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

  In one hand she still clutches the heavy-duty grill tongs that I think she tried to use to protect herself. Her wrists, hands, arms, and fingers appear cut up to hell and bruised—defensive wounds. This woman fought for her life and lost. Why? How? I don’t understand. I was only gone maybe forty-five minutes at most.

  Fat teardrops roll down over my cheeks, blurring my vision to the point that I’m not sure if I’m seeing two of Tasha or if we lost another girl.

  To my horror, it’s not two of Tasha because Tasha’s hair runs shoulder length and she wears it in the most beautiful braids, whereas Emily’s black waist-length tresses fan out around her like a halo of death.

  My body begins to shake violently and I scream until my voice simply runs out.

  Not Em. Not Tasha.

  I don’t know what to do. What do I do? I can’t call the police—I never know who I can trust. They might be the good guys, but they could just as easily be the bad guys.

  Hannah. I have to talk to Hannah. She and Blood and Blue. They can help. They have to. I pull the burner phone from my pocket, trying to calm myself down enough to press the correct button. It’s one button for contacts, but my hand keeps shaking and the tears continue to blur my eyes.

  It’s only then that I notice the door to the crawlspace under the far back trailer has one small section of corner not fitted securely into its slot.

  Nobody else would notice it, but I keep those secure to keep vermin from finding their way inside the trailers. I know it was secure when I left for the store.

  Silently as possible, I slink over to the crawlspace door. One of my girls had to have moved it. Whoever came here preformed a classic smash-and-grab but with human life.

  The door doesn’t want to budge, even when I yank at it with everything in me. That’s when I hear the whimper. So soft, yet there for me to hear.

  “It’s me,” I call out, not knowing which of my girls could be under there. “Nic.” Then I give her the password that only me or one of my girls know to use in case of just this type of situation. “Thornbriar.”

  The door doesn’t open, but when I give it another tug, it finally gives. A set of scared, blue eyes peer out at me. I know those eyes well. She’s been with us for a couple of months now. “Greer,” I whisper, holding out my hand.

  She’s shaking more than me. “Kn-Kn-Knew us,” she stammers. “C-C-Called our names.”

  “Do you know who?”

  One word—”No.”

  If they knew our names that means they had to have been casing out the place. How, without me knowing? I’ve been so careful. More than that, this means Greer and I have to get the hell out now.

  These guys don’t mess around. Since they knew all the women, then they know they didn’t get them all, which means they’ll be back. My guess, pretty damn soon.

  “Come on, sweetheart. We’ve got to go.”

  Just from the hand she reached out to me I see the damage done to her body. The broken fingernails bleeding at the quick tell me her story, of how she had to dig and fast at the crawlspace door to get it open.

  Dirt. Scrapes. Bruises and cuts. The low ceiling and rough ground under there can do a number on the skin if you don’t know to expect it. But it’s the damage done to her soul that I’m most worried about. How much more can one woman take before she breaks?

  I take what little money we have left stored in the freezer in the kitchen, quickly help Greer change from her ripped, soiled clothing, and sit her on the back of my bike. She holds on for dear life as I pedal back toward town. I push the bike faster and faster using fear and adrenaline to fuel me.

  The only safe place I can think to go is Mrs. Maroni’s store. There’s a small alley behind her shop where the dumpster sits. It smells of refuse on the best of days—with the heat index as hot as it is today, we’ll be lucky if she doesn’t vomit. I’ve got nothing left to regurgitate. The upside is that it’s large enough to conceal us both.

  Greer begins to list to the left, making the bike lean and wobble as I struggle to keep it upright. “Stay with me,” I order. “We’re almost to the hideout.” She tightens her arms around my waist.

  Jesus, she’s a strong woman and I don’t mean because of the arm squeeze. Once we reach the outskirts of town, I stop to check for people. Halfway is a bit of a town. Tiny. One-blinking-stoplight-kind of tiny.

  I don’t see anybody out. The sun’s burning a hole through my shirt, it’s so hot. Only the crazies and those of us in need of food or a hideaway are foolish enough to venture out in it. Still, I can’t take any chances and go the back way, where there aren’t any sidewalks or storefronts.

  As Mrs. Maroni’s store rests at the edge of town, once we reach it, it’s not hard to go down the alley undetected. Greer clings to me as we walk the deserted alleyway, leaning heavily against my shoulder on the opposite side of the bike. I have to disentangle her arms to set a broken-down box on the ground for us to sit on and not burn our bottoms, and she whimpers.

  “Come. Sit,” I say, easing her around the bike and down onto the cardboard. Once we’re down, I pull the phone to call Hannah.

  “What’s up?” Hannah asks cautiously. I only use this phone for emergencies. “The cash not come yet?”

  “They’re gone,” I whisper, only losing my composure enough to sniffle once.

  “Who? Who’s gone?”

  “All of them. Safehouse was attacked. Only Greer and I are left.”

  “Where are you?” There’s rustling and someone saying, “Babe.”

  Blood gets on the line. “Talk to me,” he demands.

  “Greer knows what happened, but she’s in rough shape right now.”

  “Where are you, sweetheart?” he asks, his voice strained, even though I can hear his attempt to keep it calm.

  “Behind Mrs. Maroni’s store. No one knows we’re here. I had to get her out.”

  “Right. Blue, Hannah, and I are coming. If you need to move, call me. Do you remember Mad Man?”

  “Yes,” I answer.

  “Okay. I’m calling Mad Man. He and his old lady, Steph, will make the extraction. You can trust Mad Man. I swear.”

  “Hurry.”

  “I’ll call and let you know when he’s on the way.” That’s the last he says before hanging up.

  “We’re gonna be all right, Gee. Blood is sending help.”

  Greer’s only response is to whimper again and hold me tighter. Maybe five minutes later, the phone vibrates in my hand.

  “Blood?”

  “He and Steph are on their way. It’s lowkey. Just the two of them. White van, no back windows. He’s gonna call out, ‘Thornbriar’ and if the coast is clear, you say, ‘Home.’ Got it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Now, if it’s not clear, make that cicada sound you do. He knows to listen for it. Yeah?”

  “Okay.”

  “Repeat it.”

  “Mad Man calls out ‘Thornbriar.’ It’s clear, I call out, ‘Home.’ Not sure, cicada buzzing.”

  “Good girl. It won’t be too much longer.”

  “There are still girls—at the safehouse.”

  “Shit.” I don’t have to tell him the rest. He gets it. “We’ll take care of it.”

  Although our skin melts in the direct sun like those Nazis who opened the arc of the covenant in the final scene of the first Indiana Jones movie, the dumpster provides us enough shade to wait out our stint in hell. The time passes in breaths and heartbeats until that glorious moment when we hear the deep, male timbre call out, “Thornbriar.”

  Greer turns in my arms. “It’s okay,” I remind her. “That’s Mad Man. Remember, he’s here to help.”

  She doesn’t nod, but she trusts me enough to follow my lead. “Home,” I call back as I stand, helping Greer up off the cardboard.

  The large, mustachioed man with the brown, curly hair down to his shoulders steps into view. He smiles when he sees me, followed by a sigh of relief. “Hey, sugar,” he says. “I got you now. My old lady
is here to hopefully make you more comfortable. Steph,” he calls and a tall woman, maybe mid-thirties, with a sleeve of colored tattoos running up her right arm, steps into the alley with us.

  “Hey—I’m Steph.” Her voice comes at us soft and melodic, a contrast to her harder look.

  I step toward Steph but stumble my steps because Greer has plastered herself to my back, causing tangled feet. Both Steph and Mad Man reach out to help me, but at the sound of fear from Greer’s gasp, Mad Man stops in his tracks, letting his old lady help me.

  “Greer, I promise they won’t hurt you. You have to let us walk so we can get to safety.” I try to keep my tone soft while still expressing the seriousness of the situation.

  Greer’s a smart girl. She pulls herself together and with Mad Man to the front leading the way, and Steph to my back and side, sort of sandwiching Greer between us, our small group heads out of the alley to where the windowless white van sits awaiting our escape.

  As the back of the van lacks seats, they’ve left sleeping bags and pillows on the floor, along with bottles of water for us to rehydrate. The stuff appears to have been grabbed from their home as they moved into action.

  “Are you hungry?” Steph asks us.

  As it’s been several hours since I’ve eaten and my stomach has settled since the vomiting incident, I nod. “Yes.”

  “What about you, Greer?”

  She doesn’t answer Steph or me, so I answer for her. “She needs to eat.”

  My friend Greer, she isn’t weak, not by a long shot. She witnessed something it’ll take time for her to process. Some of our friends were murdered. The rest taken. If she wants to stay quiet for a while, have at it.

  Mad Man swings into the drive-thru of Whataburger. “Preferences?” he asks about the customizable meat patties.

  “I don’t care—oh, no jalapeños. All I ask is that Greer and I get a Dr. Pepper milkshake.”

  “Got it, girlie.” He winks at me right before rattling off a large order of burgers and fries.

  Once we’re back on the road, the van doesn’t stop again until we reach the Texas-Arkansas border, pulling into the Best Western in Texarkana. It’s the first time I notice Steph’s packing some serious heat when she pulls her Baby Glock from the floorboard between her feet.

  With a peck to her lips, Mad Man exits the van, disappearing inside the lobby. About ten minutes pass before he emerges with a noticeable keycard in hand. The man to our front and Steph to the rear, we parade single file through the lobby to the elevator. Third floor, almost to the emergency exit, we stop at the painted door.

  Standard room, double beds. Greer and I take the farthest from the door. And even though we’d been laying in the back of the van, both she and I stretch out across the comforter.

  I’m aware of everything happening in the room. Mad Man makes a call while Steph turns on the TV, flipping through the channels. I count every shallow breath Greer takes either trying to feign sleep or force it.

  For now, we’re safe.

  3

  Vlad

  I call a meeting with the brothers I trust the most in the club, but because we can’t trust everybody, we make arrangements to meet at a Sonic three towns over. It’s safer that way.

  Sarge is the first to show. He and I prospected together. The fucker makes Rage look like an Oompa Loompa, he’s so big. Medically discharged from the marines after he had an “episode,” he found the Horde, though we can’t get him to lose that short crop military haircut. I trust this brother with my life. I have on numerous occasions. He’s the best of us and my best friend.

  “Brother,” I greet him with a pat to his shoulder.

  As we sit down on a nearby picnic table, the tabletop bowing under our collective weight, wobbling the rickety legs, he pierces me with a stare. “Now, you’re gonna tell me what’s going on.”

  “I’m waiting for the rest of the brothers to arrive.”

  “Got that. But this is me. Don’t fuck around.”

  “Right,” I say, running my fingers through my dark hair. “Rage ordered me to kidnap and rape Caitlin Ellis, Duke Ellis’s old lady.”

  “The fucking Lords’ president? Is he crazy?”

  “Exactly. I’m not doing it.”

  “Shit—of course not. Rage has to be stopped—which is the purpose of this meeting.” He shakes his head as it all clicks into place for him. “Whatever you need from me, you got it.”

  “I know. Thanks, brother.”

  Both Sarge and I order Cokes, pathetically. But meeting at a bar is too risky. Bikers talk more than bitches. A group of Horde show up at a bar, men are going to talk, and worse, listen in.

  The next brothers to arrive, Dark and Reaper, ride in, engines rumbling loudly the way only Harleys can as they make their way to the back of the lot once they see us, cutting their engines in the parking spaces next to a couple of order speakers.

  “Sonic,” Dark says, chuckling and shaking his head. That man never chuckles. He’s the most serious man I know, and we’re fucking bikers. That’s pretty damn serious. “I haven’t been to one of these since I was a kid.” He reaches out to push the order button. Reaper calls his order in over Dark’s shoulder.

  Cutter and Roughneck are the last to show. The biker life is a big change from working the rigs in the gulf for Roughneck—a hell of a lot bigger payday as well. I trust him, but now I’m about to ask him to possibly give it up. I just don’t know.

  “What?” Cutter asks, rolling up to park next to me.

  “Not yet. Order if you’re gonna order. Then I’ll get into it.”

  Cutter’s not a guy to underestimate. He might not be as tall as me or Sarge and he might not be as big as Roughneck, but he’s not a man you want coming after you inside or outside a dark alley, day or night. His skill with a blade, his weapon of choice, is legendary. Rage could vouch to the validity of that if he’d ever cop to it, seeing as Cutter’s the reason Rage wears that scar from eyebrow to chin. Even as a prospect, men learned to not fuck with Cut. He’s sure as hell not a fan of Rage.

  We wait until the cute, little server making heavy eyes at Cutter as she approaches with our tray leaves us before I get down to the reason I assembled this little get-together.

  “You didn’t drag our asses all the way out here for a picnic,” Reaper says around a mouthful of a fucking footlong chili dog with cheese. The chili sauce and cheese drip onto his scruffy beard. He swallows the bite then actually uses a napkin to wipe down his messy face. “So why don’t you get to it.”

  I rub my hand down my face. “We got a problem.”

  “Tell me something I don’t know,” Dark says. “The quality of pussy showing up to the club has fallen considerably. Bitch I had last night started that fake-ass moaning before I actually touched her. I had to gag her to keep from going soft.”

  Sarge shoves at his shoulder. “You know they make a pill for that, brother.”

  “Man, fuck you.” Dark chucks a couple fries at Sarge’s face.

  “What are you guys, fucking four-year-olds?” I bark. It’s good to see them messing around because the devil knows we’ll be looking back at this time nostalgically, once things really get going. But what I have to say is far too important to put off any longer.

  “Right.” Sarge sobers. He already knows the score. “Bring it.”

  “Rage ordered a hit on the Lords using their women.”

  Several adaptations of “The fuck?” ripple through the brothers.

  “He ordered me to bring the president’s old lady low. Once I break her in, the rest of the brothers, including you, will be ordered to drive the point home, using her as a cum bucket to prove our loyalty to the club.”

  “What’re we doing about it?” Roughneck asks.

  “That’s why I called you all here.” I fold my arms over my chest and look each man in the eye pointedly. “I know what I think needs to happen. It’s your turn to tell me what you all think our next move should be.”

  “Rage need
s to go,” Cutter says.

  “Agreed.” I knew they’d be on my side. “But what are you willing to do to make that happen?”

  “It’s gonna split the club,” Reaper points out, though he doesn’t sound all that torn up about it.

  “We don’t take action, Rage is gonna get us all killed, one way or another,” Sarge says, and it’s a damn good point. “The Lords are badass motherfuckers who’ll turn even badder we fuck with their women. Then there’re other clubs looking to take advantage of a bad situation. Not to mention the police breathing down our necks.”

  “What’re you thinking, brother?” Roughneck asks.

  “I think we need to discreetly find out what brothers are on our side.” Here’s where I get to the part that’ll probably piss them off. “Now, total honesty here, you all are my brothers so you need to know, I’ve been friendly with the Lords since Rage and that fucktard Rodrick took those Lords’ women.”

  Sarge knows all this, so I don’t expect a reaction from him, but the other brothers—only the devil knows how they’ll react.

  “That gunshot?” Reaper asks.

  “Helping the women escape Escalante.”

  “Fuck,” he mutters under his breath while Cutter stands aggressively from where he’s been leaning against his bike. “You bailed out Lords’ bitches?” he asks.

  I tense, ready for the fight.

  Roughneck throws his hands out to keep Cut and Reaper back from attacking, but Reap shoves his hand away. “No, I wasn’t finished. You bailed out those Lords’ bitches without your brothers at your back? Fuck you.”