Warlord (Anathema Book 1) (17 page)

“Not safe here.”
I nodded toward the door. “Call your girls. Close early. Get the fuck away from
anyone who is still dealing with Exorcist.”

She hid her fear
well. Her eyes narrowed, the slick green preventing anyone from turning their
back on her. No woman in a fucking corset strapping her tits higher than Keep
was flying deserved the power she held over Anathema.

“What happened?”
She asked again. “Why are you bleeding?”

“Exorcist
kidnapped Rose from her gig.” Brew leaned over Keep. “You fucking asshole. Where
the
hell
were you! Ex has Rose!”

“Rose?” Keep
slurred her name. He repeated it and rolled the R. Brew punched him in the jaw,
and Keep slumped, unconscious.

“
Fuck
.” Lyn
pushed Brew from his brother before he killed him. “Exorcist kidnapped Bud? 
Why?”

“Doesn’t matter,”
I said. “We’re going to go get her.”

“It’s a trap.”

“No shit.”

I stalked into
the chapel. Lyn followed. She wasn’t the only woman getting involved in shit
that didn’t concern her. She wisely stepped out of arm’s reach.

“I know why
you’re babysitting the brat,” she hissed. “And it’s not because you want
someone to serenade you in the shower every morning.”

“I told you to go
home.”

“What if Ex
knows you’re using her to find the rat?”

“Go. Home.”

“Call Knight.”

Now she was
asking for a backhand. Anyone else might have earned it.

“Why?”

Lyn raised her
chin. “Luke is sane. Find out what the hell is happening.”

“Luke is Ex’s
second-in-command,” I said. “There’s nothing
sane
about him.”

“Just fucking call
him. See what they want for her.”

“They’re sending
a message.”

“You don’t
kidnap Blade Darnell’s only daughter to send a message,” she said. “They want
her for something.”

“Probably to rut
her like fucking animals!”

Lyn’s expression
faltered. Mine did too. We shared a hard-wrought breath and images neither of
us wanted to imagine. I grabbed my phone.

“Last time I saw
Luke, I had a gun pointed to his head.”

Lyn shrugged. “Name
of the game.”

I dialed. Waited.
The phone rang four times before the call connected, but Luke didn’t answer. The
muffled echoes of a group of men muttered instead. Ex spoke over the rumbles.

“
Give him a
hello, Rose
.”

She screamed. A
shot fired. The line went dead.

My heart stopped
with it.

Lyn didn’t
bother asking any questions. I grabbed a shotgun from the crate and pushed a twenty-two
into her hands.

“Get your ass
somewhere safe. Stay in Pixie. Run out of town. I don’t care where you go, just
don’t get killed.”

She knew how to
shoot. No one owned a club like hers without knowing how to defend their goods.
She rubbed her forehead.

“I’ll bring a
few girls down.” She frowned. “Someone will have to patch you guys up.”

If any of us
survived. I met Scotch at the door.

“How many can
men did we get?”

“Fifteen in an
hour,” he said. “But only three are here now.”

“Then we’ll take
three.” I waved for Brew to follow. I tapped Scotch’s chest. “Stay here. Lyn’s
bringing her girls. Keep an eye on them.”

“Sure, you
gunfight. I’ll stay with the strippers.” Scotch’s smile was short-lived. “You
bring me back my goddaughter.”

One
troublemaking kitten served alongside Ex’s head.

It’d be good
night for vengeance.

I texted Gold. He
had the location cornered, but he wasn’t investigating without backup. That was
fine by me. I planned to be the one leading my men in. I’d take the first shot.
Make the first kill. Be the first to go down if that’s how God or the Devil or
whatever malevolent force cocking up my club wanted to play it. Brew, two
prospects, and three other brothers—Chip, Ace, and Tanner—revved their engines with
mine. My club. My men. My city.

I’d rescue Rose by
spilling blood and destroying lives.

The streets
cleared as we rode. The valley wasn’t big enough for a scene after midnight,
and the citizens weren’t stupid enough to linger once the night yielded to us. The
industrial district might have fostered a third shift, but the workers ignored us
and drove alternate routes to avoid the five bikes riding in formation. Gold
swung out after us, rolling to my side with a frown.

“They cleared
out quick. My guy in Dantry said Temple MC is making a run now.” Gold shouted
over the engines. “Didn’t see Rose with Ex, but they bolted out of here. Want
us to follow?”

Christ. One hell
of a trap.

“We gotta get Rose.”

“But if they’re
getting more drugs—”

“Rose first.”

Gold backed down.
Didn’t understand it, but he backed down. Brew and Keep might have been
grateful we rolled to grab their sister, but I didn’t drop why she was so
goddamned important. Didn’t matter what drugs or guns or women The Coup and
Temple traded. Without Rose, I couldn’t find the rat. And, without squealing on
one of the brothers, Anathema was as good as dead, even without Ex’s grenade
tossed inside Pixie.

Exorcist’s
warehouse was some makeshift piece of shit moving company he pieced together
from two stolen trucks and an unpaid gambling debt. The company didn’t make
money and owed on taxes, but it served his crew well enough. Secured location,
plenty of friends on his side of town to keep an eye on the front, and far
enough removed from my assets he was practically impervious to my crew. He’d
move the drugs from the trucks. That much I figured out. I just needed to know how
he planned to get the drugs.

And where Rose
fit into his plan.

We parked across
from three unattended bikes. No one fired on us. No one defended their rides. It
wasn’t the welcome I expected. Brew drew his gun.

I waved for Gold
and his men to circle the building. They sprinted into the darkness, weapons readied
against the silence of the night. I reached for the knob. The door wasn’t even
locked.

My gun raised
into an empty room. Brew strafed a wall around a bared reception area. No
computers. No files. Just a forgotten counter etched with graffiti and a putrid
scent of fucking disaster flooding the room. My boots crunched over shattered
glass, but they at least boarded the front window up. I listened. Brew’s steps chewed
over the same debris. I edged to a closed door sectioning off the front from
the warehouse behind. Brew nodded. I counted to three.

I kicked the door
in and aimed the shotgun. The greasy, polluted grime of diesel fuel instantly
coated my lungs. My boots rippled through a puddle. Brew swore.

“Son of a bitch!”
He ran into the warehouse, gun drawn. “
Rose!”

Our steps
splattered over the fuel-soaked hall and through the deserted warehouse. Ex had
the entire goddamned building laced with diesel. Brew retched as he ran. I
didn’t have that problem. The concussion dizzied me enough without worrying
about choking over fucking chemicals.

The hall broke
into a huge garage. Broken glass shattered everywhere, the florescent lights
above completely destroyed by gunfire. A muffled cry broke the silence.

Brew fumbled for
his cellphone. The screen brightened and he cast it over the room.

Rose wiggled
against a wooden chair. Ropes lashed over her neck, her arms, her waist, her
legs. They shoved a dirty rag soaked in fuel in her mouth, and she cried as I
untied the rope forcing the cloth between her lips. She sputtered and spat, but
I slapped a hand over her mouth before she spoke. Brew grabbed the knife from
his boot and sliced through the ropes as rolling, black smoke poured through an
opened hallway. A lone figure emerged from the shadows. A glint of metal
reflected in the circle of white cast from Brew’s phone.

I leapt over Rose
before she was free. Brew shouted. The gun fired, but I covered Rose. She
grunted as she hit the ground. Cowered in my arms.

They didn’t aim
for us. The bullets struck the iridescent cement floors. Enraged, orange fire
burst to life at Brew’s feet. He kicked, but the spiraling fuel fed the fire. The
shooter fled. I wished we could do the same.

“Get the ropes!”
Brew sliced through the thick cords binding Rose to the chair.

I pulled as Brew
cut, slamming the chair away as we freed enough of her to bolt. The billowing
smoke enveloped the warehouse, trading blows with the erupting fire consuming
the space the darkness hadn’t claimed. I grabbed Rose, but my hands slipped
from her arms. Slippery, grimy fuel coated her body.

And blood.

Rivers of blood.
Every straining step she took shook handfuls of glass from her hair and body. Her
arms and legs, face and chest bled from the nips and cuts of the shattered glass
from above. Her little yellow sundress tangled with crimson, dirt, and soaked
chemicals. She panicked, breathing in too much of the smoke. I caught her as
she fell, hauling her into my arms and breaking for the door before the flames scorched
her with the hellfire reserved for me.

The stench of
the fire choked us. Brew ripped off his shirt and pressed the material against Rose’s
face. I doubted it would help. I struggled for a clean breath of air, but
nothing in the foul, acrid, mechanical sludge tasted
clean
. The fire spread
behind as we ran. A serpentine rampage of flame that swelled faster than it
should have, flared hotter than possible, and aimed for us with such
unrepentant absolution I swore the gate of Hell opened to swallow us whole.

The warehouse
groaned against the pure destruction. The blistering, rupturing cries of
weakening wood destroyed by rounds of automatic weapons roared against the howl
of the blaze. We sprinted through the building as the hungry fire licked up the
walls and along the floor, jumping rooms and feasting upon our path to freedom.
Brew didn’t hesitate. He threw himself against the door and forced it open. We
collapsed on the sidewalk a mess of sweat, fumes, and gagging agony.

Gold and his men
sprinted to our side. He shouted some shit about the fire company being
dispatched. I didn’t listen. Rose crawled from my arms and threw up. Brew did
the same. There wasn’t time to recover. I grabbed the straps of her dress and
hauled her to her feet.

Back to my arms.

“Gotta go,” I
said.

“Police, fire,
EMS.” Gold tapped the scanner on his hip. “Dude, we’re gone
yesterday
.”

I spat the smoke
from my tongue. Didn’t help. “Where’s The Coup?”

“Not here. Some
punk ass prospect fired at us. Got Ace and Tanner chasing him down. The others
split. She’s the distraction for their getaway.”

That much I
knew. I pushed Rose across the street toward our bikes and pointed at mine. “Get
on.”

She didn’t
listen. Brew shouted as she sprinted to The Coup’s abandoned bikes. We crowded
her, but she knelt beside the seat, reaching inside and ripping wires from one
of the engines.

“Revenge later,
Bud.” Brew reached for her elbow. She coughed as she batted him away.

Her attention
focused on another bike. I argued until I realized what the diva did. Rose’s
hand slipped under the handles, jamming into the wires underneath. She followed
the trail to the starter on the side of the bike. Disconnected it.

She wound the wires
in her hand together, shoved the edges into the starter’s plug, and listened
for a second over the howl of sirens threatening the street.

Brew swore at
her. “Rose—”

She hopped over
the seat and flipped the switch.

The bike rumbled
and started. She met my gaze. The smoke and fuel, terror and pain, destroyed
her voice. She whispered, but I didn’t doubt the threat.

“I don’t ride as
a passenger,” she said. “Now we can go.”

Despite the
blood pouring off of her, the kidnapping, concussion, and burning down
warehouse that nearly killed us, my cock hardened as she gripped the handles of
the bike.

I passed her my
helmet. Her hands trembled as she buckled it. Brew offered to help, but she
turned from him before he touched her.

“Ride to Pixie,”
I told her. “And don’t fucking stop for anything.”

I straddled my
bike. Rose waited for me.

“We’ve got to go
fast,” I warned.

“I can ride fast.”

The grim
determination in her voice almost overshadowed her fear.

Almost.

The sirens and
flashing lights chased up the road. I took off. Brew and the others waited for Rose.
She wobbled pulling out onto the street. One glance at the smoke filled sky
behind her and the groaning warehouse shuddering under its supports and she was
out like a shot, bursting out in front of me and accidentally leading the Anathema
MC away from her own kidnapping.