Chapter Two

The four men stood over the slumped body of the Evil Dead MC patch holder.

“Holy shit. Greasy, what the fuck is he doing here?” one of them asked, stunned.

“Stoner, check the street. Maybe he isn’t alone.” Greasy jerked his head toward the corner the man had come around.

“Didn’t hear no bike,” Stoner replied.

“That don’t mean shit,” Greasy snapped back, his irritation showing. “Move.”

Stoner moved off to check.

“Ratchet, pull his wallet,” Greasy ordered another one of his men.

The man squatted down and dug through his pockets, coming up with a wallet. He flipped it open, snagging the bills.

“Who is he?” Greasy growled from where he stood over the prone body.

Ratchet pulled his license and studied it in the moonlight. Then he passed it to Greasy.

“Fucking hell,” Greasy bit out as he examined it. His eyes flicked up to Ratchet. “Who the hell told you to shoot him? Did you kill him?”

Ratchet put two fingers to the carotid artery in the man’s neck. “Don’t think so.”

“You better fucking hope not. Snake will kill you if you fuck up this deal he’s trying to make, at least until it’s locked down.”

“What are we gonna do with him?”

Greasy jerked his chin. “You and Critter pick him up and throw him in the van. Take him to the stash house ‘til we figure it out.”

“Why don’t we just dump him? Or better yet, leave him here?” Critter suggested, staring down at the man.

“No way. He may be useful.”

***

Greasy tossed his cards on the scarred wooden table, not about to bet another dime on his piece-of-shit hand. He glanced around the dingy two-story shotgun row house they’d been holed up in with their captive for the last two days. Place didn’t even have a goddamn television.

“You’re folding?” asked Stoner.

“Yeah, dimwit, I’m folding. What was your first clue?”

Stoner grinned over at the man across the table. “Guess that just leaves you and me, bro.”

Greasy stood, grabbed the bottle of Jack off the table, and headed toward the aging window AC unit—the only one in this rattrap. He’d be glad when their business in New Orleans was finished, and he could head back to Texas.

At least there you could catch a breeze once in a while, and you didn’t have all this stifling humidity that could suck the breath from a man’s lungs. Yeah, he couldn’t wait to scrape the mildew of this town off of his boots.

Ratchet tromped down the stairs. “We got problems, boss.”

Christ. What now? This whole trip had been one clusterfuck after another. “Well, what?” he snapped. “You gonna tell me or am I supposed to guess?”

“He’s worse, burning with fever. I think infection is setting in. If you got plans, better do something about it quick; his usefulness isn’t gonna last much longer.”

“Well, maybe if you hadn’t shot him that wouldn’t be the case, you moron.”

Ratchet stared at him, stone-faced. Hell, the man probably felt no remorse—not even for causing his club this problem—but what did he expect from a known sociopath.

“Just stay the fuck away from him. Hear me?”

“Sure.”

The man had agreed readily enough, but Greasy knew Ratchet had been up there tormenting the man like he’d caught him doing repeatedly since they’d brought him here. The man took pleasure in it, too. Greasy didn’t give a damn, other than it was probably making the situation worse, and now he had to deal with it, goddamn it. He pulled his phone out and made the call he dreaded.

***

Snake pulled his phone out and put it on speaker. He barked, “Yeah?”

“We got a problem.”

Snake glanced around the empty lot behind an abandoned manufacturing building on Bienvenue Street. “Swear to God, Greasy, you better not tell me that fucker escaped.”

“Nope, but he’s getting worse. Fast.”

“Fucking hell.”

“Needs medical attention. Like now.”

“And what the fuck do you want me to do—pull a doctor out of my ass? Hijack a paramedic wagon? Kidnap a goddamn nurse?”

“We could dump him off at a hospital. We’d have to give him up, but at least we wouldn’t have killed him. What with the deal you’re trying to make, don’t figure that would go over too well.”

“Motherfucker, I’m not dumping him anywhere! He stays where he’s at.”

“He’s gonna slip into convulsions… and then a coma.”

“Oh, so now you’re a fucking expert?”

“Just seen it before. My kid sister.”

Fuck. Snake felt like shit. He’d forgotten that when Greasy was a kid, his piece-of-shit parents had been too strung out on drugs to get their six-year-old daughter to a doctor. Greasy had watched her die from fever when he was just ten years old.

“Sorry, man. I’ll figure something out.” Snake slid his phone into his pocket and glanced up at his two Brothers and the lowlife drug dealer who owed the club a grand. “Where were we?”

“We were about to beat this asshole to death with a lead pipe,” his Brother reminded him with a grin.

Snake grinned back at Bagger’s exaggeration. “Oh, right.”

“Wait. You need a nurse? I know one,” the man pleaded, his hands up.

Snake cocked his head to the side. This wouldn’t be the first time some loser facing a beating—or worse—had offered up something in trade for sparing his life. “Do you now?”

Bagger crossed his arms. “This ought a be good.”

“Swear to God. My sister-in-law.”

“Your sister-in-law.”

“Well, used to be.”

“You live in Texas. We don’t have time to drive back and get her.”

“She’s here in New Orleans. Not far.”

That got his attention. “And she’d help us?”

“She’ll do whatever I fucking tell her.”

Snake grinned. “Good answer. Maybe you have your uses still.”