Hell on Wheels (Four Horsemen MC Book 6) (15 page)

“Coyote,” Axel started tiredly. “I don’t even know what the fuck Tumblr is, let alone a BAMF.” Other than the computer systems he used to run the business and do diagnostics on vehicles, he didn’t touch the damn things.

“Right, my bad,” Coyote said with a nod. “These dicks are badass motherfuckers,” he translated. “Only, I ain’t usin’ it in an ironic sense.”

Axel stroked his jaw, the hair crisp beneath his fingertips. He needed some sleep, a shave, a shower. Maybe a shot or two of somethin’ hard. “Okay, lay it on me. What the hell are we dealing with?”

Coyote sighed. “There’s a lot. I ain’t even right real sure where to begin, but let’s go with the social media thing for a minute. They post pictures of themselves with the people they’ve killed.”

What the fuck?

“Yeah, you heard me. Murder selfies.” He moved the screen around so Axel could see and sure enough, there was a man holding a rifle next to a slumped figure dotted with red. And it wasn’t paint.

“Who
are
these assholes?” Axel muttered.

“Yeah, the cartels use social media for lots of stuff. I’m guessin’ this one was a warning, as in ‘don’t fuck with us, or we’ll shoot your ass and GIF it’.”

He scrolled through a couple of sites with even more grisly photos while Axel stared, too disturbed to say anything.

“They also use it for recruitment purposes,” Coyote explained. “And the Mexican police are either on their payroll or too scared to do squat about it.”

“They recruit by showing corpses?  Join up so you can be a killer, too?” Axel asked. He didn’t know how to deal with people who treated murder as entertainment. For these bastards, posting kills was like putting a photo on Facebook of you and your kids fishing or something.

“Yeah, my guess is they’re after the psychopath market. Oh, and speaking of recruitment, do you know they have branding?”

Axel stared at him, slack-jawed. “What? They slap a logo on their heroin? Like its Coca-Cola or Xerox?”

“Yeah, it makes sense in some twisted way. You’d want people to know where the drugs came from, so they could get more.” Coyote pulled up photos on one seized drug shipment, showing three stylized R’s.
Tres Erre.

“And what happened to the people the border patrol caught?” Axel asked.

“I had to do a bit of hacking, but all four of them mysteriously committed suicide in prison,” Coyote said.

“What are the odds?” The cartel had to have men on the inside who’d taken care of it. Axel guessed they had a lot of people on the payroll: crooked cops, border agents, lawyers. They’d need a lot of wheels greased to keep this operation moving.

Coyote pulled up yet another website, an article. “Are you ready? Because it gets worse. They use children to pick the heroin poppies.”

Axel gritted his teeth. “Why?”

“Because they’ve got little hands and they’re shorter. It’s easier for them to get between the plants without disturbing them.” He sighed. “Most of them drop out of school to get the cash their family needs to survive. They’re preying on poor people.”

Axel didn’t think he’d actually find an organization worse than the Dixie Mafia, but these bastards took the asshat crown. Of course, the club wouldn’t be in this fix if it weren’t for fucking Beauregard and his mafia bastard buddies.

“The cartels own huge sections of Mexico, and they guard their territory with guns and terror tactics.” Coyote blew out a slow breath. “Do you know they post signs telling people if you’re out on the streets at night, you’re fair game? Like it’s some kind of twisted video game.”

 “So we’re fucked,” Axel said.

“Yeah, pretty much.”

Well, Axel had wanted to know what they were headed into, and now he did. Not that it made a bit of difference. They were in bed with the Dixie mafia and now the cartel. Axel wanted to roll up on these bastards with some serious firepower and wipe all of their asses out. But that was wishful thinking.

Instead, they’d be the delivery men for these fucking psychopaths.

***

Charlie met with the housekeeper, Nettie Sinclair, who was every bit as frosty in person as she’d been over the phone. Nettie seemed to be in her late fifties with steely gray hair pulled into a tight bun at the back of her head. She wore a black suit covered by a crisp, white apron.

They were seated at a small table in a room off the kitchen. It had a row of lockers, which Charlie assumed belonged to the servants who worked at Beauregard Manor. There was also a fridge, a sink, and a microwave on a little cart.

“Unlike his father,” Nettie Sinclair continued on bitterly, “Mr. Beauregard prefers to interview and hire potential employees. However, I’m the one who actually manages the household staff. You’ll be reporting to me, and I’ll evaluate your work.”

Yep, there’s a power play going on here.
And Charlie was right in the middle of it. She was suddenly glad she hadn’t ever had a formal job. Was everyone such a raging bitch in the workplace?

Nettie continued. “Mr. Beauregard declined to ask for your references, which I think is a huge mistake.”

That wasn’t a question, so Charlie didn’t reply.

The woman scowled at her. “Do you have any references you’d care to share with me? I’d be happy to call them.”

“Nope,” Charlie said.

Keeping cool in situations like this took lot of practice, but she wasn’t ruffled by the woman’s demeanor. Since Beauregard had hired her, Charlie figured all of this bluster was for show, and she wasn’t going to knuckle under.

“I see.” She pushed her black-framed glasses further up her narrow nose. “Now seems an opportune moment for me to inform you of the rules. You’ll report to work on time and while you’re here, you’ll stay on task. If I catch you lounging around in a room or talking on your cell phone, I’ll recommend that Mr. Beauregard fire you on the spot. Do you understand?”

“Yes.” Charlie knew she was being terse, but the less she said, the shorter this meeting would be.

“Let’s talk about theft then. I will report you to the police and punish you to the fullest extent of the law if I find even one item missing.”

“I understand.” Charlie grinned, but mostly to bare her teeth. She mentally dubbed Nettie,
Ms. Crabapple
. She and Scott had once lived in an apartment with crabapple trees out front. Crabapples were small, bitter, wild apples, and the nickname suited Nettie.

“First of all, let me give you your uniforms.” She pulled three black and white maid outfits from a nearby closet and handed them to Charlie.

Fantastic, she’d be guest starring in the Texas version of
Downton Abbey
for the next few months. But Charlie hid her dismay and laid the hangers across the back of the chair next to hers. Of course Beauregard would insist his household staff wear livery. He probably made them bow down, too.

Ms. Crabapple continued to share the rules. “These must be kept in good repair. And that brings us to the subject of your hair.” The woman looked Charlie up and down as though she were something repulsive she’d found clinging to a drain. “It should be worn up at all times.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

 “Very well then. You’ll report to work at eight a.m. sharp tomorrow. You’ll have one half hour for lunch and two fifteen-minute breaks which will be timed by me. Staff aren’t permitted to eat household food, so bring your lunch with you. You’ll leave at 5:00 p.m. and not a second before. Do you have any questions?”

How did you get that stick so far up your butt?

She’d need a proctologist to remove it. Maybe some lube. A plunger? But Charlie had the good sense not to say all of that. Instead, she just shook her head. “No, ma’am. See you tomorrow.” She picked up her naughty maid costumes and walked out of the room.

But after she’d emptied Byron’s safe, she intended to grab Ms. Crabapple’s purse, too, and go on a little shopping spree.

***

Cleaning the home of her worst enemy sucked ass.

Three hours into her first day of work as a maid, Charlie decided she hated cleaning with a fiery passion. She’d come to this revelation as she knelt beside the toilet in the east wing of Beauregard’s mansion, elbow-deep in someone else’s crap bowl.

Ms. Crabapple followed her around from room to room, watching her performance with critical eyes and shouting directives. And that was after she’d given Charlie a checklist with all of the duties for various rooms, as if she didn’t know that she should dust, make the bed, etc. It wasn’t rocket science, but it
was
backbreaking. Her back ached, her knees were sore, and she was sweating like crazy.

Thankfully, she caught a break after lunch and was assigned to clean the study. Charlie barely managed to keep her glee in check. After downing the lunch Voodoo had made for her, she grabbed a bucket of cleaning supplies and walked into the office. Charlie shut the door behind her, leaning against it, and barely resisted the urge to do a victory dance.

 Yes!

 She glanced at the vault but didn’t stare too long. Coyote had warned her about the cameras. In all likelihood, she was being filmed, so she did her best to not look suspicious. She wouldn’t even be touching the damn thing that day.

Instead of running over to the safe, Charlie dusted the desk and tried to appear casual as she set aside the pen holder, the stapler, and the phone. She calmly brushed her feather duster over the surface. She dusted the computer screen then the tower, and as she moved it “to get a better dusting angle”, she surreptitiously slid the black thumb drive out of her pocket and pushed it into one of the ports in the back. She pressed the tower back into place then hit Enter. The computer made a whirling noise, signaling the virus had been uploaded.

Easy-peasy.

 “Charlie?”

She glanced up to see the housekeeper standing in the doorway. Good Lord, that woman was quiet as a cat. “Oh, hi there.” Charlie smiled, hoping she didn’t appear too startled. “Yes?”

She watched Charlie with narrowed eyes. “What were you doing by the desk?”

Charlie wanted to say “cleaning, duh” but doubted that would do her any favors. “Just dusting.” She held up the duster as proof.

Ms. Crabapple’s lips thinned.
Maybe she doesn’t need a stick-removal operation. She needed a personality implanted instead.
“Yes, well, it’s nearly time to go for the day. I need you to put extra towels in Mr. Beauregard’s room.”

Beauregard’s bedroom? Charlie would rather not, but the day had been an exercise in doing things she didn’t want to do. “Of course.”

The housekeeper walked out, and Charlie snagged the thumb drive and tossed it back into her pocket. She paused to look over her shoulder at the computer one last time on her way out.

Come on, Coyote. Work your magic.

***

Charlie found towels in the linen closet at the end of the hallway on the third floor. She grabbed an armful, figuring it was better to be safe than asked to do it again, and hauled them up to the fourth floor. The housekeeper had given her a layout that morning of the manor on a handy little diagram, which she intended to give Axel whenever they met next. Or had a date. Whenever they had a date/meeting soon.

She finally reached the room and knocked on the door before she entered. “Housekeeping,” she announced before she strolled in.

From the closed door on the opposite end of the room, she heard the sound of running water.
Maybe he’s washing the murder away in there.

Charlie couldn’t resist the opportunity to look around. She’d been marveling at the place since she’d gotten there. All of the rooms were furnished in the antebellum style, and this bedroom was no exception. There was a long cheval glass mirror, and two velvet armchairs set in front of a fireplace. Oriental rugs covered the floor. In the center of the room stood a four-poster cherry wood bed. It was massive, standing around a couple feet off the ground with a little stool beside the bed.

She placed the bundle of towels on the antique trunk at the end of the bed. That’s when she noticed his billfold, lying on top of it, next to Beauregard’s silver Rolex. Coyote had already informed her he hadn’t found any camera feeds in this room.

 Her sticky fingers twitch in anticipation. She picked up the wallet.  It was made of smooth, supple leather. She thumbed through the cash. He had a little over two thousand bucks. And then she slid out his delicious black limitless Centurion card. She couldn’t resist touching the plastic.

But this wasn’t the time or the place.

Biting the inside of her cheek, she tucked the black beauty away and replaced his wallet on the trunk.

In the corner of the room, Charlie found Beauregard’s discarded clothing. In this light, she could almost swear the collar was spattered with dried blood. It was brown and crusty-looking.

Oh, God…he
was
washing away a murder in the bathroom.

“Remember when I said you would see and hear things that must never leave this place?”

Charlie shrieked, whirling around with a hand on her heart. She’d been so busy gaping at everything, she wasn’t paying attention.

Beauregard stood there, dripping on the carpet, with a hand towel pressed against his privates.

 Charlie tried hard not to stare, but it was impossible. Naked and wet looked good on him. He had big, muscular arms and his abs were well-defined. She bet he spent a lot of time in the gym. Beauregard had a lazy line of crisp, golden hair below his navel that disappeared behind the terry cloth.

“Like what you see?” he asked with a smirk.

And…then she remembered he was a murdering psychopath who’d killed her father. Any sexual admiration was effectively quashed. Charlie hastily looked away.

 “I’m so sorry.” Charlie tossed him a towel from the end of the bed. “I’ll get out of your way.” She scurried to the door when he snagged her elbow.

Charlie gasped, turning towards him. “Uh, hey. What are you—”

“Relax. I don’t have anything untoward in mind.” He released her and folded the larger towel around his waist.