Owned: An Alpha Anthology Part 17

"I need to go home. I have to go back to Seattle. My family...my family will be worried about me. The police-"

My head is kicked to one side, pain slamming through my already delicate skull. I didn't see the hit coming, but I can certainly feel the echo of it relaying around my body. I can't breathe. I can't see through the tears welling in my eyes.

"You'd be wise not to mention the police in my presence again, Sophia. They aren't a group of people I like to discuss." Hector sinks down into a crouch. He reaches into his pocket and then holds his hand out to me, offering me something inside-almonds. I was right about the smell. Candied almonds. "Why don't we just say...no kind of law enforcement should be spoken of from this point forward? It will make a happier life for you, and a happier life for me. Don't you agree?"

I nod, cautiously touching my hand to my face, trying to cup the stinging sensation. To make it go away. Hector's eyes narrow at me. "Why don't you take an almond? They're delicious. Don't you find them delicious? And then Raphael will take you inside so you can speak to Ramona. If you're polite to her, she may find you some fresh clothes."

This man is insane.

Certifiably insane.

He flipped so quickly, violence surging out of him like the unexpected eruption of a geyser. He's unstable, and I don't want to risk p.i.s.sing him off again. I get the feeling he wouldn't flinch away from killing me if he thought I wasn't going to be compliant. I reach out and take a sugared almond between shaking fingers.

"Good girl. Eat it," Hector coaxes.

I force the small almond past my lips, and the explosion of sugar that follows makes my mouth ache.

"That's it. Perfect." Hector nods appreciatively. He stands, the action so quick and fluid that he makes me jump. He strokes one hand against the top of my head, shhhing me, and then turns his attention to Raphael.

"Get her inside. Make sure she's given a room on the south side of the house." He turns and climbs back up the steps that lead up to the wrap-around porch, opens the screen door, and disappears back inside the house.

That leaves Raphael and me, with my stomachful of knife-wielding b.u.t.terflies. "On your feet, girl," he snaps at me. The insanity is back in his eyes again. I want to turn and run. I want to blindly flee this malevolent, charming house and run until my legs can't carry me any further. I would do it, too, if it weren't for the group of grim-looking men leaning up against the van I arrived here in. They all have weapons-a vast array of different shaped guns and knives, small and large. But mostly, I don't do it because of the baiting edge in Raphael's words. It's almost as if he's willing me to disobey him, to run, to try and free myself...so he can have the pleasure of capturing me all over again and teaching me a lesson.

I get to my feet.

I go inside the house.

I think, perhaps, I will never see my family again.

REBEL BY CALLIE HART.

3 - Rebel.

Three years ago, my best friend went missing. Three years ago, my whole life changed. It's amazing how dramatically the foundations of your very self, the very basis of what makes you you can tilt on its axis, and you can become something other. Something dark. Something disreputable. Something bloodthirsty and violent.

Suffice it to say, I am not the man I used to be.

I am no longer good.

As president of a motorcycle club, I find I'm presented with daily opportunities to prove just how bad I have, in actual fact, become. A beating here. An armed robbery there. That's the small stuff. The shootings, the gunrunning, the drug dealing-that's the stuff that scandalizes the ghost of the man I used to be. But guess what? f.u.c.k. That. Guy.

He let his family walk all over him. He had his heart ripped out when the one bright element in his life was taken from him. He was the weak b.a.s.t.a.r.d that cowered in the dark when he should have fought. If I'd have been the man I am today back then, on the night Laura was kidnapped, I might have reacted more quickly. I might have found her. I might have saved her. I might have saved me.

But I didn't. So now I'm the guy who steals and breaks s.h.i.t, and I'm the guy who enjoys it as I'm doing it.

"Put him on is a.s.s, Carnie," I say, snapping open my Zippo. Carnie, one of the original Widow Makers, does as I tell him. He shoves the man he's holding at gunpoint down onto the ground. Meet Mr. Peter Hartley, forty-three, severe gambling problem, and a penchant for beating small, defenseless Asian women.

Do I care that he gambles too much? Not particularly. I care an appropriate amount, since Mr. Hartley is really f.u.c.king bad at gambling, and it's my money he's been losing.

But, do I care that Mr. Peter Hartley likes laying his fists into the bodies of small Asian women? That would be a resounding h.e.l.l yes. I probably would have let poor, blubbering, snot-nosed Mr. Peter Hartley off with a couple of black eyes and a week's extension on his loan repayment, had I not seen the black eyes on the girls who run his ma.s.sage parlor. A real man does not hit a woman. A real man does not hurt a woman. f.u.c.k, even sorry-a.s.s, pathetic attempts at men do not raise their hands against women while I'm around. Not unless they want to lose their b.a.l.l.s in the most painful manner possible.

"Pl-please, Rebel. Please! I swear, I'll have the money to you by the end of tomorrow. I can sell-I can sell-"

Mr. Hartley has nothing left to sell. He knows it, and so do I. "I don't care about tomorrow. I care about the phone call I just received. I care about my boy here having to bring me down to this s.h.i.thole to see what you've done, Peter."

A look of confusion transforms the guy's face. "What-what do you mean?"

I grab hold of his arm, lifting it up so I can take a look at his hand. His right hand. The one that carries the full force of his blows when he swings. His knuckles are red raw and covered in half-healed scabs. "You're a f.u.c.king mess, Pete. What on earth have you been up to?"

He lifts his shoulders slowly, an uncertain shrug. "Oh, y'know. I like to box."

"Who you been boxing with, Pete?"

"Just-just the guys, y'know."

"No, I don't know. Which guys?" If there's one thing I hate on the face of this planet more than weak men, it's weak men who are also liars.

"Just some guys, some friends of mine. I train down at O'Rourke's every Thursday. What have my knuckles gotta do with the five grand I owe you, man?"

I glance up at Carnie, who is still thrusting the muzzle of his Glock into the back of Peter's neck. "He train at O'Rourke's?" I ask. Carnie gives me a nod. A lot of my guys train at the permanently sweat-soaked fighting gym down on Fourth, though personally I choose to do my workouts in private. I let go of Peter's hand, shaking my head. "So you know how to punch, then, Pete, huh?"

He looks up at me as though this is a trick question. "Yeah? I guess I do."

"See, now that's bad. Very bad. That means when you hit those girls downstairs, you're not just some a.s.shole loser who takes his insecurities out on women. You're an a.s.shole loser who takes his insecurities out on women, and who knows how to make it hurt while doing it."

His eyes go wide-it's like a light bulb's just gone on somewhere inside that thick skull of his. "What? No, man, I don't hit my girls. I would never do-"

I smash my fist into the b.a.s.t.a.r.d's face. Peter isn't the only one who knows how to hit, after all. I pull back my right arm again, considerably more powerful than Peter's, and I power my fist straight into his jaw a second time, this time knocking him over. A welt of blood sprays from his mouth, raining down on the threadbare carpet of his tiny office. It smelled of stale sweat and Cheetos in here, but now it mostly smells of blood-that metallic tang never fails to set my heart racing in my chest.

"What the f.u.c.k, man? I said I never hit them!" Peter spits on the ground, ejecting a small, white pearl of a tooth from his mouth. "f.u.c.k, man, you knocked out one of my-"

I hit him again. And again. And again. I hit him until I break out into a sweat. The motherf.u.c.ker is out cold and lying in a pool of his own blood, and I can barely raise my arm by the time I've decided he's had enough. Carnie laughs under his breath; he's lowered the gun and is leaning against the wall, arms folded across his chest with an amused look on his face. Makes his slightly crooked, many-times-broken nose appear even more off center.

"Well. Saved me a job there, boss. You know he's gonna be out of commission for weeks now, though, right? You aren't gonna see that money 'til the end of the month at least."

I heave in a deep breath, wiping the back of my hand across my forehead. "If that motherf.u.c.ker's even walking before the end of the month, you come back here and go round two on his a.s.s, you hear me?"

Carnie gives me a mock salute. "Loud and clear."

I'd stick around and wait for Mr. Peter Hartley to wake up, just so he knows the deal here, but Carnie and I are suddenly accosted by four small, defenseless Asian women. Turns out they're not so defenseless. None of them are over five foot five, but that doesn't stop them from charging into Peter's office, screaming at the top of their lungs in Mandarin. They split up, two of them hammering their fists into Carnie's back, the other two heading straight for me.

I duck around the overflowing desk, putting some s.p.a.ce between the charging women and myself, but it's a wasted effort. They come straight over the d.a.m.n thing, still hollering and shouting.

"What the f.u.c.k they saying?" I shout over the top of them.

"You're asking me?" Carnie yells back. One of the women bites his shoulder through the white T-shirt he's wearing; he howls in pain, and that's enough for my boy. He pivots around and grabs hold of the two angry ma.s.seuses by the hair, one in each hand. "I'm gonna start breaking some of your rules if we don't get the h.e.l.l out of here, dude," he yells.

I admit I'm losing patience, myself. So far my attackers have managed to scratch my face, and the most furious of the two is currently trying to go for my nuts. There's one quick way to resolve this. I reach into my waistband and pull out my own gun, an AWR Hawkins 4.

The screaming women fall instantly silent. They back up, shooting both Carnie and me hateful glares as we sidestep out of the room. Once we're out of the office and charging down the stairs, they start up with the screaming again, barreling at breakneck speeds after us.

"How fast can you start your bike?" Carnie calls over his shoulder.

"Faster than you, brother." We burst into the main room of Hartley's ma.s.sage business-the legal, non-brothel part-and even more women start screaming. From there it's a short distance out onto the street. The door nearly rockets off its hinges as we slam through. True to my word, my engine's snarling before Carnie's. We leave the women in the dust.

We reach the clubhouse just after nine, our faces still aching from laughing so hard. Set back off the road, surrounded by high fences, the clubhouse is a squat, industrial-looking building from the outside. The front yard is crowded with bikes-rows of shining motorcycles, old and new, lined up like a pack of guard dogs. Every MC has a business front-a necessary evil when trying to explain to the law where your money's come from and what you get up to all day long. The Widow Makers are ink monkeys. We're the guys who mark you up with that pretty little b.u.t.terfly you've always wanted, seductively placed just above your hip. We're the ones who tattoo the name of your boyfriend onto the curves of your cleavage one week, only to be the ones to cover it with someone else's name the next.

A neon sign-Dead Man's Ink Bar-sends electric blue reflections across meters of polished chrome as it blinks off and on in a steady pulse. Dead Man's never closes, so that light is never switched off. We pull up and park underneath it, kicking back our stands, and swinging off our bikes.

"Hey, lookit," Carnie says, pointing back over my shoulder. "V.P's back."

And so he is. Cade Preston, Vice President of the club, went on a recon mission for me three days ago with some of our boys. His bike, a dirty great big Star Bolt with an olive green tank, is propped up in its usual spot against the side of the building.

We had news that a club friend was being leaned on by Los Oscuros, a mixed breed cartel. And not just a club friend-my uncle. The fact that he's a CROWN COURT JUDGE is something I overlook on account of the fact he made his house my own whenever my father got sick of beating my a.s.s as a kid.

"Sweet. He must have squared everything away quicker than expected." I rap my knuckles against the tank as I pa.s.s Cade's bike-still warm. Inside the clubhouse, there are no celebratory shots of Jack being pa.s.sed around. The place is full, nearly every single member of the club seated at tables, some parked on the edge of the pool table. There are a lot of stern looks on faces. Arms folded across chests. I spot Cade immediately, leaning against the bar. The look on his face speaks volumes.

"What? What happened?"

Cade speaks three words-Raphael Dela Vega-and I know my uncle is dead.

REBEL BY CALLIE HART.

4 - Rebel.

"I called it. I didn't have any other choice." Cade closes the door to my den behind him, shutting out the steely looks of the Widow Maker crew-there are twenty-three men gathered out in the bar, because they all knew before I did: we are at war with Los Oscuros. Cade saw my dead uncle's body lying in the snow, and he handed over that bullet, just like I would have done. Except I would have given it to Raphael straight between the f.u.c.king eyes. "You okay?" Cade asks, as I slump into the seat at my desk.

No other member of the club would ask me if I was okay right now. They're hard men, who deal with their issues the hard way: silently. Cade, on the other hand, has known me since I was eight years old. He knew me before all of the goodness got torn out of me. He knows I'm not okay.

I just shake my head, staring down at the gun I've drawn from my belt without realizing and am now holding in my hands. "How did he die?"

"I don't know." Cade's ominously silent for a moment. "But there was a lot of blood."

I close my eyes, trying to fill my lungs with some air. It's not working. "Okay." I inhale. Exhale. Nod my head. "Okay." The second time I say it, I'm closing a door. Ryan Conahue is dead. There's nothing I can do to bring him back now, but there are a number of things I can do about his death. My first instinct is go take this f.u.c.king gun, climb onto my bike, ride all the way from New Mexico to Seattle, and torture that motherf.u.c.ker until he begs to die. "Do you know where they're staying?" I ask. "Hector and the others?" It's not just Raphael that needs to die. His boss is the one who ordered Ryan's death. He is as guilty, if not more so.

"They've left Seattle," Cade says. He places his hands on the back of the chair he should be sitting in, leaning forward. "They're back in L.A."

Back in L.A. That means Raphael's hightailed it straight to his boss to tell him the good news. Hector's been pushing for bloodshed ever since he moved up into the States. He wants our business. Well, that's not strictly true. He wants our gun and drug business. He's done everything in his power to take that business from us, but our clientele is loyal. And paranoid. They don't trust new faces. Now we've drawn swords, as it were, Hector must think he's going to wipe us out. Give the gang lords we deal with no other choice but to deal with them instead. This whole cl.u.s.terf.u.c.k of a situation is political, mixed in with the fact Ryan was in a position to send Hector down the line for a very long time.

"You know this isn't your fault," Cade says softly.

I somehow manage to tear my gaze away from the gun, so I can look up at him. "And how the h.e.l.l have you come to that conclusion? I told him to stand his ground. I told him we'd f.u.c.king protect him!"

Thankfully Cade doesn't say another word on the subject. He knows the dangerous glint in my eye. He knows when I'm on the very brink of a total meltdown, and he knows better than to give me the final push. This is my fault. No two ways about it.

My friend drops his head between his braced arms for a second, sighing. "This might be nothing to concern ourselves with, but Raphael had a girl with him."

"What do you mean, a girl?"

"Just some young thing off the street by the looks of things. Nice clothes. Had that moneyed look about her."

"She wasn't one of his crew?"

Cade shakes his head. "She was terrified. I told her to say she was a virgin."

That's potentially one of the only things that will save a girl once Hector's guys get their hooks in them. Hector may want my guns and c.o.ke, but his main area of interest lays in human trafficking. A beautiful virgin is worth more than a whole shipment worth of AKs if you sell to the right buyer. "I wanna see this girl. You got footage?"

"I got something. Not a very clear picture, though." Cade pulls a thumb drive out of his pocket and tosses it to me. I slot it into my computer, opening the file as soon as the device registers. Cade is right-the picture is for s.h.i.t, but it's good enough to make out the shape of a woman, walking down a darkened street.

The woman stops, turns, watches something farther down the street.

"That was us," Cade tells me. "We knew Ryan was in the area. We were looking for him." His face creases into a look of remorse. A look that worsens as Ryan's figure appears on the screen, a meter from the girl. He frightens her. She staggers back, and he falls to his knees in the snow.

My heart rises up into my throat. I understand why Cade looks so f.u.c.king guilty now. They missed my uncle by mere seconds.

My eyes feel dry; I don't think I've blinked since the footage started playing. Ryan holds one hand up to the girl-a plea for help if ever I've seen one. The stance of the girl, the way she's holding her own hands to her chest, makes me think she's going to run from him. But she doesn't. She surprises me and takes a step forward. More dark shapes appear on the screen-Raphael and his friends. I watch the girl getting grabbed. I watch those f.u.c.kers dragging Ryan back into the alleyway. And then there's nothing.

"She was going to help him." I hear myself say the words, but they don't really register. Not until I find myself saying them again. "She was going to help him." I take a deep breath. "So now we need to help her."

REBEL BY CALLIE HART.

5 - Alexis.

Ramona is a tall, slender woman with the traces of what might once have been a hair lip. If it was, her surgeon was very talented. Raphael hands me over to her with a clipped and considerably angry burst of Spanish, and then I'm whisked away. The woman has to be in her late twenties, though the tired look in her eyes gives her the look of someone much older.

"What you done to p.i.s.s him off?" she asks, though she doesn't really sound like she's interested. A good job, really, since I have no intention of making small talk with her. The sugary sweet smell I caught outside is even thicker inside the house. We walk down a long, narrow corridor, and Ramona stops at the end, opening a door on the right. Inside, a confusion of pastel tulle awaits-dresses upon dresses, hanging on rack after rack. An entire room full of forgotten prom dreams.

"What size are you, girl?" Ramona asks. She smacks some gum. I don't answer. She rolls her eyes and storms into the room, yanking a yellow dress off the closest rack and thrusting it out at me. I can see the label-size six. My size. I take it from her, because I sense she'll only go get Raphael if I don't and I do not want that.

"How long have you been here?" I ask.

"Five years," she replies. "Five loooong, boring-a.s.s years. Come with me."

She takes me upstairs and down another long, corridor, right to the end again. She opens the door to the room that must be directly over the prom room. Most worryingly, she opens it with a key. "Go on. Inside."