Shot to Hell (Four Horsemen MC #7) (21 page)

When Steele turned, stool creaking beneath him, his brother looked like he was about to break an arm from patting his own back.

What an asshole.

Steel fumbled for an excuse. 

“Don’t. You understood
exactly
what I said. You know,” Voodoo began, all wise man imparting knowledge. “Lex has been showin’ me all these Shakespearean plays.  Different productions. When she visits, we stream ‘em on the Roku player, and while we were watching one night, I noticed somethin’.”

“Good for you, asshat.” Steele tipped the bottle back.

Voo continued. “Shakespeare usually puts a fool into his plays. Do you know why?”

“He was plumb out of ideas?”

“Because the fool is never foolish. He’s usually the one tellin’ you exactly what the play’s about—the moral. My question is, brother, why do you play the fool?”

Enough poking at old wounds for one evening. “I ain’t playin’. You’d best believe I’m ten kinds of fool.”

He tottered down the hallway into one of the crash rooms. Steele slammed the door and threw himself down onto the bed.

Sleep was a long time coming.

Chapter Thirteen

My life’s a mess.

Steele lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, even though he didn’t truly see it. He was exhausted—mentally, physically, every way possible. Between dealing with his past, Coyote’s disappearance, and Ash’s trauma, he was spent.

He’d lost the one decent lead they’d had. He couldn’t even be a dick about it and put the blame on Ash. She hadn’t helped matters, but she hadn’t triggered the situation either—Steele had. It was a random convergence of factors—no traffic on the road, the prospect dropping the lighter, and Steele’s failure to get the bastard to spill his guts in the short time he’d had. 

But he couldn’t lay there and feel sorry for himself.

He picked up his cell and cursed when he found out it was five thirty in the morning. He found several text messages: Axel ordering Steele to meet him at Seventh Circle as soon as Steele got the text, a peeved but vague-on-purpose-in-case-the-Feds-read-this message from Beauregard indicating his “displeasure” at the outcome of last night’s stakeout, and one from Frost about motherfucking Royal.

Steele deleted them and sat up in bed. He ran a hand over his face, feeling the prickly stubble on his cheeks, and then wiped the crusty stuff from the corner of his eyes. He felt like shit, and he knew he probably looked like it too. He surged to his feet, jumped into his discarded jeans, and stumbled to the bathroom down the hall.

After he splashed water on his face, he studied his reflection in the mirror. Dark half-moons sat beneath his eyes, which were red-rimmed. His split lip had crusted over, and purplish-red bruises mottled his face.

If Steele was going to make it through the day, he had to pull it together. He rummaged around the crash rooms for some supplies. Steele found a stick of Old Spice deodorant and a half tube of toothpaste. After he rolled the deodorant over his pits and scrubbed his teeth with a finger, he grabbed a clean Perdition shirt from the back room. Ryker had purchased them for a promotion, but they’d never taken off. He threw on his hoodie and cut, then took off out the door with his game face on.

On his way to Seventh Circle, he stopped at Inferno to leave a note for Daisy. He had a feeling he wouldn’t make it into work today due to multiple ass-chewings and club business. Steele hated to add to her burden, but he didn’t see a way around it. A delivery of ammo she had to sign for was coming between noon and two. He also wanted her to put Angel to work doing inventory.

Steele slid off his bike and was about to walk in the front door of Inferno when he stopped in his tracks. A cardboard box sat on the
Come Back with a Warrant
welcome mat Daisy had given him as a joke.

But there was nothing funny about the strange box.

An unshakable sense of dread settled over him—like the terrible night in Afghanistan when he’d scented smoke in the air. All of his shipments came to the rear of the building during business hours. So where had it come from? Someone must’ve dropped it off for him.

Steel studied the box from a distance, unwilling or unable to move closer. He didn’t see a shipping label, and the left corner was wet—darker than the rest of the cardboard. Knees wobbling, Steel stepped closer.

He pulled out his pocketknife and knelt beside the box on the mat. Biting the inside of his cheek, he cut away the silver duct tape sealing the edges. Steele touched the damp corner, and his fingertip came back red. Blood red.

The parking lot spun around him, and Steele clutched the wall for support.

Oh, God. What the fuck’s in there…Coyote’s head?

“No…no. No, please. Not Coyote. Not like this.”

Steele couldn’t open it out here in the parking lot where anyone might drive by. With trembling fingers, he scooped the package up and took it inside with him. He trudged past the display cases and down the hallway to Coyote’s office. He hadn’t been able to set a foot in there since Yo had been snatched.

Steele fumbled with the doorknob and winced as the bright fluorescent lights overhead flickered on. For a second, he stood in the center of the room, clutching the cardboard and trying to make his legs work.

The office looked more like a boy’s bedroom than a place of business with framed Avengers movie posters on the walls. His plastic-sleeved comic book collection took up an entire bookshelf. Star Wars office supplies decorated the desk.

When he’d first met Yo, the kid had annoyed the hell out of Steele. He wasn’t much of a fighter, and all day he spouted nerd talk. But Yo was passionate about the things he loved, and Steele admired his enthusiasm. Once he’d witnessed Yo’s technical skills, Steele had been a true believer. Yo was a younger, nerdier MacGyver. And no matter how dark things got for the club, he always found something to smile about, something to keep them going.

Steele could use some of that hope right about now.

He slogged over to the desk and sank down into Coyote’s desk chair. The neon orange thumbprint on the armrest made him chuckle. “You and your damned Cheetos.”

Steele set the box on the desk. He braced his hands on his knees, staring at it, trying to find the courage to move forward. Once he opened it, his world would change.

All hope might be lost.

Coyote could be dead, and Steele would only be able to avenge him—which wasn’t enough. Not nearly enough. 

Gritting his teeth, Steele pushed back the outer and inner flaps—inside was a ball of newspaper. On the corner, he spied today’s date. Steele ripped the paper back to reveal two severed fingers. The skin had an unmistakable golden hue, one of the fingers curled obscenely around a Four Horsemen lighter. The digits had been chopped off right below the knuckle—snowy white bone, wrapped in pink tissue. The blood had pooled, coagulated on the paper beneath them.

Steele’s stomach churned. He stood, swaying on his feet—caught somewhere between relief and dread. Relief it hadn’t been a more important body part and apprehension that this was only the beginning of gory packages.

He stumbled over to the wall and leaned his forehead against the cool plaster. He gulped down air like a fish without water.

Coyote could have survived the amputation. “Oh, thank God. You could still be alive. I let you down, brother, but I’m gonna get you back. I’m bringing you home. We’re gonna be here together again. I promise.”

***

If ever there was a time for an emergency meeting, it was now. The boardroom was in chaos—brothers shouting at each other and Axel wildly banging his gavel. It didn’t do much good—no one was listening.

After Steele called Axel, he’d convened one. They needed to hunt down and kill the bastards who’d done this to Coyote.

While he could hear his brothers’ raised voices, they barely registered with Steele. He didn’t say a fucking word. His mind was still on the bloody box and its terrible contents. He gripped his own fingers, imagining what it’d feel like to have them lopped off. Coyote must be in so much pain—alone and scared shitless.

Just like Abe.

“Enough.” Axel pounded a fist on the table, shaking it. “Everyone, take your seats and shut the fuck up.”

The room quieted. The brothers slid into their assigned seats, and everyone turned eyes on the president.

But Axel pointed to other side of the table. “The only person I wanna hear from right now is Duke.” After making the discovery and calling Axel, Steele had handed the box over to Duke.

Duke cleared his throat. “I examined the fingers and the cut is clean. I’m guessin’ it was done with something sharp and heavy, maybe a meat cleaver.”

“Can you reattach them?” Axel asked.

Duke shook his head. “There’s a short window to perform replantation, and both the wound and severed digits need to be iced to preserve the tissue. We’re beyond the time frame.”

Steele put his head in his hands.

Coyote had been permanently maimed, and he needed all his digits to perform his computer wizardry. The Raptors had sliced into Steele’s chest, but he’d be able to cover the wounds with a tattoo—no harm done. Yo didn’t have that luxury, and every time his brother glanced down at his own hand, he’d be reminded of what the bastards had taken from him.

“We need to find these fuckers.” Ace thrust his chest out. “To hell with trying to force them out of our territory. They need to die bloody.”

No one disagreed with him.

The Raptors’ sins were too numerous to ignore—shooting up the Horsemen’s clubhouse and killing a brother. They’d also kidnapped Coyote and snatched up the heroin—leaving the Horsemen’s asses flapping in the wind. The cartel was coming for the club, and it was only a matter of when. Not to mention the Raptors’ penchant for using and abusing women.

“Anyone wanna speak on the Raptors’ behalf?” Axel surveyed the group.

The room fell deathly silent.

Steele had hit his personal limit, and it looked like his brothers agreed with him.

“There’s only one problem. We don’t even know where the hell they are.” Justice swiveled in his seat to eye Steele.

Steele cleared his throat. “Victoria Hale, the Dixie Mafia hacker girl, said she could track the skimmers with GPS if she had more time.”

Justice nodded. “Yeah, she said somethin’ about thieves leavin’ the skimmers in gas stations over the weekend when there’s a lot of business. They won’t pack in their operation until Sunday night. We still got time to find a skimmer and slap a GPS on it. We need to find one and follow a Raptor back to their base…without tipping our hand this time.”

“Fine. I need someone to locate a skimmer and work with Beauregard.” Axel’s lips twisted.

Justice raised his hand to volunteer before Steele could.

“Keep me posted.” Axel turned to the larger group. “We need a couple men to track the hideout once the Raptor leads us back to it.”

“Why don’t we all go, guns blazing?” Ace asked.

Ace had a tendency to go off half-cocked. Steele bet it was fighter pilot arrogance leftover from Ace’s blue sky glory days. He didn’t have much use for airmen. While Steele had appreciated the air cover in Afghanistan, they weren’t in the trenches and never saw bodies drop up close and personal.

“If we go in hot, they might kill Coyote,” Steele put in. “We gotta be prepared before we storm the castle. I volunteer to follow the GPS back to the hideout.”

“I’m in that group too,” Justice said.

“And why should we leave this operation up to you?” Ace leaned across the table, looking Steele in the eye. “It ain’t personal, brother, but if you hadn’t fucked up last night, Coyote might still have all his fingers.”

Steele didn’t defend himself. He couldn’t. “You’re right. This is my fault, my fuck-up.” He scanned the room, laying eyes on each of his brothers. Some of them met his gaze with contempt, others with compassion. “Let me fix it.”

When Steele glanced at Captain, the older man spoke up. “We all make mistakes. Steele needs to have the chance to make it right.”

No one spoke for a moment as the words sank in.

Steele smiled back at him. If anyone understood screw-ups, Captain did.

“Fair enough,” Axel agreed. “After all this is settled, there’ll be plenty of time for accusations. Steele and Justice will check the hideout, but Ace is goin’ with you. Take Ash too.”

Steele didn’t contradict Axel, but he wasn’t overly enthused about Fly-Boy’s presence. “Beauregard ain’t gonna leave this alone. He’ll want to send someone or come himself.”

“Yeah, he’ll be in the middle of the action, but you’ll need the backup.”

“Great, more face time with motherfuckin’ Beauregard,” Shep grumbled. Beauregard and his “boys” had given Pretty Boy one hell of a beat-down, and that score hadn’t been settled yet. Maybe it never would be.

“I think we need all the help we can get, brother.” Voo placed a hand on Shep’s shoulder and squeezed.

Steele had a more pragmatic view. Beauregard might be an asshole, but he’d rather deal with the mobster than fight off the Raptors and cartel by himself. Beauregard had worked his way up from hitman to underboss in a few short years. That sort of advancement didn’t come up without being ruthless and lethal.

Before Axel adjourned the meeting, he turned to Steele. “We’re counting on you.
Coyote’s
counting on you. Don’t let us down—again.”

Chapter Fourteen

Last night had been out of control.

No,
she’d
been out of control, which hadn’t happened in a long time. And it couldn’t happen again.

She had a thing for Steele, and it hadn’t gone away over the years. He clearly wanted her. One thing was for certain—it was no longer the sweet, little puppy love it’d once been. It was ferocious—howling, snarling.

While she jogged, Ash spun the situation around in her head. Steele had been culpable in Abe’s death and had broken Ash’s heart as a teen, but she still hadn’t fully moved past her feelings for him. Ash could finally admit it to herself. She’d measured every man she’d ever been with against Steele and had found them lacking.