Viper (2 page)

Chapter 1

His thighs hugged the worn, brown leather seat of his Harley Davidson CVO Fat Bob as he leaned into the corner at seventy-miles-per-hour. Rubber tread ate up the asphalt and blurred the yellow lines beneath him. The wind rustled his dark hair as the Twin Cam Screamin’ Eagle 110 engine took the blacktop with ease. He loved the freedom of the open road. His black-leather motorcycle cut, flapped behind him, something he was rarely without. The jackets were referred to as cuts due to their sleeves being removed, giving them a vest-like appearance. He wore his with pride like the rest of his brothers.

Kane pulled back the handle grip, gassing the engine. His bike hit ninety on the straightaway. His leather chaps beat against his denim clad legs in the cool breeze that came off the Siuslaw River, though he felt none of it. Low-hanging fog rolled in from the heavy cold air settling into the valley, blanketing the ground and hampering visibility. Normally, he might have taken a bit more precaution on the hairy road conditions, but not today. Too much weighed on his mind and speed seemed to clear it. Besides, he knew these roads like the back of his hand.

The town of Pleasant, Oregon, had seen bloodshed as of late, or rather blood drainage. Two bodies had been found dumped in the Siuslaw National Forest, void of blood, and the law wanted answers. They had a blackguard on their hands, a nasty piece of work. They couldn’t afford one of them running loose, murdering innocents. The OMC, or rather Outlaw Motorcycle Club, had been questioned. Every one of his brothers. They were outlaws, one-percenters as the American Motorcycle Association had coined all outlaw bikers, therefore dangerous in the eyes of the law. Forget the fact they had protected the little town for decades because of their presence.

No one dared intrude on their territory … not without repercussions. The OMC had its own form of justice. Swift and severe. When they found this miscreant, he’d be dealt with, but not by any court of law. Kane gassed the bike and buried the needle of the speedometer, feeling the liquid adrenaline course through his veins like a junky injecting heroine. Bikers were born to the road. It wasn’t a lifestyle choice, it was an identity. Most didn’t accept them, let alone understand them. They lived an existence outside of the law.

He wore the president patch on his left breast. His twin, Kaleb, sat at his right hand, sporting the vice president patch. They were the oldest of the Sons of Sangue and the closest direct descendants of Vlad III himself, better known as Vlad Dracula or Vlad Tepes. They weren’t braggarts by any means, not with the man’s blackened history, just merely a fact of how they came into existence. Kane respected his position as president, even reveled in it, but some days it weighed on his shoulders … like with these recent murders. He needed to take care of business and fast before the cops focused solely on the club or discovered their secret.

And if that weren’t enough, keeping the VP in order proved to be a challenge at times, he thought with a harrumph. Just the thought of his twin brother left him grumbling beneath his breath. Reckless is what he was. Hell, he only arrived in this world minutes before Kaleb, but by the way his brother acted, you would think years separated them. Kaleb could be downright foolhardy, leaving him the sole director of the Sons most days.

Kane slowed his bike to a stop, his thighs holding it upright. He turned the key off, cutting the rumble of the bike short as he sniffed the air. His keen sense picked up the metallic tang of fresh blood. Just the scent had his fangs aching as they elongated from his gums. Hunger gnawed deep in his gut, as if he needed a reminder of what he was. He hadn’t fed in three nights, at least nothing of real substance. He could consume regular food when the need arose for him to fit into normal society, but it held no nutritional value for his kind. Without blood, they’d age rapidly and die.

He unsnapped his skull cap, half helmet, hung it on the rubber grip of his handle bar, and turned his head to see if he could track the whereabouts of the scent. Kicking down the centerstand on his Harley, he swung a leg over the brown leather seat, and headed for the woods. He leapt effortlessly over the twelve-foot deep ditch, his black boots crunching on the fallen pine needles and debris as he landed. Kane ducked his six-foot-four inch frame under low hanging branches of the darkening woods. He didn’t need sunlight to see; his eyes were as good as night-vision goggles. Critters scurried for cover and birds took flight as a predator entered their sanctuary.

Stopping momentarily, Kane raised his nose and sniffed the air again. The scent was ten times stronger than where he left his bike.

Human blood.

He followed a small trail that led deeper into the trees, stepping over fallen brush and limbs, skirting large Sitka spruces. About a football field from the road, Kane stopped next to a small mound of dirt.

A very shallow grave.

One that was meant to be found.

Kane walked an arc around it, noting a red-tipped nail poking through the debris. He knew he should call the cops, not taint the crime scene due to his curiosity. Hell, they already suspected the Sons knew something about the previous crimes. He certainly didn’t need to give them evidence pointing right to their door. But if Kane could find clues as to who might be feeding off the humans and dumping their remains, he stood a much better chance of catching this son of a bitch before they did. Not likely the sheriff, Oregon State Police or their FSD, Forensic Services Division, would share any information with him. Besides, what would they do? Arrest him? Put him behind bars? Kane thought with a snort. There wasn’t a prison built that could hold his kind.

With the toe of his boot, he moved the finger, further exposing the hand. Kane hunkered down and brushed away some of the dirt and leaves when his keen sense of hearing picked up the sound of someone approaching. He felt the presence of his twin long before he stood mere feet away. Kane didn’t bother to acknowledge Kaleb as he continued to uncover the body.

Kaleb looked over Kane’s shoulder. “What the fuck? We got another drainage?”

Kane brushed the dirt from his hands on the seat of his jeans as he stood to face Kaleb. Another scent hung in the air, one he couldn’t quite put a finger on. The promise of the oncoming rain, mixed with the heavy scent of dirt, tainted the air enough that he couldn’t get a handle on the smell. Possibly that of the perpetrator, indicating a fresh kill.

“What the hell do you think?”

“This is the third body in Pleasant … our town, Viper. You think whoever is responsible is sending us some kind of message?”

“It’s starting to look that way.”

“Then this fuck is pissing on us. We got to do something. Show this fuck he can’t shit in our territory.”

Kane nodded slowly. Anyone knew that to disrespect an MC’s territory in such a manner would start an all-out war. The question was who would be stupid enough?

“What the hell do you think they want?” He voiced his frustration aloud, not that he expected an answer from Kaleb. “We should call the sheriff.”

“Jesus, Viper. You know they’ll try and lay this one on our doorstep again. They don’t trust us. I say we get rid of the evidence. Incinerate it. No body, no evidence of foul play.”

“You got some fucked-up desire to go to battle with the locals, Hawk?” Kane faced his twin full on, fists on hips. “If this one follows the last two cases, the sheriff's office has already been tipped off. It’s not likely they’ll be far behind. We get rid of the body and they’ll be all over us. We fought too hard to co-exist. We keep trouble outside the limits; they turn a blind eye when it comes to us and our activities. We get rid of this body and that tenuous truce will end.”

Kaleb indicated the dirt mound with the tip of his chin. “So what the hell are you doing? Doesn’t look like you’re waiting for the cops to me.”

He turned his back on Kaleb, knelt before the body and ignored his twin. He didn’t need to answer to anyone, leastwise Kaleb. Although he knew his twin was correct, that he shouldn’t be disturbing the evidence, he had to see if this victim followed the previous profiles. As he brushed more dirt away from the face, he revealed matted, long ash-blonde hair, red lipstick smudged across a pale white cheek, neck slit ear to ear.

Son of a bitch. Lightning lit the sky, eerily illuminating the face he had just uncovered, followed by a crack of thunder. Kane hardened his jaw, hearing Kaleb’s answering whistle. Not only was she the same description as the last two victims, she was Kane’s current—scratch that, he’d now be needing to find a new one—blood donor.

This shit just got personal.

* * *

“Detective Brahnam?” Dispatcher Reeves poked his head into her office.

Cara glanced up from the file she perused. The dispatcher’s brown hair appeared lightly streaked with blond in the fluorescent lighting as it fell over his darker brows, making him look even younger than his twenty-two years, fresh out of the academy and new to their force. He had an enthusiasm for the job that Cara could appreciate.

“We got an anonymous call again. Phone number traces back to a cell, just like last time.  Looks like we might have another dumped body.”

Her breath caught. Adrenaline coursed through her veins. Not another murder. They still had to figure out what the hell had happened to the last two victims. Throat slit, that part they understood. But nearly every ounce of blood had been drained from both women, that part they didn’t. Both bodies showed very few signs of postmortem lividity, the settling of the remaining blood to the lower regions of the body. There hadn’t been much blood left to settle. No rope burns could be found to indicate if the bodies had been hung upside down and bled out. In theory, if the throat had been sliced, the body then moved and dumped, a small amount of blood would still remain in the body, more than had been left it both victims combined. The medical examiner had said, “It’s the damnedest thing.”

Cara had her own theories, but she didn’t dare voice them. They’d undoubtedly take her away in a straight jacket. Ten years ago she had been a witness to something … a nightmare she had put at the back of her mind, one that she tried to explain away as a figment of an overactive teenage imagination. After all, vampires weren’t real. She had even tried to convince herself that the man at the center of those nightmares didn’t exist either. But ten years later, she came back to Pleasant, accepted a job as detective with the Lane County Sheriff's Office after serving six years with the city PD in Eugene, and ran smack dab into the enigma. Kane hadn’t aged, only appeared more menacing if truth be told. Cara kept her distance for personal and professional reasons. Lane County's Sheriff's Office knew the Sons of Sangue's clubhouse, of which Kane was the President, was located within city limits. Well before her time on the force, the Sheriff’s Office had an unwritten agreement with them: keep any and all violence out of town and the S.O. would look the other way. After all, no one with half a brain would go up against an OMC without knowing there would be backlash. This kept the town of Pleasant, for the most part, violence free.

Until now.

Cara slapped the file closed, stood and grasped her light jacket from the coat tree. “Whereabouts?”

“North Fork Road. Just before you get to Bender Landing County Park."

“You trace the call?”

“GPS on the cell says Main Street near Tom’s Deli.”

“Send two deputies out there. See if they can find a witness to anyone making a call from that area. Tell them if they find the cell, not to touch it, but secure it until a tech comes. We need to print it. Damn it,” she cursed, jamming her arms into her jacket sleeves. “Anyone else know about this yet?”

“Only you, Detective.”

“Call the sheriff, let him know we have another possible homicide.”

Cara headed for the door, Dispatcher Reeves backing out, his eyes beaming with excitement. She knew he couldn’t wait until he could hit the streets as a deputy. Jeff Reeves had already finished the required courses, but with the current state of the economy, there had been no room on the force for new hires for deputies. Lane County's Sheriff’s Office operated on too few deputies as it was. The last round of layoffs had nearly crippled the office.

“You want me to call Hernandez?”

Cara nodded, not hiding her answering grimace. Joe wasn’t going to be happy. “Looks like we’re going to have to cut my partner’s downtime short.”

Joe had left the S.O. two hours prior, hoping to catch some alone time with his wife since the kids were at his mother’s for the day. She’d no doubt catch shit for interrupting his sex life and remind Cara of her lack thereof. But she didn’t have time for relationships. Besides, in her experience, sex was highly overrated anyway.

“Tell him to meet me out there. I’ll grab the spotlights. It’ll be black as sin by the time I make the drive. Have two deputies meet us. I’ll need to get as much collected as possible. A storm is supposed to hit the area at any moment.”

Reeves trotted off to do her bidding. He’d make a good deputy someday. For now, the kid had to bide his time until the economic crunch took an upswing. Cara walked to the back of the office, grabbed two of the large spotlights along with tripods, and exited through the rear of the building. As she pushed the remote, the lights on her car blinked twice and the trunk popped open. Cara quickly checked to see if the collection kits were well-stocked, then added the lights and tripods, slamming the lid down.