Stolen: Hell's Overlords MC (32 page)

He inclines his head by way of a greeting. Steezy clambers up moments later, huffing and brushing his windswept hair back from his forehead. “Sorry I’m a couple minutes late, boys,” he says. “Thought the attendant at the gas station this morning was a Diablo, so I had to interrogate him real quick.” He chuckles and looks at both of us, but no one laughs. It’s become a running joke that every civilian we see is a Diablo in disguise, just waiting to catch us with our guard down so they can strike. Steezy has put the fear of God into waitresses and bartenders all across town, just for the sake of a laugh. It was amusing at first, but the longer we go without a word of intel, the less funny it gets. Men have started to wonder if we’re being infiltrated without even knowing it. Maybe there really are Diablo plants all over Galveston, biding their time and preparing. “So we gonna get breakfast, or what?”

“One second, Steezy,” Mortar says. He crosses his arms and leans forward. His expression is serious. “I got an unexpected call last night,” he tells us. We wait for him to continue. He takes his time. “Do you remember how we found out about all this shit in the first place?”

“Of course,” Steezy says. “It was that cop.”

Mortar nods. “Well, he got in touch again. He says he knows more.”

Steezy and I both rock back on our heels, surprised. We haven’t heard from the mysterious police officer since he first told us about the Diablos threat.

“So is that what this is about?” I ask.

Mortar nods again. He juts his chin towards the door. “He’s waiting for us inside.” 

I suck in a deep breath. Whatever news he is bringing, it can’t be good.

We fall in behind Mortar as he walks towards the door. A bell chimes overhead as we walk inside. The hostess offers us menus, but we wave her off. I look around. The place is mostly empty, save for a few long-haul trucker types bent over steaming mugs of coffee. In the far corner booth, I see a man in uniform. It’s not a face I associate with anything good.

Walking over to him, we take our seats around the table. He doesn’t look up from his breakfast. He’s got a massive pile of pancakes in front of him, along with scrambled eggs and a plate stacked high with bacon. He cuts neatly into everything with a fork and knife, taking a careful bite from each in an unbroken rotation.

“We have four minutes,” he says quietly. “Then I’ll have to leave. I don’t have time for questions, so don’t ask. I’m telling you everything I know.”

None of us say a word as he begins talking. “The Diablos are organizing an offshore auction on a yacht in the Gulf of Mexico. They’ll be selling girls, guns, maybe some other stolen valuables. The goal is to raise money to fund their expansion plans, but also to network with the Galveston underworld. They’ll be looking to unite your enemies against you. Everyone you’ve ever fought with will be in attendance. Needless to say, the Inked Angels are not welcome.”

He falls silent as he chews carefully on a sliver of syrup-drenched pancake. After he swallows and washes the food down with a sip of orange juice, he withdraws an envelope from his shirt pocket. He slides it across to Mortar, who glances down but doesn’t touch the package. “This has the details. Name of the ship, time and date of the auction, meeting point for the departure from shore. Use it however you see fit.”

The only sound is the drone of lights overhead and the clink of cutlery from the dishwashers in the back of the restaurant. None of us have budged an inch. The officer dabs at the corners of his mouth with a napkin. He crumples it up and tosses it onto his plate.

To my right, I see Steezy burning with the need to ask a question. His hackles are raised, suspicions on full alert. When the cop starts to rise, he can’t restrain himself anymore. “How do you know all this?” he demands. “No one else is saying a fucking word. Why should we trust you?”

The man looks at us for the first time since we sat down. “You are not the only ones with an interest in controlling the Diablos,” he says in a soft voice. He glances down at his watch. “Now, it’s time for me to go. It doesn’t look good for an officer of the law to be seen in public with men of your reputation.” He drops a twenty dollar bill on the table next to his plate and strolls out the door, leaving Mortar, Steezy, and me at the table to churn through this latest disturbing news.

My brothers look uneasy, but the cop’s words have left me tingling with excited anticipation. Finally, a lead. Something we can use to make a positive move instead of cowering in fear. I’ve been craving a chance to act for weeks. Sitting still isn’t in my nature. I need engines, motion, something to hit back against. At last, we have something to do.

In the middle of my excitement is a tiny kernel of satisfaction for another reason entirely. This might lead me to Rose. I’ve been desperate to hear something, anything, that could give me a clue as to where she’s been taken, and this strange police officer had just dropped a golden hint in my lap. It stood to reason that she might be brought on the boat. She’d mentioned the reputation of the cartels for selling girls before, and that could be exactly what they had in store for her. If I could somehow get on that ship…

Steezy frowns. “This guy drops a wild hint, then goes silent. We couldn’t find him for months. Now, all of the sudden, he’s back with more intel? I’m suspicious, Mortar. I don’t like this shit.”

“I’m not crazy about it, either,” Mortar replies. He looks at the envelope that the officer left. “I don’t understand his motives. What does he gain from all this?”

“Who gives a shit?” I interrupt. “If his information holds true, who cares why he’s giving it to us? All that matters is that we know something now. We can finally take some fucking action.”

“I don’t know, Vin,” Steezy says. “We could be walking into a trap. We don’t know a thing about this guy.”

I rap my knuckles angrily on the table. “Wasn’t he right before? Didn’t our own intel confirm that?” I look back and forth between the two of them. “Cesar got his fucking hand chopped off. Isn’t that proof enough for you guys that the cop knows something we don’t?” They’re shifting back and forth in their seats, uncomfortable with my aggression but unable to offer up anything to counter it. I don’t give a shit if they’re uncomfortable. I’m determined to get my ass on that yacht.

“I’m hesitant to trust anyone blindly,” Mortar cautions. “We have to be careful right now. We don’t know enough.”

“We don’t have time to sit around and wait for another chance like this, prez,” I say. “Let me go. Let me sneak on the yacht and see what else we can learn. There’s no way we can pass this up.”

Steezy starts to say something, then bites his lip. I glare at him. “What is it?” I snap. “Spit it out.”

“It’s just…” He runs a hand through his hair.

“Just what?”

“Are you sure this isn’t personal, Vince?” he finishes tentatively. “I mean, after everything that happened in El Cruce.”

My voice is glacier cold. “This is about the club, Steezy. Don’t accuse me of being stupid. Ever.”

“I know, I know,” he says, holding his hands up in surrender. “Of course not. I just want to make sure, that’s all. If Mortar thinks it’s a good idea, then I’m on board.”

We both look at Mortar. He’s got his chin resting against his fist, eyes lost staring into the distance.

“Well?” I demand. “Can I go?”

Eventually, he sighs and his eyes refocus. “I don’t see another choice,” he admits. “But, Vince, you have to be extremely careful. This could be a hairy situation.”

I hardly hear what he’s saying as I pump my fist under the table. Fuck the danger. I’ve dealt with plenty of it before. There’s only one thing that matters right now.

I’m coming for you, Rose.

Rose

I can’t say for sure how long I’ve been drifting in and out of consciousness. The world has been a hazy blur for days on end. Men in black come by every few hours to check on me. Sometimes they shove food and water into my hands. Other times they roll back the sleeve of the strange baggy dress I’m wearing and inject a cloudy substance into my veins. When they do, I fall into a dream state, eyes half lidded while bizarre images flash before my eyes.

I don’t know how much time has passed since I was plucked from the motel room. I don’t know if Vince is dead or alive, either. It doesn’t matter, I guess. He can’t possibly know where I am. I’ve been bounced around in countless cars, moved from jail cell to hotel to shipping containers. The mental fog induced by the drugs coursing through my system is the only constant. It reduces everything to mush, turns my fear into apathy, leaving me as little more than a sweating, huddled blob.

Sometimes there are other girls with me, sometimes I am alone. When there are other people, we don’t talk or interact. Instead, we sit slumped around each other and gaze into the distance, wondering how we ended up here and where we are going. There are far more questions than there are answers.

I feel hands tug me awake, pinching at my face to jolt me upright. A few men converse with each other in Spanish, their voices pitched low and guarded. They reach an agreement and all but one of them leave.

“Wake up,” the remaining man orders. I struggle to keep my eyes open. It’s been a few hours since I was last drugged, but the sedating weight of the substance is still clouding my body. He slaps me lightly across the cheek. “Up!” he repeats. I push my hands into the ground and force myself into a seated position with my back against the wall.

The metal of the floor and wall are cold through the thin fabric of the dress. I notice with a lurching sensation in my stomach that we are rocking back and forth. I feel nauseous, like I might throw up at any moment. The fluid side-to-side tossing is strange and unsettling. I wonder for a moment why it feels so familiar, and then I realize I must be on a boat. I look up and around me and see the ribbed steel of a big, empty box. Is this a shipping container? Where the hell have they taken me?

I focus on the man squatting a yard in front of me. He and I are the only ones in the container. His eyes are beaded and slitted. He tosses a plastic bag with something inside at me. “Put this on,” he commands. “I will wait outside. Change quickly.” Standing to his feet, he walks to the far end of the box. He swings open a door that stretches from floor to ceiling. The twilight filtering through the gap is low and rosy, but even that little light is blinding given how long I’ve been shuttered in darkness.

The nausea in my stomach cranks up another notch. I can feel the bile surging in the back of my throat and my saliva thickening in preparation to expel what little remains in my stomach. The feeling ebbs and flows with every rock of the boat. I’m struggling to keep a lid on it. I remember Carlos taking me to the lake once, before we were married. I’d gotten violently seasick that day, even though the waves on the lake were fairly placid. The motion I’m experiencing now isn’t much greater, but the feeling it induces is just as nauseating.

I wonder how much I’m desperately avoiding the question of what else might be causing the seasickness. A more recent memory keeps playing in my mind unprompted, like a rogue projector ready to play at any moment. It’s of Vince, holding me across his lap while I slide up and down on his length in a frenzy, our hips slamming together until we unleash at the same time and his cum unspools inside me. How could I have let that happen? How could I have been so foolish? I can’t avoid the question burning at the back of my brain.

Am I pregnant?

It doesn’t make a difference at the moment. Pregnant or not, I’m at the mercy of these cartel men. They’ve been strangely distant ever since they took me, despite the threats they’d uttered in the motel room. For the most part, they were content to leave me slumped in a corner, untouched. But for whatever reason, that only stokes my fear higher. When it happens, when they do come for me, it will be that much worse because of the waiting.

Blinking through bleary eyes, I open the bag that the man had tossed me. Plastic crinkles as I pull out a stringy scrap of garment. I hold it up and see that it’s a skimpy bikini. The tiny triangles of the top are hardly enough to restrain my breasts, while the thonged bottoms are a millimeter away from not hiding anything at all. I swallow hard, still fighting back queasiness. I don’t even want to think about why they want me to wear this.

I hear a sharp rap on the door. It cracks open and the man leans his head in. I raise a hand to block out the blinding light as I hear him bark, “Hurry up! I won’t tell you again.”

I don’t have a choice. My mantra throughout this captivity has been to do what they want and hope they spare me the worst of the limitless atrocities at their fingertips. The stories flitting through my imagination are torture enough, without them even needing to lay a hand on me.

I struggle to my feet. The muscles of my legs are weak and shaky from who knows how many days of disuse. It takes all my effort to balance on my bare feet. I move as quickly as I can to strip my dress over my head, although every motion makes my stomach churn harder. The air inside the box is warm and stale against my skin. I tug the top on and tie a knot behind my neck. I try fruitlessly to adjust the fabric to cover me, but it doesn’t do much good. No matter what I do, I will be exposed to whoever comes to look at me. I shudder and push the thought away. Just focus on the now; that’s the only way to survive this. Stepping into the bottoms, I wiggle them up my thighs and feel the strap settle into place between the cheeks of my ass. My skin is riddled with goosebumps in spite of the warmth. I look down at the dress I’ve just shucked off and decide to pull it back over me for however long they’ll allow it.

The second I step outside, though, the man frowns. “What the fuck is this?” He scowls. He doesn’t wait for an answer before plucking a knife from his belt with one hand. With the other, he pins me to the door of the container by my neck. His serrated blade makes quick work of the front of my dress, tearing it down the middle roughly. He pulls the remnants apart with his bare hands and tosses it aside, leaving me clad only in the revealing lingerie. “Don’t make me do that again,” he warns, waggling his knife in my direction. I swallow and nod my head yes.

As he tucks the knife back into its holster, I seize the opportunity to look around. My suspicions are confirmed: we’re on a boat. It’s a massive shipping vessel moored to a dock. The ocean stretches on one side, while the other side is a port stacked tall with cranes and more boxes. “Where are we?” I ask. The man ignores me to turn around and snag a rectangular cardboard box from a crate to his right. 

“Put these on,” he says, tossing the box to me. I open the lid and see a pair of black high heels, perilously tall. I look at him with pleading in my eyes, but he doesn’t even blink. Once again, I have no choice. I place a hand on the container for balance as I slip the shoes on and tighten the straps. Once they’re on, I’m even more wobbly than before. I have to keep a hold on something solid to stop myself from falling.

“One more thing,” he mutters. He reaches into the crate next to him and withdraws a collar and leash. My eyes bulge wide, but he still could not care less. He fastens the collar roughly around my neck, keeping a tight hold on the far end of the leash. I’m repulsed. The druggy haze is dissipating enough that I can feel the vague needling of my thinking coming back to life. I feel like a farm animal being put out to pasture.

The urge to vomit comes back in force. I can’t resist it anymore. Turning away, I bend over and hurl. The man curses and leaps backwards to avoid getting splashed. There’s not enough in my stomach for much to come out, but stringy bile still dangles from my lips. I wipe a trembling hand across my mouth and straighten back up. I feel sweaty and weak. The same unrelenting question reverberates in my skull.
Am I pregnant?

“Don’t fucking puke again,” the man admonishes. “Now, come on, let’s go.” Leash in hand, he turns and starts leading me towards a staircase that descends into the guts of the ship.

It’s a struggle not to fall as we navigate the creaky stairs that wind down and around. Salt water drips from the exposed fixtures and my heels ring out loudly on the steel steps. The sound echoes throughout the cramped space. Reaching the bottom floor, he guides me to an opening in the side, still not saying a word. I follow him onto a ramp that connects to the shore. No one else is in sight. The air around the docks is wet, with a strong mildew smell that presses nastily against my nostrils. It’s a little easier to walk on the rough-hewn pavement than it was to move across the slick steel floor of the ship. The lack of rocking makes it less unstable, too. But the nausea remains.

We walk along the water. The man isn’t pulling too tight, so the slack in the leash allows me some breathing room, but its pressure on my throat is claustrophobic. It feels like I have hands wrapped around me. We weave between some containers and emerge in a small, private inlet on the other side. I see a lustrous white yacht tied up to a dock. In spite of my uncertainty about what’s about to happen to me, I can’t help but be astonished by the boat. It’s a beautiful craft, at least two hundred feet long, built with clean, sweeping lines and a hull buffed to glossy perfection. I see the name
Hades
stenciled along the side.

Two men stand guard at the foot of the ramp that leads up to the lip of the boat’s deck. We approach and the man holding my leash hands it to one of them. They jabber for a moment, too quiet for me to hear, before the one who’d guided me from the ship turns and leaves. “Adios,
princesa
,” he says with a sarcastic waggle of his fingers before he disappears back between the boxes.

I watch him go, but as I turn back to the new men, they tug a black bag over my head. The world goes dark. I stifle a scream. “
Vamos
,” says one gruffly. He yanks on the end of the leash. I stumble forward, catching myself on my hands. “
Cuidado
,” he adds obnoxiously. “It’s slippery out here.”

I find the railing despite my blindness and hold onto it as I’m led up the ramp and onto the yacht. I hear quiet voices and the clanks and shushing of various chores being completed around me. The blast of air conditioning on my skin lets me know we’ve stepped inside.

“Stairs,” barks the man. I carefully extend a toe downward to feel for the first step. Only once I’ve made solid contact do I trust the rest of my weight to it. We work our way down like that, one step at a time, the man impatiently tugging at the slack in the rope and urging me to go faster.

Eventually, I reach the bottom. No light is coming through the bag over my head anymore. We must be in an unlit room within the boat. I hear a door slam open. Rough hands shove me to a seat, then the door shuts again behind me. “Stay here and wait,” comes a muffled voice on the other side of the door.

I can only wonder what I’m waiting for.

* * *

The rumble of motors picks up as soon as I am locked inside this room. The stomach-turning tossing of the boat resumes as well. We must be going out to sea.

I remove the hood and drop it to the floor, but the darkness is still too heavy for me to make out anything. I can’t even see my hand in front of my face. When I try it, the door handle jiggles but does not give. I’m not surprised. Even if I made it out, I wouldn’t know where to go. Running rogue on a yacht fifty miles away from shore doesn’t sound like a smart idea if I intend to survive.

I stand unsteadily and start to wander around the room. It’s bigger than I originally thought. A low bench runs along one wall. I follow it with my hands on the cool plastic. When I come in contact with a warm, fleshy body, I recoil.

“Who’s there?” I whisper. I hear only a groan in response. “Hello?” I try again.

A shaky voice emerges from the pitch black. “I’m here,” it says fearfully.

“Who are you? Do you know where we are?” I ask frantically. “Do you know what’s happening?”

“No,” the person replies. It’s a female voice. She sounds every bit as terrified as I feel. All this waiting in the dark is as bad as violence. It’s horrifying not to know when something bad is about to happen. “I don’t even know how long I’ve been here.”

“Where are you from?” I ask.

“A little town in Mexico, near the border.”