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CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

PHILLIPA

I ’m good at reading people, I have to be. And while he might not know he’s doing it, Saint’s eyes are displaying a myriad of emotion. I might be imagining things, but I’m sure I can read he’s trying to transmit that he’s not complicit with whatever it is that’s going to happen here. That it’s out of his control.

Of course, that might be wishful thinking. Saint had stormed out of his room after one of the deepest, most meaningful sexual experiences that I’ve ever felt. Maybe to him, it was normal, to me, it was exceptional, and I’d felt our bodies had connected on a deep level, even though on the surface, we’re destined to be mortal enemies.

He’d come inside me with nothing between us, and with the time that had lapsed since I was last able to take protection, there’s a good chance I might already be incubating his child. A thought that should fill me with horror, my career comes first, a family, a house with a picket fence was not on my agenda until I’d proved myself to… well, even now I’m not quite sure who I’ve been trying to impress all the time that I’ve been alive. However hard I’ve tried, no one has ever praised me on my achievements or given me any recognition at all. Each good exam result was simply taken as given, and each career advancement just an expectation I’d reached but never surpassed. Now, probably moments from the Kings ending my life, I suddenly realise I’m worth more than constantly striving to be the best. I deserve to live, to enjoy life, to have fun. And it’s Saint who rescued me, who may well have brought me to my senses.

But Saint’s a man I can’t have. There’s no way he read as much as I did into our one and only sexual encounter, and his lack of taking precautions is only that he knew this was coming, my death.

I don’t even resent him, or his brothers. I’m the enemy, a Secret Service agent they only recognise as a Fed, as law enforcement, out to entrap and ensnare them. I only regret that if they side with the prospect, they’ll be keeping a traitor within their ranks. And though I might not agree with what they do to survive, I’d prefer to give them a chance, to reveal that they’ve embraced a member of a rival into their club. But, it seems, they don’t believe me.

The door opens, and in comes the man they call Gris, who I know as Skunk. He saunters in, his left arm in a sling, Woody, who I remember from beating at poker, beside him, with a brotherly arm across his shoulder, as if to mentally and physically support him. And it’s that moment I know I’m not going to go down without a fight. It’s me or him.

A thought niggles at me. If I wanted to learn the truth, I’d probably pit accuser against accused and see who came out on top. Maybe this isn’t my death sentence, but their caution against immediately turning on one of their own. What I say, and how well he offers his excuses, may yet determine which of us stays alive.

I gear up to give the performance of my life.

He doesn’t immediately notice me; he’s too wrapped up in speaking to the man next to him. I spot the very moment he does, as a flicker of concern crosses his face, which could be missed by anyone not watching carefully, as it’s immediately replaced by hate and defiance.

I take the initiative. “Well, hi, Skunk.”

My use of his name triggers him. In a flash, he crosses the room, and my words are rewarded with a backhand across my face that makes me see stars and would have seen my chair toppled were it not bolted to the ground.

Head spinning, I’m only just aware that he’s pulled back his hand, and brace for another hit, when someone wrenches his hand behind him.

“That’s enough.” I recognise it’s Freak who’s talking.

“She shot me!” Gris/Skunk cries out. “Fuckin’ bitch got my gun and put a bullet in me.”

“Yeah,” their prez snarls. “And we need to have words about how a bitch managed to overpower you and take your weapon.”

Gris/Skunk roars at that. His face goes red as his anger rises. He turns with hand raised to Bullseye, who doesn’t flinch, simply steps forward and asks deceptively calmly, “You really want to go there, Prospect ?”

Remembering himself, the prospect moves back fast, raising his hands. “Sorry, Prez. But I’m fuckin’ angry. My arm fucking hurts and it’s all because of her.” His attention back on me, he spits straight into my face.

I gag feeling his spittle running down my cheek, but something else gets through to me, the barely concealed gasp from Saint, and the way Freak’s hand is lying on his shoulder, restraining him.

I decide to take charge and taunt the man. “All this bravado to cover you’re a traitor to the Kings.”

Again, he launches himself toward me, murder written all over his features, but before his fist can connect with my face, two of the Kings take tight hold of his arms. While he’s still restrained, Tempest steps up, and shows him something he holds in his hand.

“Explain this.”

Another flicker of fear that’s quickly quenched, and the prospect spits back, “That’s for me to contact my ol’ lady.”

“You ain’t got an ol’ lady.” Genie steps forward, a tablet in his hand. “We researched your background, and you’ve got no family except your mom, who’s apparently on her deathbed.”

His eyes looking around, seeking support, he manufactures an excuse out of the air. “Well, sure, yes. That’s the phone I use to contact my poor sick dying mom, my ol’ lady.” He pauses, acts as if choked up, even wipes away a non-existent dramatic tear, and adds, “I don’t think I’ll be needing it much longer.” His eyes fall but then rise as if seeking out whether he’s gained any sympathy.

Ignoring his anguish, Tempest waggles the phone in front of him again. “If I call the last number dialled, is it going to be a woman who picks up?”

Gris/Skunk’s eyes go wild, and he launches for the phone. The sergeant-at-arms whips it out of his reach, and as two men tighten their hold on the prospect, Tempest carries out his threat, presses a key, and a voice comes through loud and clear as he’s put it on speaker.

“Skunk, what the fuck you calling for? Make it quick. I’m balls deep in a warm, willing hole if you know what I mean.”

That’s his dying mom? I can’t hold back my smirk.

A woman’s moan butts in, “Wrecker…”

“Skunk?”

Tempest obviously ends the call. He faces Gris head-on. “Well, that was illuminating. Not your one-inch-from-death Mom, or even your woman unless she’s getting her meat from another butcher. And it kind of confirms that your name is Skunk, not Gris. Who the fuckin’ hell is Wrecker?”

“I can explain…” Gris, or as we all know him now, Skunk, protests.

Bullseye doesn’t have to do anything other than give a jerk of his head, and another two men whose names I can’t remember step forward. Within seconds, they’ve got his leather cut off and thrown onto the floor.

“Woody, you’re my sponsor. You know I wouldn’t do anything against the club. I just wanna earn my patch…” he finishes on a gasp as Woody’s fist lands hard in his stomach.

But as Skunk makes a natural move to fold in two from the punch, his arms are ripped up and each wrist encased in handcuffs that are fixed to chains hanging from the ceiling above. Someone off to the side turns a crank and Skunk rises until his feet have to scrabble to touch the ground. I notice Doc can’t have done a very good job, as blood starts to flow from his bullet wound that presumably had been stitched up.

Out of the side of my eye, I see Freak speak to Bullseye. Then the enforcer steps over to me, and to my surprise, undoes the handcuffs and the shackles around my feet. Unable to believe they’ve set me free, I take a moment to rub my wrists to get the circulation going again, before gingerly trying to rise to my feet. I’m even more taken aback when Tempest steps up and offers my crutch to me.

Freak’s attention has passed back to the prospect, or ex-prospect, I suspect by now. After studying him for a moment, he moves to a bench and starts examining the tools lying on it. After stretching out the tension for a moment, he picks an evil-looking knife. Tapping it against his palm, he returns to stand in front of the strung-up man.

“So, Skunk,’’ he begins. “Who’s Wrecker?”

Whites of his eyes showing, Skunk shakes his head. He seems fixated on the enforcer and the blade that he’s holding. “I don’t know. Tempest must have dialled a wrong number. I’m Gris. I don’t know no Skunk nor any Wrecker.”

Suspecting I’m not really supposed to speak, but hey, I wouldn’t have got as far as I had in a man’s world if I’d ever let that hold me back, I balance my weight on my crutch and inform the room in general. “Wrecker was the man he addressed as Prez.”

Instead of reprimanding me, I sense someone step up to my side. Bullseye glances at me, then at Skunk, and says lazily, “Well, that’s interesting.”

“She’s lying! She knows nothing!” Skunk shouts, spittle flying from his mouth. “She’s trying to set me up, trying to save herself. You can’t believe a word that comes out of her mouth.”

Bullseye turns, spies a chair and pulls it over. He swings it around and sits astride, resting his arms on the back. He chuckles softly. “Thing is, in this instance, I believe the Fed’s got no reason to lie. In fact, she had every reason to keep that shit quiet.” He shrugs. “Now she’s going to be witness to what we do to traitors of the club.”

I feel a body moving behind me, yet I’d heard no footsteps. I breathe sharply, then relax, as Saint’s distinctive scent surrounds me.

“She’s trying to barter her way to escape.” Skunk’s voice has risen louder.

Again, I can’t keep quiet. “I hold more cards than you do, asshole. And for the record, I don’t like people who betray their friends, or their brothers.”

Skunk says something unintelligible as Bullseye turns to look at me. “How do you read this, Secret Service Lady?”

I repeat what I’d said before. “He’s gaining info for another club. He wants your routes, and how you trade.”

After a slow nod, Bullseye faces front again. “And why, if you work with a friendly club, did your prez not just approach me and discuss a reciprocal agreement?”

Skunk keeps his mouth shut but then screams as Freak suddenly launches forward and uses his knife to make an upward cut on his shirt. He easily slices through the material, and the T-shirt splits apart. Even though the blade hasn’t actually touched him, Skunk’s breathing fast. Freak walks around him.

“No tats,” he remarks. Then in a voice that makes me jump, he rasps out, “What fuckin’ club are you working for?”

As if he’s found some confidence now Freak didn’t actually hurt him, Skunk sneers, “A club that’s not full of pussies like yours, we’re going to take you out and take over all of Arizona.”

A hearty laugh goes up from around the room, members chortling at what even I can tell is the audacity of the man. As far as I know, the Kings have got chapters in almost every state, more than enough men and gunpowder to call on.

“You’ve got me trembling in my boots, son.” Bullseye chuckles. “Pretty terrifying that there’s a club waiting to fuck with the Kings when we don’t even know the name of your prez.”

“You will!” Skunk spits out.

“Where are the fuckin’ prospects?” Freak shouts. When Heathen and Knight appear like magic, he instructs them, pointing to Skunk. “Get his fuckin’ pants off. I want him naked.”

With grimaces at each other, but nothing to suggest sympathy to their erstwhile comrade, they step forward. Skunk kicks out and tries to fight them, but he’s got no chance, and pretty soon he’s hanging in nothing more than the skin he was born in.

Someone behind me barks a laugh. “Speaks pretty big for someone whose balls are so tiny.”

“You sure he’s actually got any?” another voice replies.

“Give me a magnifying glass and I might be able to find out.” I think that was Paint, another of the card players I’d been up against.

Skunk’s face reddens, but whether from embarrassment or the taunts, it’s hard to tell.

“Freak!” Woody steps up, his face tight and angry. He leans in and whispers into the enforcer’s ears.

When Freak nods, Woody glares up at the man he sponsored. “I trusted you. Gave you my backing. Thought you wanted to be part of this club. And you let me down.” Walking behind him, he plants his fist hard into his kidney. While Skunk’s still gasping for air, he barks, “What’s the name of the club you’re working for?”

Saint touches me on the shoulder, I glance up at him in time to see him sharing a non-verbal conversation with Bullseye, then he’s putting his arm around me, and moving me toward the door of the barn. The members part to make way for us.

“You don’t want to be here to see this,” he explains, as we reach the entrance.

He either means because I’m a Fed, and what’s going to happen to Skunk is best left to my imagination, or because I’m a woman, who shouldn’t be subjected to violence and blood. Each reason is just as unpalatable.