Damned: Seven Tribesmen MC (27 page)

CHAPTER FORTY ONE

Led into the basement of the bakery with zip ties tightly looped around their wrists, the Seven Tribesmen had been forced to their knees on the dirt floor.  It didn't take a genius to realize the Devil Spikes had double-crossed them.  The White Knights weren't involved, and the Demons weren't out to get the Spikes.  Bishop grunted as another boot slammed into his side, pain throbbing across his ribs.  At least two were fracture
d—
if not outright broken.  Somewhere to his right, Howler groaned in pain as he slowly bled out.

“Stop his bleeding, you fucking fucks!”  Crow snarled, as he hovered over Howler.  A rifle butt knocked Crow off his knees and onto the ground.

To Bishop's left, Bulletproof spat on one of the captors after dodging an ill-timed kick.  He didn't dodge the second one. 

Rage flamed under Bishop's thoughts, but it was dampened when he realized he had no clue how to keep his brothers alive.  The Spikes and the Demons had played them.  It was his fault.  He fought to trust the Spikes, just to get reveng
e—
now bile climbed up his throat.

“How's it feel to be the dogs, now?”  The Demons' head honcho, High Roller, slammed another boot into Bishop's side.  Bishop grunted and partially lifted off the ground before he settled again.  He blearily listened to the man's monologue.  “We worked too hard and called in too many favors to get our asses on top to let you fucks flush it down the shitter.”

High Roller knelt down and grabbed Bishop by his hair, craning his head backward and leering into his face.  Bishop glared at him through one blackened eye, waiting for the spittle.  High Roller slammed his knuckles across Bishop's jaw, adding to the patchwork of bruises.

“Even now, you look at me like I'm shit,” High Roller snarled, as he switched the safety off on his gun.  He cocked the weapon and poised it toward the Seven Tribesmen.  The muzzle weaved and wobbled, falling on Bishop's brothers.  “Maybe I should knock you off your high horse a bit, asshole.”

Red tinged the edges of Bishop's sight and tension tightened along his muscles, as the urge to throw himself at High Roller careened through his head.  He glanced at the other men who ringed around the Seven Tribesmen.  It would be suicide to consider attacking High Roller.  Besides, the man had been beating on them and threatening them for a good half hour now.

Suddenly, the door slammed open.  Metal crunched against rock, the sound resonating through the pipes between the ground floor and basement.  Bishop jolted, sitting straighter.  High Roller glared at the newcomer.  Buck-Fifty stood in the doorway, eyes wide and face pale.  “The feds are here.”

“What?”  High Roller's eyes widened before a snarl overtook his face.  He spun to Bishop, his eyes full of murder. “
What did you do
?”

Bishop only glared in return.  He hadn't done a damn thing and High Roller knew it.  Faintly, he recalled the scrawled note on the paper he took from Stella that read,
We got the warrant.
He hadn't thought much of it at the time, but it may have just saved his life.

“They've got a warrant, sir.” 

“Fuck,” hissed High Roller.  He paced away from Bishop, running a hand through his scant hair.  Turning sharply to Buck-Fifty, he curtly ordered, “Show 'em around.  They won't find us down here.”

Buck-Fifty raised his eyebrows. “You sure, sir?”

“Did I fucking stutter?”  High Roller, who was a good three inches shorter than this lad, advanced on the young man.  He peered into Buck-Fifty's face, a snarl curling at his lip, causing Buck-Fifty to cringe backward.  The promise of retribution hung heavy and thick in the air.

Buck-Fifty shook his head savagely before darting out of the room.  His footfalls disappeared down the long, dark corridor.  Sluggishly, Bishop's brain stewed and stirred.  The FBI was upstairs.  Was it Stella and her partner?  Or someone else?  Bishop's heart deflated a bit, picturing an unfamiliar set of agents bumbling about the bakery. 

“You're a lucky bastard.”  High Roller grunted as he lowered his gun.  Bishop glanced up at the man as he holstered his gun and wandered away from the huddled hostages toward a table pressed firmly against a wall.  He picked something up and turned, an evil gleam in his eye.  A pair of gardening shears snipped twice as High Roller said, “Can't shoot any of you,
yet. 
But that doesn't mean I can't have my fun.”

A jolt of fear ran through the Seven Tribesmen as they all registered the implication.  Just as the first howls of discontent started in an attempt to get attention, High Roller had his men at the ready.  Duct tape slapped across the mouths of the Tribesmen.  High Roller advanced threateningly, his eyes flicking from member to member.

Nausea clenched at Bishop's gut as his hackles raised.  His muscles tensed and his wrists strained at the zip tie.  He glared violently at High Roller as his mind clambered for a way out of this predicament.  He prepared to hurl himself at the shears if they dipped toward one of his brothers.  Deep down, he hoped the feds upstairs would be smart enough to find the basement.  His men needed to be saved, with or without him.

CHAPTER FORTY TWO

Stella and Agent Rebecca Grant loitered in the foyer of the bakery.  Flanking the two women were six FBI agents, geared up in bulletproof vests and sunglasses.  Stella's eyes jerked up from where they examined a book on cake designs as the tall, scrawny man re-entered.  Judging from the red burn on his cheeks, his boss had reamed into him.

He barely masked his unhappy glower.  “Boss says you're welcome to have a look-see.”

“Wouldn't matter since we have a warrant.” Agent Grant smiled, holding up the piece of paper that gave them the authority to legally enter and rifle through possessions.  Her smile twitched a little as she strolled passed the young man.  “But thanks.”

Stella followed after her partner, ignoring the young man as she made a beeline for the back.  Her mind clamped down on the thought of the Seven Tribesmen and finding them.  As her feet propelled her into the back room, she was greeted with what she assumed was a fairly typical bakery kitchen. 

Large, silver ovens lined the far wall, and rolling racks of breaded goodies sat near the ovens.  Sugar coated the air, making Stella's stomach lurch.  To her right, counters sprawled out with racks of frosting hovering above the flat surface.  White powder dusted the counters, and Stella hoped it was flour.

Overall, the whole kitchen was nice and neat.  Any inspector would give it an A+ rating.

As Stella sauntered around the kitchen, she paid special heed to the walls.  There had to be a seam somewhere, a secret room where they piled the cocaine and hostages.  Her gaze fell on the pallets near the exit.  Her eyebrows cocked as she neared the piles of large sacks.  Leaning over the bags, she idly asked, “What's this?”

“Fresh flour and sugar.”  The boy answered, his face impassive and refusing to betray anything.  When Stella glanced up, he didn't even avert his gaze.  With a single-shouldered shrug, he easily added, “We bake stuff; we use a lot of the shit.”

“Uh-huh,” said Stella as she straightened up.  She couldn't tell anything through the opaque bag.  If the FBI found the snort too soon, then the Tribesmen were good as dead.  What was the use of keeping the men alive when the feds were going to rightfully pin possession on them?

Her stomach churned at the thought, but she threw Agent Grant a glance, barely inclining her head toward the bags.  Agent Grant's gaze flickered from the bags to Stella.  She nodded imperceptibly before returning to perusing the kitchen.

“Where's the rest of the crew?”  Agent Grant asked absently as she opened cabinet doors.

The young man tensed at her word choice but didn't vocalize a response.  He simply shrugged nonchalantly.  Bellevue wasn't a huge town.  It wasn't unheard of to park in one place and wander up and down Main Street doing errands.

“That jelly?”  Agent Grant tilted her head toward the floor beside one of the cabinets.  A bright red streak oozed over the floor, trailing beneath a closed door.  Stella glanced at the huge metal behemoth. 
Supply Closet
was scrawled on the side in permanent marker. 

“Looks like blood.”  Stella mused, trying to keep her tone unaffected and indifferent.  Inside, her blood had turned to ice and her heart shuddered.  She found it slightly harder to swallow.  Judging from the smear pattern, it was likely the source of the blood had been dragged in from the parking lot.  Stella's hands clenched at her sides, her nails painfully digging into her palms.

The young man couldn't meet their eyes.  His gaze flickered to the left toward a wall.  “Co-worker cut himself while unloading the shipment.”

“Well, should we see if he needs any help?”  Stella inquired loudly to Agent Grant. Agent Grant nodded her head, but Agent Holmes was already barreling through the door. 

The slam of the door against the wall echoed in the room.  Shelving units filled with cleaning and packaging supplies filled the room.  Far in the corner, there was a mop sink and a dirty, yellow janitorial bucket.  The scent of mildew and bleach filled the room.  The trail of blood stopped at the mop sink. 

“My boss took him to the hospital.  Deep cut.”

“I'm sure,” Stella absently replied as her gaze flickered around the room.  It reminded her of the shack where she and Bishop had met the third time.  She looked for a seam in the wall, in the floor, in the ceiling…anywhere to indicate a hidden room or pathway that could lead her to the missing Tribesmen.  Her stomach wobbled, knowing each passing second was vital to their survival.  And here she was, so close and so far.  It was enough to make her brain itch with perpetual frustration.

Finally, her eyes saw it.  At the drain near the mop sink, the blood stopped.  However, it stopped short of the plastic slats that kept water from flooding the floor.  Stella narrowed her eyes, trying to make sense of the peculiarity.  Then, her mind flashed to life.  The drain inside the plastic square mop sink was a handle, well-crafted and almost invisible unless you were trained to be paranoid and suspicious. 

“Got a basement?”  Casually, she turned to their host.

Suddenly, his body went semi-rigid.  Now, he couldn't look Stella in the eye.  His shoe scuffed the floor and he grunted, “No one ever goes down there.”

“Well, we got to check from top to bottom,” Stella insisted.  She quashed the urge to glance toward Agent Grant who was shuffling along a shelving unit full of cleaning supplies.  However, her ear was tilted toward the other two occupants in the room, and her hand hovered inconspicuously over her holster.

“Say, what
are
you looking for?” He glanced up, face contorted into faux concern.  The tension in the air tightened.  Though his eyes turned toward Stella, he wasn't actually focusing on her.

Stella shrugged, casually pressing her hands to her hips.  Her fingers itched to grab her gun. “Drugs, guns, the typical.”

“We're a bakery,” the young man uncomfortably laughed, the lilts coming out strained and pinched.  When he realized the two women weren't chuckling with him, his laughter died quickly.  His gaze shifted from Stella and Agent Grant.  Irritation and concern pricked at his brow.   He heaved a sigh, shoulders slumping in defeat. “Oh, all right.”

Something in the young man's body language sent danger signals through Stella's mind.  The seconds slowed as he whipped out a pistol from his waistband.  He leveled it at Stella and a gunshot rang out.  He crumpled to the floor while Agent Grant lowered her still smoking gun.  Alarmed yelps and commands sounded from various parts of the bakery.  As if taking the gunshot as a cue, more bullets ricocheted out of muzzles.  A momentary cacophony of screams and firing guns filled the air.

Almost as quickly as the chaos began, it went dead silent.  Meek groans of pain warbled from injured lips.  Faintly, Stella made out emergency phone calls being issued.  She wasn't too worried about anyone above ground though.  In her gut, she guessed the Seven Tribesmen were downstair
s—
under that false mop sink.

Stella caught the sound of Agent Grant placing her own emergency declaration over her radio.  She knelt beside the young man, blood dribbling from his chest.  Stella didn't wait to hear her prognosis.  Her feet padded to the mop sink.  Mildew and dirt clung to the sink, but something a little sharper hung in the air.

She reached for the latch, hauling up on the plastic.  The whole sink lifted upward, revealing a dark, grimy hole beneath.  A narrow stairway made its way down into a dark corridor, lighted by cheap fluorescent bulbs.  Without throwing a look over her shoulder, Stella raced down the flimsy stairs.  Her hand hovered over her holster.

A chill licked over her skin, shoving away all semblances of the warm day above.  She tried to walk as silently as she could.  In the semi-darkness, her ears ached and strained to pick up on any sound, imaginary or otherwise.  She licked her lips, her fingers adjusting their hold on her gun.  Near the end of the corridor, a dark rectangle was outlined in yellowish light.  A door.

Stella's heart shuddered as her ears picked up the dip and flow of conversation.  She stilled in the corridor, a few feet from the illuminated doorway.  Adrenaline pumped through her thoughts and her veins while her heart pounded against her ribs.  She concentrated on the conversation that wafted through the door, hoping to pick out some good news.

“Did you really think we'd let you live?” 
Thwack
.  The sound of something heavy hitting flesh echoed out of the room.  Stella swallowed down her rising bile.  “After all the shit you had us do?  Bringing the FBI to our door?  Asking us to help you, with no incentive?  Using us like dogs?”  Each question was punctuated by the same sickening sound of something slamming into flesh. 
Thwack thwack thwack
.  Someone groaned, low and painful.  Stella clenched her gun tightly.

“Well, think again.  We're on top now.”  Stella could hear the sick grin in the speaker's words.  Something metal slid off the table.  The definite
shink
of metal shearing against metal nipped at Stella's ears.  Her heart sank into her stomach.  “Now, it's your turn to be chopped liver.”

Shink, shink, shkkk.
  A howl erupted through the air, and the squirt of something spurting sunk into Stella's ears.  Bile and nausea fought for a place in her throat.  She forced herself to swallow it all down as her muscles tensed.  Despite the immediate instinct to charge forward and kick the door open, Stella's discipline kept her still.  There was no way to know where people were behind that door.  If she kicked it open, it could just rebound against her.  Where would that leave the Tribesmen?

Another agonizing scream lit through the air as another snap of the…shears…chunked against flesh.  Stella's stomach turned again.

“Shut him up!” snarled the speaker.  Instantly, the shriek became muffled.  A tense breath of silence filled the underground.  Stella held her breath, wondering if she had been found out.  She willed her heart to be quiet and her pounding blood vessels to shut up.  Relief skittered over her thoughts as the speaker spat, “It's too quiet up there.  You…go check on it.” 

“Yes, sir.”  The shifting of boots gave way to the squeak of the door.  Stella's heart sputtered, her dark-adjusted gaze taking a mental picture of the corridor.  There were no other adjoining halls, no other doors, no divots to hide behind.  She'd have to act. 

Light flooded the corridor, basking Stella in the garish yellow light.  The man in the doorway paused a step outside the room.  He and Stella exchanged stares.  His eyes widened in realization.  His mouth opened, and she imagined the warning, the scream, he would emit. 

She didn't give him a chance.

The sound of her two shots boomed in the corridor.  The man was sent flying backward as two slugs slammed into his chest. 

For a brief second, she and Bishop locked gazes.  Her heart twisted at the sight of him.  Blood oozed from his lips, one eye was blackened and swollen, and swollen lumps ringed down his jawline.  Around him, his men sat and, doubled over a pool of blood, Coyote held his hand.  A man stood over them, a bloodied hedge shear in hand.

Rage and fury burned in Stella's chest as she roared, “Get down!”

To Bishop, Stella looked like a wild-eyed angel glowing in that darkened cavern.  Relief, hope, and joy sang through his thoughts, but reality didn't want him to get ahead of himself.  His ears registered Stella's words before his mind ingested them.  Bishop's body worked instinctively.  With a renewed sense of strength, he flung himself over his brothers.  The men all wheezed and grunted under his weight, but willingly fell to the ground.

Gunshots whizzed and rang overhead as Stella forced herself closer to the room.  The sickening thunk of metal lodging into flesh peppered the air.  Strangled cries and obscenities lit into the air, as a couple men, including the one with the shears, dove to the ground.  Others fell backward, their chests full of led and blood streaming from their mouths.  Others became incapacitated by ricochets and friendly fire.  They were ready for their boss's beck and call, but were otherwise unprepared for a crazy armed fed. 

Just as Stella began to worry her magazine wouldn't be enough, her body registered heat beside her.  Agent Grant took up her position, firing her gun into the midst of the room.

The man who previously held the shears suddenly stood, hauling Coyote up as a shield in front of him.  A gun appeared in his hand, slicked with blood.  Stella held out a hand to Agent Grant.  Now that Coyote stood, she could see his hands were tied in front of him.  His fingers on his left hand were all mangled knots of blood and bone