Chapter 11

Heart

Why the name Scratch sounds familiar comes to me while I’m standing in front of him wondering what the fuck this club wants with me. But it couldn’t be the same man, could it? The Scratch I’m thinking of was one of the last Rock Demons out of Phoenix, one of two men who hadn’t been killed when the Satan’s Devils blew up their club. Slick had already taken out one, and has a massive hard-on for that last man left standing, being as he was one of those who’d raped his wife, Ella. I’d heard the name in the club before I left. At that time, Mouse was pulling out all the stops trying to find him.

But that Scratch had been a prospect, as far as we knew, a nephew of their president who we’d blown up, but otherwise only of lowly club rank. The man Slick was searching for and this man in front of me couldn’t be one and the same? How the fuck could you go from a prospect to becoming the prez of a club in under a year?

Despite the oddity of that possible promotion, there are two more things which give me chills in my gut and make me believe my suspicions are right. One that the names of the two clubs are eerily similar, and the other is that it’s far from the hand of welcome that’s being extended to me.

“Brought him in, Prez. Thought you’d want to speak to him.” Painter laughs. “Didn’t have too much trouble findin’ him.”

“Thanks, Paint.”

“Here’s his stuff.”

Scratch stops fumbling with his balls to turn to the newcomer and give him a chin lift. “Thanks, Witcher.”

“What the fuck?” I stare in disbelief as the man wearing the sergeant-at-arms patch hands something to Scratch. It’s everything I had in my saddle bags. They must have broken the locks to get at it. “You don’t mess with another man’s ride.”

Scratch steps up so when he speaks he spits into my face. “We do what we fuckin’ want.”

If I hadn’t already, I’d be having serious doubts about this club now. There’s a code we all follow, which they don’t seem to abide by. Sure, we don’t give a damn what we do to an enemy… Fuck, that’s what they think I am. Is it the same Scratch? Those chills in my gut become icy cold.

Scratch is rummaging through my spare clothing and has picked out the tissue-wrapped Christmas ornament I’d bought all those months ago in Flagstaff, taking it out and dangling it from one finger and then looking at me. “Pretty fancy stuff for a biker. And Christmas has long gone. Doubt you’ll be needin’ this anymore.” He tosses it to Witcher, who throws it to the VP. It’s a small thing, but one whose loss hits me hard. I feel violated, and have to suppress the urge to scream at them to give it back. It would only let them see how important it is. I bought it for Crystal. I bought it for Amy.

My eyes narrow. His eyes land on my cut. “Take it off.”

I shake my head to refuse, and then two men step up, and though I struggle, successfully strip it off me and hand it to their prez. He holds it gingerly as if he doesn’t want to touch it, then turns it around. As it rotates, he looks at the worn leather and the lines of stitch holes showing something’s missing. His eyes crease and his mouth curves. “Looks like you’ve been stripped of your patches.”

What do I want him to believe? That I’m out bad, or still a trusted friend of the club, and in little more than a month will return and resume my place as a member? But the decision is taken out of my hands when he gives a signal and the two men who divested me of my cut grab my hands once again. Scratch walks around me and pulls up my shirt, once again revealing the full back tattoo of the Satan’s Devils patch.

“You’re not out in bad standin’, else this would have been inked out.” He walks around in front of me again. “Unless you didn’t want to do it. In which case you’re showin’ disrespect to this life.”

It’s him showing disrespect, and to the dom club. But perhaps he doesn’t know it. I decide to come clean. “I’m no longer a member of the club, I’ve taken a break to go on the road. I’m a Ronin. I’ve got my card, and the Hell’s Angels have given me clear passage through California.”

I didn’t know what I expected, but it wasn’t that Scratch would grin widely, treating me to a mouthful of white teeth that don’t look natural. “And we’ll need to thank them. Hearin’ the word was out to keep an eye on a Satan’s Devils’ Ronin promised safe passage by the Hell’s Angels was just what we needed as a heads up to know you were comin’ our way.”

Shit. They were waiting. I’d run into a trap laid for me. Deciding to take the initiative, I ask, “Just who are you? What do you want with me? You’ve obviously got something against our club. Why? We’re hundreds of miles away in Tucson…” But I’ve got a very nasty feeling I already know the answers. And if I’m right, this is not going to go well for me.

Again I get spittle on my face. “I’m asking the questions here.” Then he turns to Painter and beckons over another of his men. “VP, you and Zip take him downstairs and string him up.” He turns back. “Yeah, I got some fuckin’ questions for you, and you’re going to answer every single fuckin’ one.”

Being taken to the basement by the enforcer and sergeant-at-arms can’t bode well. But there are a dozen men in the room, and if I try and fight my way out of it I’ll only earn more bruises before I have to. I put up no protest as they lead me away, and earn myself a round of name calling, with “pussy” and “fuckin’ pansy devil” coming over the loudest. I square my shoulders. Insults I can handle.

Descending the stairs, I wonder whether there’s a blueprint for MC’s torture chambers—let’s face it, where I’m headed can’t be called anything else. Chains hanging from the rafters are wrapped around my hands, and plastic sheeting hastily spread under my feet. Am I afraid? Fuck yes. My hands are sweating, my heart’s beating fast enough to leap out of my chest, but I try not to let my fear show. Any weakness will be leapt upon and mocked. All I can hope is that I won’t be reduced to begging for my life, or more likely for death. Remaining as stoic as I can, taking everything they give to me is the least I can do for my brothers I left behind in Tucson. To depart this life with dignity, showing what a Satan’s Devil stands for, his club.

The spirits are waiting. Well, they probably won’t have to wait long. There was a reason I’d seen the coyote, the owl, the mouse, and the crow. The warning that I hadn’t heeded. Dead man walking. Well, yeah. That could very well be coming.

Might be with you soon, Crystal. But for the first time, faced with my almost certain demise, I don’t think they’d be doing me a favour. Crystal’s been dead for almost eight months. Now I’m faced with the real possibility of death myself, and not by choice. I belatedly realise she’s never coming back, isn’t waiting somewhere for me, and that I want to hang onto this life. My thoughts are more with my living daughter, Amy, than with my dead wife. It’s her I need to be with, not a ghost.

Having chained me up, they leave me alone and switch the light off, leaving me in total darkness. This, I know, is the first part of the torture. Soon my shoulders and arms will protest being strained in such an unnatural position for so long. If Scratch knows what he’s doing, he’ll leave me here all night. Hungry, dehydrated, tired, and hurting will have softened me up by the time day comes. But if I’m reading him correctly, he’s inexperienced and impatient. And one thing’s for certain, I won’t be giving him tips on torture techniques.

I don’t have long to wait to find I’m right. Not even an hour has gone by when light filters through the door at the top of the stairs, and I don’t have to turn my head, recognising by the thumping of feet that at least three people are coming down. I’d fancy my odds against three, or at least put up a good fight, if only they’d let me down. But of course they’re not going to free me from my restraints.

Scratch lights up a cigarette and blows smoke in my face. I breathe if in. If that’s the last taste of nicotine I’m going to get, I’ll take what I can.

He takes a long drag, then blows it out, this time toward my feet. I’ve no desire to prolong what I expect is going to be a whole world of pain, but no desire to get it started either. I leave him to begin, in his own time.

And wouldn’t you know it? He’s starts by bragging. “You wanna know how we knew to pick you up?”

I don’t move a muscle, don’t utter a word. Yes, I do. But I’m not giving him anything.

He continues without any prompting. “You were ridin’ with Arizona plates.”

“You stop everyone with Arizona plates?” I can’t quite keep the sneer out of my voice.

It earns me a sharp look. “It makes us take a closer look. Especially when you’re wearin’ a cut with a Ronin patch. And word on the street was to watch out for ya.”

I have a mental image of them riding around doing nothing but stopping bikers with my home state’s plates. Seems a waste of time to me.

“Zip here has a brother with the po-po. Traffic cop. We just had him run your license through on his scanner.” He pauses. “Seems you’re a Devil who goes by the name of Adam. Knew you’d come lookin’ for me sometime or the other.”

“Why?” Not bothering to admit I’m riding another man’s bike, I can’t hold back my curiosity any longer, even though I might end up like the proverbial cat. “Why would I be lookin’ for you?” I ask the question, even though I’m pretty certain I already know the answer. In my head there’s no longer any doubt. The man Slick’s been trying to find and this Scratch are one and the same. But I’m not going to tell him my real name. Or anything else. I’ll try to find out what I can, while not giving anything away. Just in the unlikely event I’ll get out of here.

No one knows where I am. The Hell’s Angels knew I was making my way to LA, and so did Marc, but no one knew when, or exactly where. And LA’s a big fucking place.

The look he shoots me is entirely malevolent. He grinds the stub of his cigarette out with his boot, then spits in my face. “You know who I am, boy?”

I resent a man clearly younger than me calling me that. But suspecting I’ll shortly have greater things to worry me, let it ride. “The president of the Demon’s Sons?” I suggest.

“I was a Rock Demon! Phoenix chapter,” he spits in my face. “Your fuckin’ club blew our clubhouse up. My uncle, the president, is dead because of you.”

I’m not admitting to anything, or point out that he wasn’t a full member, as a prospect he never wore their patch. I’m not letting on I know anything. It’s obvious they were our enemies, trying to get Sophie, the woman who became Wraith’s old lady. We were the likely suspects, but we left no proof. “Why do you think the Satan’s Devils were involved?”

“I don’t think, I fuckin’ know! Saw yer prez with my own eyes.” It’s true, he could have. Prez let him and another escape. A bad mistake. One we should learn from. And the person it’s come back to bite is me.

Still keeping to my bluff, I tilt my head to one side, partly to ease the ache in my neck. “I heard about that. Word was only one full member escaped. You him?”

“That was Fang, my brother.”

I glance at the men accompanying him. “The only other man to get out was a prospect.” Witcher and Painter stand impassively, as if it’s not news to them. But I wonder how much they know about the man leading them. On the basis that anything’s probably worth trying at this point, I throw at him, “So what you’re sayin’ is that you were the prospect who escaped. How the fuck did you go from prospect to prez in such a short time? I’m surprised to see you’re even a member. What’s the time for prospectin’ at this club?” My eyes query Painter, who doesn’t look at all perturbed.

“Whatever I fuckin’ say. It’s my fuckin’ club.”

“Have any of your members prospected? Started off as hangarounds?” I’m curious. “Patched in from other chapters?” Though that’s unlikely. Demon Sons have never come up on my radar before, and from the name, I presume it’s meant to be an offshoot of the Rock Demons. Though perhaps it should have been the Demon Nephew, seeing as it wasn’t his father in the club. Realising my thoughts are rambling, I bring myself back to the present and pay attention to his response.

“Don’t need no prospectin’ time when you’ve men you can trust.” He exchanges chin lifts with the two other men.

There had been a prospect manning the gate, but I’m not going to get into semantics now. I don’t like the man standing in front of me, and begin to wonder how much he can trust these two who are with him. How does the club make its money? Is it enough to keep these men by his side? In an MC, it’s more than the love of riding bikes which binds us together. It’s knowing every man has your back and would lay down his life for any one of their brothers. Even me, while I was being an asshole. The trust I’m thinking about is probably different to his. Trust can only be earned during the prospect stage, when a man has to prove he will do anything without question or complaint. It might be interesting to try to explore just how far these men would go.

“How long you been up and runnin’?” I doubt he’ll reply.

But he surprises me. “Six months. Four since we moved into this clubhouse.”

Not long then. Certainly not long enough in my opinion to inspire loyalty. Unless these were all childhood friends, of course. And that’s the reason why they all appear so young, because they are. No seasoned biker would join a ramshackle club like this.

“What about your articles and regs? You got a proper set-up here?”

Ignoring my question, he moves behind me. “Got a good place to hide a dead body, and that’s all you need to know.” As his fist makes contact with my kidney, I gasp to take in breath. He hits hard, I’ll give him that. I’ll probably be pissing blood if I live long enough to find out.

When I’m able to breathe I look around at Painter and Witcher, neither of them seem disturbed or put out at either the statement Scratch made or the action he’d taken. But it gives me an idea. Ignoring the pain in my back, I explain as calmly as I can while I’m still swallowing down the pain, “The dom club in the area are lookin’ out for me. Can’t set up a support club without their agreement. They see you’ve given me disrespect, well, you’ve disrespected them too. Cut me down now, let me go, and I’ll keep my mouth shut.”

Showing he’s really stupid, as must be the men with him, Scratch snarls, “Don’t give a fuck about the Angels. I do what I want in my club. We’ll deal with them if they come callin’.”

Well, that didn’t work. There’s probably no point in making him see sense, he’s as stupid as fuck. Taking on the Hell’s Angels? No wonder he didn’t move on from prospect in his previous club. And now it’s his desire for revenge that’s the overriding factor. And I’m the one he’ll be taking it out on.

“Come on, boys. I told you what violent murderin’ motherfuckers the Satan’s Devils are. Now we’ve got one to ourselves we’ll show him how upstandin’ bikers don’t have no time for that shit. Let’s soften him up a bit and then get him talkin’.”

As they come in front of me I see Witcher cracking his knuckles and Zip, God bless him, sliding on a knuckle duster. I brace myself for what’s going to come.

And then am given an unexpected reprieve, as Scratch signals for them to wait up. “You can save yourself some pain if you give us some info.”

What can I tell them? I’ve been out of the loop for many months now. And during the short time I was back before I went Ronin, I only attended a couple of church meetings, and one of those was where I’d been on trial and kicked out onto the road. I jerk my chin.

“How many more Devils in LA?”

“None that I know of,” I reply, honestly.

He narrows his eyes. “You been huntin’ us?”

“Didn’t know about you until you introduced yourself. So, no.” I’m not going to tell him Slick’s gunning for him. Or that one thing I’d picked up, the other person to escape the conflagration at their clubhouse, Fang, is dead.

“How many club members do you have?” And this is where I’ll keep my mouth closed. If I’m reading him right, and from his erroneous description of my club to his brothers, I expect I am, they’ll be crossing the border into Arizona once they get themselves organised to bring trouble to the Tucson club.

But I do offer him something. “I haven’t been in Arizona for five months. Don’t know who’s left or who’s joined, so I can’t tell you.”

He ignores my evasive answer. “How did you know I was in LA?”

“I didn’t. You found me, not the other way around.” I smirk as I point out the obvious.

“You’ve been searchin’ me all down the coast.”

Christ, he’s insane. I haven’t been looking for him at all. But that wasn’t a question. He goes on to ask details about our businesses, and I’m definitely not going to disclose anything of that type. When he realises he’s got everything he’s going to get out of me, he gives another signal to Watcher and Painter. This time there’s nothing holding them back.