Blood and Honor (24 page)

***

Sometimes, just when you thought you had everything figured out, everything went sideways. Then, when you looked back at all that had occurred, somehow, things made perfect sense—like there had been a plan to it all along.

From what Mickey had overheard, something big was going down at the port, and the Phantoms were deeply enmeshed in it. Wince had spoke in low tones in the bathroom, but she heard all she needed to know. He mentioned a rat at the Phantoms’ table. That was bad. Then she heard Thatcher’s godforsaken name. And then she heard the words “port,” and “loading dock.”

Mickey went on autopilot after that.

In this kind of place, it was easy to get her hands on a weapon. Wince had a fully operational nine stashed in the toilet tank—he probably had forgotten it was there. Then, she waited. Wince was visibly agitated, and even though it was pretty obvious he didn’t want to leave her alone, this club business wasn’t something that could wait. Sooner or later, Wince was going to have to take a break from babysitting her.

It happened more sooner than later. Mickey was relieved that her ankle was significantly better. Thanks to the drip the club doc had insisted upon, she was hydrated too. Now, all she had to do was get to the shipping yard and find Thatcher.

And take his ass out.

It was something she was surprised she hadn’t considered doing years ago. Mickey hefted her backpack onto her shoulder and headed downstairs. Then, she sucked it up, batted her lashes and turned on the charm. The old man, Tank, was pretty banged up—for the better part of an hour, she’d watched the man take down a fifth of whiskey and lament the direction the club was taking.

He was an easy mark. He talked up a storm and then his eyes fell closed right there in the yard. After she poured the snoring man a glass of water, Mickey was out the door. There was an old bus line that she was hoping still stopped a few miles down the street. It would take her straight to the port. Thanks to Tank, she knew exactly where the Phantoms unloaded their cargo.

With any luck, she would get to Thatcher before anyone discovered her.

Chapter Fifty-Three

It was
him.

It had been years, but she would never forget the man who starred in her nightmares. She forced herself to scrutinize him. Thatcher looked…smaller. Less intimidating somehow. There was a subtle softening to his face and lines around his eyes. The piece of shit was old when he tried to buy her body the first time, and he was even older now.

A massive container was lowered to the dock. The monster signaled to a man wearing a cut and he rushed over with a crow bar. She could just make out the words on the back of the man’s leather.
Los Chicos.
A shudder went down her spine as things started to fall into place. These boys were in with the cartel and they were still up to no good, from the looks of things. Mickey began to shake as the memories overwhelmed her.

No!
Now is not the time to be weak,
she scolded herself. To no avail. Her vision started to go dark around the edges. Mickey realized that she had made a grave tactical error. She was going to pass out in the middle of a loading dock that was crawling with the very people who wanted her dead. Mickey reached into her waistband with shaking fingers. She had to do it now. Before it was too late.

Another man joined the first one to work the container door. It opened with a creak. At first, nothing happened. Then, a few seconds later, a collective sound issued from the depths of the vessel. It was a sound she remembered well, because she had made it herself so many times before. It was a whimper of terror, of helplessness, and of defeat. It was the cry of a young girl who knew she was lost and that there was no one to help her find her way. Or in this case—the cries of many young girls.

“Please…please help us.”

This was worse—so much worse than anything she could have imagined. There were girls in that container. Thatcher was trafficking young, helpless girls and doing god knows what with them. The plaintive pleas that came from the open, yawning mouth of that container transformed the icy shame in Michaela Blake’s heart into a burning rage. All of the difficult emotions and traumatic memories that had plagued her since she was sixteen years old evaporated and left in their wake firm determination. Her hand steadied on her nine.

No one else is going to suffer the way I did.

With a flick of her thumb, she took the safety off of her weapon. Then, she trained it on the back of Thatcher’s head. A smile bubbled up and she found herself grinning like an idiot at what she was about to do.

Time to take out the trash.

Mickey didn’t hear the man come up behind her until he grabbed her. One large hand muffled her shriek of outrage another plucked the gun right from her fingers. She found herself yanked hard against a male chest and all of her bravado disappeared as she was dragged behind a stack of huge metal pipes.

“Don’t scream,” a familiar voice hissed in her ear.

Wince turned her slowly in his arms, removing his hand from her face.

“Why did you stop me?” she demanded in that same low hiss.

“Because, darlin’, I can’t let you go down for this. You’re in enough hot water as it is.”

“Give me back that gun!”

Her hands shot out and she was groping his muscular frame before she realized what she was doing. “Where is it, Wince?”

He pulled her flush against him, effectively silencing her. “Mickey, stop.”

Why did his voice have the power to calm her? For whatever reason, she stopped struggling. Mickey’s cheek pressed into his chest. She realized she could hear his heartbeat and the sound gave her pause. Wince’s hand stroked firmly down her back as if he were soothing a wild pony.

The drugging effect the man had on her was almost enough to make her forget why she was here.

Almost.

“Wince, there are girls in that container. I heard one of them scream. Thatcher, he’s—he’s a bad man.” Her voice shook but Mickey continued. “He’s going to—he’s going to make them…” she faltered.

“I know. Me and my boys have a plan. It’s not safe in here. We have to move,” he said urgently.

He was right. What was she doing here?
I’m going to get this guy killed.
Mickey took one more look at Marvin Thatcher. He would get his. Maybe not today, but he would get what was coming to him—soon. Wince readied the nine with one hand and grabbed her with the other.

“Stay behind me,” he ordered.

Mickey thought they were going to make it outside without further incident until…they didn’t.

Chapter Fifty-Four

“I can’t believe that little white slut was telling the truth.”

Wince knew that voice. He hated that voice. He felt himself tense up as he turned to face the president of their most hated rival crew, pushing Mickey behind him.

“Juan.” Wince let his gaze travel down the man’s body, resting on the empty sleeve of his flannel shirt. “I hear they’re calling you ‘Stumpy’ now.”

“Shut the fuck up!”

“What the hell is going on over there?” An imperious male voice called.

“Found us some trouble,
cabron
,” Juan replied, his voice echoing through the building.

“Move. That way.” He gestured towards the middle of the loading platform, where the container sat ajar.

Wince felt Mickey’s hand tighten on his wrist as she pressed herself against his back. He could feel her body quiver as she followed his lead. He turned slowly, keeping himself between Mickey and the man with the gun. How the fuck the Chicos had managed to skirt their security detail and get in here, Wince had no fucking idea. Slade was supposed to be on duty with two of the other fucking grunts. A few seconds later, Wince found himself face to face with none other than Marvin Thatcher. The older man smiled grimly as he studied Wince’s cut and ink.

“Phantoms, huh? Thought we had a deal, Juan? You told me that we could sneak this one through their operation.”

The dirty politician stood just to the left of the container, a revolver in his right hand. Wince felt a violent shudder wrack Mickey’s body as the man spoke. He wanted to put his fist through the disgusting pervert’s face, but with a huge pile of steel bars directly behind him, and two weapons trained at his chest, all he could do was wait to see how this was going to play out.

“We had a deal with the ship gang,
cabron
.” Juan protested. “Those motherfuckers will pay for fucking things up…”

“Shut the fuck up,” Thatcher barked. “We have a situation here.”

Thatcher took a few steps towards them and then froze when he spied Mickey.

“Well, well, what do we have here?”

The way his tone changed made Wince’s stomach turn. Mickey was underweight and petite—she looked young and vulnerable. The way Thatcher probably liked his girls.

“Come a little closer, doll.”

The word “doll” twisted Wince’s guts another degree. Sick fuck.

Mickey stood her ground, until Juan gave her a shove.

“You heard the man,
puta
.”

Thatcher’s face reflected recognition followed by shock. “After all this time, my original Darling Doll has come back to Daddy,” he breathed, as his eyes traveled up and down Mickey’s slight frame.

Wince thought she was going to crumble where she stood, but that stubborn Blake blood that ran through her veins took over. From his vantage point behind the girl, he watched as she squared her shoulders and stood straight up, facing her demon.

“You sick bastard,” Mickey hissed.

“Aw, sweetheart, don’t be that way to Daddy,” Thatcher’s voice hardened.

“Fuck you!”

“I plan to, baby. I was your first; I should be your last. Don’t you agree?” Thatcher came closer still, his eyes on Mickey. Wince could see that his attention was completely diverted by her presence.

“You’ll have to kill me first, you pig,” Mickey spat.

“I think I’ll have Juan and his
amigo
kill your Phantom friend first. Then, the three of us are going to fuck you until you tell me where that little video your step daddy made is. You know what I’m talking about…don’t you, Mouse?”

When he uttered that final word, Mickey seemed to snap. “Don’t fucking call me that!”

The next thing he knew, the tiny slip of a girl launched herself at the dirty politician, catching him by surprise. They went down in a heap. Juan rushed towards the struggling ball of girl and man. He wasn’t able to do much with only one functioning hand, so the man behind Wince joined the fray.

“Get this crazy bitch off me,” Thatcher huffed, as Juan and the other man pulled Mickey to standing position.

“You stupid little bitch.” Thatcher pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and pressed it to the scratches on his face.

Using his good hand, Juan leveled his weapon at Wince and shoved Mickey to her knees at Wince’s feet. The other man had his gun trained on Wince’s midsection. He looked over his shoulder. They had all switched positions, but things looked the same in terms of an escape route. Now, they had their backs to the edge of the loading dock. If they ran for it, they might be able to hit the water but they’d be sitting ducks there.

Fuck.

“What do you want me to do now,
cabron
?”

“Shoot them, you idiot! With the girl dead, the evidence dies with her. I have a delivery to make.”

Juan smiled grimly. “My pleasure.”

Wince shoved Mickey behind him, knowing that the bullets in Juan’s assault rifle would go right through him. He felt Mickey’s arms go around his waist in a tentative hug.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I never should have gotten you into this mess.”

“It’s okay, baby. Close your eyes.” Wince placed his rough hands over her own. He closed his own eyes and waited for the inevitable.

I hope we both go quick.

It wasn’t to be. Juan was a bit of a talker. “Bet you didn’t know I can still shoot this baby with one hand, eh? My aim’s not so good though, not anymore. I’ll probably get you in the stomach a few times. Then, my boy here will finish you off.”

He raised his weapon.

A loud noise came from somewhere over their heads, and Wince’s eyes flew back open. A large machine that resembled a huge forklift was barreling towards the massive pile of steel pipes just behind Thatcher. It looked like there was no driver but Juan let out a yell and started shooting at the machine. Wince grabbed Mickey and shoved her against the far wall just as there was a deafening crash.

The stack of pipes collapsed. The pile of metal hit the ground hard enough to rattle the whole dock. The noise was so loud it almost drowned out the hideous scream that sounded a few seconds later. More screams issued from inside the container and it dented as a literal ton of steel crashed into one of the sides. A final pipe rolled slowly, coming to a stop just before it hit the water.

Then, there was silence.

All Wince could hear was the sound of his own heart beating in his chest.

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ, what the hell just happened?” he asked, mostly to himself. He shook his head, trying to clear the ringing in his ears.

Mickey started to speak and he cut her off.

“Stay here. I mean it.” She nodded, taking in big gulps of air.

Wince dropped to the ground and crawled around the side of the container to survey the deadly scene. Juan lay on his back, moaning in agony, his foot trapped beneath one of the enormous pipes. The other man was nowhere to be found. Wince scanned the loading dock for Thatcher, but there was no sign of him either.

A rustling sound came from the forklift and Wince trained his weapon on it. A pair of cracked sunglasses came tumbling out and skidded across the floor. Then, to Wince’s surprise, Slade appeared from the operator’s hatch. He pulled himself out and carefully felt his way down the jumble of tangled metal and machine. He nodded at the havoc he had created and grinned at Wince.

“Glad I knew how to drive that fucker.”

Juan apparently caught sight of Slade too. “
Amigo, por favor, ayudame
,” the Chicos president moaned.