed like a Christmas turkey, and the way he looks is as though the stuffing has already been beaten out of him. Tiny then leaves without a backward glance.
“Road?” I tentatively ask in case my eyes are deceiving me.
Hog-tied, Road rolls onto his side, and it’s only then his eyes find me. A half-smile appears on his face, then he grimaces, and if I could hear, I would suspect he’s let out a groan. He’s hurt.
It’s not hard to see why. There’s an enormous bruise on his naked sternum, one I’ve seen before, one I’ve had occasion to feel and so know how much it bloody well hurts. While body armour can save you from being killed, the punch of the bullet is a son of a bitch.
“Are the others here?” I ask eagerly. “Are they hurt, injured…” I can’t bring myself to voice the last option. Or dead. “Is Pip here?”
Road’s shaking his head. But to which question? I backtrack and ask again slowly.
“Is the team with you?”
A shake.
There must be someone. Pip wouldn’t have sent him out on his own. “One person, or two?” I add hopefully, knowing Tiny’s probably a two-man job on his own.
Road Tripped: Satan's Devils MC Utah #1 Page 26