Page 5

CHAPTER FIVE

SAINT

I ’m glad to be called out of the room. Her non-response was starting to drive me mad. While I’m not known for having a short fuse, push me too far and I lose control of my temper. Injured or not, I’d have shaken the truth out of her.

I pull the first bunny I see aside as I reach the kitchen and put in my request for sustenance to be taken to the current occupant of my room, my facial expression hopefully dissuading any suggestion that the woman has any particular interest in me. Trixie nods her head but asks no questions, which is how it should be.

I step into the room we use for church, raising my chin toward Bullseye as I take my place at his left hand. Glancing around, I see I’m the last to arrive.

“How’s she doing?” Bullseye asks me.

“More to the point, how’s her pussy? Tight?” Winchester asks with a smirk.

Rising to my feet, I point my finger straight at him. “Neither I, nor anyone here, is going to find out.”

“What’s the point of bringing a bitch to the club if we’re not going to try her out?” Rattler actually pouts. “Thought you’d brought us a new club bunny.”

“You’re all sick fucks, you know that?” Prez shakes his head. “Whoever she is, the woman is suffering from concussion and God knows what else.”

“Nothing wrong with her…”

Prez shoots his hand toward Stalker. “Do not finish that sentence.”

Pussy. We don’t need to hear the whispered word to fill in the blank.

Freak coughs and raises his hand. “If we can get down to business?” He glares around the table and continues when he gets chin lifts or nods. “My fuckin’ son is a genius. Your mystery woman,” he pauses to point straight at me, “ain’t no mystery at all. Only problem is how we deal with it.”

I’ve never had reason to doubt Ace, Freak’s son’s, ability. I’m just surprised he’s managed to get answers so fast. “What’s he found?”

Freak brushes his fingernails against his chest and has a smug look on his face. “I took a photo of ‘Jane,’” he puts her name in air quotes, “once Bron had washed the blood off. Sent it to Ace, and he…” again he pauses, his brow furrowed as if he’s trying hard to remember his son’s exact words. “He did a reverse image search, and there she was, plastered all over the internet.”

Impatience floods through me when he doesn’t immediately spit it out. “So?” I prompt.

Sitting back in his chair and crossing his arms as though he’s making himself comfortable, Freak barks a laugh and smirks. “You certainly know how to pick them, VP.”

“Spit it out,” Bullseye growls.

Seeing by his prez’s expression Bullseye is losing patience pretty fast, Freak ends the suspense. “She’s Secret Service.”

What? Her reluctance to go to the hospital made me think she was wanted by the cops for a crime. Freak’s announcement turns that thought on its head. She’s not running from law enforcement. She’s one of them. It takes a moment for my brain to do a one-eighty.

Bullseye puts my thoughts into words. “What the fuck? That doesn’t make sense. If she’s legit, why not go to the hospital? She must know how badly she was hurt. If she hasn’t got a serious brain injury, that leg of hers might not heal right.” He shakes his head. “If you’re right, and she’s Secret Service, she must have gone bad.”

Freak’s slowly raising and lowering his head. “Word is she might. Though the jury’s still out.”

I’m not the only one who can find no meaning in that statement as Prez growls, “I think you’ve got to explain.”

“Can I get my laptop?”

Bullseye thinks for a moment, then nods. As Freak steps out, he cautions the rest of us. “Electronics in the room. Zip your fuckin’ mouths.”

Yeah, we all know we just seem to have to think of something for adverts to appear for that very same thing. Big Brother is always listening. We all look at each other, then raise our chins to the prez.

Freak returns. He clicks a few keys, then turns a photo around to us.

One by one, we view it in silence.

Now, we’re a one-percenter MC. We operate outside citizen rules. We don’t get involved in their politics. One group’s as bad as another in our eyes, but we can’t completely live off the grid. I, for one, am not unaware that a popular film star, Preston Adams, had been making a run to be President of the United States. And quite successfully, according to the polls, until there was an assassination attempt. He’d survived the first shot, but when the Secret Service had surrounded him and pulled him away, Adams had taken a fatal shot to the head. Why had it happened? Well, of all the agents surrounding him, there was a woman, shorter than the men. The gunman had gotten a lucky shot that went right over her head.

Freak clicks on another image, a picture taken from another angle. The woman who should have been protecting the wannabe president is none other than the woman currently lying in my bed.

“Fuckin’ hell,” I state, resting my head in my hands as Prez indicates to Freak that he should take the laptop back out.

Various comments around the table suggest no one’s been living under a rock, and there’s no need for any commentary on what we’ve just seen.

Freak reappears and starts speaking as soon as he sits down. “Her name is Phillipa Owens. There’s a conspiracy theory that she was only put on the team as she was short and was positioned in exactly the right spot for the killer to take the fatal shot.”

There’s silence for a moment. We can’t ignore the citizen world completely and don’t live with our heads in the sand. Information is power. I, and probably everyone else, are well aware of the news article he’s talking about. I suspect we’re all wondering if the woman I brought home with me could have been involved in a plot to take down the man who was likely to become the next President of the United States.

“What the fuck have you done?” Tempest growls, glowering across the table.

“Whoa.” I hold up my hands. “I had no fuckin’ clue who she was.”

“Not your style to rescue a civilian,” Rattler snarls from the rear of the room.

Jumping to my feet, I slam both hands on the table. “What the fuck are you accusing me of, Rat?” As the newest member, he sinks back into his chair, looking like he’d very much like to disappear under the table. Once he’s sufficiently cowed, I turn my attention to the others. “Win? Woody? Piston? Stalker? Any of you want to raise your hands and suggest I’m part of a government plot?” I turn my attention to the others I’ve yet to mention. “Paint? Words? Shorty? Or what about you, Genie?”

“Sit the fuck down, VP.” Bullseye’s deceptively calm voice gets everyone’s attention. “No one’s accusing you of anything. I’m sure Rattler was just pointing out it’s unfortunate that when you decided to be a knight in shining armour, you didn’t exactly choose a princess.”

Pulling my seat back under me, I sit my ass down, grumbling half under my breath, “Didn’t decide to be anything.”

“Rat’s got a point.” My temper not yet subsided, my eyes flare as I glance toward my prez. Undeterred, he shrugs. “Fuckin’ know you didn’t have a clue who she was. But somehow, she’s wormed her way into the clubhouse. She say or do anything to make you bring her here, Bro? ‘Cause you’re really not prone to doing things like that.”

I can’t deny what he’s saying. Car crash? I’m more likely to stand on the sidelines smoking a cigarette and watching the show rather than diving in to help. Unless it’s a brother or fellow biker in trouble, when my assistance would be freely given, that goes without saying. Lowering my head into my hands, I brush back my hair and relive the evening before in my head.

Tension stills my body as I remember. “She asked me to bring her to the clubhouse.”

“She knew you were a biker?” Tempest immediately sounds suspicious.

Shrugging, I explain, “She saw my cut and knew what it was.”

“So, she could have planned it.” Freak looks grim. “Sounds like you walked into a trap.”

Moving my head side to side, I refute it. “Impossible. It couldn’t have happened like that.”

Bullseye is glaring at me. Through gritted teeth, he words his command as a suggestion. “Think you better take us through what happened in fine detail, Brother.”

Shit. How did I go from being a hero to prime suspect?

Glancing up, I see everyone looking at me expectantly. It would help me get matters straight, so I comply and give more details than before. “Saw a car being run off the road.” I pause to shake my head. “Got no other excuse ‘cept I was bored. It straight-up couldn’t have been anything other than a deliberate hit. It intrigued me. I had no reason to be there at that particular time. I couldn’t identify the attackers, but I was curious. Thought I’d go look to see who they’d done in. Only,” one corner of my mouth curves up, “they hadn’t. Their quarry was injured, but very much alive.” Again, I halt my retelling, wondering what the hell had been going through my mind. “Then I heard a car drawing up and stopping, and I knew it could only be the people who’d taken her out. Sure, my bike was parked up top, but it was dark. There was no way to see whether the damage to the barrier had been recent, and it wouldn’t have been possible to see the tyre tracks. Thinking they’d returned to make sure they’d finished the job, I decided to run interference. Don’t ask me, I can’t tell you why…” I shrug, holding my hands out, palms up.

“You’d fallen for the bitch,” Piston snorts. “Never thought I’d see the day.”

Slamming my hand on the table, I shout, “You know fuck all. She was covered in blood and I could barely see anything about her. There was no love at first sight, not even like.” I raise and lower my shoulders. “She’d survived, and I sort of wanted to stick it to the man, or whoever had organised the hit.”

“You wanted to stir shit.” Tempest chuckles, slapping his hand on the table. “At least you’ve given me something I can understand.”

After glaring at him, I furrow my brow as I remember and relate more details. “I started to move, and she told me to take off my cut. Seemed like a good idea.”

“Wait!” Piston, our secretary, holds up his hand. “This bitch knew what a cut was? And what it represents?”

“Fed,” Freak snaps, reminding him. “‘Course she knows about MCs like ours. She’s probably investigated them.”

Prez circles his hand as if he wants to hurry this along. He’s already heard this part of the story.

“Anyway, without my colours, I went up to the top in time to find the men who’d run her off the road. Told them I was an innocent bystander, attracted by the lights of the car, which were still glowing.” I purse my lips. “Not sure they believed me, but then the fuckin’ car exploded.” Huffing a laugh, I continue, “That seemed to convince them pretty damn fast that there was a corpse down in the ravine.” I chuckle again. “Probably not my finest moment. The bastards who ran her off the road got out of there like the pussies they are, while I was hurrying down to see if my leather had survived.” Snorting, I run my hands over the familiar garment I’m wearing, knowing the obvious evidence in front of their eyes shows there’s no need to draw this out. “Instead of a dead woman, I find that somehow she’d set the fire herself, dragged herself away, and knew enough about bikers to know she had to protect my cut.”

“Because she’s a Fed,” Freak reminds us again.

“Secret Service,” I correct, while admitting I don’t know if there’s much difference. She’s law enforcement, and that’s our anathema.

Rattler still doesn’t look appeased. “She was playing you, VP. She wants an in to the club, and…” he points his middle finger directly at me. “She got it.”

Tempest snorts, then scoffs. “Bitch has a broken leg, bleeding head, and is lucky to be alive. He had to tie her to his bike. In what way is this part of her plan to take down an MC? On top of that, who could predict Saint would be riding that road at that time or that he’d stop to save her?” He chortles. “Ask any of us around the table to put bets on it, and we’d all have said he’d have ridden straight on.”

“True that,” Paint remarks. “I’d have bet a week’s pay he wouldn’t have given a damn.”

Banging his fist on the table, Rattler won’t give up. “Then they set a trap for any of the MC members. It just happened to be the VP who was caught in it.”

“For fuck’s sake,” I exclaim. “That would be a one-in-a-million chance.”

“But still a chance,” Rattler, the tenacious dick, just won’t give up. “But why there? And why such an elaborate plan?”

“If that’s so,” my temper’s starting to get a hold of me now, “why did they run when the car blew up?”

“‘Cause it was one of their own, and they didn’t mean to kill her.” Rattler looks triumphant as if he’s solved the answer to the question of the meaning of life.

As I sigh deeply, Words nods his head toward his brother, Rattler, then shrugs. “Rat might be barking up the wrong tree, but could be in the right forest. I’d like to hear what the Fed has to say for herself.”

“Secret Service,” I correct again.

Bullseye lazily pushes his chair back and places the sole of his right foot against the table. He looks relaxed but sounds nothing but as he snarls, “Don’t care what colour jacket she wears or the letters on the back. Bitch is law enforcement. And my fuckin’ VP has brought her into our house.”

Reeling back, I protest. “Prez, I…”

“Shut it, Saint.” Bullseye lowers his foot, pulls his chair back in, and sits up straight once again. “Not saying you betrayed us deliberately. But for some fuckin’ reason, you’ve brought trouble directly to us.” He pauses and directs his next words to Freak. “I’ve got questions, and I want them answered.”

I think Rattler’s way off the mark, and he’s just shooting off his mouth to rattle cages, something he got his name from. But there are many things we need to address. “Best to get the answers from the horse’s mouth.” Showing it’s not a suggestion, I stand. But rather than disrespecting him and giving him my back, I make an offer. “Coming?”

Bullseye’s lips curve. “No.”

Fuck.

But almost without hesitation, he adds, waving his hand to encompass the whole room. “Fed up with all the Chinese whispers. We’re all going to hear what she has to say at the same time. Bring her down here, to church, now.”

Freak’s eyes widen. “She’s fucked up pretty bad, Prez.”

Bullseye’s eyes become slits. “You think I give a damn? We’ve already ensured she’s dead. I’m one step away from putting a bullet directly into her head to make it for real.” He offers a glare and a challenge. “What the fuck would we do if she were a man?”

He’s right. The minute we’d learned their profession, we’d have dragged them down here to give us answers. In fact, we’d do worse. We’ve got a whole torture chamber set up in one of our barns. She might not appreciate it, but if all she gets is an interrogation around the table, followed by a quick death, she’ll be getting off lightly.

“I’ll go get her.”