Hammer (5 page)

Using the reputation we have gained as a motorcycle club who likes to cross the legal lines, we worked our way into buying drugs from Sandoval. Then, after a few transactions, we inquired about buying the other hot commodity on the black market—girls. It was risky with a man like Sandoval, but it was what we had to do if we were going to find Madyson before it was too late.

Today, we are ready to shut down Sandoval’s operation, and we’re hoping like hell the best friend of our prez’s daughter is still alive for us to rescue. We have men in prime locations to cover our entrance and extraction from the building, but we chose a smaller team to deal with what we find inside.

Setting our operation for broad daylight is a gamble, but it gives us the advantage of not being expected. Sandoval lessens his guards during the day;
that’s mistake number two, motherfucker
. Number one was taking the girls in the first damn place.

From the camera feeds we hacked into, the building looks like a warehouse or a storage space. However, what we find is actually an old hotel owned by a local plastic surgeon who also owns the private hangar Sandoval used for all our previous transactions.

Part of the facility is set up like a deluxe spa for the doctor’s patients to recover after procedures. The other half of the building holds some downright dark business and the bastards who partake in it.

Apparently, Sandoval spreads his money out to cover all of his operations under the guise of truly legitimate commerce. Smart man. This is one of the reasons he has lasted as long as he has in such a brutal and uncompromising business. The main reason he survives and thrives is because he is one sick and twisted fuck who is feared by many.

Thoughts of why Sandoval is so feared and how many innocents have suffered at his hands make my trigger finger itch to squeeze and unload a few rounds of justice into his sadistic ass. The women he has tortured, raped, and killed, the countless other civilian lives he has snuffed out on his selfish path to his dirty fortune. It all makes me want to leave the man looking like a human piece of Swiss cheese. There is something I learned years ago that keeps me from losing my cool, though.

After I went into the Army, I heard one of the recruits ask a drill instructor why he was such an asshole. It took a lot of balls for the man to say that, because he could have received worse than just the hundred push-ups.

Our drill instructor gave him this answer: “
It is better to be feared than loved if you cannot be both.
”

I stood there and watched the frustrated recruit force out those push-ups after we had trained all day with our weapons and sixty pound rucksacks on our backs. I knew he had to be exhausted. There were a few times his arms shook from the overexertion. Still, that recruit’s body steadily rose and fell as he performed his punishment. That wasn’t the thing that stuck with me, though. Nor was it what the instructor had said to the man.

No, the bit of memory that helps me through is how that recruit pushed himself back to his feet after finishing his pushups and asked the instructor for permission to speak freely.

Curious, the drill instructor granted it.

The recruit looked him dead in the eye and said, “Sir, perhaps one should prefer to be feared if they cannot be loved, but Machiavelli also stated, ‘
If an injury has to be done to a man, it should be so severe that his vengeance need not be feared
.’ ”

That recruit later became one of the best snipers the military has ever produced.

There were many nights I wondered if that drill sergeant shit himself when things went bump in the night, worried he pissed the wrong man off. Lord knows I would look over my shoulder if I were that instructor.

It also taught me that, if I had to unleash my rage on someone who deserved it due to their actions, then they sure as fuck didn’t deserve to breathe by the time I was done.

Knowing Sandoval has his end coming today keeps my mind on the mission and our need to rescue the teenage girl he took.

The location of the feeds has narrowed our recovery efforts to a janitor’s closet. It happens to have an underground parking garage next to it for our vans.

We can see the cameras as we enter, but our resident computer guru, Screech, has scrambled their feed.

The lack of guards on the garage is the mistake we plan to exploit the most. They didn’t want to put suspicion on the building having guards visible in the parking or outdoor areas. That is a fatal flaw in protection, and they are about to find out just how fatal.

Exiting the four vans, we each prepare our teams for their tasks. Ice and his team ready themselves to enter the service room. Coal and his team move in to make the ascent through the stairwells to find Sandoval himself. My team is on stand-by outside the garage’s exits to assist either team inside should the need arise. Our job is to move the vans we brought to carry the women out once it is secure to do so. We also serve as additional coverage to make sure not one bastard makes it out of this building alive.

Securing the vans and our support location, we wait.

Impatiently.

Every man on my crew wants nothing more than to be inside, kicking these motherfuckers’ asses. We all burn with the desire to right the wrongs they created. We will do what is best for the mission, though, and set aside our needs to shed blood in the name of justice.

My training kicks in, and I slow my breathing, calming my craving to fuck something up. Through my ear piece, I can hear commotion from both Ice and Coal.

My boys and I do our best not to get antsy, but sometimes, it is harder to sit and wait than being in the thick of the fight.

Just when I’m starting to worry, the garage door opens, and Big Jim and Skid carry crates filled with women out one by one.

Some of the girls cry out in panic, begging to be set free, while others are so drugged they lie there, unmoving, drool sliding down their chins. A few of the girls are so thin they look emaciated. My guess is they are the ones who have been held hostage the longest. And all of them have bruising or some kind of injury. I even see a few women with blood caked down their legs, and I have this sick feeling in my stomach it’s not from their monthly period. One girl’s arm is bent down at an unnatural angle, lying limply next to her body. Thank God she is one of the unresponsive ones. We don’t need her screaming from pain as her cage is jostled around.

I’m enraged at the sight of the broken women, but I don’t have time to dwell on it. If we are going to get them all to safety, I have to keep my men moving.

It will be faster to transport the women out of here if we leave them in their cages—well, that’s what I console my guilt with as they plead to be let out. The truth is, in the planning of this mission, we had to make the hard decision to leave the women in the cages because we couldn’t risk them freaking out on us as we try to rescue them. If they so much as bit us or scratched us and broke skin, we might be susceptible to a disease that could be transferred through blood or saliva. It might sound cold, but the facts are that these women were forced to serve men and were stuck with needles. I might not like it, but I understood the logic.

Taking the cages one by one, we fill the vans. Then the drivers get the girls safely out of the area as fast as possible while I exit the garage to grab the last van.

Backing the van up to the garage door, I find Coal standing with a gun pointed to Sandoval’s head. I come to a screeching stop, and Coal opens the vehicle’s back door then shoves Sandoval in as he follows. Big Jim climbs in behind them and immediately restrains our captive with zip ties.

Other than a few Spanish mutterings, Sandoval is far too settled for my liking. He is a cocky bastard, but he is way too comfortable for a man who is sure to die in a matter of hours. It makes my gut churn, which is not a good sign. Unfortunately, I won’t be part of his death.

I climb out and round the van, letting Skid take over driving. I’m ready to clean up with my team, meaning we are going to set the building to blow.

I hope Sandoval will still be alive when I catch up with Ice. I even grabbed one of the extra Tasers we keep in the office for our strippers if they need it. I want the satisfaction of putting it to his nuts and frying them before Coal finishes him off.

Going to the last vehicle left, I grab my explosives. The bombs will have the building crumble with as little damage to the surrounding buildings as possible. There will still be casualties to some businesses in the area, but that is what they make insurance for. At least, that is how I see it.

My guys are heading out in front of me, everyone making their way back inside the hotel through a janitor’s service room, when we hear a car pull up. I press into our communication link, wondering if I missed a warning. Was the path not clear for Skid to drive out? My men and I are ready to set the detonators and close this mission down.

“Keep moving,” I command to my guys as I turn to look behind us.

About eight feet away from me is the door that leads to the hotel’s employee entrance that Jinx is the last to go through. At a cursory glance, I don’t see anything, just the small, empty hotel parking lot and the concrete wall surrounding it, which gives nowhere to hide.

My comm. link crackles. I hear Ice call my name in warning as tires squeal, and a black sedan comes barreling around the corner from the entrance toward me. Logically, I know from experience this is all happening fast. Yet, to me, it is as if the entire thing is in slow motion.

Out of my peripheral vision, I see Jinx running toward me in an attempt to help, but I know it’s too late for me. I reach out and push him back toward the garage door, to safety, as the car slams into me. My body twists with the impact, and my back slams into the unforgiving concrete wall.

My entire body lights up in pain from head to my toe. I hear a loud
whoosh, whoosh, whoosh
ringing in my ears, and it takes me a second to realize it’s my frantic heartbeat. Somewhere, in the foggy recess of my mind, it’s trying to tell me that I’m in shock and trouble.

Opening my eyes, I realize I’m lying on top of the car’s hood, and I can’t feel my legs. Not good. Not fucking good at all.

My lungs start to burn like hell, and it takes me a second or two to figure out it is because I haven’t taken a breath.

Opening my mouth to breathe in, I feel like someone has poured kerosene inside my chest then thrown a match on me. Everything burns so badly until I fear trying to take another breath.

Little gray dots encroach on the edges of my vision as all of that first-aid training from the Army kicks in. I’m about to lose consciousness. I have to let Ice know there is trouble before that happens, though.

Using every last ounce of strength I have, I force myself to spit out the words that need to be said.

“I’m down.”

Then everything goes black.

~Desirae~

Arriving home, dread fills me when I find my sister isn’t there. Instinctively, I call her phone.

Ring.

Ring.

Ring.

Ring.

“
Hey, you’ve reached me, but I’m not available at the moment. Leave a message at the beep, and I’ll call ya later.
”

Tears fill my eyes as my stomach twists and dread fills me.

“It’s me, Desirae,” I say when her voicemail beeps for me to leave a message. “Call me so I know you’re okay.”

I pace my home, wash the coffee mugs in the sink, and continue to worry. Suddenly, it hits me.

Since college, I have had Suzie on my cell phone plan. Our parents, one being an ex-con and the other being a complete hippie, didn’t believe in the need to spend money on communication devices to keep up with their children. Honestly, I don’t think they wanted to know anything we did or if we were safe, anyway. Their belief that the government would somehow control individuals through the tiny devices was a perfect excuse to keep them off the hook.

Going to my laptop, I fire it up and log in to my phone account. Smart phone tracking! Thank you whichever genius came up with this app.

I follow the screen to where I should hopefully find my sister. The map shows her out in the Croatan National Forest.

What the hell? My sister isn’t one for trails and hiking. She doesn’t even like the idea of the country because it has bugs. Due to that, the idea she suddenly wants to take a walk among the pine trees inhabited by black bears and saltwater estuaries that alligators live in is utterly ridiculous.

Half an hour later, I park my car then follow the screen as I make my way to the Cedar Point Tideland Trail.

We are in the off season, so there aren’t many cars in the parking area. The van with blacked out windows causes me to pause. Every other vehicle is a truck with a stainless steel dog cage in the back for their hunting dogs or pulling a trailer with ATVs. With only three trucks and the van, I can’t help the dread that washes over me that she possibly came here in that very van.

Something inside me stops me from yelling out her name. Call it instinct, women’s intuition, or the bond I have with my sister, but somehow, I keep myself focused on finding her and not simply yelling out, giving the world my location. I just quietly make my way along the trail.

Listening intently, I can hear shuffling up ahead. Slowly, I creep up, and the scene before me guts me. My mind stops as I try to take in what is in front of me.

My baby sister is naked and tied to a tree. She has blood running down her legs, and her breasts are cut so severely they are hanging at awkward angles and look like they are barely attached to her body anymore. Her face is swollen and beaten so badly she is unrecognizable. If it weren’t for the ornate, swirling, water-colored seashell tattoo on her foot, I wouldn’t have known it was her.

I lunge forward, wanting to save her, but my instincts stop me. Despite the shock of seeing her like that, something in me reminds me that I’m outnumbered and have no weapons.

Standing in front of her are two men. The shorter one looks to be about my height, and he is dressed in an ill-fitting navy suit and white dress shirt. In his hand is a wicked-looking knife the likes I have only seen hunters use and perhaps a few of the Hellions MC brothers wear strapped to their thighs from time to time. The angry man’s brown hair is perfectly sculpted and seems at odds with his dress clothes covered in dark red spots. It horrifies me.