Tread: Biker Romance (Ronin MC Series Book 1) (18 page)

A LONG WALK LED TO
a small Afghan Border Patrol compound on a high hill surveying the surrounding qulats, orchards, and route Montana. I hated this fucking valley. The sun was just coming over the high peaks of the mountains barely two clicks away. As it rose, it was already causing sweat to pour into my ballistic sunglasses.

We entered deliberately, as we had done before, bringing food and paychecks to the ABP troops there. They were more than happy to get some food, bread, and cash. So happy in fact that they devoured the bread as they gave my interpreter their intel brief.

“They say, all is quiet, but we should leave now. The one guy says he counted thirty men gathered around the purple house across the valley,” Jon, if that was his real name, the interpreter said.

“Good, we brought Carl today,” my Platoon Sergeant grumbled.

Carl, referring to the Carl Gustav, was an anti-tank weapon named after a guy that developed the charge that defeated the Nazis in Norway during WWII. A 90mm charge that could be set to air detonate and penetrate the dense orchards in the direction of the purple house.

Two hours passed, my gun teams had the high ground, and were scanning the orchards around us. Nothing. All was quiet. Time to head back and grab some rapidly going cold eggs and bacon. My Platoon Leader popped a yellow smoke grenade and that started the march in formation back to some chow.

As it was my teams turn to leave the compound, the smoke had cleared.

“There’s no way. We’re not getting back without so much as a popshot,” my medic said off to my front left.

Seconds later, I felt it before I heard it. I felt air push past my face in front of my nose and I snapped my head back in time to hear the loud hiss and whoosh of a narrow miss. My M240B gunner to my front right fell in a heap, managing to fire his weapon in the general direction of the rounds. Was he hit? I didn’t know. There was no cover. What call should I make? No cover, getting shot at, get to cover, cover was ten meters back the way I had come. I called my men to get back inside and squeezed off rounds as I bolted. Reaching cover, I easily burnt another magazine, providing cover fire for soldiers trying to find some piece of earth that would separate them from the hot lead filling the air.

When the chaos settled a micrometer, I found that half the platoon and my other gun team were pinned down in a qulat compound to the north. The sounds of outgoing and incoming RPGs throbbed in my head. A migraine was coming. I looked around and my gun team was heading back up a shoddy tower made out of galvanized sheet metal. Before I turned to look away from the men climbing, a cloud materialized, followed by a thud, followed by my ass on the ground.

I realized what happened. The tower where my guys were had been hit with an RPG, and all I could let out was a futile word.

“No.”

A cool breeze from the window sent a chill down my spine, so cold that I shot up from a dead sleep. I was back in Grace’s bed, and the sheets were soaked in sweat. I tried to wipe my face clear, only to smear it more. I tossed the sheet off of me and rolled out of bed. Grace wasn’t there. Where was she? Was she hurt? No, no she couldn’t be. We were home. I was home. My eyes darted around the room, everything dimly lit by the slowly rising sun. The room was immaculately kept. That confirmed it. All was normal, besides the bed that felt as if I’d pissed it. I let loose the corners of the mattress cover, pulled them together, and tied a knot, trapping the sheet, cover, and pillows. I had to get rid of them.

After getting my pants, socks, and boots on, I sneaked out to peek over the banister. All was quiet in the saloon below. It was dark, but the lights from the kitchen dimly outlined the furniture.

“Secret Squirrel time,” I thought to myself.

Sneaking towards the stairs, I shot a look towards the bar. No movement. I sneaked down the stairs, cursing at every creak. Not very ninja, but after what seemed like an eternity, I was at the bottom. I took a hard right and shot down the hall out the back door. I tossed the linens in the nearest dumpster and lit a cigarette. A long inhale and a slow, slow exhale.

I needed that cigarette to get my bearings. I needed to get in the shower and get this stink off of me. Back inside, I grabbed my go bag from the cleaning closet and was headed back upstairs. As I put my foot on the bottom stair, the overhead lights of the bar came on behind me. I froze, hoping it was a T-rex behind me that couldn’t see if I didn’t move.

“Tread?” a soft, feminine voice asked.

I looked over my shoulder in super slow motion. Behind the bar was Grace. She wore a plain white shirt with a bar towel tossed over her shoulder and a clueless look on her face.

“You’re up early. Did you get a shower?” she asked.

“Uh, had to get my clothes. Gotta hit the showers early if you want hot water, right?”

“Yeah, I guess.” She was still skeptical of a biker, shirtless, sneaking around the saloon at sunrise. “Do you want some breakfast?”

“Yeah, give me a few, okay?” I tossed the bag over my shoulder and split.

A renewed sweat escaped the pores all over my body. Did I freak out with her in the bed last night? Shit, we slept twenty-four hours. When was the last time that happened? Is that what was up with the skepticism? No. I better not have elbowed her in the face or some shit. I couldn’t help but wonder what my dumbass did last night with that sweet girl laying on my chest. I tortured myself all the way through my real shower, getting dressed, and sitting at the bar. All the images running through my head of different scenarios of how last night went down was dizzying and I set my forehead down on the banister to make the room stop spinning. Today was going to be a migraine day for sure.

“Are you gonna be all right?” that same sweet voice called.

I lifted my head up to make eye contact, but the blood rushing in my ears made the room spin faster. I closed my eyes, but to no avail.

“Yeah, I’m great. Why wouldn’t I be? Could you ask Veesa for my meds?”

“You take meds?”

“Yep, I know it’s hard to believe with the body of Hercules himself, but he’s allegedly half-human, too.”

“Hmm, a biker who knows Greek mythology. That’s a good one,” she joked. That was a good sign. I searched her eyes for any weirdness, some tell that I had done something last night, but they were clear and so bright it hurt to look at them just then.

I buried my head into my palms, trying to push my eyeballs back into my brain to alleviate the pain and spinning. Moments later, Grace returned with my tool box of meds.

“How many different medications do you take?”

“A few,” I grumbled as I popped the top for my migraine meds. “I don’t take them all, though. The Army sent me home with all that crap in there.”

“Hmm.” She thought for a dozen heartbeats. I couldn’t read how she took that new information. “So what’s going on for homecoming plans?”

“Homecoming?”

“Yeah, your scary boss and the other guys are coming back tomorrow.”

“Oh shit.” I grabbed two handfuls of food and ran for the back door. “Thanks for breakfast, babe! PS., you snore!” I tried to hold up the façade with a joke as I made for the back door. Cursing my awkwardness, I shoved comforting pancakes into my mouth.

I barely got the last bits of food in my face as I took the final few steps to the clubhouse.

“Tread, wait up.” It was Royal. He had a cigarette hanging out of his mouth. At least I beat the VP to the clubhouse this morning.

“Mwahhmm,” I replied.

“Since when did you start to eat like an ape?” he said as he pointed to the syrup dripping down the corner of my mouth.

I wiped it away and swallowed. “You know me too well, man.”

“Smoke with me,” Royal ‘asked’ as he handed me an extra from inside his cut.

“You know it.” I lit mine, he lit his; we both surveyed our surroundings. Classic Tread/Royal routine.

“Alt’s got a guy in Deming,” Royal broke the silence. “This guy can find Kit.”

I blew my smoke out in a series of coughs, “What? Who? How? When?”

“Uh, hacker, Stevie-the-hacker, by hacking financial records, and as soon as we get over there. Let’s go see Alt. He’s inside.”

We tossed our half-smoked cigarettes into the butt-can and walked inside. Alt was morning drinking Kilkennys and coffee. You can’t get any more Irish than Kilkennys beer. The news was on the overhead TV. Apparently some peaceful protest in Albuquerque went awry last night. It was over the executive order wrongfully labeled immigration reform.

“Who’s Stevie-the-hacker, Alt?” I asked as I sat to his right. Royal took the stool to his left.

Alt looked to Royal then to me. “He’s some guy I met online.”

“What the fuck? I didn’t know you were on those dating websites,” Royal scolded with a smile.

“Oh yeah, he’s into that techno romance scene,” I jested.

“No, no, no, no. He’s just a guy I play Halo with online. You know, Xbox? That black box of entertainment I brought to Afghanistan?”

“Mm hmm, sure, whatever. So what did you tell this dude? Are you throwing out family business to strangers on the internet, Alt?” I pressed, only half joking.

“Nah, just that we’re looking for someone. Someone in the . . . family. But I didn’t tell him who. I just said that they ran away and they’re missing. He asked if they had a credit card or debit card on them. I said yes and he said he’d find them for four thousand dollars. Simple as that.” Alt made his case. He hadn’t throw names out there so I had nothing to harass him about OpSec, or operational security. No geek online needed to know that Kit was missing specifically.

“All right, when did you set up the meet?” Royal chimed in.

“Tomorrow, 1400. Denny’s in Deming.”

“Why at Denny’s?” I asked.

“I promised him pancakes and the details,” Alt replied.

“You sure that’s all you promised him?” Royal raised his eyebrows, looking at Alt. He shifted to me and back again.

“Yeah Alty, you didn’t promise this guy a look at your banana hammock, too, right? Not on the first date.”

“Man, fuck you guys. I love pussy.”

“One problem, genius,” Royal said after a moment of laughter. “First gen returns at 1400. We all gotta be here. Way to fuck it up.” The smile faded from Royal’s face.

“We can work it out, can’t we, Alty?” I slapped him on the back of the shoulder as he was sipping his beer. Beer foam covered his mustache and nose.

“Sure can, asshole!” He was glaring at me as beer dripped down his beard. I couldn’t help but laugh.

The door of the clubhouse swung open as Hendrix, Benny, and Mac came in, laughing their asses off about something. Remy was in tow, and he looked like a smashed bag of dicks. Obviously hung over, I could see he was the ass of the other guys’ joke.

“Mornin brothers,” Mac greeted, In an abnormally good mood.

“Now the only way to kill that hangover, Remy, is to have a couple shots,” Benny said from behind the bar.

Benny was pouring Remy a double shot of Irish cream before tossing it into a coffee and sliding it to Remy, who was just now making it to the edge of the bar like every step hurt.

“Keep us in the loop.” I patted Alt on the back.

“Party planning time, gents. I think Remy’s tryin’ to beat us to it, though,” Royal joked as he got up and walked towards the other room.

We piled inside with our coffee and sat, a box of stale donuts on the table. The drunker of us dared to have some. The sober ones decided on cigarettes instead.

“The boys roll in today around 1330. Polly Pocket gets out of the hospital today, too. Make sure he has the eye of a lovely Dove. Tread, that’s on you,” Royal announced to set the tone of the meet. “I need someone to work the food, the grill, the beer, and the music.”

“Grill! Dibs.” Benny shot a hand up. No one was going to challenge his grill prowess, anyway.

“I’ll cover beer,” Alt said, raising his glass in salute.

Voices became background noise as I put my mind to task. Polly, the prospect, got shot watching Grace. My responsibility. The blood he spilt was on my hands. I had to make it worth his while. Poor bastard, he didn’t know that was far as curses went. I had the one that made my brothers bleed.