Page 68 of Motorycle Daddies

He’s so scared he can’t talk fast enough now.

“I don’t know nothing for sure, Dart. I truly don’t. But the old Russian man who runs the off-the-books betting down on the corner was drunk when I went to pick up my winnings. He said there’s trouble brewing because some MC chick got taken. He laughed because he wants to see the war that’s gonna cause,” the little piece of shit finally explains.

“If he wants to watch, then he must know where she’s being kept. Did he happen to tell you?” I ask, getting up close and personal enough to his face to smell his putrid breath.

The man cowers until his nose is practically at his knees. “He doesn’t tell me anything important unless I pay him. I don’t have that kind of money to waste on information that doesn’t help me. But he knows something. He was smirking too big not to.”

I hate to hand him a twenty, since he hasn’t given me anything I’m not about to find out in the next few minutes anyway. The cheating son of a bitch at the corner is my next stop and would have been even without this dumbass.

Still, I know someday he may give us something more worthy of the money, and with Tag gone, we can’t be too picky. So, I hand it over and snort out a laugh as he runs straight to the liquor store to get a pint to calm his nerves.

The old Russian is shaking in his ragged leather boots by the time I finish questioning him. I can smell the sweat and piss coming off him when he gives up the location of the house where Skeeter is being held and identity of who’s guarding over her.

His eyes appear to glaze over, and he doesn’t really see me anymore. He’s lost in one of his trances and can no longer be reached.

“They’ll kill you,” he warns in a quivering sing-song voice. “They know you’ll come for her. Your club doesn’t stand a chance. I don’t have one either. They’re watching all of us. There are eyes everywhere. They’ll come up out of the ground and eat us all alive. I’ve seen them. They’re here now.”

He falls to the ground and whimpers. He’s gone off the deep end again. It happens when he thinks he’s told us too much. He becomes crazy and paranoid. I know he’s off his meds again and using street drugs to compensate.

Yet, most of what he tells me is real. We’re being watched, which we already know. They know we’ll come for what belongs to us—also true. And most of all, they definitely want us dead. The danger is a reality, but it’s part of life for us so who gives a fuck.

I bend down and tuck the hundred into his pocket while he rolls on the ground, his body jerking and saliva dripping from his open mouth. No wonder the Bratva no longer cares about what he’s up to. He’s barely human, nothing like the Russian enforcer he once was. He survives on taking money from men who are addicted to betting and losing.

I take off, knowing I need to let Grizzly know what I know.

Grizzly is waiting for my report. He’s tense and pacing the floor when I arrive. “Give me the details,” he demands the instant I come into view.

“Can’t I get a damn drink first? And maybe ask how Meredith is holding up?”

“We don’t have time for chatting or getting drunk. Every minute they have Skeeter is another chance for them to decide she’s not needed. I don’t play with the lives of my members,” Grizzly states.

“Getting to her isn’t going to be easy or simple. She’s in a damn basement, and the whole place is a fortress. There are even bars on the windows, which aren’t necessary considering that half the MC is guarding her along with some Bratva sharpshooters. Is one life worth losing a bunch of us?”

The question is foolish and a huge mistake. Not even our connection and friendship can keep me from Grizzly’s wrath.

“What the fuck kind of question is that?” he shouts, moving as if to strike me. “Every member matters just as much as the next. What if it was Meredith? Would it be worth dying, then?”

His question hits me exactly as he meant it to. The sickness in my stomach has my face turning green. There’s no other way to answer except, “When do we do this?”

The plan is complicated, but not as much as other plans have been. There’s no room for mistakes and no guarantee of it working. I should be used to that scenario by now. But this time is different. I have someone to live for.

The idea is to plant explosives as near to the MC clubhouse and their other holdings as possible. We add a couple within a mile of a known Bratva warehouse too. Then we make certain word gets out that someone is planning a raid on these strongholds, believing that women are being held hostage at all of them, and drawing the sharpshooters and most of the guards away from where Skeeter is actually being held.

With the explosives already planted, they don’t have a defense against them. Not even the best sharpshooter can stop the timer on an explosive that isn’t found.

The biggest problem remains—how many are waiting inside the house to intercept us? They aren’t stupid. There will be suspicions about the threats since they’re waiting for us to attack. Distractions are great as long as they work, but the house isn’t going to be left undefended.

As we hoped, the guards begin leaving in pairs. The first ones to disappear carry long-range rifles, the sharpshooters. As our members watch the explosions go off one by one they let us know how fast the threats are beginning to be taken seriously. We’re told it’s becoming chaos in each location. Adrenaline surges through me. I want to get in on the action.

“There’s still too many,” I say to Trap. “Damn, I don’t see an opening worth trying, but time is running out.”

“Then we take as many out one by one as we can,” he replies. “This is our only chance. They won’t fall for this shit a second time and we don’t have a backup plan worth shit.”

I motion for the others to circle the property and take out the guards as quietly as possible.

My first man is taking a nap against a tree. I slip up behind him, grab him by the hair to expose his neck, and cut his throat. It slices easily, like butter. Hot blood pumps from the slash, spilling over his clothing and down his chest, drenching it. The scent is nasty yet satisfying.

The second is more alert, pacing back and forth until the ground has a clear depression in it. I startle him as I pop out from the bushes to shove my knife into his heart. This time the blood covers my hand, warm and sticky, smelling of iron or rust, and I can feel the last few beats of his heart. Before he can give a strangled scream, my bloody hand covers his mouth and nose, giving him a chance to smell his own life as it evaporates. He’s gone before the emptied body hits the crevice he made with his pacing.

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