Dirty Deeds Read online

  “True.”

  “Keep your friends close and your enemies closer,” Ghost elaborates.

  “So, we‘re still enemies?” Hammer asks his VP.

  “Let‘s just say this truce is fragile. Just because we‘re not at war doesn‘t mean I trust ‘em. They‘re up to something. I just don‘t have a clue what.”

  “I wonder if this girl in Tuscaloosa is just misdirection or if she‘s somehow key to something bigger,” Ghost muses.

  Shades runs his hand over his jaw. “Yeah.”

  “What are you thinkin‘, VP?” Hammer asks.

  “I‘m thinkin‘ we keep an eye on ‘em.”

  “Maybe it‘s exactly what they claim,” Griz suggests.

  Shades huffs out a laugh. “Yeah, sure… Let‘s go with that.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  One week later…

  Reno—

  I follow Rusty off the exit ramp, and we turn into a low-income neighborhood buried back behind the old steel mill west of Birmingham. I’m not real familiar with this city, but Rusty seems to know where he’s going. We make a few turns and pull down a street, stopping in front of a rundown house. I pull my shades off to get a better look. It doesn’t improve it any. It’s late afternoon, and the sun is sinking behind the trees. I glance across the street to see a burned-out shell of a house. The one next to it is boarded up. There are a few crappy cars parked down the street, but no one in sight.

  “This it?” I ask Rusty.

  He nods.

  I scan the front. Up on the porch, a skeleton wearing an Evil Dead MC support T-shirt sits in a chair next to the front door, like some leftover Halloween decoration. The door doesn’t look like it’d been used in years. The broken wooden screen door hangs at an angle, swinging from one hinge.

  “Let’s pull around back,” Rusty suggests.

  “Right. I’m sure that’ll be much nicer,” I quip sarcastically.

  We roll to the corner and turn. I pace Rusty down an alley that runs behind the houses, separating them from a junkyard. The back of the clubhouse comes into view, its unmistakable big wooden gates painted with the club’s three-skull logo. Keep Out signs warn civilians off.

  I glance to the back of the huge white clapboard house to see a reaper suspended like an angel of death presiding over the place.

  We drop our kickstands, shut off our bikes, and dismount. Music and the chatter of conversation and laughter float over the six-foot privacy fence. Rusty bangs on the gate. I know it’s not necessary; there’s a camera mounted up in a pine tree, aimed right at us. I can’t help making a face.

  Rusty rolls his eyes at me.

  “What? I didn’t flip ‘em off, did I?”

  “Just keep your mouth shut, and let me do the talking.”

  I bristle and look away, clenching my jaw to hold back my words. I fucking hate when I’m treated like nothing more than the dumb club muscle.

  The aroma of grilling steaks carries to me as I spot the smoke rising up into the tall pines; my mouth waters. I can’t remember the last time I had a good grilled steak.

  The latch on the gate clanks, and it swings open a foot.

  A young punk stands there, wearing the cut of a prospect. His eyes sweep over us, and he jerks his chin, stepping back. “Follow me.”

  Seems he’s been advised of our purpose in coming. It’s not everyday two DKs show up at his back gate, but he doesn’t seem rattled by us.

  We cross the backyard, and I look around. There’s a picnic table under a tree laden with food, ol’ ladies gathered around it, dishing up plates. Their eyes lift to us as we trek through, and they pause, spoons in hand. I wink at one of them.

  Evil Dead members stand around the yard, drinking and smoking with all appearances of nonchalance at our arrival, but I can feel their eyes drilling into my back. There’s not a one who wouldn’t like to nail my cut to a tree and use it for target practice.

  Half a dozen children of various ages run around, laughing and chasing each other. I’m shocked to see them, and almost miss a step onto the patio. They seem so out of place. The scene is so like a family gathering that it throws me. The Devil Kings clubhouse has never held an event like this; yet I know a lot of the guys have ol’ ladies and kids. A scene like this would never happen at our clubhouse.

  I had no idea one-percent clubs behaved like this. Cookouts? Families? This was so far out of my realm of experience that I have no relevant situation in which to compare it.

  The ol’ ladies look happy. The kids look happy. And yet, I know the Evil Dead to be a major one-percent club.

  I follow the prospect and Rusty up some steps and inside the back door. There’s a big open room with a bar on one wall. Two members swivel to look at us. Another prospect serves as bartender.

  “Look what the cat dragged in,” one of the grizzled, older members mutters.

  We both ignore him. I just want to get this over with and get the hell out of here. I glance around as we walk through. It’s a lot homier than our clubhouse, which wouldn’t take much, seeing as how ours is in a rat-infested warehouse.

  We cross the room and follow the prospect down a dimly lit, wood-paneled hall. He taps on a door.

  “Come in,” a voice hollers.

  The prospect opens the door and steps back, motioning us forward. Rusty and I step in, our broad shoulders filling what’s left of the space in the small office.

  A man sits behind a desk. I recognize him right away. The VP Shades. Another member leans against a low credenza at the side.

  There are two chairs across from the desk.

  Shades lifts his chin. “Sit.”

  Rusty drops in one, and I follow his lead and take the other. I’m not one to let my guard down, but I’ve been warned not to fuck this up, so I make nice and sit like a fucking lap dog.

  Shades opens a desk drawer, and my nerves go on high alert, half prepared for him to pull a gun out. I have to admit, being in my enemy’s clubhouse is putting me on edge. Instead of a weapon, he drops a couple shot glasses in front of us, then pulls out a bottle of whisky and unscrews the cap. He fills us each one and pours for himself and his brother.

  I stare at the shot glass and glance at Rusty out of the corner of my eye. This is so not what I expected coming here. I’d worry if it were poisoned except for the fact that they’re drinking right along with us.

  I half wonder if their VP is going to make a goddamn toast, but he chugs it down, and we follow suit.

  “Got our money?” he asks.

  Rusty pulls an envelope out of his vest, tossing it on the desk.

  The VP thumbs through it, then stashes it in the drawer.

  “We good?” Rusty asks.

  Shades nods. “How often you gonna make the ride to T-town?”

  Rusty shrugs. “Hard tellin’. This girl’s got a stubborn streak. Her mom and dad aren’t together anymore, and she wants nothing to do with the club, but her dad still thinks of her as a club princess—wants to make sure she knows she’s got protection if she needs it. Hundred other things I’d rather be doing than draggin’ my ass over here, gotta say.”

  I have to give him credit. Rusty can spin a good story at the drop of a hat.

  Shades runs his fingers over his mouth and brushes along the beard on his jaw. I don’t think he’s buying any of this bullshit.

  “You headin’ there now?” he asks

  Rusty surprises me by nodding. Huh, I guess we’re going with the truth.

  “Maybe I should give you an escort.”

  Aw, fuck.

  Rusty huffs out a laugh. “I think we can find our way. Thanks for the drink, but we need to get on the road.” He stands, and I follow his lead.

  Shades makes no move to stand. He and Rusty stare at each other. All kinds of unspoken communication flies between them. On a normal day, I imagine they’d like to kill each other, which makes it odder that Shades picked Rusty to allow into his territory. I wonder, not for the first time, if they’re setting a trap for
us.

  “Enjoy your barbeque,” Rusty says with a smirk. Christ. And they’re worried I’m the one gonna fuck this up. Right.

  Rusty extends his hand.

  “Get the fuck out,” Shades snaps, ignoring it.

  Rusty grins, and I’m holding my breath, waiting for a fight to start. We make it out of the clubhouse without being shot in the back. As we cross the yard, the kids playing, some being bounced on the knees of club patches, draw my attention. The kids are happy—hell the patches are even happy, and I realize just how different our clubs are in this respect.

  Night and fucking day.

  ***

  We roll into a two-bit motel off McFarland Blvd. The parking lot is filled with assorted contractor pickup trucks with a lot of out-of-state plates. Not the kind of place ‘Bama fans stay when they’re in town for a football game.

  Rusty goes in and gets us a room while I dig a pack of smokes out of my pocket and shake one out. I dip my head to light it, my eyes on the traffic going by. I don’t know how long we’ll be here, but trying to be hopeful, I packed light, throwing only a couple changes of clothes in my saddlebags, along with a bottle of Jack.

  I dig it out and unscrew it, the silver rings on my hands flashing under the blue neon sign I stand below. I tip it back and take a long pull.

  It’s been a long fucking day, and I’m ready to hit the sack.

  A carload of young co-eds drives past. The girl in the front seat leans out the window, waving, her long blonde hair flying in the wind. Their shrill voices call out provocative statements. I motion them back, but they drive on.

  I smile. Being in a college town might not be so bad after all. Then I remember why we’re here and how it all will probably end. I take another long drink, my momentary good feeling gone as quickly as it came.

  Rusty walks out and motions me toward the walkway. I grab my gear and follow. He stops at the room next to a forty-year-old ice machine and swipes his keycard in the door.

  It’s a crap room, but it’s got two beds, a mini fridge, microwave, and a flat screen television, which for this dump, is a major upgrade.

  I toss my gear on the floor and set the bottle on the nightstand. Plopping down on the bed farthest from the door, I grab the remote and flick on ESPN.

  Rusty sits down on the other bed, grabs the Jack, and takes a hit. When he lowers the bottle, he looks at me. “We’ve got to make a plan.”

  I huff out a laugh. “You mean Rat didn’t have one?”

  “He left this part open-ended.”

  “Open-ended? What the fuck does that mean?”

  “Means we figure out the best way to grab her and where to hold her.”

  “We’re not bringing her back to the clubhouse?”

  “Fuck no. That’s crossing state lines. That ups this from state to federal charges if we get caught. This whole thing is already risky enough.”

  “No shit. We get caught then we’re fucked, and I ain’t lookin’ to end up in the cell next to Prez.” I’m quiet for a minute, then ask, “You think this judge is going to cooperate?”

  “No tellin’.”

  “He doesn’t, he could have every state trooper in Alabama looking for us.”

  “We’ll just have to convince him that isn’t in his daughter’s best interest.”

  I cross my boots at the ankle. “You got that picture?”

  He digs in his vest and pulls it out, tossing it to me. It lands on my abs. I pick it up and look at it. She’s still beautiful and sweet looking. I stare at it for a long time.

  “Hey.”

  I glance over at him.

  “You got any ideas?”

  My eyes return to the photo. I don’t know why I feel the need to state the obvious. “We can’t hold her in a place like this. Too many people around.”

  “Yeah. This’d be so much easier if we were back home. Could stash her in any number of houses. Here, we don’t know anybody.”

  “Not our turf.” I look over at him. “You think the Dead are suspicious?”

  “There was a silver Nissan tailing us from Birmingham, so I’d say, yeah.”

  Shit. I hadn’t spotted it. I set the photo on the nightstand, get up, and move to the window to peek between the curtains.

  “They’re not out there,” Rusty states.

  “How can you be sure?”

  “They saw where we pulled in, then took off. They just want to keep tabs on us. I expected as much.”

  I peer out the window again. I’ve got a clear view of the road at the end of the parking lot. It’s four lanes with a lot of traffic. I watch a big RV roll past. Judging by the Roll Tide stickers, they’re here for tailgating the game this coming weekend. I turn back to Rusty, half a plan formulating in my mind. “You know that used car lot Coolie’s brother owns?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Wasn’t there an RV sitting on it last week?”

  “I don’t know. Why?”

  “If we had access to one of those, we could stash her in it, move around, keep her anywhere. Maybe find a desolate spot. There’s gotta be a hell of a lot of remote hunting land around here.”

  He nods. “I like it. That could work.” He pulls his phone out and makes a call. Ten minutes later, he’s got us access to a thirty foot RV that Coolie is delivering to us tomorrow. We’re supposed to meet him at an RV Park south of town. We’ll keep our bikes there when we grab her.

  ***

  An hour later, the bottle of Jack sits half empty on the nightstand. I’ve now upgraded to a plastic cup with ice. I ask the question I’ve been avoiding. “So what info do you have on this girl?”

  “Got her class schedule and her address. She lives in an apartment off campus.”

  I don’t know shit about college, but that seems odd. “Thought they lived in dorms or sorority houses or some shit.”

  “She’s a transfer. Apparently doesn’t have to live in the dorms. Don’t know about the sorority thing. Maybe she hasn’t been accepted yet or just hasn’t moved in. I don’t know. Rat got this info from McNair.”

  “That shyster attorney?”

  “He’d know.”

  “Guess so.” I look at him sitting on the bed. He hasn’t relaxed, and his boot’s tapping a mile a minute. He’s staring at the floor, his elbows on his knees, his palms slowly rubbing together. “What?”

  He shakes his head and rubs the back of his neck. “I got an uneasy feelin’ about Rat.”

  I know it takes a lot for him to admit that to me. “That new? Hell, I’ve always felt that way.”

  He cracks a smile.

  “I’m not joking.”

  “I know,” he admits. “You’re poker face ain’t that good.”

  “Great.” I wonder if that’s why I always get the shit jobs—my dislike of our leader is evident on my face. I bring the subject back to Rusty. “So, what’s got you worried?”

  He huffs out a laugh. “You mean besides this whole fucking setup?”

  I nod. “Besides that.”

  He stands and moves to the window. My eyes follow him. Rusty’s been the rock of the club, and him being uneasy has me all kinds of fucking worried. He leans a shoulder to the wall and holds the curtain aside, looking out. “He seems too cozy with McNair and not in a good way. I don’t like it. That attorney would do anything for a buck.”

  “You think Rat’s gonna give him a payoff? Try to make a move to take over the club?”

  “He’d love that gavel. Now, suddenly Prez is out of the picture. This sentencing goes the wrong way for him, he’s out of the picture permanently, and Rat’s in that chair. And we’re stuck with him.”

  “Fuck.” I swing my legs over the side and stand. “I don’t want that. Do you want that?”

  “Hell no.”

  I start pacing. “You sure about this?”

  He shakes his head. “Nope, just a feeling. Just that look in his eyes. It’s almost like he’s savoring this shit. It’s like he’s got something in the works, some secret only he knows
about.”

  “If there ain’t no trust, what the hell do we have in this fucking club?”

  He huffs out another laugh. “Trust? There ain’t been trust in this club in a long time, brother. You know that.”

  Yeah. I do. Maybe I just don’t want to face it. “We gonna deal with it?”

  “If it comes to that. We either deal, or we fucking swallow it.”

  “I’m tired of swallowing down the shit I get served up.”

  He nods, studying me, and his eyes narrow. “Shit can go sideways on this a million different ways. Feds may be the least of our worries. Our biggest threat may come from the inside, and I don’t plan to be blindsided if that happens.”

  I’m in total agreement. “We gotta play this smart, Rusty. I do not want to get left holding the bag on this one. This job? This girl?” I jerk my chin to the photo lying on the bedside table and lift my brows, my eyes drilling into his. “No one’s making me the scapegoat on this shit. No one.”

  “Everyone has a line they won’t cross. I need to know, Reno, where’s yours?” When I stare at him mutely, unsure myself, he adds, “Guess we’re gonna find out.”

  “Fucking hell,” I murmur, that knot in the pit of my stomach tightening.

  “You realize what’s at stake, right?”

  “Yeah, Growler’s freedom,” I snap, tired of obvious questions.

  “No.” He shakes his head. “More than that. Our fucking club’s at stake, brother.”

  Fear licks up my spine, telling me it may be even more than that. This could snowball quickly into literal life and death for the two of us. And I can’t shake the feeling that my very soul was at stake. That Devil I wear on my back wants his due, and he wants it all.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Reno—

  In addition to the RV, Coolie brings us a non-descript compact sedan. Makes it easier to stake out Kara Harbinger’s apartment, which is what we’re doing now. We sit parked outside her building. It’s a small flat a few blocks from campus. We’re across the street and half a block down, but we’ve got perfect line of sight to her front door.