Possession (12 page)

Tina absolutely hated dinner meetings with new clients. Stuck at a downtown restaurant with an executive and doctor from one of the local hospitals seeking counsel on a malpractice case, she scribbled notes on her legal tablet. After several minutes of intense listening, she set her pen down and reached for her glass of chardonnay. Another attorney from James and Bronte sat across the table, engaging the doctor in a personal conversation.

“Did you catch that last part, Ms. Bethel?” the executive asked.

“I know the county judge awarded the complainant $475,000, but I'm sure the state district judge will lower the award amount so it complies with the state law limit of $250,000 per claim.”

The woman leaned closer. “Dr. Gideon misdiagnosed her with stage four breast cancer two years ago. She underwent months of painful chemotherapy and had a mastectomy. With three grown children and a husband, I'm pretty sure we can count on a civil suit. That means millions of dollars are at stake. We've been accused of insurance fraud twice this year, too. I can't tell you how detrimental this has been to the hospital's reputation—the negative media response has been devastating. Our quarterly profits are down twenty percent already.”

Tina gritted her teeth. She didn't specialize in medical cases, and had agreed to the meeting only as a favor for a coworker who was out with the flu. Her duties were limited to taking detailed notes and assuring the clients that her firm could win the appeal. Never mind her personal feelings; the poor patient they were discussing had suffered egregiously. Second opinions were obviously worth their weight in gold.

“Jacqueline Lambert should be back in the office early next week. I plan on discussing your situation with her tonight over the phone. James and Bronte has a perfect record in medical malpractice cases.”

“I'm fully aware.” The woman sipped on her gin and tonic. “That's why I chose you.”

“I'm pleased to hear that,” Tina replied. Part of her job requirements included attracting new clients. But this didn't really count; she couldn't credit herself with recommending her firm. Word of mouth between clients is what gained the most business in the legal system. “I've prepared a statistical analysis and similar case history so you can review our record.” She reached inside her unzipped briefcase sitting on the floor at her feet and produced a file. “This should address any questions you have.”

“Thank you.” The woman took it.

“If you'll excuse me for a moment,” Tina said, pushing her chair back. “I need to use the restroom.” She grabbed her purse off the back of her seat, then walked toward the back of the restaurant.

The bathrooms were located near the bar. She passed behind the customers seated on stools at the long, polished wood counter. The restaurant motif reflected an Old West saloon, with crystal chandeliers and beveled mirrors lining the walls. A musician manned an old upright piano in the corner, playing jazz tunes. She smiled as she entered the women's room, desperate to escape work-related stuff.

She chose the stall at the end of the row, stepped inside, and locked the door. Vincent hadn't called or texted all day. She checked email and missed calls. Nothing still. It didn't alarm her too much, but a seed of concern had taken root inside her stomach. She responded to a text from Lily and liked a couple of posts on Facebook.

How could a doctor ethically deny responsibility for such a serious mistake? Medical science wasn't a perfect art, but hell—Tina knew when to admit she'd screwed up. It boggled her mind and left her feeling more than grateful that she chose family law as a specialty. But the problem with working at such a large firm was dealing with an overabundance of litigation. Often the lines were convoluted because of a shortage of qualified personnel, and attorneys hired for one field of concentration were often assigned to other cases they had no interest in.

And she didn't want to be forced to provide any kind of support on this case. Very rarely did she reject a client. Yet if she had a say in this one, she'd send the good doctor packing. She stashed her iPhone back in her purse.

Before leaving the restroom, she stopped in front of the mirror at the vanity to check her makeup. As she pulled her compact from her purse, she heard the door open but didn't pay attention to who came in. She powdered her nose and applied a fresh layer of lipstick before deciding it was time to join her guests again. Couldn't she blame a migraine for leaving early?

Just as she reached the door, a shadow moved in her periphery, then someone slammed her against the wall.

“Don't scream,” Kline growled in her face. “Best to hear me out before you react.”

Fear and rage spiraled through her. The son of a bitch had crossed the line this time by touching her. Her hands trembled, but she sucked in a breath and looked him directly in the eyes. “Don't touch me again.”

“If you'd paid attention to me before, I wouldn't need to go to such extremes. Are you listening now?”

She swallowed and stared unblinking at the dangerous psycho in front of her, her back still pressed against the brickwork wall. Who knew what he'd do if she yelled for help? There were no windows in the bathroom and there was only one way out. Maybe if she gave him a chance to say his piece, he'd leave without further incident.

“What do you want?”

“At this moment?” He fingered a strand of her hair, conjuring a wave of nausea that made her want to throw up. “Say my name.”

“Mr. Barnes.”

“My. First. Name.”

And give him the satisfaction? She might be smaller than him, but she had guts and a whole lot of pride. “Fuck off.”

His face contorted and turned bright red. “You have no breeding, Ms. Bethel, bad manners, and obviously no respect for your betters.”

“My better?” She laughed. “Get out of my way.” She shoved him with all her strength, but he didn't budge.

Instead, he gripped her left wrist, squeezing until she yelped. “There are two ways to do this,” he said calmly. “Cooperate or make me hurt you.”

Tina nearly cried when the door opened and two women entered the room.

“Hey,” the blonde in front said. “Are you okay?” She stared at Tina, then Kline, who refused to turn around.

“Don't say a word,” Kline threatened under his breath. “You'll regret it.”

“F-fine,” Tina lied. “
He
was just leaving.”

Kline shot her a last glazed look of desperation, then tucked his chin low, before he shoved his way out of the restroom. Somehow Tina managed to wobble to the loveseat across from the vanity. She dropped her purse on the cushion next to her, then covered her face with both hands. Tears streamed down her face, but she refused to make any noise. She could sense the presence of the other women, and a few seconds later, one of them gently tapped her arm.

She looked up through the blur of tears and saw a glass of water in the blonde's hand.

“Drink this, sweetie,” she said. “Boyfriend trouble?”

Tina gulped the water down like she hadn't drunk anything in a week. “Thank you,” she said. “I'm fine, really.”

The blonde's friend tsked at her. “If you were fine, there'd be no tears. Did he hurt you?” She offered Tina a clump of toilet paper.

She looked at her wrist; angry red welts had already surfaced where he'd gripped her too hard. There'd be bruising by morning. “No,” she fibbed again. “I should be okay.” She wiped her eyes with the tissue, then climbed to her feet. “I can't thank you enough for chasing him off.”

She crossed the floor, fixed her makeup, blotted away her tearstains, then straightened her skirt and blouse.

“Sure we can't help?” the blonde offered again.

“My friends are waiting for me.”

The women watched her leave in silence. Embarrassment heated her cheeks as she rushed to get away.

As soon as she reached the bar area, she stopped and took another deep breath. A hundred questions went through her head. Like how Kline knew where she was. The dinner had been a last-minute thing, so it wasn't even on the schedule book. Just how often did he follow her? Busy with everyday life, she'd forgotten to remain vigilant sometimes. Sure, she glanced in her rearview mirror a few extra times when she drove to and from work. Yes, she locked her door after she got home and kept her curtains closed. But she never imagined he'd escalate to the point where he'd sneak into the ladies' room in a five-star restaurant and attack her.

There'd been no phone calls the last couple of days. She'd assumed he'd given up. But it appeared his silence meant something different altogether. He'd obviously stewed over the last forty-eight hours, and lashed out the first opportunity he had.

Jesus.
She wanted to go home and curl up with Vincent. Whenever they were together, the world around her melted away. And she felt safe. Very safe. Standing in the bar alone made her feel awkward and exposed. She dug in her wallet and pulled out a twenty-dollar bill, then walked up to the waitress station at the counter. A server holding a tray smiled at her.

“Can I get you something?” she asked.

“A shot of tequila.” Tina dropped the bill on her tray. “Get it now, and you can keep the change.”

The waitress presented her with a shot glass thirty seconds later, and Tina consumed it in one swallow. It burned all the way down her throat, but she needed liquid courage to return to her table with a sense of control over her emotions. She placed the shot glass on the bar, squared her shoulders, and headed back to the restaurant side of the building.

“We were starting to worry about you,” her colleague commented as she reclaimed her chair.

“Sorry for the delay,” she said. “I ran into a friend at the bar.”

After spending another hour with their clients, Tina and her coworker bid them good night and walked together to the parking lot. He made sure she reached her SUV safely, then climbed into his own truck parked nearby and waved at her before he pulled into the street.

Vincent corralled Dog Tag on one side of the gazebo while the president of the Man-o-Wars did the same with Crash. They'd shared their choice with everyone. Although some doubters disliked it, no one could challenge or overrule the decision. In order to prevent real bloodshed, this needed to happen.

“Why can't we do it somewhere else?” Dog Tag questioned, his gaze focused somewhere over Vincent's shoulder.

“We need witnesses from both clubs to legitimize the outcome. What matters most is that both of you get to walk away from this alive.”

“Only one of us deserves to.”

“Maybe,” Vincent said. “But our personal opinions no longer matter. Once you're ready, one of the Man-o-Wars will frisk you for weapons.” He gripped Dog Tag by the shoulders and gave him a firm shake. He needed to realize how important this was, why Vincent had chosen this approach. “Don't let rage blind you. Remember why you're doing this.”

He took a deep breath and stepped out of Vincent's reach. “I don't want Saline watching.”

“I disagree,” Vincent said. “Let her witness how far this club is willing to go to protect our own. What better test of loyalty? Let's see what happens the second after you draw blood from that crazy motherfucker. If she's truly devoted to the Sons of Odin, she'll stand strong.”

Vincent respected a woman who followed her mind and heart. If Dog Tag didn't want to know how far she'd go, Vincent did. Would she crack if she saw her ex get hurt, or accept that the charter needed to hold Crash accountable for his disrespect?

Vincent's cell vibrated in his vest pocket. He fished it out, glanced at the screen, then sighed. Tina would have to wait. He slipped it back in his pocket and waited for his Brother to respond.

“Whatever you say,” Dog Tag conceded.

“Good.” Vincent slapped him on the back. “Time to get this over with.”

He led Dog Tag out of the gazebo, well beyond the picnic tables and grill. Sand and water made up the boundaries of the fight arena. Better than asphalt in a parking lot or a clubhouse full of furniture.

Chez joined them with Crash at his side. “We agree to the terms. The last man standing wins.”

Members from both clubs formed a wide circle around the four of them, shielding them from view of any outsiders. The sun had already set and the streetlights were on. Vincent approached Crash, his hands fisted at his sides, a snarl on his face.

“I'm going to check for weapons,” Vincent said, patting him from his shoulders down. Satisfied he didn't find anything, Vincent nodded at Chez.

The president of the Man-o-Wars did the same to Dog Tag. “Done.” He retreated into the circle, leaving his Brother to stand on his own.

Vincent shook Dog Tag's hand, then claimed his spot next to J.T. He knew Dog Tag had what it took to end this quick. Time to show the inferior Man-o-Wars how real 1%ers handled their business.

Crash was a blur of motion as he scooped up a fistful of sand and attacked Dog Tag. Unprepared, Dog Tag stumbled back a foot from the impact of the body slam, spitting at the same time. The son of a bitch fought dirty, and Vincent growled as he watched Dog Tag blink to clear his vision. Crash grinned sadistically, waiting for Dog Tag to recover.

Big mistake. Dog Tag landed a crushing blow to Crash's cheek, following up with a swift kick of his boot heel to his shin. This time Crash retreated in obvious pain, but Dog Tag didn't relent. He went at him like a battering ram, delivering a combination of punches to his chin.

“Like hurting women?” Dog Tag yelled. “Like leaving scars?”

Crash huffed out a breath. All that drinking hadn't done him any favors; he appeared out of shape and tired already. He missed one hit, but landed another on the shoulder of his opponent, who laughed bitterly and started to do fancy footwork like a prize boxer. The Sons of Odin members cheered him on.

“Make him your bitch.”

“Fuck him up, Brother.”

Vincent knew what his Brother, a former member of the Special Forces, was capable of. And if he doubted Dog Tag's ability to rein in his raw strength and temper, he'd never question him again after this fight. Or maybe it was intentional, and he wanted to play with his prey the way lions did before the kill. There were a couple more whacks before Crash fell to his knees, shaking his head in confusion.

Dog Tag stepped back, likely returning the favor of granting his rival a second to gather his bearings. Only Dog Tag didn't fight like a bitch. What you saw was what you got.

“Get up!” Chez yelled.

Crash reacted immediately, staggering to his feet. Dog Tag came at him again, sweeping his right foot underneath his boots, sending him back to the sand. Then Dog Tag leaped on top of him, straddling his head.

“Admit what you did to Saline.”

The circle of bodies shifted, some of the Brothers closing in on the two fighters.

“Confess,” Dog Tag demanded, using his powerful legs like a vise.

Crash kicked his feet, but didn't answer.

Dog Tag punched him in the nose, his chest heaving for air. “Goddamnit,” he spat. “There's no way you're getting me off your chest. Saline!”

Vincent looked to his right, where Saline was sandwiched between John and Lurch. He didn't want her directly involved, but if he contested now, Dog Tag would look weak in front of the Man-o-Wars.

“Want me to stop her?” J.T. asked.

“No.”

“Saline,” Dog Tag called to her again.

She emerged, face flushed, but determined to go to him. “I'm here.” Slowly she walked across the circle, until she stood where Dog Tag could see her.

He wrapped his hand around Crash's throat, then gazed up at her. “I'd never ask you to do anything that would hurt you.”

“I know.”

“Show the Brothers what this asshole did to you. Let them see why I took you away from him.”

Crash made a pathetic attempt to use his body weight to knock Dog Tag off balance, but Dog Tag simply squeezed his neck to maintain control of him.

Saline eyeballed the closest men in the crowd, looking nervous and unsure of herself. Vincent couldn't leave her standing there alone. He quietly came up behind her.

“I've got your back,” he said.

“B-but…” she whispered.

“No one will lose any respect for you.”

“Please.” Dog Tag lowered his voice. “Do this for me.”

She nodded. “Okay.” She lifted her sweater over her head, removing it completely so she was standing in her bra and jeans.

Vincent watched a chill spiral through her body, but he didn't know if the cool breeze coming in off the water could be blamed. She found the courage to present herself to Chez first, standing with her back to him, waiting for him to say something.

Then, one by one, she moved down the line. Vincent overheard some of the grumbling, whispers about her background or what a godforsaken piece of shit Crash was for scarring her. It didn't matter what everyone else thought, just what Dog Tag believed. Vincent kept a sharp eye on her as she finished with the last two members of the Sons of Odin, then returned to her place near Dog Tag.

“Brave girl,” Dog Tag praised her. “Now put your shirt back on and get in Vincent's truck.”

Vincent nodded his approval and stepped aside so she could pass.

After she disappeared, Crash gripped Dog Tag's wrist in protest. “She's a lying bitch.”

“Not to me,” Dog Tag said, then hit him again so hard, it knocked him out. He climbed to his feet, giving his adversary a last look. “In my eyes she's innocent,” he announced to the crowd. “And the Sons of Odin have a proud tradition of protecting helpless victims.”

Vincent stared at his Brother with deeper respect, knowing he'd learned a valuable lesson the hard way. No further punishment required. “Saline goes home with us,” he said directly to Chez. “No retaliation. No blood grudge against Dog Tag or our club.”

Chez offered his hand, ready for a shake. That's when Vincent heard a loud pop, like a firecracker. Someone had a fucking gun. Instinctively, he reached for his pistol and spun around. Blood pounded in his ears as he discovered a Man-o-War with his face planted in the sand, a bullet hole through the back of his skull.

What the fuck?
J.T. still held the smoking handgun. Vincent couldn't believe his eyes. “What happened?” This wasn't supposed to happen. No death. Especially gunshots and blood everywhere. Civilians weren't that far away; some fishermen were on the pier, and who knew where else.

Chez and his sergeant-at-arms had pistols aimed at J.T., but they didn't seem too keen on pulling the triggers yet.

“Take a closer look.” J.T. gestured at the body.

Inches from Dog Tag, the dead Man-o-War still had a switchblade gripped in his hand.

“Came at him without warning,” J.T. explained, as detached as Clint Eastwood after a standoff in one of his flicks. “Couldn't risk my Brother getting stabbed in the back.”

Dog Tag raked his fingers through his hair, eyes filled with anger. “He aimed that knife at me?”

J.T. nodded.

Dog Tag glared at Chez. “Motherfucker would have taken me out.”

Chez holstered his firearm. “I'd say you served up more than a little justice tonight.”

J.T.'s actions were defendable. The terms of this meeting had been set and agreed upon. Coming at Dog Tag when his back was turned with the intention of stabbing him in the back earned the dead man a bullet to the head. Enough said. There was no love lost between these charters, but Vincent trusted the Man-o-War president for some reason. He felt it deep in his gut. But that didn't extend to the other members of his organization, who resembled dogs of war at the moment.

The need for further retribution boiled Vincent's insides too. He couldn't help it. Eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth…

Sirens sounded in the distance.

Vincent jumped into action, directing his members what to do and where to go. He thrust his hand in Chez's, the silent handshake solidifying the tone of their future meetings. Respect had been established at a high cost, but secured nonetheless.

“Get out of here, J.T.,” Vincent demanded, shoving him toward the parking lot where the bikes waited. “I'll drive Dog Tag and Saline. And destroy that gun before you return to the clubhouse.”

The Sons of Odin carried untraceable firearms, one of the benefits of being gunrunners. They had access to an endless supply.

Vincent cleared the food and drinks off the trestle table with a sweep of his hands, then two Brothers folded the table and thrust it into the bed of the truck—no evidence could be left behind. Vincent jumped into the driver's side, revved the engine Saline had probably started, and drove down the beach. There'd be hell to pay if the police found that body.

Vincent gazed at Saline, then Dog Tag. “It's over.”

She didn't look convinced. “I knew that guy, a real asshole.”

Dog Tag slid his arm around her shoulders. “Crash is done. And so is his fucking dead friend. Remember who your real family is.”

Vincent could never forget. The creed of the Sons of Odin had always been live hard, die hard. If that meant putting a bullet through the back of the heads of a few Man-o-Wars to protect a Brother, so be it.

J.T. had done it for the club. End of story.