Justine
Justine watched as all but one of the bikes disappeared, leaving her alone in the tiny shack in the middle of the Louisiana country wilderness. She wasn’t concerned, not for her own safety, but as she sank to the floor, back propped against a wall, she glanced around the room at everything she could and would not be able to explain.
The shakes hit then, a drop in adrenaline she should have expected but hadn’t. With a curious detachment, she watched her hands tremble at the end of her wrists, propped on each knee.
A scuff of boot leather to the side was followed by a huffed out laugh, the following clearing of a masculine throat familiar and comforting. Mason slid down the wall next to her, bumping her shoulder with his once he was seated.
She’d seen him wave his men onwards, watched as they argued with him, but then her attention had been captured by Retro’s lecture to Wildman, their conversation entirely lost to her, but Wildman’s reactions had telegraphed his unwillingness to leave, his final capitulation, and a last glimpse of his face before he hid from the world. No way could she have focused on anything except his unerring strength, back straight as he manhandled his bike up the sand-and-shell drive.
Still, it didn’t shock her that Mason would want a word.
Private-like.
It’s what their father would have done in his place. And no matter they’d each hated him, for similar and yet very different reasons, they were both products of their raising, strange as it all seemed.
“You okay, Justine?”
Mason’s voice was pitched low but with ample volume for her to hear him seated so closely. It held a vibrating timbre of regret or longing; she wasn’t sure which. She leaned her head against his shoulder and held that position. “Yeah, I’m good. No permanent damage.”
“Goddammit, Justine.”
There we are. That’s more like what I expected. The weight of his anger rolled over her, and she took it, letting it settle in the room, hoping he’d see how ridiculous it was to be upset over something she’d done to herself.
“I’m fine, Davy.” She rocked her head back to catch a glimpse of the side of his face. Tanned, sun and smile lines carved into the corners of his eyes and mouth, with his grizzled beard and hair, he was still handsome. “How’s that pretty wife of yours?”
“Willa’s fine, and you ain’t gonna change the subject on me that easily.” He huffed out another laugh.
“Yeah, I didn’t expect I could dislodge your bulldog grip on the topic.” She blinked slowly, then straightened just as slowly, settling her shoulder blades in an uncomfortable press against the hard wall behind her. A little pain should help me through this. Maybe he hadn’t actually talked to anyone back in Adken. White lies. “I saw a chance and took it. Simple as that. Those who needed to know were aware of where I was, and if I were missing too long, they’d follow the trail to find me.” She didn’t shrug, didn’t move, barely breathed as she tried not to give him anything to hang a hook into to pull her story apart. It’s true. Schooling a grimace, she flexed her bones backwards, digging into the wall a little more. Near enough for horseshoes, anyway.
“They didn’t even fuckin’ know you were gone.” Mason’s tone dropped an octave as he continued. “Greg Anderson expressed significant surprise you weren’t vacationing with family, as your last email to him indicated.” He cleared his throat, and she could feel the weight of those grey eyes she knew were focused on her. “With my appearance at your home and office, he allowed as perhaps you hadn’t been quite truthful. Seein’ as that family you were with was supposed to be me.”
Well, shit. “Are you kidding me right now? You went to my colleague to check up on me? You went to a coworker? What were you thinking, Davy?”
“No, Justine, what were you thinking? Forget it. You know what? Never mind that question. More to the point of what I need to know, what are you going to tell your people when you make that call Wildman told you to make?” Mason adjusted his position, easing one long leg out in front of him.
With his elbow propped on a bent knee, head angled so he could see her face, he looked so much like their father she nearly said so, stopping herself just before the words crossed her lips. Mason seemed intent on blending their families—once he’d found out about her, that was. But he did it without truly acknowledging the connection they held.
Especially once he’d eliminated the biggest threat that had ever existed to the two of them, shooting their father in a coffee shop directly across the road from her federal offices. And how he’d gotten out of that situation without anyone or any cameras catching sight of him was a wonder.
The official tale had Justice Morgan, their father, killing another son. Paternal filicide taking their half-brother John Morgan, Shooter, even as Shooter had lived up to his name earned in blood, committing patricide.
The truth settled somewhere in between the two different camps who’d been in the coffee shop. Patricide had been committed, as had fratricide, with Mason walking out the door head held high, his loyal brother Bones at his side.
“Justine?” This softly voiced question was so unlike Mason’s more typically direct interrogation, she blinked and realized she’d been lost in her mind, considering the convoluted history they shared.
“You know much about Wildman?” She licked her lips, then cursed herself for allowing that tiny tell, angling her gaze away from Mason and out the window, watching the tops of the pine trees sway in the breeze.
“Good guy.” He snorted and bumped her shoulder, then a second time until she twisted her neck to look at him. Mason’s crooked smile was soft and affectionate. “I mean that, Justine. He’s a real steady brother. Steady Eddie. Man has had shit luck in his life, and from what I heard, he seems settled into his evolving place with the IMC. He wasn’t always from Louisiana, though, was originally a Florida boy if you can believe that, but farther to the south than your current stompin’ grounds. He’s got a story to tell, that’s for sure. Question is, will you be ready to listen to it?” The pause wasn’t long, just enough for her to offer a nod, and Mason’s lips twisted into a smirk. “Do I know much about him? Yeah, once I heard whose bed you’d hit up, I had me a chat with Retro. Somehow, someway,” he drawled the words out long, sounding amused, “he had the very info I needed, right at his fingertips, seeming to pull it from the air. Makes me wonder who else’s been askin’ about the man.”
Justine’s skin prickled into gooseflesh, every hair on her arms standing alert. Attention, in Mason’s world as well as her own, was never a good thing. “You think he’s on someone’s radar? In a bad way?” Her fingers ached, and she looked down to see her hand had transferred to his arm, nails digging into his bicep in a way that had to be painful, yet Mason never flinched. Glancing up, she caught Mason’s features as they shifted from surprise to concern, then settled into the blankness she knew he gave the rest of the world. “I mean, that’s stupid. If Retro didn’t even have to take a minute to dig, it means he’s already been handed a shovel and hit paydirt. What matters is who it was.” She retracted her hand, clasping her fingers together as she pulled her legs into a crisscross, head angled down as she considered the tiny bits of truth she knew. “Retro wouldn’t tell you who else had been asking, would he?”
“Not without it costin’ me more than the info is worth, no.”
“Right. Right.” Tip of her thumb pressing in turn along each large knuckle of her other hand, she mentally counted down her remaining questions, trying to settle on the one that would give her the most bang for the buck. Mason’s hint at Wildman’s past ranked high, way high, even as it felt wrong to hear anything about the man that wasn’t from his own lips. Justine chewed the inside of her cheek, the sting and copper taste telling her she’d wound herself up past the edge of sanity. His Florida history sans-personal story would be good to know, yet she somehow suspected a lot of the info would be open to her normal channels of investigation. Unless I don’t want to bring the fact I’m looking into him to anyone’s attention. Huffing out an explosive sigh, she lifted her head and stared at Mason, features schooled into the same blank mask he wore. “What would it cost to find out if the interrogatory were malicious or benign? Not looking for the source’s name, just the meaning behind the inquiry?”
“Now that would cost a sight less.” Brows quirked together, Mason curled the corner of his lips in something that wasn’t a smile but still strengthened her like a brand of approval. “Knew you’d come up with the right question. I’ll call your home in two—” He pretended to study the ceiling, as if heavenly insights might be coming his way, and Justine laughed softly. “Maybe three days. Your people aren’t gonna be pleased with you, darlin’, regardless of the tale you spin.”
And there it was. The real reason he’d stayed. This was his ask to her, to share what the repercussions might be for what Wildman had requested. Might as well put him out of his misery.
“One call will have an extraction team here within maximum couple of hours.” She admitted to her ignorance of the exact location. “Baton Rouge if we’re west of the Mississippi, Jackson if we’re east of it. Tossup between NOLO and Mobile, depending on the southerly range.”
“Red Stick, then,” he said, using the born-and-bread Louisianians’ nickname for the state’s capital. “You got any personal contacts there? Need me to try to pass any information along official channels back to your folks faster than might otherwise happen?”
“Oh, it’ll happen fast enough. Debrief won’t be anywhere except Adken, unless it’s in Jacksonville or Tampa. My story starts and ends with the human trafficking aspect. It would help if I knew what happened to the women left at the clubhouse.” She tried to think of other important details. “And where the shipping yard was, exactly. Cartel’s minions had us bagged when they took us there, and the IMC extracted us in cargo vans. I have a sense, but no real idea of the location.”
Mason pulled out his phone and tapped an icon, using facial recognition to access the application. She angled her body to the side, trying to get a better look, but he huffed out yet another laugh and turned it away so all she got was the back of the phone. “Oh, fuck no, woman. I gotta keep some of the mysteries hidden.”
A tinny voice said, “Boss, the loc puts you where you ain’t supposed to be anymore. The fuck”—Mason’s hands moved, and the volume soared, a clearly irate male voice filling the air around them—“do you think you’re doing?”
“Got you on speaker, brother.” Silence, broken only by a sudden and rapid tapping of keyboard keys. “Yeah, yeah, I know you could do all kinds of terrible things to me if you wanted to. Turn on the camera if you want to know who’s here. I’ll do a sweep for ya, show ya we’re alone.” He did as promised, still managing to keep the screen of the phone hidden. The phone paused longest aimed her direction, and another flurry of keystrokes sounded over the speaker. “You can fuckin’ talk, man. It’s all good.”
“Boss. You’re supposed to be pullin’ up at the goddamned BR IMC house right fuckin’ now.” Mason’s brows lifted, and Justine nodded, able to make the distance estimation based on timeframe. Made it clear why he’d thought Baton Rouge was the likely launch for rescue. “What the fuck are you still doin’ there, and from the looks of things, alone except for your sister? Hell, just her and not a goddamned brother in sight? Really, Mason? This is how you decide to play this?”
Lips spread wide in a grin, Mason waited a beat but no more questions came through from whoever was on the other end of the video call. Gaze flicking between the screen and Justine’s face, he chuckled loudly. “Damn, Myron, that’s a load of cussin’ for you. Mouse gonna need to take you over his knee, you keep that shit up.”
Myron, otherwise known as Ronald Lyons, partner of Andrus Kasmouski, aka Mouse. Myron is blood brother to Bones’ woman. Justine was pleased with herself at being able to quickly place both names. Once she’d known the relationship between herself and Mason, the casual, professional interest she’d had in the Rebel Wayfarers MC as one of the largest and most stable motorcycle gangs in northern America, expanding out into other countries including Germany, Netherlands, Spain, Brazil, and Australia, had shifted. Once it became personal, she had wanted to know everything, every single scrap of info she could dig up on Davis Mason, stunned by the direction his MC life had taken him but not surprised at all he’d been smart enough to surround himself with true brothers, not sycophants hanging around for the benefit the association could bring to them.
Myron was one of the most intelligent men he had, one she’d not met yet but who excelled in his role, based on rumors alone. A technical wizard who skipped standard schooling, learning as he went from everyone he met, and making up a shit ton of things along the way. All of it genius. Justine would bet good money the app Mason was using had been written entirely by Myron and was likely at least as secure as the most protected federal versions.
“Boss.” Myron’s tone took on a tenor she associated with forced patience, dragging the ess sound out long. “You gonna explain?”
“Mebbe.” Mason’s wink in Justine’s direction was clearly witnessed by the man on the video, because she heard his labored sigh, loud and clear. “Just messin’ with ya, My. I’m here for another ten, fifteen max, which means you can let the brothers know just when to expect me. And,” his mouth pulled to the side, humor thick in his voice, “I’ll even leave the loc tracker on for ya, so you can babysit my little green dot all the way back.”
“Don’t make me launch a swarm, Mason. You know I will.”
“That I do, I surely do. Wouldn’t want you to use up any of your banked drone hours just on little ole me.” Mason smiled, and under that expression, she saw the bones of their shared ancestry, another instant where she was off-center in an unpleasant way.
Her final memory of their father was a picture of him lying in sprawled repose, across the uneven top of a shatter-legged table, head lolling to the side, the bullet that killed him having left no evidence of agony on his face. Mason had claimed the bodies quickly, release forms no doubt sped on their way with the slide of loaded palm against a greedy one. They’d both been cremated before she’d even known they were dead. With her being an active federal agent, the last thing she’d needed then was her family history on record, and any necessary restrictions were still the case. The gooseflesh was back with a vengeance, rippling up her arms and legs in harsh waves, leaving her shivering in their wake.
Mason’s gaze sharpened, and he dropped the jocular act, if act it had been, instead adopting an on-guard posture, shifting to his feet in one smooth movement, his eyes angling through each window and door in turn, before falling back on her face. “What was that? Just now, what was that, Justine?”
She hated him a little as she struggled to her feet, ignoring the helping hand he extended. “Nothing. I’m just tired.” Dusting off her palms, she pointed to the phone still in his grip. “Was this the request?”
“Yeah.” Tongue tracing along the edges of his teeth, Mason stared at her then blinked, and when his eyes reopened, he was focused on the app. “Myron, need you to initiate a query with the Bastards. I’d go direct to Retro with this, but he’s prolly in transit. I want the info ASAP, and I suspect one of his officers would have access to the info I need. You with me?”
“Ya, boss. What’s the ask?” Myron’s voice had been stripped of all emotion or humor, flat, affectless, and his words to the point.
“Who besides me has been askin’ around about Wildman? That’s it. Sum total. Got it?” Justine startled at the question, so much more than what they’d rehearsed moments before. Keystrokes sounded, Mason’s electronic wizard behind the curtain working his Kansas whirlwind magic. “Me leavin’ here depends on the rapidity with which you can locate the info, brother. Make it fast. Justine needs to make her calls and can’t with me in proximity.”
“Ya, boss.” Less direct, Myron sounded distracted. “Retro just dismounted in the yard at IMC Motherhouse. You want him straight on this call, I can make it happen.”
“Get him. It’s better to get the mainline source anyway.” Mason flicked a glance in Justine’s direction, a considering expression on his face. “I’m going to stand where all interested parties can have a voice in the call, brother. Hide anything you don’t want the lady to see.”
“Jesus, Mason.” Something rattled across a wooden surface, and then there was an anonymous scraping that could be anything. “Let me just check one thing. Shit, I left the…” Justine ducked her head, trying to hide her smile, before Mason’s hand settled on her shoulder with a tiny shake. “Okay, I think we’re good. You’re a goddamned asshole, boss.”
“Yeah, I know.” Mason’s fingers dug in a little as he adjusted their standing postures closer. “Myron, meet my sister Justine. She’s the pretty one in the picture.”
“Evening, ma’am.” Wiry frame, dark hair in a cute tousle, Myron grinned at her through the video, and if she hadn’t heard his rushing around to hide whatever it was he thought might be in jeopardy by her very viewing, she wouldn’t have believed he’d been doing anything other than sitting in front of a computer. “Pleased to meet you.”
“I’ve heard good things about you, Myron.” Justine inclined her head slightly, gaze never leaving the screen as she mapped every inch of what she could see. The playground scene out the back window told her it wasn’t the clubhouse, which meant Mason had reached out to him at home. “Thanks for taking Mason’s call. I’m sorry he interrupted family time.”
“As if I had a choice.” He bent to put an elbow on the desk, propping his chin in his palm. “We’re waiting on confirmation Retro’s gotten private; then I can patch him in.” She watched his eyes move side to side and knew he was cataloging the likenesses she and Mason shared. “She’s definitely the pretty one.”
“I know.” Mason’s arm tightened around her shoulders, and she let herself sag into his embrace a little. “Tough as nails. You hear she took down the guy here all by herself?”
“I heard something along those lines.” Justine wasn’t surprised the rumor mill already had hold of the story, but the idea of it getting as far as Fort Wayne, Indiana, was startling. “Finger always on the pulse, ma’am.”
“Justine, please. You’re not my subordinate, and I don’t even allow them to call me ma’am.” She gave him a smile she hoped edged into gracious. “Justine will do me fine.”
Myron opened his mouth, then clamped it shut as he leaned forwards, hands disappearing somewhere underneath the camera as the clicking of his keyboard sounded again. “Okay, he’s ready now. Give me half a minute—” His bottom lip rolled between his teeth, and he bit down. “—and he’s here.”
Retro’s camera view slid in from the side, like a fancy special effect. He was in front of a blamelessly white wall, nothing in sight other than him. He stared at the screen in front of him and pursed his lips before smiling broadly, showing off his white, straight teeth. “Mason, brother. Thought we were lackin’ a wad of hot wind at our backs. You hangin’ out for a reason, man?” His gaze settled a little to the right, where Justine supposed her image was projected. “Justine LaPorte, well met, lady. Glad to see you’re in such good company still.”
She let the tiny dig about her job pass without comment. “Retro, good to see you.”
“Brother, got an ask. You up for it? In a place where you can take it and respond as you need?” That would be Mason’s only demand—that no one profit from what would cost him either money or favors.
“Mudd’s behind the camera, as you might expect. We’re alone and in a room I did not know the IMC had in their Motherhouse. Love it when I learn me somethin’ new every single day.” Retro made a show of looking around whatever room they were in.
She could only assume it was a tech-blocking isolation room, where the elite of the club could have truly private conversations without the worry of listeners-in, whether they were local club competition or the legal branches of the local, state, or national governments.
“Makes me homesick in a kind of way.” He pretended to wipe a tear. “Gotta get rollin’ soon, hie my own ass home. You already know why.” The jovial lines of his features morphed, turning into a hardened version of the same face, but this a formidable man, not approachable as he normally appeared. “I don’t mind layin’ out a little here, because we may be able to do a tit-for-tat, depending on the ask.” His eyes danced to the side again, so she knew he was looking at her. “Russian mafia in my goddamned backyard, playin’ hopscotch with my goddamned kids. They’re about to go to war with the Mexicans, and we’re in the fuckin’ middle, you get me?” Justine tried her best to hold onto her version of the family Morgan-face, a pitch-perfect deflection of any information leakage. She failed, and knew it when his chin came up, lips clamped tight as he cut his words off abruptly. “I see this is not news to you.”
“It is not.” She swallowed and coughed, ribs hurting not only from the beatings she’d endured but with however her body had been flung around while she was unconscious. She was also suddenly aware that although her legs were out of view, she would appear vulnerable, nearly naked from the waist down. The image in the video showed a disheveled woman, hair a rat’s nest on her head, streaks of dirt across her cheek and chin. Jesus. Straightening, she lifted her chin as she elaborated, “I may have information you would want.”
“Tell me what you need then, woman.” His voice had dropped to a growl, and she knew it was because what was a growing issue along the coast had rocketed to the top of his displeasure list by involving his family. Retro was known by all to be a straight shooter, keeping his end of any bargain while still able to command men who would kill for him, and thus able to back up a demand of bargain-keeping from those he did business with. For him to be so visibly upset meant something, and the tension of Mason’s arm across her upper back said his friend’s discomfort was hard to see.
“I want—”
“We want to know who other than me has been askin’ about Wildman.” Mason’s finger darted down to her side, where he gave her a hard pinch, telling her without words that him overriding her direct ask wasn’t something he’d budge about.
“I find myself interested in what the lady would have asked on her own.” Retro flicked his hair over one shoulder, intuitive gaze intent on the screen. “I was told it was an RWMC ask, which I’ll entertain all day long. This though, is cloudy, given who signs her paychecks.”
“You were just fuckin’ willin’ to barter with her about intel.” Mason’s barked response was loud, his body nearly vibrating with tension at her side.
“Rethinkin’ that.” Retro shrugged fluidly, a toned-back grin crossing and dropping from his lips. “My prerogative.”
“Goddamn it, Retro. That’s not how this is supposed to go.”
“Supposed to go and actually goes. Those can be each end of the satisfaction spectrum, my friend.” Mason cleared his throat noisily at Retro’s words. “Brother,” Retro amended, with a tiny, royal nod. “I’d like to hear the ask directly from Justine LaPorte, if I may. Mason, you don’t have a marker large enough to offer for this. Not right now, man. Give me a minute to sort this out, and I suspect you’ll be happy as a lamb in clover.”
“I understand there has been more than one request for information on Wildman. One was Mason, when he heard I’d picked someone—Wildman—as a partner.” Justine leaned closer. “Who else was asking about him?”
“Now, that wasn’t so hard, was it?” Retro leaned back, face angled up as he addressed the ceiling of the room where he stood. “Let me think a minute.”
“Goddammit, Retro.”
“Oh, hush, you. Man’s gotta find his humor where he can.” Retro dropped his chin and stared into the camera. “This I know to be true. Three requests for information came my way. Two have been responded to, one to you, Mason, and one to Twisted, for reasons of his own that if you put your mind to what’s happened in the IMC lately, you’ll fully understand. The third was a tangled request, relayed just before we jumped on this video call. Silent Deaths offered a hell of a marker for info on Wildman and the woman in his bed.” He leveled a finger at the camera, thumb cocked back like a gun’s hammer. What the hell? “That woman would be you, pretty lady. So now the question is what do I do with that final request? Smoke and his boys are friendly with IMC, from what I understand. Why would they be interested in a man who may become a key officer, stepping up from the role he fills now? More to the point, what the hell would it matter to them who he’s fuckin’?” He dipped a nod at the camera, uncocking his thumb as he lowered his hand. “No offense intended.”
“None taken.” Justine dropped her gaze as she ran over the information he’d provided. Silent Deaths were known to have solid ties down to Mexico, well beyond the Machos MC. Their request could be in response to my recent trade-interrupting activities. Or it could be about Wildman. Either way, it wasn’t something she could afford to ignore. Justine realized she was staring at the floor again, seemingly for the hundredth time today. At least they were in the front room, and she didn’t have to see her own vomit again. “I’m not on that task force any longer. Took myself off via request months ago. I’m purely trafficking, not on anything RICO-tinged. Anything to do with any outlaw clubs is strictly need-to-know in the bureau, and I’m no longer on that list. I have no idea why they’d be interested in me. Weren’t they a club Tucker sought refuge with after he killed that little Texas girl?” In a split-second decision, she decided to downplay her knowledge of the SDMC. All the better to get info with, my dear.
“Essa? I didn’t hear he’d reached out to Silent Deaths, but shit happened back on Watcher’s patch of dirt before we brought the Southern Soldiers into the fold.” Myron’s interjection was sudden, and Justine half expected Mason to slap him down, but all her brother did was grunt in response. “I mean, we had Duck out there, but it all belonged to the Soldiers.”
“They had old ties to the Machos, right?” Justine wracked her brain for any additional information she felt safe sharing. “Diamante was key back when. I don’t know about now.” That tinged on private pain, but she ignored the sting.
“Diamante is impotent.” Mason shrugged, then pulled her close again. “Machos are a different crew now. They’re allies.”
“I would have called Silent Deaths allies too, boss. But they’re askin’ after your sister.” Myron shook his head. “Don’t seem too ally-ish to me.”
“If I could interject.” Retro swept a hand across the bottom of his face. “Cartel is what will help us piece this together. SDMC’s ask will be sidelined, graciously, as we always do things. I’m heading home. I don’t think they knew it was you, lady, but I wouldn’t lower my guard for any reason. Way things looked to me today is you and Wild have set stones rolling. It’ll be up to us to steer them downhill, so they avoid the things we want to keep and burst apart the things we want to destroy. We just need to know what and who falls into each of those categories.”
“I agree, cartel is key to every one of these things. From Wildman’s issues in Florida to the renewed VWMC presence in Louisiana. They’d certainly have contacts in SDMC, and the ask could be a pass-along, not direct from Smoke at all.” Mason shot a glance at Justine as he finished speaking, and she lifted a brow to let him know she’d caught the reference. We’ll be revisiting that sometime soon, promise, brother mine.
“I’ll check into the veracity of that first thing when I get home. Call to clarify or some shit.” Retro grinned. “I’ll think of somethin’.”
“You always do, brother.” Mason’s wide smile was visible in the video, and Justine felt the rush of affection he held for these two men. “My, no drones needed, brother. I’ll roll in less than five.”
“Promised to leave the loc on, boss. Justine, you heard him, right?”
“I did,” she agreed, and Myron’s grin lit up the screen. “Thank you, both of you.” She twisted to look up at Mason. “All of you.”
It was twenty minutes later, not less than five, when Justine was watching the taillight on Mason’s motorcycle fade to dimness within the pine forest surrounding the shack, which she now knew had been a one-time meth-cooking spot.
Lovely. She tried not to think about all the corrosive and dangerous compounds and residues associated with the process, even as she balanced on one bare foot on the rough boards.
She’d counted to sixty twenty times and was launching into another round when there was movement at the edge of the forest. Something darker than the darkness behind it, a slinking silhouette low to the ground. Fuck it.
The number was at the end of her fingertips, branded into the front of her brain with training methods she wouldn’t wish on someone she disliked, but they’d been effective. The number she’d learned nearly eight years ago and never before used still came easily to her.
Justine scarcely had time to suck in a breath before the call connected, middle of the first ring, no verbal answer.
Undeterred, she gave the phrase as practiced, not stumbling over the most idiotic aspects of it. “Rascal passes on their well wishes, but the press release is wrong.”
“Rascal” was her, the call name assigned by her superior, who then—and probably more especially now—believed her a pain in his ass. “Well wishes” paired with “passes on” meant she was unharmed and alone, not held under duress. If she’d made the call at gunpoint, she would have said “designated a pinch hitter,” something equally obtuse-sounding that was certain to make a kidnapper believe it was a token for a message. It would have been up to her to ensure they believed it would get them what they wanted. “Press release” stood in for pickup needed, and the use of a word such as “wrong” added the urgency of ASAP.
The line clicked, and she waited, gaze sweeping the edges of the clearing, searching for more of whatever had made the shadow moments ago. Another click, and she was treated to a voice steady as steel. “We’ve got you, Justine. Boots on the ground in less than fifteen. Can you…are you able to assist your rescue?”
“I am” was all she returned as she swallowed hard, not wanting Greg Anderson to hear a break in her voice if she tried to elaborate.
“Good.” Then he gave her one of the biggest compliments he’d ever paid. A simple, “Talk soon,” then the line disconnected.
Thumbing the volume buttons kept the phone awake and alight enough to see the room around her dimly, enough to keep her nerves at bay. She’d reached twelve iterations of sixty when she spotted the helo coming in low and fast, spotlights sweeping the trees ahead of the chopper until they landed on the shack, the bird banking in a quick circle before the pilot determined there was not enough room to land. They hovered low, scarcely twenty feet off the ground, the backwash from the rotors sending wavelets of sand across the clearing. Three dark bodies separated from the helicopter, dropping quickly to the ground as she thumbed the flashlight on the phone, turning the light on her own face as a willing target.
“SAC LaPorte?” Justine nodded at the faceless figure, the dark mask covering everything not shielded by the IR goggles the man wore. “I’m Michaels, the team’s out of NAS JRB New Orleans, and we’re here to take you home.” He lifted his hand, and she placed the phone in it. The mask covering his mouth moved, and she could swear he was grinning as he pocketed the phone and held his hand out again. Stupid. She placed her hand in his, and he stooped as he tugged her towards him, swooping her legs up with one arm while the other circled her back. “Normally I’d do a fireman’s haul, but—due respect, you’re awake and, well, kind of exposed.” She could hear squeaks from near his throat and kept her own mouth closed, assuming he had a coms device. “Ma’am, we’ll have you back to Baton Rouge in just a few minutes. There’s a blanket in the chopper with your name on it, right next to a bottle of water. You doing okay, ma’am?” Justine nodded again, jostled as he jogged back to the helicopter. “Mano, get me a cradle, yeah? Roger. Ma’am, you doing okay? You with me?”
“Yes, I’m good.” Justine had to force the lie out between clenched teeth. Her adrenaline was spiking, no longer receding, and her jaw wanted to chatter, but giving into the physical impulse would reveal how fragile she felt.
“You will be, SAC LaPorte. We got a jacket on you when we got the call. Mucho respect, ma’am.” He curled his body around her, protecting Justine from the worst of the downdrafts until he stood directly underneath the belly of the craft. Justine looked up in time to see another figure appear out of the darkness. He held up his arm and made a complicated series of gestures, to which Michaels responded, “Roger.” A third figure came into focus against the darkness just over Michaels’ shoulder, reaching up to guide a basket into place in front of Justine. Michaels deposited her into the cramped space, then climbed on with her, feet balancing on the side rails. “Hold on, SAC LaPorte. Short trip.”
Inside the helo, she kept to the side seat they’d placed her in, the promised blanket and bottle of water appearing only an instant after she sat. The other two men launched themselves in through the side door of the helicopter, and she had to wonder if this was less than their training exercises demanded. The noise fell to tolerable levels when the door was closed and latched into place. Michaels had a quick exchange with the pilots, leaning into their space on one elbow. He pushed his mask up, leaving it bunched in a roll on his forehead, where it revealed strong features, burned dark by the Louisiana sun. Head tipped to the side as he listened, he nodded, then gave the pilots a thumbs-up, rolling to his feet. Hands wrapped in the rope mesh overhead, he swayed with the movement of the aircraft, his gaze fixed on Justine.
One of the other men crouched at her side, holding out another bottle of water. She hadn’t realized she’d finished the first already, and took the second from him with a shaky, “Thank you.”
“Our pleasure, ma’am.” His words carried a foreign cadence, and she steeled herself from shrinking away; he sounded so much like the upper echelon of the crew that had held her and the other women.
“Brownstone.” Lips trembling, she gave the warning call and watched as Michaels stiffened, growing still. “I have an urgent message. Brownstone.”
“I’ll hear the message, ma’am.” Michaels took the seat across from her, leaning close, elbows on his knees.
She gave him the location of the shipping yard and information about the container where more than a dozen women had been held. These were not her women, the clutch of chicks she’d protected, but another cargo load that had come in after the initial raid and rescue, Myron finding out about them only after everyone had been dispatched to save Justine. The women who had been with her had each been deposited within feet of their homes, nothing more than a request to keep quiet about the club, no threats and no urgent demands, just a low warning that it wouldn’t do Justine any favors to say anything about IMC. Sparse hope, but unless the women found each other and had a conference, it was unlikely anyone other than an idly curious family member would ever question the veracity of their miraculous escape.
The women the military would rescue would talk a vague story about a woman resembling Justine, and her clothing had been dropped into the mix of the offal at the bottom of the container. She’d listened to Mason and Myron concocting the story within a few sentences after Retro had dropped from their call, caught half the conversation as Mason chatted with Twisted, and Justine had found herself listening to the background, hoping she’d catch Wildman’s voice somehow, somewhere.
Justine capped the bottle of water and dropped it to her lap, elbows to her knees as she bent forwards, fingers thrusting through her hair, coming up against each painful point of bruising. Heels of her hands against the bony sockets of her eyes, she rocked back and forth, willing the flight to be over.
No matter what came next, it couldn’t be worse than having to watch Wildman ride away, taking a part of her with him.
***
Justine
Outside the trailer was war. There were loud shouts and gunshots, followed by cries of pain, grunts driven from lungs by powerful blows. Inside the trailer was chaos, and Justine did her best to keep the women calm, telling them what she’d seen through the vent. “We don’t know who it is,” she hissed, using the dim light that seeped in around the ill-sealing rear doors to catch every gaze she could. “Until we know, we stay quiet.”
She’d been the final acquisition for the shipment. That’s how the men had talked about the humans they held penned inside a metal box, which did nothing to retain heat after the sun went down. Chattel, possessions where ownership could be transferred as easily as a transactional phone call. Goods provided to men with an appetite for pain and fighting, and given how well and long she’d brawled with his men, the leader had boasted how much Justine would bring for his pockets.
At least in the two days she’d been imprisoned, she’d been able to keep the men from raping the captives. What happened before had been spoken of in whispers and tears, and the women had all looked at her with awe when she negotiated and bartered for a halt to the physical abuse. It had cost her, of course—that’s the way these things went—but a few blows were a small price for the relief she’d seen on their faces.
Things quietened outside as Justine listened intently, shushing the women again when one would have called out. A sound at the doors had her cocking her head, trying to infer what was happening through scant clues. The door swung open, and an instant later, a man appeared as if by magic, not there and then there, and he was huge, blocking out the light with his body. Hands bloody, he had a tear along one arm of his shirt, as if a blade had come too close for comfort.
He took a step inside, and Justine marshaled every ounce of courage. Without a word to the women behind her, she stepped forwards and held out her arms, creating a barrier with her body. Fingers clutched at her shirt from behind, and she shook them off, taking another step and another. The man’s gaze danced around the trailer, and she watched him catalog every detail before he locked on her.
Trembling now, because he was so much larger up close, she hoped if she could distract him enough, the women could escape. I’ve got to make myself vulnerable. Justine’s arms shook with the strain, but she settled to her knees in front of him.
He lifted her to her feet and kissed her, lips soft and warm against hers.
No, that’s not right.
“Jesus, Justine, you make me insane.”
No, how could he know my name?
His fingers touched her gently, reverently.
No…
Justine jerked sideways, startled when her shoulder thudded against a wall. Heart racing, she blinked, moonlit aspects of her bedroom coming into focus. Hand flat against her chest, she settled back down in the bed, feet kicking off the constricting covers.
Even her dreams romanticized every moment they’d had together.
Once released by her superiors on her own recognizance, she had made her first stop a cut-rate tech shop where she’d bought several disposable phones. After the multiple days of debriefing, she’d forced herself to finish the trip home, had taken a long-overdue hot shower, and then gorged on Thai takeout before finally allowing herself a phone call.
Given who she was and what had gone down, only an approach through his president would do. If she’d tried to go direct to Wildman, he’d have taken her call, but it would have cost him. Even if he might have readily paid it, she hated the idea of him paying for her failure to follow protocol.
Her intent had been to connect directly with Twisted. She’d tried, truly, circling and beating herself against the protective wall surrounding anything to do with the national president of the IMC. Dropped calls, missed connections, and outright dismissal had met her every effort, until she’d passed the last door without it opening for her.
Next had come a call she hadn’t wanted to make, but to get to Wildman the right way—Justine found herself willing to do nearly anything.
“Davy.” She greeted her brother with a smile on her face, hoping he’d hear it in her tone.
“Justine, how are you?” The slightly aloof caution in his voice gave her pause.
“I’m good. How’s Willa and the kids?” His sigh followed by silence was unnerving. “And you, of course, how are you doing since I saw you last?”
“Why’d you call? You never call just to check in, so if you’re wondering how I know somethin’s amiss, that’s your fuckin’ clue right there.” She let the guilty silence hang between them. “My answer to the question you aren’t asking is no. You don’t really want this, Justine. IMC is no half-ass club, and you’ve stayed the course so far in keeping a distance from anything in the life. Not sure you want to break that streak for a man.”
“Except you.” She closed her eyes. “I wouldn’t change anything about getting to know you and your family, and you’re deep in the life.”
“Getting to know, while keeping at arm’s length.” The deep scoff he made burned, because what he said was true. “Justine, you don’t owe Wildman anything. You don’t owe IMC anything. Those debts only exist in your mind.”
“Owing him isn’t why I want a chance to talk to him. Davy, that’s all I’m asking for—a chance to meet with him and have a conversation.” Justine’s breath caught in her throat, and she had to push to get the words out. “I just want a chance.”
That silence fell between them again, heavy and long, and filled with something that tasted like regret. He’s done all the heavy lifting for what we’ve built so far, she realized, and anger at herself burned red in her cheeks. She was glad he couldn’t see her right now, because he’d ask and ask, never letting go of whatever it was making her behave this way.
“I’ll make a call.” Short, brusque, his words chopped through the thick quiet. “This number good?”
“Yeah. Yes, I mean. It’s a disposable phone I picked up for cash yesterday.” The sound he made before disconnecting sounded suspiciously like surprise, and she grinned at the idea she’d been able to shock him a little.
The phone on the nightstand rang, and she glanced at the screen as she swiped to answer. Louisiana area code. Hopefully this bodes well for me.
“Hello?”
“Woman, what the fuck you thinkin’? You angled for a call, and I blocked your shit. I do not need some Fed thinkin’ they can just chat me up willy-nilly. You gotta work for this shit. Yet here we are, talkin’ at some godawful time in the morning because I was the recipient of a message and phone call from Retro. You just tap into the man’s network and buzz him until he couldn’t deal anymore, or what?”
Justine took a second to unpack Twisted’s words, dialing in on the crux of the problem. “He at least took my call to hear my ask. Didn’t try to decide what Wildman wanted without even a conversation.”
“Oh, bitch, you think you can heavy-hand me into regretting blockin’ your ass? Ain’t gonna work. I’ve shredded better bitches than you, because you’re in a fuckin’ phase and lookin’ to walk on the wild side for maybe the first time in your life, and my man don’t got time for something that’s gonna fuck up his head.” Laughter rang through the line, hard and angry. “He ain’t never gonna know about this convo, just so you understand where I’m comin’ from.”
The call disconnected, and she stared down at the silent device in her hand. Shit.
If his president didn’t want her in Wildman’s life, Justine knew she had zero chance at anything, much less seeing where this consuming desire could take them.
Then the phone vibrated, and she looked to see a video call was incoming.
With a heavy breath, she accepted, shocked to see two men on the call. Twisted and Retro.
This could be good. Licking her lips, she nodded at the camera. Or not, but I won’t know if I don’t ask. “I thought you were done talking to me, Twisted?”
Twisted made a rude sound far back in his throat. “Retro, you’re an asshole.” He adjusted so he faced the camera directly. “Now that we’ve an impartial audience, woman, tell me what the fuck you think you want to talk to Wild about?”
His question wasn’t unkind. No, the inquiry was entirely reasonable and one she’d prepared for. But right now, with a cold phone held tightly in both hands, tiny screen able to give her his irritation and little else, Justine couldn’t feed Twisted the answer she’d rehearsed. It was true, by the plainest definition of the word, but telling this man she wanted to thank Wildman was like saying she wanted the barest of sips when everything inside her wanted to upend the hose and bathe in the water.
She made a split-second decision, going with what felt right.
“I need him to know what he got from me was real. Wasn’t the job, wasn’t relief, wasn’t misplaced gratitude for a rescue. I’d like to tell him he matters. A chance to connect without shit raining down from the sky around us. I need to make him understand that he matters to me.”
Silence on the line for the longest time matched the seemingly frozen video, and she waited, breaths coming shallow as her lungs seized up from the terror that held her in its grip. Never had she wanted anything this badly.
In a direct change from his previous tone, responding in a voice gone soft and soothing, Twisted showed that he understood what she felt was at risk. “You got the time to put it on the line like that, I’ll make it happen.” He lifted his chin, gaze boring directly into the camera. “Shit’s always swirling nearby, and your job makes it even chancier for him to reach across such a divide. You gonna have his back when Uncle Sam calls you to task? You ready for this, gal?”
“You know who I am?” He made a sound she took for a yes, and she laughed without amusement, knowing the sound was far from pleasant. “Then trust me when I say I was born ready.”
“Then you’ve got six days to prepare. Be at the Hammond clubhouse, seven o’clock on the dot. You’re late, you get a locked fuckin’ door, no matter how hard you pound against that bitch. Be there, or—” Twisted shrugged. “Not. Don’t matter to me.”
“I’ll be there.”
“If we could be done now?” Retro’s drawl broke the tension, and Justine flashed a smile she didn’t feel. “Shut-eye is my friend right now, so I’ll be obliged if neither of you called me again until sometime after noon, give or take a fast minute.”
“Fuck you.” Twisted thrust a hand towards the camera, the back of his middle finger filling his screen. Then it went black, and Retro’s window shifted to take up the space.
“You got what you wanted, Justine.” Top of his head tipping to the side, Retro let her see the concern in his expression. “Hope it shakes out how you want it in the end.” Without a goodbye, Retro disconnected, and she was left staring at the blank screen of her phone.
“Me too, Retro.” She shook her head, placing the phone back on the nightstand as she eased back underneath the covers. “Me too.”
***
Justine
Seated in her car, she stared at the building in front of her. The wide windows gave her a glimpse into the world the home’s residents occupied, made to look like any living room in an effort to help keep them engaged and calm.
Her mother was particularly attached to a low armchair near the window, and Justine could make out a figure seated there now. With a hard push of air outwards, she opened the car door and stepped out, stretching her back until ligaments popped in a satisfying way.
Most of the bruises had faded in the time since she’d been with Wildman. All of the ones he’d inflicted were gone, and she’d mourned each of his marks as they disappeared. The only major bruising was along one flank, remnants from a fall during a coerced fight with one of the cartel guards.
Is it too much to hope he’ll want to do that again?
It was time to focus, and she pushed the thoughts away, walking towards the building. Justine held the fob attached to her keys next to a reader beside the door, pulling on the handle when the locking mechanism clicked.
The home had great security for the residents, and Justine had long come to a sense of thankfulness that her father had cared for his women enough to create this oasis for them. She was under no illusions it had been selfless, because she wasn’t an idiot. But he could have easily killed them instead, and sinking so much money into creating a facility like this redeemed his motives in her mind.
Turning to the window, she smiled when her mother’s gaze was already locked on her, awareness in the pleased expression on her face. It didn’t happen often, so Justine took it as a blessing when it did.
“Mom, how are you?” Bending close, Justine brushed a kiss across her mom’s cheek, smiling when she received one in return. “Lookin’ good, lady.”
“I’m feeling good today, sweetheart.”
Pulling back, Justine stared into Lori LaPorte’s face, taking in the beauty and grace her mother had always embodied. One thing Daddy always liked was pretty women. “That’s awesome. Do you have time for a chat?”
“Oh, honey, I don’t know.” Her mom pulled a face, then laughed. “I’ve got a hot date with a Parcheesi board later, but I could squeeze you in now.”
That set the tone for much of the afternoon, their easy banter frequently interrupted by laughter as the minutes ticked past.
“Now that you’re comfortable.” Her mom circled Justine’s waist with an arm and pulled her sideways. Justine leaned her head against her mom’s shoulder and breathed in her scent. The same perfume as always—a light vanilla and citrus. The smell of safety and love. “Tell me what’s goin’ on, baby girl.”
Justine contemplated lying for half a second, until her mother’s fingers and thumb found her side in a hard pinch. “Oww, stop it. I’ll tell you. I’ll tell you.”
“I’m here, baby girl.” The arm around her waist tightened briefly, then relaxed.
“I met someone.” Her mother hummed far back in her throat but didn’t speak. “Oh, Momma, he’s perfect for me. Kind and giving, protective, and so much of what’s him matches what’s me, you know?”
“So what’s the problem? Because sure as I’m sitting here, there’s a problem, or you wouldn’t have hesitation in your voice.”
“He’s in the life.”
“So?” Her mother’s instant response surprised Justine, and she pulled away to look into her face. “Don’t pull that with me, baby girl. What does it matter if he’s in the life?”
“You always told me you didn’t want that for me.” Justine shook her head. “Hell, I’m not sure I want that for me.”
“Mouth, pretty girl.” Her mom’s gaze tracked across Justine’s face, brows pulling slightly together. “What does it matter?” she asked again, with a deepening of her frown. “In the life, not in the life, it doesn’t. All that matters is if he’s a good man. Is he?”
“He is.” Firming her quivering lips, she tried to give her words as much oomph as possible, needing her mom to understand. “So good, Momma. Good to me.”
“Then why aren’t you with him?” Her mom leaned sideways in the chair, putting more distance between them. “Why are you here chatting up an old woman when you could be building something with him?”
“He’s in Louisiana.” Blinking tears away, she laid her hand on top of her mother’s, pleased when her mom’s wrist rotated, strong fingers clasping to hers. “And I’m here.”
“That’s easily remedied, baby girl. If you want this with him, then you’ll have to bend. Lord knows I bent with your father, time and again.” Fingers gave her hand a strong squeeze. “And I don’t regret a single minute. I love him.”
Justine wavered but decided to ignore the fact her mother spoke in present tense. “I know you do, Momma. He’s easy to love.”
“No, baby girl, he is not.” Her mom’s laughter was surprising, and Justine leaned closer. “Doubt there’s ever been a man harder to love. With everything that happened, it would be easier for me to hate him.” Her mom’s gaze swept the room, landing on the face of her best friend: Crystal Dawn Dixon, Mason’s mother. “But he brought me so much beauty. Would go out of his way to find it for me and place it in my hands. Like you, my baby girl. Out of everything, there’s nothing I’d change.”
“I love you, Momma.” Justine smiled when her mother’s other hand cupped her jaw, holding her gaze.
“And I love you too, baby girl.” Her mom patted her cheek, hard enough to sting. With a grin, she soothed the flesh with a brush of her fingertips. “Now get your head out of your ass and go find and claim your man.”