Page 1 of Bender

Chapter

One

BENDER

As I sweep the barrel of my rifle in a wide arc, a muffled whimper is the only sign of life left in the room. Downstairs, the mansion is a bloodbath. The men, whose criminal activity I’m supposed to gather intel on, were mowed down before I got here. They weren’t good men, and the world is probably better off without them breathing. But it leaves a mess for me to deal with at a time when I really don’t want to be here.

Not that I ever want to be where the alphabet soup agency of the government I report to sends me. I do what I’m told and go where they tell me because it protects my brothers. Raised in the Darrow Home for Boys in Darrow, Washington, my only family is the one some of us boys created. A motorcycle club we named Ghost Born MC, because that’s what we are. Men born to ghosts—parents in jail or dead.

The near silent whimper breaks the stillness once more, dragging me from my mental musings. This room appears empty of people, save for the two bodies lying prone where they dropped. Puddles of blood and bits of things best left undisclosed are scattered and smeared from the doorway to deeper into the office. It makes me think the two men were fleeing the carnage downstairs, hoping to find safety here.

It’s possible there’s a shelter or panic box access hidden somewhere in here. Perhaps, that’s where the sound is coming from. I won’t let my guard down, but the noises sound more like those from a victim than a tango I’ll have to battle. I don’t think an enemy is hiding, waiting to ambush me.

“Whoever’s in here, come out where I can see you.” I issue the order with my hands flexed around my rifle, ready to raise and fire.

A rustle of fabric and the quick shush of a hand slapping over a mouth is the only response. I move farther into the room, sliding through the doorway. I keep my back flush against the wall behind me. I shuffle along the perimeter, avoiding sprays of blood and tissue as best I can. I couldn’t give two shits sandwiched together about preserving evidence. I just don’t want to clean brain matter out of my boot treads before I leave. These are new. I just broke them in. Burning them will just piss me off.

“Final warning. Come out with your hands high. If I find you, I promise your situation will get much worse, fast.”

“W-we can’t, sir.” The voice trembles and cracks on the word ‘sir.’ It’s soft, feminine, and terrified.

“Who is we? Why can’t you come out?” I don’t get any closer to the speaker. She sounds scared, but I’m not taking any unnecessary risks.

The intel provided to me was, Eric Huber, the shipping magnate who owns this property, doesn’t conduct any of the criminal enterprises here. This estate is solely for the lavish parties he hosts to show off his wealth. It was reported the place would be empty this weekend while Huber entertained associates on his yacht—a yacht our satellite surveillance has pinged off the coast of the Maldives.

How the United States government got its intel so wrong, I have no clue. That’s above my paygrade. What I do know is, Eric Huber isn’t doing lines of blow and popping Viagra to impress prostitutes and hangers on in the warm waters of the Indian Ocean. Nah, he’s facedown in a pool of his own blood about three feet from me. And I’m most certainly not on a sunny island in South Asia.

“We can’t come out, sir. There’s a-a lock.” A new voice this time. Steadier, marginally. Masculine. Also terrified.

“Tell me where, and I’ll come to you. Warning: I’m armed. If you’re playing games with me, it’ll be a snake-eyes roll. I promise you that.”

Tiny sniffles accompany the rustle of fabric, then I hear the rattle of metal on metal. Chains. I’d know the sound anywhere. Instinct tells me whoever these voices belong to, they’re no threat to my safety. I keep my weapon moving in an arc, sweeping the space ahead of me as I prowl toward the sounds.

“Behind the desk, there’s a cabinet in the wall. The bottom is a false door. We’re in here.” The girl’s voice again, stronger this time.

There is, indeed, a massive oak desk centered in front of a wall of bookcases that start just below hip height. Ornate carvings along the woodwork depict a historical scene of a dock filled with ships of different styles and eras. It’s chaotic and tacky, though I have every expectation it cost Huber a ridiculous sum to commission.

“How do I find the door? Do either of you know?” A smart man, a smart operative, would leave these two trapped where they are, gather whatever information about Huber’s illegal goings on he could grab, and get the fuck out of here. Before the authorities show up and things really get messy.

There’s something compelling me to help them, though. It’s been a long time and a lot of missions since I viewed what I do for my country as anything approaching heroic. Even when I’m on recovery details, the real motive isn’t about the people. It’s about whatever net gain the government looks to obtain.

Secure the scientist with their big brain, protect the diplomat with secrets the nation needs to hoard, fuck over the opposition by stealing their leader. Yadda, yadda, and etcetera. So yeah, I’m no hero. Just a gray man doing gray shit for a gray government. It’s the only way I could score the favors I needed to get guardianship of Ace when the Darrow Home for Boys got shut down before he aged out of the system.

Fucking kid tried sucking it up in a foster home or two before Jax, our sergeant at arms, found out how bad things had gotten. Ace does a good job fending for himself, but a kid on their own needs someone on their six. Especially a gay kid in foster care. So I don’t give a fuck if what I do is morally ambiguous or even outright bankrupt.

As soon as we learned what the kid was going through, Shaw, now our prez, and I scrapped our re-enlistment plans and went home. With Jax fresh out of clink, he wasn’t an option to take guardianship. None of the other guys had the connections necessary, either.

Only Shaw and I could pull the kind of favors necessary. So Shaw plays house mother to the lot of them while I signed on to be the alphabet soup agency’s gun for hire.

All that to say, I really can’t explain why I’m walking toward whatever shit show is locked behind the false wall in front of me. I should already be in the wind. The pull to help these two makes no sense, but my instincts have saved me more times than I care to admit. Right now, they’re screaming that whoever’s behind that stupidly ornate carving is important to me.

Both of them are.

Chapter

Two

GREY

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