Twisted Mercy (Red Team Book 4) (3 page)

Mad Dog stopped beside her truck. Bikes far outnumbered cars—it hadn’t been hard for him to guess which truck was hers. He held out his hand. “Keys.”

She shook her head. “It’s my truck. I’ll drive.”

He lifted his sunglasses to his forehead and stared at her. “It’s my compound. I’ll fucking tell you when you’ll drive.”

She went still as she glared at him. A thin scar cut through his left eyebrow and continued to the left side of his nose. His features were too strong for her likes. He had a heavy brow and a jaw any comic book hero would covet. This close, she could see the green, brown, and gold in his eyes. They blazed with a fire that burned silently inside him. Maybe it was madness she saw in them. Maybe it was just a river of anger. Either way, she wanted none of it…and none of him.

Though her friend seemed to have pointed her toward Mad Dog, there was no guarantee this WKBer was any better than the others. Maybe she’d misinterpreted the guidance she’d been given. Maybe Mad Dog was one of the ones to avoid.
 

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“To the campground.”

They exchanged heated stares for a long moment before she dug the keys out of her pocket and handed them over. She looked around for the skinny biker who’d shadowed Mad Dog, but he was nowhere to be seen. She had no allies now, but she knew that going in.
 

Truthfully, she was glad to put this first step far behind her. She just wasn’t sure about going anywhere with Mad Dog, especially with that whole business of having been “given” to him. She walked around the front of her truck and got in the passenger side. He started her truck, then waited while the bikers moved their bikes out of their way. He looked over at her, his gaze darting over the shirt he’d given her.
 

“Need a doctor?”

Hope glanced down at herself and saw the dozens of red spots on his T-shirt from the nicks on her skin where the guy’s knife had clipped her.
 

“No.” Adrenaline had blocked the pain, but now it seared into her like a bad case of road rash. She wanted to fold her legs up in front of her and wrap her arms around them, but the fetal position didn’t exactly convey courage, and she couldn’t risk being seen as weak.
 

He looked away, his gaze snagged by her phone, which sat in two pieces in the empty ashtray, the battery out. It had been part of the identity package she’d received. Her friend had said using an old dumb phone kept her from being GPS-tracked. But just to be safe, she kept the battery disconnected when she wasn’t using it.
 

Mad Dog pulled away from the clubhouse, driving slowly across the huge compound to a dirt parking area. It was organized into several rows of concrete pads with power and sewer hookups. Weeds flanked each parking space. A building had restrooms for men and women. Signs posted by its doors indicated there were showers inside.
 

She wondered if the compound had once been a Kampgrounds of America site. A few tents were pitched and campers parked in distant spots on the grounds. It was a KOA for gangbangers and drug lords and disenfranchised hang-arounds.
 

An un-KOA.

Mad Dog parked next to a picnic table and cut the engine. “Bring me your purse and your registration papers.”
 

“Why?"

“I’m curious about you.”

“Your president said I could stay.”
 

His answer was a hard expression that made it clear his request was not optional. He took her phone and got out of the truck.
 

She dug through the glove compartment for the old envelope with her truck’s registration information, then grabbed her purse and followed him outside. She handed them to him. He dumped the contents of her purse on the hood. He opened every pouch and thumbed through its contents, including her birth control pills dispenser.
 

“Hope Nelson,” he said, reading from her prescription label. Looking up, he arched an eyebrow at her. The one with the metal in it, not the scarred one.
 

He looked at her license, her credit cards. He compared her license to her registration and insurance papers. She forced herself to breathe calmly. He was just a biker; it wasn’t like he was going to spot any anomalies. The papers appeared aged appropriately. Her prescription matched her ID. She was going to pass his inspection without issue.

After a few minutes, he shoved everything back into her purse and stuffed the registration papers back into their envelope. Handing them to her, he asked, “So why the change in appearance?” Her ID had had an old picture of her—one from high school, in fact, eight years earlier. Her friend had suggested it would make her seem more legitimate. Women rarely looked like their official government pictures for very long.

She lifted her hand and shrugged. “We girls like to change things up.”

Mad Dog crossed his arms and studied her, the position accentuating the bulk in his bare shoulders. His eyes were covered now by his dark glasses, but his focus on her was unwavering. He didn’t move with the vacant slouchiness of a stoner or the jitters of an addict. She made a mental note not to get too comfortable with him. If she didn’t stay on point around him, he’d boot her from the compound fast.
 

“So what the hell are you really doing here?”

She shrugged. “Things were getting hot at the shop where I worked.”

“And that was where?”

“In Detroit.”

“Detroit falls in the WKB’s eastern region. Why’d you come west?”

“All new scenery. It’s gonna take anyone looking for me longer to find me here.”

“You’re wanted?”

She shook her head, glad her friend had gone through a drill with her like this. “I haven’t broken any laws. I just did what the shop asked me to do. Turns out, some of that wasn’t legal. I’m wanted for questioning. That’s it.”

“So you’re bringing trouble here.” Mad Dog shook his head and straightened. “No thanks. You can drive out the way you came in.”

“I’m not leaving.”

Mad Dog chuckled at her show of resistance. “That ain’t your choice, honey.”

She frowned. “I thought you guys protected each other.”

“Members protect members, not some skirt the wind blows in. Take a hike. You can keep the shirt,” he said as he started to move away.

“My brother’s a member.”

Mad Dog stopped and looked back at her. “That a fact? What’s his name?”

She blinked.
Dammit
. Her friend had warned her not to blink or look away, that it made her look guilty. “I don’t know. We were raised in separate foster systems.” She did know more about him, but thought it was better to be vague. If Mad Dog knew him and didn’t like him, he could refuse to help her.

Mad Dog laughed and faced her. He lifted his dark sunglasses to his forehead. His hazel eyes were clear and focused on her. She swallowed.
 

“You making this shit up as you go?”
 

“I came here to learn about him.” That was all truth. She didn’t flinch as she said it.

“We’re not a friendly archival resource. The lifespan here can be counted in months, not years, and we’ve all perfected short-term memories.”

“Mad Dog, please let me stay. I’m damn good with bikes. I’ll work for room and board.”

He glared at her through narrowed eyes. “What’s the name of the shop where you worked in Detroit?”

She told him what her friend had told her to say. It wasn’t as if Mad Dog had any connections he could or would use to confirm her story. Inquiry like that made more problems than it was worth.
 

“Don’t get comfortable,” he told her. “And don’t go wandering off. I’ll talk it over with Pete and let you know.” He handed her assembled phone back to her. “I’ve added my number. And I’ve got yours.”

Hope watched him walk back toward the clubhouse and blew a long breath of relief. She’d made it this far. She looked around what she could see of the compound, wondering where her brother might be—if he was even here.
 

Her friend had suggested keeping things as close to the truth as possible. She hadn’t said her dad had been a member, too, which might have carried more weight. She didn’t care to dredge up his memory; she knew more than she never wanted to know about that murderer. She’d come for her brother, the baby her father had carved from her mother, not for the bastard who’d spawned her.

* * *
 

“Max, you clear?”
Greer, the team’s other tech guy, said over his comm unit.
 

“Affirmative,” Max answered, lifting his phone to his ear to cover the fact that he was having a convo with no one else around. “Got anything on the girl?”

“At a quick glance, her papers check out. That shop was hot. Her tax returns list it as her employer from September to December last year. I’ll dig some more. I let Kit know you’ve been promoted there. He’s cool with it. Could prove useful.”

“I agree. I don’t like the girl’s arrival at just this time, though. If Pete says she can stay, she’ll be set up in the old wrench’s house where the missile silo access is. It’s gonna slow me down.” He sighed. “Get with Lobo. Find out if she’s one of theirs.”

“Roger that.”

Max entered the clubhouse through the back door. Pete was sitting in his designated booth. The glass case on the wall above his head displayed the western region’s former president Jefferson Holbrook’s pride and joy—an extensive collection of vintage Nazi memorabilia. Flags, helmets, guns, patches, pins, photos, cups, and plates. A big old shadow box of hell. It was a potent reminder that Max wasn’t in a benign club for weekend warriors, or even waxers. The compound was a hub for drug distribution, money laundering, illegal gun sales…you name it, the WKB ran it or funded it out of the club.

As he came up to the booth, Pete pushed the guy next to him, telling him to get out. Pete got up and faced Max. “Let’s take a walk.”

Max followed him outside. They moved away from the clubhouse, walking down a dirt path. When they had gone a few yards away, Pete shoved his hands in his pockets. “The Feds got Amir.”

Amir Hadad, US lieutenant to Afghan drug lord Abdul Baseer al Jahni, had been captured inside the Red Team’s home a few days earlier. Greer had filled him in—the bastard had tried to use the distraction of the rumble in Wolf Creek Bend to slip inside the house. Selena, the only female Red Teamer in the history of the unit, had captured him almost single-handedly, and now Max had a hard-on for the chick who’d taken the bastard down.

To Pete, he pretended ignorance. “What happened?”

“They got him the night we had the fight in town.” Pete stopped and pivoted to look at Max, giving him a measuring look. “You saved my hide that night, but several of our guys got caught up in that mess. We’re short-handed now. I know you have plans to get back to Alaska shortly, but I want you to stay. I need a guy here I can trust. I’m serious about moving you into the sergeant-at-arms post, and not just because you beat Hatchet. I got a fucking ton of product to get distributed. If I don’t, al Jahni’ll send a couple of his men with an ugly reminder when he gets his new lieutenant in place.”

“Any idea who that’s gonna be?”

“No, but I hear something’s in the works.”

Max met Pete’s eyes. “I can’t work for free. I make a decent wage in Alaska, one that let me get that house I’m living in down the road.”

“I’ll meet your salary.”

“And I want a percentage of sales.”

“One percent.”

“Five.”

“No. Might be able to get you one and a half percent, but I’ll have to pass it by King.”
 

“Do what you have to do. It’s the only way I’ll stay. I have a sweet setup in AK with a whole lot fewer headaches than I’d have here.”

“I’ll let you know what King says. In the meantime, get the girl settled in Flathead’s digs. And Mad Dog, have fun with her. You’re so serious all the time.”

Max frowned. “I’ll have fun with her once I’m certain she’s for real. Could be good having a mechanic here. The less our bikes are exposed to snoopy eyes that might look up VINs and serial numbers, the better. There’s got to be a bike here that needs a tune-up. Let’s see what she can do with it.”
 

He didn’t tell Pete what the girl had said. He didn’t know how much of her story was real. “It’s a pain in the ass researching her on my phone. You got Wi-Fi here?”

Pete stared at him. Max met his hard gaze. “Are you saying you’ve got no internet here?”

“Some things are best kept off networks.”

That was interesting. And a helluva lot savvier than he expected from the likes of Pete, though going analog had its own complications. “What kind of things we talking about?” Pete didn’t answer. Max ground his jaw and held Pete’s gaze.
 

“Fuck it all. You picked me, remember? I do it for a living. You need me to set up a secure network for you, I will. But you better not fucking tell me you trust me with the dope but not your tech needs. That’s bullshit.” He frowned at the president. “You do know why they sent me to Callum, right?”

“I heard you’d hacked a key fund on the NYSE. That true?”

“Yeah. I was eighteen and hungry.”

“I’m surprised you could get work in a tech field after that.”

“I did my time. Got out early, in fact. My probation had no restrictions.”

“I wonder if King knows about you? He might be interested in your special skills.”

“Forget it, Pete. I’m not going back. I’ll help him with his tech needs here, but I’m not gonna hack for him.”

“I’ll see if he’s interested. He doesn’t like making changes—it exposes him to risk. Besides, anything on a network can be hacked.”

“Sure, if an idiot set up your infrastructure.” Max frowned. “You saying you’re handling your accounting manually? How the hell efficient is that?”

Pete shoved a hand through his hair. “Not very. What do you need to check the girl out?”
 

“An internet connection and the wireless password you use here. You’d be surprised at the shit that’s on the net about a person.”