Tarnished Lies and Dead Ends

by MariaLisa deMora

  ***

  Wildman

  Standing in the gravel and dirt in front of the clubhouse, Wildman fought back his impatience as men gathered at what seemed a snail’s pace. Knowing he was being unrealistic with his internal demands for speed didn’t make it easier, watching the loose-limbed greetings between the IMC and CoBos men. They didn’t have anything riding on this call-out. Nothing except the reputation of their clubs, and Wildman knew they’d kick it into gear as soon as the situation called for such.

  Wasn’t their fault Jussie was his and had been taken, location and health unknown for sure.

  The three clues given by the kidnapper who’d stolen into their clubhouse to take Justine might hold everything they needed to find her, but tangled politics had already taken up too much time. Twisted had included the CoBos and Wrench via official channels, which then passed along the message to a half a dozen support clubs, while to Wildman, even a moment’s delay was too much.

  He lifted his head, closed gaze aimed upwards as the sun overhead painted white circles of light underneath his eyelids. Deliberately slowing his breathing, he held the position until he could feel tense muscles starting to relax.

  That was derailed in an instant when the rolling thunder of bike exhaust bounced off the trees. A sound Wildman and every other member were well used to, but every man who’d been called in was here now, which meant these visitors were unexpected, and as far as Wildman cared, un-fucking-needed. Motherfuckers. All he wanted to do was find Justine and be certain she was safe. He’d let her go if that’s what she wanted, hold her close if he found she was so inclined, but first, she had to be breathing and near enough to touch. Which meant whatever kind of bullshit protocol would have to be wrangled now between whoever was coming down the road and the IMC was time spent not doing what was needed. Sons of bitches.

  “Twisted.” He followed up his shout with a two-tone whistle, similar to the dove’s cry he’d used at the shipping yard. Hell, was that just a couple of nights ago? One night? Across the lot, Twisted’s head lifted, then angled towards the road with a nod. Wildman lifted a fist, pumped it twice, then pointed to where Twisted was stalking along the edge of the gravel so he could see farther up the narrow road. “Watch his back.” A dozen brothers took off at a trot to close the distance between them and Twisted. “Ware the house.” Wildman swept an arm in a circle, and Ruger nodded in response, twisting to tap the shoulders of ten or more brothers near him, heading around the edge of the clubhouse at a dead run, ready to protect against anything coming from the rear. “Ward our guests.” This bellow wasn’t accompanied by any gestures, just Wildman crowding closer to Wrench and Po’Boy, already encircled by their own men. Wildman positioned himself along the front edge of the cluster of bodies, ready to change tasks as needed.

  He couldn’t have said who he’d expected to see, but Retro wasn’t high on the list, given Twisted had talked to him a dozen hours ago at about the same time some unexplained shit had apparently been going down in the man’s own home. But there he was, riding point, rolling between two men Wildman knew by reputation.

  Mason, international president of the Rebel Wayfarers MC, and Sparks, president of the Jailbreakers MC from Adken, Florida. The same hometown listed on the info about Justine.

  Fuck me.

  Then the column rolled past where Twisted stood and up to the front of the clubhouse, as if they had a goddamned right to be there. Behind him, Wildman overheard Wrench muttering to Po’Boy, who simply groaned.

  Disrespect, right here on our ground.

  Wildman didn’t try to stop the men who flooded past him, a black river of potential pain, aimed directly at the man who was his woman’s blood brother.

  ***

  By the time the higher-ups had sorted out it was a friendly—if unannounced—visit and not an attempted takeover, there were a full dozen men on their bellies on the lot and handfuls more exchanging threatening words chest to chest.

  No matter the bar of metal pinned to every stranger’s chest, an old-school tell of a blameless pass-through, for every IMC member, the idea of a rival club coming to the Motherhouse as if they owned it was begging an explanation.

  Only when he’d seen iron pulled had Wildman waded in, cursing and yelling with Twisted at his side, yanking their members back one at a time, leaving the cadre of foreigners in the middle of a ring of bikes. Retro was well known and trusted, of course, but the other two were shockers to more than just Wildman. It was chaos, voices lifted in shouts and threats while in the background Po’Boy and Wrench offered steady voices, kept control of their own men even as they helped calm the furor surrounding them.

  Things finally ground to a halt, and Wildman dropped his hold on the last struggling brother, stepping back quickly as he retreated to the fringes. That buffer of distance was his sole barrier to keep him from killing anyone, because waiting even another goddamned second to roll their rescue felt like betrayal in the depths of his fear for Justine.

  Long after Wildman had stopped giving a shit about what was unnecessary protocol, Twisted had finally walked to where Wildman stood, shoulders propped up on the outside wall, checking the time on his phone over and over again.

  Twisted leaned a shoulder against the wall and blew out a lungful of air. “She ain’t ours, but she was taken from our house. Makes us responsible.” Wildman glared at Twisted when he paused, making a “hurry up” roll with his fingers that earned him a dark scowl. “CoBos are the only ones riding who don’t have a dog in this hunt, but they’re deep partners all the way around the circle, brother, and I can’t find it in myself to deny them. Fuck, I asked ’em here before we knew it’d turn into a cluster. We got a history with them, and this honors that somewhat.” Lips pressed tightly together, Wildman held his peace. “Rebels, Jailbreakers, and Bastards will be rollin’ with us, goin’ on my call too. For various reasons, I suspect you already understand, each of those men over there has a stake in the outcome today. You will be respectful.” Wildman turned his glare back on Twisted, pulling it away from the group that had stymied him for far too long. “You will be, or I’ll fuckin’ own you.”

  “You already own me, Prez. Didn’t have to be said. As Retro’s fond of sayin’, ‘I’ll abide.’ I won’t like it, but I’ll fuckin’ abide.” Pulling himself to his full height, he stared into Twisted’s eyes. “Just as long as we roll. Now the cock measurin’ is done and over with, you think we could possibly get this goddamned show on the motherfuckin’ road? Because I been standing around too damn long, and with every minute ticking past on the clock, I run the risk they’ll move her. Or worse, give up on us showin’ and just shift to erase their liability.” He shook his head. “It’s what I’d do if I was a shiteater like they are.”

  “We run the risk.” Twisted thumped his chest and then Wildman’s, the blow from the back of his knuckles stinging with the promise of a bruise. “Every single one of us runs the risk. Not just you, brother. That’s a ‘we’ in there, not an ‘I.’”

  “Not the same, man. Not even close to the same, and you know it. She’s mine. Not yours.” Wildman shook his head to force his thoughts straight. “At least she could be. She’s not, not yet, but dammit, Twisted, she could be, and standin’ here even talking to you like this is fuckin’ with me bad, man. I gotta go.”

  “Then we ride.”

  He took Twisted at his word and strode to his bike, leg over and thumb to the start button before Twisted had taken a single step. He rolled to where Mason, Retro, and Sparks sat their bikes and eased to a stop. “He’s asked me for respect. I promised I’d abide by his wishes, and I will.” Thumping his chest with a closed fist, he held Mason’s gaze, the man’s brows lifting in a painful shocked expression. “Jussie’s mine, and you gotta know that’s truth. I’m ridin’ to bring back my woman.”

  Mason’s headshake wasn’t a surprise, but Wildman still hated to see it. “Man, you and her are a thing separate from why I’m lookin’ for her. I won’t get between her and wh
atever kinda shit she wants to drag home with her, but in this one, you’ll play by my rules.”

  “And what makes you think I’d do that, you son of a bitch?” The shit statement had burned because Wildman knew Jussie was MC royalty, daughter of one, sister of another, but he wasn’t worthy of that kind of dismissal. “If she’s still there and we round things up the way we want, any decision won’t be yours, and fuck, man, it won’t be mine, either. It’ll be hers all the way, but I’m gonna push my suit.”

  “She’s got to get back to her bosses, or it runs the risk of callin’ down more heat than any of us want to deal with.” Mason held up a pacifying palm, and Wildman felt an unreasonable ire to see only honest concern in his expression, not any kind of bullshit reasons hiding there. “We clear the shit, I’m with you on that, and you can even make your verbal play, but she needs to be picked up by her own people. We can’t bring her back here, can’t take her to Birmingham—fuck, man, I can’t even take her to my nearest clubhouse.”

  Shit. Every word Mason uttered made absolute sense to Wildman, and he hated the man a little for it. Breathing hard, as if he’d gone a ten-round fight, he glared down at his fuel tank. She’s a damned Fed. Don’t even know if she’s into me. Fuck, haven’t seen the woman awake since just hours after we rescued her goddamned ass, so I can’t know. Not for sure. Lifting his chin, he stared at Mason and swallowed hard, giving a quick, brusque nod.

  “I just want my fuckin’ sister safe and sound, and I’m with you. All this shit took way too long to straighten out.” Mason placed a palm against his chest, as close to an oath as Wildman had ever seen. “I already told Twisted, but you’ve my apologies for ridin’ in like that. I didn’t see him out by the road, or I’d have stopped the column.”

  “He ain’t lyin’, Wild.” Retro leaned forwards, wrists propped on the peaks of his high handlebars. “None of us expected to find him anywhere but in front of his house, which was why we were aimin’ at respectful placement. All kinds of bullshit y’all were ready to roll. We shoulda been ten minutes earlier, and none of this woulda gone down.”

  “Po’Boy thinks he knows where they’ve got her, based on the message left specifically for him.” Wildman shook his head, frustrated. “Like I told Twisted”—he thumbed over his shoulder as the man rolled his bike up beside Wildman’s—“they coulda moved her already. We need to roll.”

  “What’s the plan?” Mason flicked his gaze towards Twisted, but then his eyes settled on Wildman, and just that nod to his claim on Justine helped mollify him somewhat. “We just pullin’ a John Wayne?”

  “Guns blazing, fuck yeah.” Wildman nodded once, then looked for Po’Boy. “Bossman?” His call got a chin lift and a raised brow that told him Po’Boy was listening. “Brother, you pointin’ the way?” Po’Boy flipped one thumb up, so with a wave to Mason and Retro, Wildman released the clutch and rolled the throttle, aiming his bike at the backend of Po’Boy’s as the man whipped sideways on the gravel at the end of the drive. Wildman executed nearly the same maneuver, hearing the shouts and calls behind him growing fainter as he twisted the throttle more, shifting up through the gears quickly and catching up to Po’Boy’s wild speed. At least someone understands urgency around here. He didn’t push up next to him, just slotted into place behind him, letting a left-hand column roll up beside them, Twisted in the lead, Mason filling in next to Wildman.

  Quack, fuckin’ quack.

  Chapter Twelve

  Justine

  Her body revolted, and Justine became aware as she retched hard, her stomach roiling inside her. She rolled to her side, head pounding so hard that getting away from the pain was all she could think about. Vomiting certainly didn’t help, but lying still seemed to, so she scootched away from the small, vile-smelling puddle and relaxed as best she could. Other than her heart pounding, it was country-silent all around her. Cicadas and bullfrogs off in the distance spoke to a rural setting, while the lack of highway noise held a tiny blade of fear to her nerves.

  Where am I?

  Embracing silence and holding in place as she paid close attention to everything around her was a basic form of control she could exercise, so she did. Justine shoved her fear down and down, packing it away in a box in her mind until it was a distant emotion, already muffled by whatever had been used to incapacitate her. The nausea was slowly fading away, and she was awfully glad for small favors.

  The more intently she listened, the more sounds were identifiable. From close by came the soft plink of a steadily dripping faucet, and in the far distance, there was a deep hum of some gas-powered yard implement, maybe a generator. The shuffling of boot leather across a rough plank floor marked the approach of someone.

  Definitely not with Wildman and the IMC.

  The road in front of the clubhouse hadn’t carried heavy traffic, but there’d been a highway not too far away as the crow flies, and while in their house, she’d found the sound of trucks and cars had been nearly constant.

  Where? God, where am I? Who has me?

  The footsteps came closer, and Justine viciously tried to deny the spike in her fear, taking advantage of the cotton-headed feeling still muddling her thoughts. It took careful concentration to make sure her face would look relaxed, slack even, and every breath she took was controlled, steady, and slow. The footsteps halted near her head, close enough she could hear the squeak of the boards underfoot, and she had to fight a sudden terror threatening to break the rhythm of her breathing. Don’t touch me, oh God, don’t touch me. Please, God, don’t let them touch me. Fortunately, playing possum seemed to have worked, because the footsteps retreated, faster than they’d approached.

  Silence filled the space until the humming in her ears battled against the cicadas’ rise-and-fall roar, then a man’s voice muttered, “No, she’s still out. You seen anything yet?” A pause where she could only make out the buzz of someone speaking on the other end of the call. “Let me know soon as, man. I gotta gear up for this shit. Can’t just rock it without preparation, if you know what I mean.” Silence, then a distinct metal and glass rattle as something was dropped on a hard surface.

  Eyes closed, Justine pushed herself to remember the events that had brought her here. Fortunately, she remembered everything from the night with Wildman, or the soreness between her legs would give her a terrified pause. The last thing she held memory of was a hand over her mouth, jarring her from a sound sleep alone in Wildman’s bed for only an instant. Then, lights out, and nothing at all behind the gray veil until waking to vomit. Knocked me out fast. Had there been a cloth in the hand, rough against her cheeks and chin? Maybe. The current headache and barely remembered bitter scent told her they’d used some kind of agent to immobilize her. Chloroform? Probably. The compound was easy enough to make via a home recipe, and that harsh and dangerous formula was alive and well in the dark corners of the Internet. Wouldn’t even have to worry about a paper trail that way.

  The conversation she’d just overheard gave her an idea of what had happened. She’d been working as an unauthorized undercover agent, posing as a victim of a Mexican drug cartel’s flesh-trafficking scheme to gain intel on the source and routes of distribution. Then she and the other women had been inadvertently rescued by a local motorcycle club. Their patches had identified them as both Incoherent and the Caddo Hobos MCs, each a one-percent group who were deemed helpful by local federal authorities. They might not always stay on the legal side of the line, but for the communities where their clubhouses were, the illegal activities conducted weren’t enough to override the beneficial effect they had of keeping other, more violent crime at bay. She’d studied all the known criminal elements in the area for years—and IMC, the club Wildman was part of, was one that had caught her attention.

  So, first she’d been rescued by a member of the dominant MC in the area, in a clear strike against the encroachment of the cartel, and then taken in turn by someone else. With an unknown agenda. Jesus, what a fuck-up. This man was not part of the cartel. The
re’d been no trace of a foreign accent in his voice, and the cadence of the words on the other end hadn’t carried it either. The man who was her current captor had likely been the one to hold the chloroform rag over her mouth, and his counterpart, whoever he was, was currently positioned far enough away that they expected him to see something before it could be known from this location. On the plus side, this guy was a clear amateur. Not only wasn’t he standing watch over her, but by placing himself in the other room like that, he’d cut himself off from the line of sight. The dumbass also hadn’t secured her at all, her wrists and ankles not restrained. Not that I’m complaining.

  She just needed to get her pounding head under control and deal with him, then make her way back to the IMC clubhouse to verify the other women were okay.

  Justine fluttered her lids as she slowly opened her eyes, blinking to adjust to the shooting daggers of pain blasting through her head. As things came into focus, she made out a duffel bag on the floor near a window. Barely visible inside were a plastic bottle lying on its side and a dirty rag. No way. Would he really be that careless? Her immediate response was an eye roll, but that attempt at derogatory humor had her wincing and biting back a groan as the effort earned her a headful of pain followed by a recurrence of nausea. Okay, not moving anytime soon.

  She’d only have one chance at overpowering the man. Justine kept testing the limits of what her body would allow through the next twenty minutes, rolling her shoulders and neck, stretching out her hands and fingers, flexing and pointing her feet. The man had come back to check on her twice more, each time with the phone in hand as he reported in, leaving her lying next to her own vomit as he walked away. She’d taken the opportunity to size him up from the back, finding out he was larger than he’d sounded, tall but not broad.

  I can do this.

  Then the wooden floor under her cheek began to vibrate, rattling through her skull and setting up another wave of pain. Lifting her head to escape the vibration, she slowly pushed up to a crouch near the wall and crept over to look through the doorway into the other room. Facing a window, her captor was staring outwards with a hank of greasy hair falling across his face.