A Secret Vow: A Bad Boy Secret Baby Romance (19 page)

Mortar turns the corner.

He’s got a gun raised, but the second he sees that it’s me and I’m alone, his arm drops by his side. He rushes to me and takes me in his arms. His words and lips bathe over me as I fall apart in his arms.

I can’t even get the words out. “He came here and he said…” I choke, sob, can’t continue.

“It’s okay, baby,” coos Mortar. He presses my head against his chest. “I’m here. He can’t hurt you anymore.”

I cough. “He said he was going to kill us, Mortar. Kill you, kill me, kill the baby. And he…he,” I stop, unable to finish.

“He what?” Mortar’s face is a web of concern.

“He sold the studio.”

I hear the breath catch in his threat. A fresh wave of tears breaks out over me. There’s no getting away from the world when it decides it doesn’t like you. I’m one of the unlucky ones, I guess. The second I finally get something I want, it all gets snatched away at a moment’s notice. My studio. Mortar. A family. A future.

Gone, just like that. Sand between the fingertips. Try as I might, I can’t hold on.

Mortar picks my face off his shoulder and dries my tears. “Listen to me, Kendra,” he says. His voice is somber and mournful. His eyes, too, are round with worry. “Do you remember the first thing I ever promised you? When we were sitting on the steps outside the hotel?”

I nod. How could I forget? It was the first time I felt like I was finally breaking free of all the forces conspiring to keep me ground into the dirt. It was escape.

“I promised I would keep you safe. It was just between you and me. Our secret little vow. You believed me then, right?”

I nod my head again. Tears continue to trickle down my cheeks.

“I need you to believe me now. You and our child,” he rests his hand on my stomach, “are going to be safe. I’m going to find Grady and I’m going to make it so that he can never hurt either of you ever again.”

I believe him. There’s no way I can’t. The fire in his eyes, the strength of the heart pounding in that chest—I know he means it. I know he can do it.

I just hope he can do it fast enough. Before it’s too late.

Chapter 12

Mortar

Fury isn’t a strong enough word.

A seething, boiling anger, stronger than anything I’ve ever felt before, is burning through my veins like poison. I want to rage, kill, destroy. I want to drag Grady Freeman in front of me and make him beg for mercy before I inflict unholy pain on every inch of his body. I want his soul to cry in pain.

I want revenge.

You come into my
hom
e
and threaten my wife? Hurt her? I thought I was angry before, that I was ready to kill him for what he’d said to her at the courthouse. But this is a whole different level. There’s no waiting anymore. Not a moment to waste. It’s time for Grady Freeman to die—slowly, painfully, and irrevocably.

I storm into the clubhouse in a righteous blaze. All the men are already waiting for me. I don’t spare a breath.

“I want him dead. Yesterday, if possible.” I’m pacing, beating one fist into the open palm of the other hand. “Actually, I take it back. I want him alive. I want him here. I want to take my time with the motherfucker.”

Vince sighs. He’s worried.

“What?” I snap. “Spit it out.”

“Mortar, I just don’t think Croak wants us doing that kind of thing right now. Killing a cop is a bad thing. Can we really go through with it?”

I halt. “I don’t give a fuck what Croak wants. Croak isn’t here right now. And if Croak’s not here, who’s in charge?”

“You are,” Vince mumbles.

I spin to the rest of the room. “Who is in charge?” I roar.

“You are,” comes the uneasy reply from the assembled Angels.

“That’s goddamn right. That son of a bitch Freeman broke into my home and tried to hurt my wife. Would any of you sit back and let that happen?”

Most of the men shake their head. They’ve made their peace with Kendra and me, more or less, and they understand what it means to have an old lady for whom you’d slaughter every man in the world if it meant keeping her safe. But they’re concerned nonetheless. Vince is right; killing a cop is bad business. Especially with this investigation bearing down on us.

But, frankly, I don’t give a shit. Good business or bad business, the rules are out the fucking window. I’m acting. They’re either with me or they’re not.

“I want to know where he is and what he’s doing. You, you, and you,” I say, pointing to three prospects, “get out of here and start scouting. Find that bastard.” I turn to another. “You, what’s your name?”

“Marley,” he replies. His voice is tight and clear. I like his confidence.

“Marley,” I repeat. “Go to my house. My wife is there. Guard her. Don’t let a single person anywhere near that place. If you see someone so bold as to be letting their dog shit on my lawn, you shoot them, no questions asked. Clear?”

He nods in the affirmative.

“Now get the hell out of here,” I order. He stands and leaves.

I look around and notice that Steezy is missing. “Where’s Steezy?” I ask. Everyone looks around at each other, confused. It’s weird that he’s not here. In all my years in Galveston, I’d never once known him to be late. I frown and pull out my cell. Just as I’m trying to dial his phone, I hear the door open.

Steezy stumbles through. He’s beat to hell, with multiple fresh welts raised across his face and neck. Blood is pouring from a gash in his scalp, and he’s clutching a broken wrist to his chest. Boulder springs to his feet to help usher him to a seat.

“Doc, go get the first aid kit,” I command, but he’s two steps ahead of me, on his way out the door to retrieve the supplies he needs to patch Steezy up. I slide to my knees in front of my friend.

“What happened?” I say.

“The fuckers caught me alone,” he grimaces. I see him biting back pain. He’s had the living hell beat out of him. The long bruised mark from a nightstick is glaringly familiar.

“Who did?”

“The cops. On a backroad. Three patrol cars, they stopped and surrounded me. They knocked me down, cuffed me, smacked the shit out of me.” He pauses for a breath, long enough to spit a broken tooth out into his palm.

“Water,” I order. A prospect races to get him a drink.

Motherfuckers. Now Grady has them out roaming the streets, looking for lone Angels to brutalize? This has gone too far. It’s past war—this is genocide.

“They gave me this.” He extends a bloody, shaking hand to toss a thin, rectangular package on the table. It’s half an inch thick and six or seven inches long. Reaching for it, I rip the tape off and tear the box open. Inside is a blank DVD case.
To the Angels
is scrawled in messy black marker across the front. I pop open the case to see a gleaming disc inside. It has a sticky note attached that reads,
Play me
.

I gesture for Vince to open the laptop on the conference table. He fires it up and inserts the DVD I hand him, just as Doc returns and begins to tend to Steezy’s wounds. He’s beat up pretty badly, but he’s a tough son of a bitch. He’ll pull through, I’m sure.

Someone extinguishes the overhead lights and we all huddle around the screen to watch the video play. At first, it’s a black screen, but then the feed clicks on. It’s a jail cell, dimly lit. Two metal frame bunk beds are pushed against one wall. There’s a piss bucket in the corner. Otherwise, it’s all damp-looking concrete. There’s no sound.

The cell is empty, until the gate clangs open at the edge of the frame. Two guards are holding something heavy between them. I realize with a lurch that it is Croak. He’s limp and unconscious, still battered from his abuse at the hands of the gang of cops. They drag his body to the far wall, set him down, and leave. The gate swings shut after them.

The video cuts out for a moment, and then resumes. The timestamp at the bottom indicates that a few hours have passed. It’s late at night now, judging by the lack of light coming in through the high, barred window cut out of the wall above Croak’s head. We watch as he stirs, groaning, holding his head in his hands. There’s a huge scab crusted on his forehead where he took countless hard hits from boots and batons. It looks ugly. His right foot is also twisted at a grotesque angle, like his heel or ankle is shattered.

He struggles to his feet and limps around the cell, surveying what’s in there. It’s clearly an ordeal for him to move at all. Every step draws a wince. Too exhausted to continue, he slumps back down against the wall. It looks as though he falls asleep with his head nestled in his arms.

“What the fuck is this?” growls Boulder. “Why do they give a shit if we see him in the cell? Just to punk us?”

“He’s gonna get sprung out this afternoon, for fuck’s sake,” adds Doc. “I don’t get it.”

“Shut up and watch,” I tell them. “It’s not over yet. They’re trying to tell us something. Look, something’s happening.”

The gate swings up. A cop walks in with a brown paper bag in his hand. “What’s that?” Vince asks, but everyone shushes him. The mood in the clubhouse is tense. There’s a growing fear that something horrible is about to happen.

I hope to God that it doesn’t.

The cop tiptoes over to Croak and double checks that he is asleep. Confident that he’s out, he turns to the mattress. He withdraws something from the paper bag he’s holding. I see the glint of a knife blade before he stuffs it underneath the mattress, between the wire frame and the bedding. Then he turns and walks out.

It all clicks into my place. My gut drops. The video fast forwards a few hours to dawn, as the sickening realization of what is about to happen grows and grows, festering in the pit of my stomach like some vile mold.

No. No. Please, God, no.

But praying won’t help. The timestamp reads six a.m. this morning. Whatever is happening in the video has already played out in real life. It’s too late to intervene.

Croak is still asleep as the gate to the cell flies open. A horde of cops—eight, ten, twelve, too many swarming blue pigs to count—explode into the room. Two of them go to the bed, flip over the mattress, and discover the knife that the night guard had planted. They hold it up, shouting and pointing at Croak, who has now startled to a dazed consciousness.

They put the knife in the cell to look like contraband. They’re framing him. The knife was a plant, an excuse for what is about to happen next.

Murder.

I can hardly bear to watch the next few minutes, but it’s impossible to tear my eyes away. The cops surround Croak as they give him everything they’ve got. I see the flash of stun guns, the blurred path of nightsticks, the shiny heels of steel-toed boots being cocked back and slammed into Croak’s ribs. They go to work on this injured, defenseless man. They keep swinging for a long time after he’s ceased to move.

It takes eight minutes before they finally stop. When they back away, panting and sweating, we can see a glimpse of Croak’s broken body. His skull is caved in. Blood is leaking from his mouth, nose, and eye sockets. His entire torso is warped and misshapen due to the ribs they’ve pulverized. He’s dead.

The cops re-holster their weapons and saunter out. The last two remaining in the cell drag him out by the wrists. When the cell is once again empty, the video ends.

We sit back in our seats. Every man around me is shell-shocked. This was cold blooded murder, committed by police. They’d fucking recorded it and sent it to us. It was a taunt. Grady wanted us to know that he was untouchable. He thought he had all the power.

There was a piece of me that wanted to give up just then. How could we fight that? They’d taken the best of us, dragged him away, and beaten him like an alley cat. He couldn’t even fight back. The cowards. Those motherfucking cowards.

It’s hard to force down a swallow. My throat is dry. Croak didn’t deserve to die like that. Hell, no one deserves to die like that. A man should be able to go down swinging, to have some dignity left in him when he goes to meet his maker. Worse still, he died because of me. I’d started this, hadn’t I? There is no way around it: Croak’s death is at least in part on my own conscience. I have his blood on my hands. I owe him vengeance.

And goddammit, I’m going to get it for him.

This is the Inked Angels way. This is what the tattoo on my shoulder means: when you take one of ours, we come for all of yours. Grady Freeman is going to die.

I need a plan, though. I can’t very well go barging into the headquarters of the Galveston Police Department and just start firing off rounds. I’d have more lead in me than blood by the time I finally got to the back office where that fat bastard sat. No, I have to find a subtler way to attack him.

The air in the room is too thick. It’s clogging my veins, my brain. I have to get out of here if I want to clear my head and come up with something that makes sense.

“Go home to your families,” I tell the men in the room. No one else has spoken a word since the video ended. “Tell them you love them. Make sure they’re safe.”

I realize something: I can’t ask them to risk their lives on my behalf. Too much blood—good blood, the blood of a man I followed and respected, despite his flaws—has been spilled because of me. This is my mission now, and mine alone. Each of these men around me is my brother and they deserve to live to see another day, to take another ride. I will do this by myself.

“Each of you has done enough for me. It’s time for me to take this ride solo.” Vince starts to protest, but I shake my head. “No. There’s no arguing with me on this one. I won’t see another good man killed by these fuckers for something I began. I started this, and I’m going to be the one to finish in. I’m going to protect what’s mine. Each of you needs to go do the same.”

They file out of the room, one by one. They’re reluctant to leave, but it isn’t hard to see that I’m serious. There’s no denying me right now. A man has to defend his own. At the end of the day, he is only worth that which he is capable of protecting.