Biker romance book bundl.., p.196
Biker Romance Book Bundle: 17 Full Length Novels, page 196
The list of the things we’d taken for granted was unbelievably simple.
Me: Being clothed.
Sarah: Sunshine.
Marbella: Her bedroom.
Kate: Going to the bathroom.
Jess: Not having to ration water.
Debby: Food
Leah: Hearing the birds sing.
And, Mary: Taking a walk.
Making simple choices no longer existed, and we were well aware of it. If freed, I told myself I would never again complain about the tag on my tee shirt causing me to itch, or how southern California’s sun baked my pale skin. I’d comply gratefully when my mother asked if I wanted to meet for lunch or go shopping.
Although I took part in the talks, I had very little concern with what my first meal was going to be, or how much I missed my family. My only real worry was survival, but I wasn’t about to share that with the other girls.
Somehow, be it a result of fate or by my insistence that he choose me first, none of them were abused after I was abducted. As a result, they all looked at me as their guardian.
In that type of situation, a person needs something to hold onto. Something that offers hope. A photo or a good luck charm would have been nice, but we had nothing but each other.
So, every night when it got quiet, we huddled in each other’s arms.
And, I prayed.
To live long enough to see the miracle.
Chapter Seventy-Seven
Cholo
The rotten stench of the adrenaline-laced sweat that leached from the pores of drug dealers and their prey lingered in the air. Two stoned Hispanic men who looked like they hadn’t showered in a month were seated on the filthy tan sofa that was shoved against the far wall.
Beside the couch, a broken-down recliner that appeared to be stuck in the recline position sat empty – short of the half-eaten bag of chicharrones that sat on top of the pile of dirty clothes that littered it. The coffee table in the center of the room was covered with the previous night’s beer bottles, money, an electronic scale, a box of granola bars, and enough cocaine to get San Diego high for a year.
In the hallway to my left, a muscular Hispanic man wearing a stained dingy wife beater and khaki-colored Dickies leaned against the wall.
Directly in front of me, a shirtless man who was covered in jailhouse tattoos stood. The teardrop tattoos dripping from his eye let me know he wasn’t going to play nice, and the script tattooed across his muscular chest clearly identified the gang he was in.
Calle 18.
My eyes darted around the room, taking inventory of the threats. As I sized up each of the four men, the one in front of me grabbed a bottle of beer from the coffee table. As he lifted it, I made note of two things:
One, he was left-handed. And, two, there was a cigarette butt floating in the beer.
He took a few steps toward me, limping slightly as he walked.
The fingers of my right hand twitched, and I hoped he didn’t notice.
If he did, he wouldn’t know what it meant. But I knew. It was one of those tells that a professional poker player must hide to prevent the other people at the table from knowing when he’s bluffing.
Not that I was bluffing.
Because I wasn’t.
But my right hand wondered how I was going to get out of the room alive. I’d been in worse situations, I was sure of it. For the life of me, however, I couldn’t remember any of them.
With his eyes locked on mine, he lifted the bottle of beer to his lips, took a drink, and then spit it onto the floor in disgust. He glared at the bottle, and then looked at me.
He cocked his head to the side. “Quien te envio?”
Who sent you?
I pulled my hat down a little tighter and then shrugged. “No habla espanol.”
It was a lie. I spoke Spanish fluently, but at least one of them spoke broken English, I was sure of it. Speaking something other than their native tongue would keep those who didn’t speak English a few steps behind, and I needed all the help I could get.
He tossed the bottle onto the floor beside the table. As it belched out the remaining contents onto the carpet, he cleared his throat, and met my gaze.
His eyes fell to my feet, and then slowly rose the length of my frame. “Who seent jew?”
I locked eyes with him. “El mero chignon.”
No one had sent me. My response was a risk, but a minimal one. Within the ranks of Hispanic gangs, there was always an “el mero chignon.” In Spanish, it meant the head motherfucker, the one in charge, or the top dog.
He grinned and nodded his head, revealing a tattooed lower lip and teeth much whiter than I expected. “What jew want, Homie?”
I took a quick glance at the man in the hallway, and then shifted my eyes back to the shirtless man. I debated on whether to tell him the truth or a lie.
A lie would buy me a little time, but eventually I’d either have to beat the shit out of each of them, kill them, or tell them the truth and hope we could work out some sort of agreement. Regardless of my boxing experience, beating them with my fists– and succeeding – wasn’t really an option.
I brushed my left hand along the tail of my shirt until it was alongside the pistol that was tucked into my waistband and prepared to tell him the truth.
I locked eyes with him. “I’m here for the girl.”
He stared right at me for what seemed like forever. The lack of reaction from the other men led me to believe none of them spoke English.
His eyes went thin. “The girl?”
“Yeah. The girl,” I said flatly. “I’m taking her home.”
He spit out a laugh infused with insanity, and then reached behind his back with his left hand. His movements – at least for that instant – seemed to be in slow-motion.
Maybe it was because it was three in the morning. Or it could have been that he hadn’t slept in days. It very well may have been that he was just that confident that I wasn’t armed.
Regardless, his lackadaisical approach to producing what I expected was a gun left me plenty of time to react.
I pulled my pistol with my left hand at the same time I swung my right fist toward his temple.
My knuckles slammed against the side of his skull, knocking him completely off his feet.
“Que nadie se mueva!” I shouted.
Nobody move!
The man leaning against the wall spun around and began to run toward the back of the house. Letting him get away wasn’t a risk I was willing to take.
I took aim and squeezed the trigger. A thunderous boom expanded throughout room, making the space seem smaller with each passing second.
The would-be escapee fell into a pile in the hallway at the same time the shirtless man crumbled onto the floor at my feet.
I pointed my pistol at the two wide-eyed idiots on the couch.
The one seated on the right nodded toward the table. “Tomo lo que quieras.”
Take whatever you want.
I pressed the sole of my shoe against the shirtless man’s neck and tilted my head to the side. “Alexandra! Get out here!” I shouted. “I’m taking you home!”
The silence that followed left me wondering if I was too early, too late, or had somehow managed to get the wrong house.
Fuck.
With my eyes still fixed on the two couch dwellers, I yelled her name again. “Alexandra!”
The man beneath my foot started to writhe around. As he did, the two men on the couch began to look around the room nervously.
“Alexandra!”
The shirtless man moaned. “Mataré a toda tu puta familia.”
I’ll kill your entire fucking family.
There was no doubt in my mind that he’d follow through with his threat. I pressed the sole of my shoe firmly against his thorax, wishing he would have simply remained quiet.
If asked, the men in my MC wouldn’t describe me as killer. At least not immediately. It wasn’t that I was incapable of it, or that I was unwilling. It simply wasn’t my answer to the majority of the problems I’d faced in my life.
Fighting was my preference, and I was good at it.
But, when someone threatened my family – be it blood or my brothers in the MC – it earned them a one-way ticket to meet their maker.
I pointed the barrel of the pistol at his chest and pulled the trigger.
My eyes shot to the two nasty fuckers on the couch. Wearing what at one time may have been khakis and moldy wife beaters, they looked like living hell. As the air between us thickened with the taste of cordite, I pressed my tongue against the roof of my mouth and swallowed hard.
I pointed the pistol at the man on the right. Greasy strands of jet black hair were plastered against the sides of his face. He wiped his eye with the heel of his palm, and then blinked.
“Donde esta la chica?” I asked.
Where’s the girl?
He shifted his eyes toward the hallway. “Estan al final del pasillo.”
They’re at the end of the hallway.
The response of they instead of she took me off guard.
I raised the barrel of the pistol and pointed it at his face. “Cuantos?”
How many?
He shrugged one shoulder. “Cinco o seis?”
Five or six?
My jaw tightened. I had hoped to find Alexandra. I wasn’t prepared – physically or emotionally – to encounter five or six women.
“Quantos anos?”
How old?
He gazed at the floor, let out an exaggerated sigh, and then looked at me. “Uno es nueve.” He shrugged. “Uno es once. Las otras? Quizas…dieciocho.”
There were fifteen rounds left in the magazine. Upon hearing his response, I pulled the trigger repeatedly, shooting each of the men until all the bullets were spent and the pistol’s slide stayed locked open.
The thought of them having a nine-year-old girl held captive caused every muscle in my body to tense. I released the empty magazine, loaded a full one, and stepped over the dead man sprawled out in the hallway. When I reached the far door, I paused. After taking a deep breath, I grabbed the handle and pushed it open.
Dear fucking God.
An otherwise naked girl who was partially covered with a bedsheet stood with her arms outspread as if protecting the girls who were huddled behind her from harm. She was the tallest, and appeared to be the oldest of the group. Her hollow eyes and bruised face were a testament to the brutality she had experienced during the living hell I was sure she’d endured.
The room, void of any furnishings, reeked of urine, shit, and the scent of sex. I swallowed the bile that was rising into my throat and pushed my pistol into the waist of my pants.
I gazed at the half-naked protector. She looked just like Lucy, only younger. There was no doubt in my mind that she was her daughter, Alexandra.
Before I could speak, she locked eyes with me. “Fuck you,” she hissed. “You’re not taking her. Take me.”
Obviously, she didn’t recognize me, and thought I was one of them. It came as no surprise, I hadn’t seen her in more than ten years.
I raised my hands in the air.
“Don’t be afraid. I’m not here to hurt you.” I tipped my hat up slightly. “Your mother sent me. I’m here to help. I’m going to get you out of here – all of you – but I need to call for some help.”
I had to turn away. Seeing a room filled with petrified pre-teens was far more than my boiling emotions were capable of concealing. I reached into my pocket, pulled out my phone, and made the only call I knew would do any good.
He answered on the third ring. “What’s shakin’, motherfucker?”
I struggled not to vomit. After swallowing repeatedly, I responded. “Peeb, I need some help. I’m at Fourteenth and Bush in Oceanside. Bike’s out front. I need six – no make it seven – of the fellas here as quick as possible. Tell ‘em each to bring a spare helmet and glasses. They’ll uhhm. They’ll each have a rider on the roll out.”
“How quick’s quick?”
“It’s a 9-1-1, Brother.”
“Headed out now,” he said.
“Peeb?”
“Yeah, Brother?”
“No kuttes.”
“Come again?”
The club required us to wear kuttes if we were riding, but I didn’t want anyone to be able to identify the MC. Retaliation for what we were doing would be swift if anyone found out who we were.
I glanced into the room. “No kuttes,” I said. “No exceptions. Tell the fellas. If they don’t want to come, I understand. And, another thing. I’m gonna need you to toss some of Tegan’s clothes in your saddle bags.”
“Like what?”
I tried to respond, and almost broke down. After prying my eyes away from the room, I gazed down at the floor and struggled to speak.
“Anything, Brother. I just…I uhhm…”
I knew saying too much on the phone wasn’t a good idea, but I wasn’t satisfied that I’d said enough. Regardless of my desire to continue, doing so wasn’t easy. “It’s a uhhm. Bring some…bring enough clothes to get…to dress eight teenagers,” I muttered. “It’s…I uhhm. They’re all naked, Peeb…I uhhm…I just need some help, Brother.”
I couldn’t say any more. I wanted to, but I simply couldn’t. The lump in my throat wouldn’t let me.
“Hold tight, Brother. Be there in ten.” he said.
All the men in the MC were my brothers, but there was only one who I knew I could count on with no exception, and without question.
Our Sergeant-at-arms, Pee Bee.
I hung up the phone, stepped into the room, and lowered myself to the floor. I glanced at each of the girls, half of which appeared to be Hispanic.
“Habla Ingles?” I asked.
Eight heads nodded.
Undoubtedly scared, but optimistic that whatever was next would be better than their current situation, they looked back at me with eyes filled with hope. I fought against a tear that tried to wedge its way out of my eye, but didn’t succeed.
“In a moment, you’ll hear a terrible thunder.” I opened my arms and widened my eyes. “But don’t be afraid. The men who come with the thunder? They’re angels.”
Although many would argue that statement to be false, I knew better.
And, I was pretty sure in ten minutes, the eight girls in front of me would agree.
* * *
We rode two abreast and six deep to the shop. After we rolled into the open garage, the president of the club pulled the door closed behind us.
He looked at me and then at Pee Bee. His eyes thinned to slits. “What in the fuck have we here?”
Crip was a stern man, a solid president, and one tough son-of-a-bitch. But, he was a no-nonsense motherfucker if there ever was one.
I flipped the switch and killed the engine. “It’s on me, Boss.”
He shifted his eyes from Pee Bee to me. “What the fuck’s going on? I got some half-assed message from Peeb that said you’re bringing half-a-dozen teenagers to the shop. I’m not looking to start a God damned day care or some biker babysitting ranch.”
“Calle 18 had them locked in a dope house, Boss. They’d all been kidnapped. It wasn’t pretty.” I lifted my leg over my bike. “We saved ‘em.”
Alexandra got off and stepped to my side. Crip looked at her, and then scanned the group. After taking a few seconds to ponder what he was seeing, his eyes fell to the floor and he let out a long sigh.
“God fucking damn.” He looked up. “Calle 18?”
I nodded. “Yep.”
“Of all the motherfuckers to get into it with…” He crossed his arms and glared at me. “Any reason I didn’t know about this?”
I tilted my head toward Alexandra. “She came up missing a few days back, and her mom came to me and asked if I could find her. After nosing around a bit, I found out who took her. Just went to get her back, and this is what it turned into.”
He glared at me and then waved his arms toward the long line of motorcycles. “So, this wasn’t your plan?”
I shook my head. “Not at all. Had no idea the other girls were there. Thought it was just her.”
As the men got off their bikes and helped the girls to their feet, Crip watched. After seeing all there was to see, he turned to face me. His eyes were filled with anger, but I knew it wasn’t directed at me.
“Need I even ask about the Latino gang you took them from?” he growled.
I shrugged. “You can ask if you want.”
He raised both eyebrows. “I’m fucking asking.”
“Went to the house to see if Alexandra was there, and when I got there I heard a bunch of gunshots, and someone ran past me into the street. White dude with shaved head and a swastika tattooed on his neck. I rushed in and found four of Calle 18’s men dead on the floor. I searched the house, and when I opened the door to the back room, I found these girls. Called the SAA, and him and a few of the fellas showed up to help me get ‘em out of there.”
He rocked back on the balls of his feet and chuckled out a laugh. “Some kid with a swastika?”
I knew better than to tell him the truth in front of the girls. The less they knew about what really happened, the better. To protect the club, myself, and the girls, I stuck to my bullshit story.
I nodded. “Yep.”
He looked at Alexandra.
She shrugged.
He locked eyes with me. “And this swastika guy, he killed the entire household?”
“Yep.”
He shook his head. “Fucking fuck. Nastiest bunch of fucking gangbangers in existence, and it just had to be them?”
“Suppose it could have been worse,” I said.
“I don’t know how.” He looked down at the floor for a moment, and then looked up. “We need to get these girls to their families, but they’re not coming here to get them. I can’t expose the club or my men.”
I hadn’t really thought about how we were going to get them to their families without questions being asked.
Crip looked at his watch. “It’s almost four. Get them something to drink, and get them fed. There’s shit in the fridge, make ‘em a sandwich or something. I’ll go rent a fucking van, and you can load ‘em up when I get back. Far as I’m concerned, you can drop ‘em off yourself. Best I can think of. Unless you’ve got a better idea.”
