Page 21 of Desert Loyalties

MANDRAKE

The cuffs are tight. Not enough to cut circulation, but enough that I know it’s on purpose.

One of the agents grips my arm, guiding me out of the clubhouse. No one speaks behind me, but I can feel my brothers watching me get perp walked out of my own fuckin’ clubhouse.

Skye’s holding it together for me, tough girl. I don’t look back, because if I do, I won’t go quietly. And if I don’t go quietly, they’ll drag me out like an animal, and I won’t give them that.

The air outside hits like a wall of heat. The sun is dipping low, desert gold turning red. Somewhere in the distance a cicada buzzes. The compound’s usually loud, full of engines and music and yelling, now it’s dead quiet.

The agents walk me past the clubhouse gate. Two black unmarked SUVs are parked crooked on the gravel, lights still flashing, tires dusty from the road in. One of them opens the back door like I’m royalty. More like cargo.

They lower my head, guiding me in.

Plastic seat. No handle on the inside of the door. Bulletproof glass separating me from the front. I know this setup. I’ve had brothers in this exact spot. Thought I never would be.

The door slams shut behind me.

Seconds later, we’re moving. Gravel crunches under the tires, then the smoother hum of blacktop once we leave the compound. I watch it shrink in the side mirror. My whole life, getting smaller behind tinted glass.

Agent Willis is in the front passenger seat, flipping calmly through some papers. The driver’s a silent type. Military haircut. Looks like he’s never blinked in his life.

Neither one says a word to me.

My hands rest awkwardly against my back, cuffed behind me. My shoulders are starting to cramp, but hell will freeze over before I ask the pigs for anything.

We drive through the dry land, scorched shrubs, and long stretches of nothing. I recognize the route. They’re heading toward Vegas. Which means I’m not getting dumped at county. They’re processing me federal.

This is real.

Not a warning. Not pressure.

An actual goddamn takedown.

The SUV finally turns off the highway onto a side road lined with fencing. Cameras on poles. A gate buzzes open when the driver flashes his badge at a security panel. We enter the back of a building, it has no signs, no public entrance. Only those who are supposed to be here, are.

They park inside a gated garage.

Willis opens my door, nods for me to step out. “You know the drill.”

Yeah. I do. I may never have been convicted but I’ve walked the mile.

I get out slowly, every joint stiff. They walk me through a narrow corridor with grey walls and scuffed linoleum. Cameras are mounted in every corner. Everything about this place screams cold, sterile, unwelcoming.

A side door buzzes open and we enter a booking room. There is a steel bench next to a fingerprint scanner. Digital camera monitoring everything on a swivel mount. The lights are harsh, fluorescent, buzzing faintly above us. The room smells like bleach.

One of the agents pulls on gloves and steps in front of me. He grabs my hand without a word, rolls each finger over the scanner. I watch the screen blink and record, the green light flickering with each press. My fingerprints, one by one.

Another agent stands by the camera. “Look straight ahead.” I do. Flash. “Side profile.” Flash.

He hands me a card with my name and charges typed clean across the front. I hold it up like it’s a damn school photo. Another flash.

They remove the cuffs just long enough to replace them with plastic flex-ties. Tighter than before. My wrists burn, but I don’t react. I’ve sat with worse pain.

Then we’re moving again.

They lead me down another hallway. It’s darker, damp with no windows. Every few feet, a door. All locked. No sound but our footsteps.

We stop in front of a heavy steel door. A buzz, then it clicks open.

It’s a holding cell. There is a concrete bench fixed to the wall and a stainless-steel toilet in the corner. No mirror. No clock. Just four blank walls and stale air.

The agents say nothing. One of them gestures. I walk in. The door shuts behind me with a deep, final kind of sound.

A second later, there’s a voice through the hatch. “Hands.” I turn toward the door, and thrust my wrists through the narrow slot. The plastic flex-ties are cut clean. The hatch snaps shut again without another word.

I sit down slowly with my back to the wall. Staring at the door, I try to breathe through my nose, this is bad. Really fuckin’ bad. They couldn’t have found the body. I’m sure Grim got rid of it for good. But they have to have something. Even feds can’t get a federal warrant without cause.

They couldn’t have found the body. I’m sure Grim got rid of it for good. But they have to have something . Even feds can’t get a federal warrant without cause.

The only thing I can do is wait.

When I was prospecting hell, even after I became a member, I saw brothers getting hauled in and out of jail cells. Most of them were guilty. But since the club went legit, we haven’t had any legal trouble. We’ve been good. We let our guard down.

Just my luck: I’ve committed a hundred crimes, but I get arrested for the one I didn’t. Great.

The club will have my back. They’ll get me a lawyer. And if I go to jail, they’ll look out for Skye. I know that.

But knowing something and being okay with it are two completely different things. These are feds, not local law enforcement. We’ve never dealt with feds before. I have no idea what happens now.

In county, the lawyer would be here by now. Here? I haven’t even been given a phone call. And I’m guessing I won’t get one for a while.

Time drips. There’s no clock, but I know I’ve been in this room way too long for it to still be the same day. No window. No mirror. Just a shitty little metal bench and four grey walls. I piss in the corner drain when I have to. No one comes.

They said it all when they cuffed me. Witness tampering, Conspiracy, Obstruction of justice, Murder. I’m guessing these aren’t exactly misdemeanours.

Eventually, the door hisses open. Two men in suits walk in, they’re not local detectives. No badges on chains, no posturing. These guys don’t need to flex.

“Mr. Lloyd,” the taller one says. “I’m Special Agent Morris. This is Agent Hayashi. You’ve been formally arrested on the charges listed at the time of your detainment. You’ll be presented to a magistrate within 48 hours. You’ll be assigned counsel if you don’t have representation.”

Forty-eight hours. Not seventy-two. Right, feds. They don’t waste time.

“We’ll arrange a phone call soon,” Hayashi adds. Not when . Just soon .

They don’t sit. Don’t ask me anything. They’re not here for conversation. Just to remind me: I’m in their house now. They leave, and the door seals shut again.

Smart. Letting the walls drive me crazy, fuckers.

I lean back against the concrete, remembering how Skye dealt with this shit when she was locked in the basement. I had my eyes on her but it still drove me crazy, she’s probably climbing the walls by now.

Don’t worry Darlin’, I’ll be home to have those ten kids, soon.