Devil's Advocate: Vlad (The Bedlam Horde MC Book 1) Read online

  DEVIL’S ADVOCATE

  Vlad

  The Bedlam Horde MC 1

  Sarah Zolton Arthur

  Devil’s Advocate: Vlad © 2020 Sarah Zolton Arthur

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in prison and a fine of $250,000.

  1

  Vlad

  “Now that they’ve taken out Escalante, that opens up a whole new shipping venture for us.” That came from our president, Rage. The motherfucker’s ass should be rotting in jail right now, but he left that prick Rodrick in charge of product production. He wasn’t even there the day they got raided.

  “Who’s there?” Rage shouts.

  I step into the light. “You sent for me.”

  Rage cuts a menacing figure and he’s one crazy bastard. That huge scar he’s got running down the length of his face from the losing end of a knife blade does nothing to help. Neither does the shaved head showing off his grim reaper tattoo eating up every bit of skin from his brow to his neck. But I’m not afraid of him. When he steps into my space, I don’t flinch or step back. He wants a fight, he can have one.

  “You spying on me now?” Rage’s response is meant to sound menacing, but again, I don’t cower. I don’t cower to any man.

  “What do you want? I don’t got all day to play your bitch games.”

  He raises his eyebrow. “Bitch games?” The man growls. “I think you better remember who yer talkin’ to here, brother. I’m your president.”

  “Then act like it.” I fold my arms over my chest, my eyes narrowed right on his. We’ve been dancing around the real issues for too long now. I’m Horde. I like partying and fucking bitches as much as the next brother, but Rage has been tumbling this club down a nasty rabbit hole for the past few years. We’ve almost reached the point of not being able to find our way out again. More than half of our brothers are either dead or in lockup thanks to the shit Rage has pulled. As a club, he’s making us vulnerable for takeovers. Other groups pushing in, trying to take our territory. Bringing FBI raids down on our heads.

  It’s only thanks to a call from Blood, one of my Brimstone Lords contacts, tipping me that they heard the raid was going down that I’d been able to get myself and some of my brothers out—the brothers who’re like me and think the club is on a disaster course of epic proportions.

  The Lords weren’t just our rivals, but our straight-up enemies for the longest time.

  War with the Lords started years ago when both our clubs were vying for control of the drug trade in southeastern Kentucky. They’d had enough and with a whole lot of blood, sweat, and tears, brought their club legit.

  The Horde and the Lords make strange bedfellows, and every damn bit of it is Rage’s fault. I would’ve never have had to get involved with Thornbriar, Kentucky if he hadn’t pulled his shit. Kidnapping Lords women? And babies? I’ll never know what that fucker was thinking. But Frankie and Brighton were two of the strongest women I’d ever met, at least until I got mixed up with the rest of the Lords women. Caitlin and Hannah blew my mind. They still do. I’ve got mad respect for those women and that’s not something I say often.

  “Heard you been entertaining Lords,” Rage accuses me. Shit. Not what I need today.

  “Yeah, and who you hear that from?” I ask, not giving anything away.

  “Burnt saw you with that gash—the dancer with the big tits.” He means Hannah Brown, Blood’s woman.

  I shrug. “My dick wants what it wants. She’s fuckin’ hot. Tight little cunt. What better way to piss off the Lords than by shooting a load in one of their women?”

  “That’s fuckin’ true,” says Grunt, the other man in the room and Rage’s acting second in command now that Dagger’s inside for a stretch.

  I’m surprised Grunt can put that many words together to form a coherent sentence. The fucker’s dad might have legitimately been a gorilla. He’s got the thick, squat body and flat face. No neck. That has to be the most disturbing part of looking at him. The man’s head looks attached to his collarbone. I saw him one time at a funeral for a brother, an old codger who’d long since hung up his outlaw ways, and it shocked me. I thought he’d dyed his hair blonde for the occasion, but it turned out, he’d just showered. Today that dirty, greasy mop tied at the back of his neck is a good three shades darker. I don’t know how he can live like that. I’m not sure how he can still get pussy to fall on his dick. Goes to prove that biker bitches care more about the lifestyle, I guess.

  That’s why, even though I don’t have many rules regarding sex, I don’t tap any ass that’s been tapped by Grunt. The brother doesn’t look clean. Gloved or not, it’s not worth the risk. I let myself think about that for a second. A biker with standards—what are the odds?

  “That gunshot story was bullshit,” Rage goes on to accuse, tearing me from my thoughts. “You took off at the same time those Lords’ bitches got taken. You come back shot and they march their asses into the clubhouse to visit. I’m not fuckin’ stupid.”

  Could’ve fooled me. “Boy, you got it all figured out,” I counter. “I’m Horde, brother. Always been Horde.”

  “Then prove it.” When the evil sneer spreads across his lips, I know I’m not going to like what he’s about to say. Then he fucking says it. “I want the doctor gash. She belongs to the president. You bring her here. I want you takin’ her first. In here. In front of all the brothers. Then you get to hold her down while the rest of us get our turns. I want her bloody and broken when you toss her whoring ass back on Lords’ property.”

  My jaw tightens as I hope that if there’s a god and he gives a shit about a sinner like me or gives enough of a shit about a good woman like Caitlin, He’ll keep the foul look off my face at the disgust I feel from Rage’s suggestion.

  I tip my chin up at my president and wordlessly turn to leave his office.

  Of the brothers left, I take stock of the ones I know would be down with defiling a woman and the ones I know never would. There’s a handful of men I just couldn’t be sure of.

  Goddamn Rage.

  The shit I got swirling in my head, I don’t even know what to do with it all. The door slams hard enough against the outside wall to strain the hinges and leaves a dent of cracking cement from the knob when I stomp through the threshold to get to my bike.

  Got the prospect on the gate, the brothers and I teasingly call him the virgin, mostly because he hates it, but also because it’s really damn funny to see pussy reactions when we call him that. We know we mean it because he’s a prospect. The women don’t know. I wave at him as I pass through the gate.

  When I’m far enough away from the compound not to be overheard by any of the brothers, I pull over to the gravel shoulder of the road and put the call out to Duke, the Lords’ president.

  “What?” The man barks into the line. If the situation weren’t so serious, I’d laugh.

  “Got trouble, man,” I answe
r.

  That gets his attention. “Fuck,” he grumbles. “What now?”

  “Rage put a hit on your old lady.”

  “The fuck?” he screams loud enough that I have to pull the phone away from my ear.

  “He’s out of his fucking mind. Wants revenge against the Lords. Wants Caitlin brought low. You know what I mean.”

  “Shit… Thanks for the heads-up.”

  “Put two guards on her. Rage ordered me to be the one to bring her low—to prove my loyalty. I need a plausible reason to pass until I can figure out what to do about him.”

  “He’ll know someone talked if she suddenly gets two guards on her,” he says, and yeah, I’ve thought of that.

  “Let it slip that you caught word of some outside men sniffing around. It wouldn’t hurt if the other women get protection, too.”

  “On it. Good idea, man. We’ll make sure no one knows any different.”

  “Not letting those women get harmed. They’ve been through enough shit to last a lifetime.”

  “Listen,” he says, cutting in. “Takin’ the fam to Cumberland Gap. On my way there now. Meet me in Middleboro—an hour if you can cut it. We can talk more while Doc lets the kids stretch their legs.”

  “Middleboro. One hour,” I agree and hang up. It’s a good place to meet without being seen. That’s not the kind of gap my brothers are partial to visiting.

  I sigh, shoving my phone in my pocket. There’s a lot to think about now. Christ, I never imagined way back when I prospected with the Horde that I’d end up at this kind of crossroad. But fuck—innocent women? I’ve done shit in my life that most men would lose sleep over, yet I’ve slept like a goddamn baby. But I do have a line.

  Maybe I’m turning into a pussy, but I had a mom, still got a sister somewhere, even if I haven’t seen her in years. I’d kill any motherfucker who laid his hands on her.

  When I get to the crossroad, I make the turn that’ll lead me in the direction of the Cumberland Gap.

  There’s nothing better than being on my bike—well, except fucking a pretty, tight pussy. The closest most of us bastards will ever get to heaven on this godforsaken rock. I take it anywhere I can get it, but only if she consents.

  For now, riding will have to do.

  Hours on the road. Green mountains surround me. Hot, thick wind whips at my face and arms—part of me wants to say, “Fuck it” and just keep heading south until I hit the Florida Keys. Let the Lords worry about their women and be done with it.

  What sucks is that those Lords’ women have actually come to mean something to me, having more than earned my respect. And dammit if those Lords’ men wouldn’t lay down their lives for their brothers and their women.

  It’s up in the air how many of my brothers would be willing to die to save my ass. Or hell, whose life I’d be willing to save by giving my own. The list forms in my mind and it’s not near as long as it should be, given we all wear the same patch.

  I roll up on Middleboro and send a text to Duke asking where to meet up. We agree on the spot where Kentucky, Tennessee, and Virginia come together.

  It’s a gorgeous spot. A small valley situated between mountains filled with trees bursting with green leaves. Because of that, it’s cooler here thanks to all the shade the trees provide. I spy Caitlin’s bright red curls before the rest of them. Their girl is chasing around a little guy, unstable on the bumpy ground, falling and giggling. It’s only then that I see Duke, Lords’ cut and all, watching the scene. Damn, if that man doesn’t look to be enjoying it all. Big, burly motherfucker, usually full of piss and vinegar when not with his family. I don’t know how he landed a woman as sexy as Caitlin. He must’ve been a saint in a past life or something.

  He turns his head when the rumble of my engine gets close. I cut it, walking over to the happy little family.

  “Watch your brother,” Caitlin orders her girl as she walks over to greet me, stretching out her arms right before reaching me, and then that crazy woman hugs me. Her piercing green eyes smile right along with those heart-shaped lips. She’s tall for a woman with curves in all the right places. Duke is one lucky bastard. It’s brief, her hug, only long enough for her to say, “Hey, Vlad,” before dropping her hands.

  “Caity,” I say back as my hello.

  “Why don’tcha go play with the kids fer a bit?” Duke says to his wife.

  She rolls her eyes at the huge man. “Thought that would actually work, did you?”

  Duke snickers and instead of answering, turns to me. “Keep yer life simple. Don’t let a pussy get her hooks in ya.”

  I thought Caity would get pissed from that bit of ribbing, but she outright laughs. “I hardly got my hooks in you, considering you told me I was your woman on what turned out to be our first date.”

  Whipped. The man is fucking whipped.

  “Right. As fun as this is, I’m here because you need to know some things.”

  “What’re ya thinkin’ yer gonna do, then?” he asks me and, in all seriousness, I don’t have a fuckin’ clue.

  I shrug. “Rage is killing the club. The power’s going to his head and he needs to be stopped.”

  “You could always prospect with the Lords.” He laughs, presumably at the face I make, which goes along with my sentiment.

  “Oh, fuck no. You couldn’t get me to prospect again for anything. Eating Lords’ shit—you got to be crazy, and anyway, I’m a Horde. I got brothers I can’t just abandon.”

  “So you wanna take the club legit?” Duke folds his massive, tatted arms over his chest and waits for my answer as if he’s interested in what I’ve got to say.

  I laugh. “Well, we’re not turning into a club of pussy-whipped choirboys like the Lords”—Duke laughs, too—“but we need to do something. I don’t hurt women or kids. I got plenty of brothers who don’t hurt women or kids, which means whatever I do, it has to come fast.”

  “Well, you been a friend to the Lords. Whatever you decide, we got yer back. All ‘a us.”

  I tip my chin up. “Thanks, man. I might have to take you up on that offer.”

  2

  Nicola

  “Hello, Mrs. Maroni.” I set the two loaves of bread, the jumbo-sized jar of peanut butter, the grape and the strawberry jelly along with the milk onto the counter.

  “Hello, dear girl. Did you see we got those Zingers in that you asked about?” The woman is so old she’s probably more dust now than actual skin and bones. She’s sweet though.

  “No—hang on. I’m going to grab a box.” The money is running low. Blood, Hannah, Blue, and Carmen have been wonderful with sending money to keep the women fed and making sure we keep water and electricity, but the money hasn’t arrived this week.

  The cakes are a splurge I can’t really afford, but for those women, it’s the little things, the normalness of everyday life, that will help with their transition back into a world where they don’t have to be worried about being brutalized by men who think because they have a modicum of power and money, the rules don’t apply to them.

  It’s been months since the Brimstone Lords Motorcycle Club helped bring down a major player in the trafficking business, Carlos Escalante. The problem being when one douchebag moves out, another moves in to take his place. I never saw the inhumanity of men growing up. My father was a good person. I had an uncle who was a Davie-Downer, but he wasn’t a bad person.

  I often wonder what happened to him. It’s been years since I’ve seen him. Sighing, I wipe my eyes and get on with it. No sense crying over long-lost family members. It does me no good, it does the girls I look after no good. We live in the now. That’s how they start to heal, by living in the now.

  I’ve got girls back at the safehouse who are relying on me to keep them safe and fed until the transport gets to us in order to take them on the next leg of their journeys home. With Hannah, Carmen, and Celeste gone now, I’m the only one who’s allowed to be seen in town. Mrs. Maroni must think I’ve got a huge appetite with as much food as I purchase every
week.

  Two boxes of snack cakes in hand, I check out and it takes everything I have left in my pocket to the point that I’m forced to count out the last $1.48 in change. I wish Mrs. Maroni a good afternoon and leave on the old bicycle, the plastic grocery bag in the brown wicker basket I’d purchased a few months back. Sweat beads along my forehead. I didn’t grow up in Texas. It took me a while to get used to the hot and insanely bright sun all the freaking time.

  The safehouse is located a few miles outside of town. A town called Halfway. And it’s set a few miles back off an old, dusty drive. It’s not unusual to see tumbleweed blowing across the drive or those little swirling dust devils throwing dirt around.

  We have four singlewide trailers arranged to make a square, where we keep a grassy courtyard in the center so the women can go outside without being seen.

  Something looks off. There are tire tracks in the dirt. I pedal faster, pushing myself under the blasting desert heat. My heart stops when I reach the outermost trailer and see the door wide open.

  Bike and groceries forgotten, I run inside, stopping abruptly at the scene before me. My feet refuse to move another step. The living room—ha! What a joke. There’d be no living in this room for the foreseeable future. It’s trashed. Sofa cushions strewn about, the coffee table smashed to bits, and those bits had been scattered across the floor. Broken glass. Shattered lamps. Even the small houseplants we kept around the room to make the space homey lie in crumpled heaps at the base of the walls, their roots exposed. Surrounding them a mess of dirt and broken terracotta, as if someone had whipped the pots against the walls, letting the shards fall where they may.

  “Jess,” I call out. Nothing. “Mae? Greer?” I run from room to room searching for any sign of the women. No Emily. No Abigail. No Tasha. Oh god, what do I do?

  With no place left inside to look, I race out to the courtyard skidding to another stop. The scene is nothing short of a nightmare. A nightmare playing out in real life. Bile rises from the pit of my stomach and despite feeling weak for doing it, I vomit on the soft grass and even my feet because I’ve found Tasha. She’s lying in a crumpled heap next to the roller feet of the grill. In three steps I fall to my knees next to her, hoping to find a pulse, but what I find is a gunshot to her neck instead. Her blood-soaked blouse starting to smell already in the searing heat. Flies already beginning to buzz around her still body. I swat at them and if I had anything left in my stomach, I’d vomit again.