FORTY-ONE

Hooch

“You want me to ride ahead to the destination anyway?” Crackers asks, hand rested on my bars.

“No,” I answer, my fingers twitching to twist the throttle. “No need. I’m hedging bets on the whole thing being a setup, and I don’t need you walkin’ in there underprepared.”

He nods solemnly, letting go. “I’ll be right behind you then.”

Times like this I’m thankful that the brothers have my back. They don’t question my decisions, they simply follow me where I lead. And right now, I don’t exactly know if that’s the right way—I’m operating on a hunch. A fucking hunch.

What if it’s wrong?

Crackers clips his helmet and starts up behind me, giving me a nod in my mirror to say he’s ready to leave. We cruise out of the parking lot of the motel as Murphy emerges from the office having settled a little extra for the damages two of the guys created last night after one too many. The old man raises his hand, holding up a single finger to indicate he’ll be right behind us.

Timmy-boy will travel back with Jo Jo once their heads are in the game. Yeah, things are urgent right now and I’d like as many men at my back as possible when the shit hits the fan, but I’m not going to ask a man to ride when his balance is still impaired from alcohol the night before.

I’m not that much of an asshole.

Usually.

The ride passes quickly, the cloud over the sun providing much needed relief considering we only stop for gas. I’ve never been happier to see the trees that constantly drop shit all over the driveway as I have now. And I’ve never felt more uneasy at the fact everything is quiet when we roll in to the yard.

I leave the bike running.

“Hey,” Beth greets with a confused frown as I come barreling in the front doors.

“Where’s Dagne?”

“She uh … she left.”

“What the fuck?” I holler loud enough to send an echo down the hall.

“She left you a note upstairs,” Beth explains, her hand shaking as she points to the staircase.

I take the risers two at a time and stride down to my room, my eyes darting over everything in quick succession the moment I step in the door. The phone King gave her sits atop the nightstand.

“Fuck, Dagne!”

It shatters as it hits the baseboard.

How the fuck am I supposed to reach her now? I twist, turn, and pace around the space trying to find her note. A slip of yellow peeks out at me from under the edge of the bedding. Tucked in to where I would have laid my head, is the notepaper I so desperately need.

My ass hits the mattress as I unfold the sheet, my chest clenching at the gentle loops of her handwriting.

It’s short, simple, and to the point. Five brief lines that cement my guilt at why she’s left. One line stinging more than the others.

If you always shut love out, you’ll never know it.

Damn it. Beth remains where I left her, Crackers now by her side, as I leap down the stairs three at a time.

“Where’s Digits?”

“With you?” Beth looks to Crackers for reassurance.

He shakes his head, lifting a hand to her face to comfort her.

Fuck, fuck, fuck. The asshole cut and run from the motel while the rest of us slept. Considering I was the last to bed, his departure was more than planned, it was deliberate. All I keep thinking back to is that goddamn phone call he was on. Who was he talking to? And why?

“Boss,” Crackers says quietly, breaking me from my anger-induced daze. “I just got this from Tuck.”

I take the offered smartphone, tapping the small triangle to play the video in the message. It’s security camera footage, grainy, but clear enough to make out definite outlines. Especially that of our club patch.

Knowing the asshole chooses to keep our colors on while he fucks us over ignites a rage I’ve never felt—even when confronted with Dad and Dana’s death.

My hand shakes, the adrenaline surging through me as I watch the final seconds of the clip to confirm the location. Tuck has safe houses all over the country for his operation shutting down the skin trade, and half of them are anonymous. Which means Digits has walked into one believing it really did belong to the street gang that currently resides there.

He has no way to deny his guilt now. None.

“What the fuck are we waitin’ for?” I say, tossing the phone to Crackers. “Better hope you’ve got enough left in the tank because there ain’t any way I’m stoppin’ this time.”

***

We pull up outside the safe house with Murphy. Our sergeant at arms caught up as we left the clubhouse, asking no questions, just falling into line as we rode out. There’s only three of us, but I can guarantee Digits will be alone. He’s cocky enough that he’d think he could take us on without help.

I gesture to Crackers to head around back, and he takes off up the side path with his gun drawn as Murphy and I approach the front. The door flies open, and some spotty kid who can’t be a day over sixteen bursts through with a handgun held wildly toward us.

One of his messengers, I bet.

“Steady on, boy,” Murphy coaxes. “We’re not here for you.”

“You want anyone in this house, then you got beef with me, old man.”

Jesus. Where do they find these sheep?

“Set it down, okay, and everybody goes home today.” I step toward him, and he swings the weapon toward me.

“Stop right there. Only person leaving in a body bag is you, asshole.”

Kid has no idea what hits him. I take his forearm and twist, distracting him enough that Murphy can duck in and relieve the boy of his weapon. He drops the clip from the gun and flicks the bullets into his palm one by one as he stares the kid down.

I check over the boy’s shoulder, expecting company, yet the house is eerily quiet. What you doin’, Crackers?

“Here’s a tip,” Murphy says as he shakes the bullets in his hand. “If you’re goin’ to be the fuckin’ guard dog for a gang house, at least get some lessons in self-defense.” He pulls his arm in and then flings the handful of bullets out across the lawn, tossing the parts of the gun in the opposite direction. “Fetch.”

The kid scrambles for the front steps, but much to our amusement, he doesn’t head to retrieve the weapon. He takes off down the street, half running, half walking, trying to retain some sort of image as he does.

I shake my head and hold my weapon out before me as we approach the doors. The single-level dwelling is rectangular in shape, a central hallway running front to back between the two halves. The back door is ajar, which indicates Crackers is already inside. He meets us as we finish sweeping the right of the house, having come up empty on the left.

“That kid wasn’t alone,” I whisper, “otherwise he would have run before we even saw him.”

Murphy holds up a hand to ask us to stay put, and then quietly backtracks to the front of the house. He disappears outside, returning a short time later.

My heart races with impatience to get to Dagne. What the fuck could that sadistic asshole have done by now?

“Place has a basement,” Murphy whispers.

“I never saw a door,” Crackers whisper-hisses, brow in a hard line.

“Well then,” I grit out. “We check again.”

The guys split off in different directions, leaving me to retrace my steps through the front rooms. The house is filthy clean, if that’s even possible. Everything’s stacked away, nothing on the floor, but there are piles and piles of useless shit everywhere: magazines, washed out food containers, unopened rolls of dishcloths, and a box of fucking diapers. What the hell?

I guess when Tuck calls on these places, he needs them to be equipped for whatever comes through.

Crackers enters the bedroom where I stand at the foot of the single bed, scratching my temple with the gun.

“I don’t know man,” I say with a shrug.

He widens his eyes, jerking his head to the bed in question.

Oh, snap. Of course. I lower to my knees, slow and careful not to make sudden noises. Using the bed to brace myself with one arm, I peer under.

A single metal loop cuts a definite line through the worn carpet. If I hadn’t been looking for it, I might have missed the handle. But there it is, clear as day, a trapdoor.

Of course: the house probably has more than one “safe zone” in case of intruder when the slaves are in transit.

I stand and grip the foot of the bed, sliding it carefully away from the wall. Crackers steps in the gap and grabs the headboard, guiding it sideways as we shift it toward the window. Murphy joins us, hanging back in the doorway as I raise my gun ready for whatever I’m about to find and reach for the handle.

Crackers steps forward, foot on the trapdoor, and places his hand over mine. “I’ll do it, brother.”

I nod, well aware what he’s offered is worth more than a humble thanks. If Dagne’s hurt, injured, or if the worst has happened … I’m guaranteed to lose control, which is something I need if we’re to keep on top of Digits.

Crackers lifts the square panel and shifts it over the carpet toward the bed. He moves around the hole, checking all angles before he tentatively places a foot on the ladder that’s fixed to the outside wall of the basement.

Seconds pass, minutes stretch on, and all the while I feel chills worse than any the detox from coke and heroin gave me. Murphy moves to the trapdoor and squats, tipping his ear to listen closer.

Crackers’ gun emerges into the light first, followed quickly and noisily by his head and shoulders.

“They were there,” he says with an apology in his eyes, “but he’s taken her somewhere else.”

“How do you know?”

He lifts his other hand, the strap of Dagne’s bag clear as he lifts it above ground. I drop to my knees and grab the flimsy fucking thing in my hands as my body shakes with rage.

“Trust your brothers,” you’re taught from the get go. Believe in the club.

Only thing I fucking believe in right now is slow and painful death.