Trip's Retribution (Hell Raiders MC Book 3) (5 page)

Tanya hurried once more to follow orders. The liquid she poured into the toilet looked like thin blood, and started her worrying all over. What if she had messed up and damaged Buffalo more than he already was? She'd be dead then, definitely not free.

Chapter Seven

Trip took the seat Maddox indicated and waited while the Rogues Prez tossed his cell phone onto the desk.

"Hate those damn things, but life is almost impossible without them these days." He opened a humidor and took out a sweet-smelling cigar. "Have one? Not Cubans, but still good."

"I heard that. I'm tempted to shoot my phone every time it makes a sound." Trip took a cigar, clipped the end and lit it after Maddox did his.

With pale hair below his shoulders and icy blue eyes, Maddox was often underestimated by rival clubs. They seemed to think he was too pretty to be a threat.

Trip didn't make that mistake. The bastard was cold as ice and would kill at the drop of a hat. The Hell Raiders had history with the River Rogues and the two clubs routinely engaged in business dealings. They had also allied against common foes in the past. Several years back, they joined up against a national club that wanted both their territories, and won.

The two exchanged small talk for several minutes, catching up on news and gossip. They knew many of the same people, and info was always a valuable commodity in their world. Plus, they both found it amusing as fuck to discuss a guy brought down when a bitch wired up because he'd fucked her friend.

Finally, Maddox seemed ready for business. "What brings you, Trip?" The chair creaked threateningly as he leaned back and crossed his long legs.

Trip exhaled and went over the details of the protection run. A clear cut deal felt good after the bullshit with the Saxons. It would take some time to get over that one. Tanya came to mind again and he had to work to focus on the deal instead of on how he might go back and steal her away.

"Of course." Maddox named the terms, the same as they usually agreed upon, and within minutes, the deal reached a successful conclusion. "You came up from Saxons territory?"

Trip's heart dropped to his feet. "Yeah?" The bastards probably put a hit on him, hoping to get a better cut of the protection deal. That was their style.

"You hear anything odd about their Prez?" The icy blue stare pinned him.

"Odd? How so?" Trip debated how much to tell the other President. The information could have value in the right hands. Maddox was a close ally though, and they tended to share info freely.

Seeming restless, Maddox picked up a pen and twirled it between his fingers. "He missed a meet with his parole officer and the excuse was that he's sick in bed. Makes me wonder if he didn't skip out. He's got a heavy stretch hanging over his head."

Trip snorted with laughter. "Yeah, sick in bed is one way to put it, I guess." He described Buffalo's injury. "My guess is he won't be out of bed any time soon, if ever. He didn't run, but he'll want to, if he ever wakes up to get a good look of the mess that's left of his dick."

Maddox winced at the details. "Shit. What'd he do to the chick?"

The question sobered Trip. "He raped her in the club room, like it was nothing more than a peck on the cheek." The memory pissed him off all over again. Why the fuck hadn't he stopped it? "It was bad, Maddox. We see a lot of bad shit in this world, but that was just about as nasty as it gets."

Pale eyebrows rose. "Fuck! Well, good for her then. We ain't all angels, but that kind of thing ain't good for a club. Sends the wrong message and next thing you know, some prospect is sticking it to an underage girl and getting hell rained down on everyone."

Trip nodded agreement. "You ever been to their compound?"

"Briefly, a few years ago. Why?" The other biker's sharp gaze missed nothing.

"This stays here, yeah?"

"Of course."

Trip took a deep breath and described what he'd seen at the Saxons compound, carefully watching the other man's expression all the while. Talking about it was a calculated risk. If the River Rogues President knew about, and didn't mind, whatever the Saxons did, he could alienate a powerful ally. Still, the chance for more information outweighed the risk.

Maddox's face hardened. "Slaves?"

"That's what she said." He watched carefully for any indication of the other man's thoughts. "And from what I saw, I don't doubt it. Something ain't right in that house, brother."

Maddox nodded. "That explains a few things. Over the last couple of years, I've heard rumors of girls disappearing who shouldn't have. You know, the kind with no risk factors. A few months ago, one of my boys came in talking about a new human trafficking operation he thought we should get into. I refused to even put it to a vote. Pussy trade is one thing, but that's a different critter."

Trip couldn't agree more. They talked a little more without finding a brilliant solution to the issue. Interfering with another club's business when it didn't cut into your own was frowned upon, for good reason. Motorcycle clubs were independent organizations by nature, no one seeking to thrust their version of morality on another.

Maddox finally stood, indicating the meeting was over, and Trip said his goodbyes and headed back downstairs to meet up with Stella so they could get back on the road.

***

The Death's Knights MC seemed like a throwback to the seventies. A small and deadly club, they used an actual house for the clubhouse. The rambling old Victorian had seen far better days, but it housed all the members and whichever females they chose to share their beds with. A dozen bikes sat on the rough lawn, along with one car.

Trip and Stella parked where they could get back on the road fast if the need arose, and walked up on the porch where another bike sat, the engine torn apart and tools strewn beside it. A woman answered their knock, signaling them to be quiet.

"Hanger around?" Trip let his gaze travel over the woman.

Maybe in her mid-twenties, she was a dead ringer for Cher back in the day. "Who's askin'?"

"None of your business. If he's up, he's expecting me. My Prez has been in touch." Some house bitch had no reason to ask his name. The urge to put her more firmly in her place hit hard, but Trip resisted. For all he knew, she could be someone important.

The woman smiled and long, straight black hair swung as she turned. "Hey, daddy, those boys you were expecting are here." She turned back to face them. "Come on in. He's in the kitchen." She walked away, hips swinging in a way that threatened to burn the place down and made his dick pay close attention.

Trip exchanged a glance with Stella, who shrugged, then followed her. Good thing he'd shut down the impulse to remind her whose world the MC was. Probably not a good idea to alienate the daughter of an allied Prez. Also probably not a great idea to ask if she belonged to anyone, or try to get in her pants. Still, he could look.

Inside, the Knights' house seemed mostly clean, although a layer of black grime surrounded the door the woman disappeared through. Decades of dirty greasy-covered hands touching the wall as they passed it had ground the filth in deep. The furnishings probably came from a second-hand place, but they weren't terrible.

Trip followed the dark hair and tempting hips through a narrow passage and into a big kitchen. Maybe tapping that would get the thoughts of Tanya out of his head, but he couldn't get up a lot of interest. Too much risk if her daddy didn't want his little girl playing with bikers.

The smell of cooking food permeated the room and the woman went immediately to the stove. She hummed a soft tune and returned to her cooking as if she had never been interrupted, acting oblivious to everything around her.

Hanger, the man he'd come to see, sat at a scarred wooden table rolling smoke. "Trip, long time, man." His dark beard nearly hid the welcoming grin as he returned to shredding his weed.

"Yeah it has been." Since the other man made no move to rise, Trip dropped into a chair across from him and watched the woman as she went about cooking. "Kellen tell you I was coming?"

"Yeah, man, said you needed to touch base on a protection run." He shook his head a little. "I told him no need, but he said it wouldn't be right unless it was all official like."

Trip grinned. "Kellen's like that, wants all his Is dotted and Ts crossed."

The older man shook his head again, then licked the edge of the rolling paper and closed the ends off. "This new generation, man, I don't get it. Running MCs like a damn business. If I wanted to do shit that way, man, I'd get a fucking job." He turned to rolling another smoke.

Over his head, the woman glanced at Trip and gave her head a slight shake. In other words, humor him?

He could do that, he supposed. "Yeah, I know. All the clubs are into making money these days. Not like it used to be."

"Don't make no sense to me, man." Seeming satisfied with his work, Hanger offered a joint to Trip. "This is good shit, man, go ahead and light up."

Trip considered a moment. Maybe a good smoke would get the bullshit from the Saxons and Buffalo out of his damn head. And Tanya. He lit up, took a deep drag of the acrid smoke and held it, passing the joint over to Stella.

The weed's pleasant calm washed over him and he relaxed back in his chair. Hanger chatted on about how times had changed, nostalgic for the good ol' days when outlaw MC was all about fucking, fighting and drugs. At the moment, Trip didn't give a fuck. Nothing mattered but getting rid of the tension from the fucked up shit with Tanya and the Saxons. Gradually, the buzz pushed it away.

He let the conversation drift around him, content to just sit and watch. Hanger's daughter put a plate of scrambled eggs with bacon and toast in front of him and he ate every bite without question. By the time the buzz began to wear off, his belly was full and his ass wasn't happy about the hard chair.

A glance at Stella confirmed the time to move on had arrived. A few farewells later, they climbed on their bikes. A moment of regret struck Trip. He missed chilling with old-timers like Hanger. A few Raiders were older, but he rarely found time to just shoot the bull with them. He needed to do that more often, kind of stay in touch with what the MC should be about.

The wind in his face and the roar of the engine washed away the rest of the bad vibes from before. The miles melted away and he deliberately skirted Saxons territory even though doing so added another hour or more to the ride. He'd rather another full day on the road than to get sucked into that nightmare again.

Shortly after nightfall, he and Stella blew into Stags Leap and past Rita's Rattlesnake. No bikes in the lot meant the Raiders were either back at the clubhouse or at their own places, so they didn't stop.

A few bikes sat in haphazard-looking locations around the big converted farmhouse the Hell Raiders called home. The big barn hulked over it all, long since repurposed to storage for the weapons, gear and supplies Kellen accumulated in case whatever kind of shit hit the proverbial fan. He parked in his usual spot, not far from the side door near his room.

He paused to stretch with a groan. Long hours on the road never got easier. He was starting to understand why some old-timers switched to trikes. The thought of just falling into his bed for about twenty hours appealed to him in a big way. Unfortunately, he had to brief Kellen on the meets first. Even a shower and clean clothes would have to wait. Duty before comfort.

Someone had already informed Kellen of their arrival, and Trip found him waiting in his office. The Hell Raiders president rose from his seat to clasp Trip's arm and slap his back in their usual greeting.

"Glad you made it home, brother."

Trip dropped into the extra chair. "You and me both, man. Shit got tight there for a bit with the Saxons. Those fuckers...Well, let's just say I'd rather not go back there." He shook a cigarette from his pack and lit up, wishing fondly for more of Hanger's weed.

Kellen, looking just as tired as Trip felt, leaned back and propped his booted feet on the desk. "We cleared to pass through?"

"Yeah." He took a deep drag from his cigarette. "We have to cross through Saxons territory, huh?"

Kellen shrugged. "It'll save us time and money. We don't have to go play with them."

Trip took a deep breath. "One of us at least has to stop in and see how Buffalo's doing. He's the type to take serious insult if we didn't." He gave a condensed version of their stay with the Saxons.

"We can do that. The run is reason enough to keep it short and sweet. We say hi, be all nice and sorry for the idiot, then get back to work."

"Alright, we'll do it. Just don't say I didn't warn you." Trip levered himself to his feet, almost groaning from the ache in his back. "I'm going to grab a shower and hit the rack for a little while. Fucking tired."

"It'll work out okay, no worries. Get some rest and we'll work out the rest of the details in a couple hours. No time to waste. The client stepped up the schedule."

"Schedule? What's he want us to do, check in along the way or something?" The stubborn streak in Trip rebelled at the very idea.

Kellen grinned a little. "Nah, man. As long as this load goes through smoothly, we have a contract. Run once a week, sometimes twice."

Well fuck. Trip absorbed the information and just nodded and kept his opinion to himself. A contract like that would spread the Hell Raiders thin—not a problem during peaceful times, but if anyone decided to make a move against them, they could be vulnerable. He didn't like it. Not his place to say, though.