Twisted Mercy (Red Team Book 4) (8 page)

Greer and Kit walked out of the store as he and Hope walked in. He barely looked at them, but it was enough to see them checking Hope out. He looked back at her. She smiled up at him as if she hadn’t noticed the guys.

They walked over to the produce section and selected a couple of large potatoes and a container of freshly cut fruit. In the dairy aisle, they picked up butter. In other aisles, they picked up salt and pepper, cutlery, and paper goods.
 

Max noticed several shoppers collect their children and hurry out of each section as they entered it, some taking their carts, some leaving them. He ignored them. At the meat counter, he selected two large New York strips. They started down the condiments aisle, shadowed by a guy who’d been with them since their dairy stop.
 

Mid-aisle, Max turned and faced him. The guy was a good foot shorter and a whole lot narrower than Max. The name badge on his apron proclaimed him to be an assistant store manager. He almost felt sorry for the little dude, but he had a role to play. He tossed his plastic grocery basket on the floor with a loud clatter and walked into the guy’s space.

“You got some reason to be following me?” he asked between clenched teeth as he bent down.

“You alone, or are there more of you coming in?” the manager asked, uncowed.

“What difference does it make? You saying business from my kind is unwelcome here?”

“As long as you don’t make problems, then we’ve got no issue.”

Max showed his teeth. He straightened and scooped a few pickle jars off the shelf, sending them crashing to the ground, spraying vinegar, pickles, spices, and glass everywhere. “And if I feel like making problems?”

A man stepped to one end of the aisle. Kit. Max looked toward the other end. Greer. He turned and faced the shopkeeper, giving him a nasty grin. “Called in bouncers, did you, little man? They won’t always be here.”

He grabbed his basket and his girl, and walked out the end of the aisle by Greer, shoving him aside with his shoulder. At the checkout station, only one cashier was in place. No other customers were nearby; he wondered what hidey-hole they’d been put in.
 

The manager followed him to the front. He waved the cashier away and took his place. Greer held a position at one end of the conveyor belt. Kit stood at the other. It was all Max could do not to smile. He opened his wallet and pulled out a hundred-dollar bill, shoved his own groceries into a bag and led Hope out of the store without waiting for his change.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Mad Dog built a blazing fire in one of the fire pits in the campground. He set a grate over it and laid out their potatoes, buttered and seasoned. Hope looked at the yellow and orange colors that danced across his features as he squinted at the flames.
 

She felt bad for the grocery store proprietor and his customers. She and Mad Dog had blown into town, took what they wanted, and left a mess behind before they blew out again. A little voice reminded her that he had paid—overpaid, in fact—but that did little to soothe how much of a bully he’d been.
 

Guys like Mad Dog gave bikers a bad name. If she were her real self, she would have dropped him at the knees, told him to take a hike, then helped the staff clean up the mess. As it was, she couldn’t even scold him.
 

She looked into the flames, reminding herself that this wasn’t for real. She was here to find her brother and get out, not reform bikers.
 

She’d be glad to see the back of Mad Dog.

She looked away from the hypnotizing motion of the flames, burying her gaze in the distance over Mad Dog’s shoulder. Dusk softened the desolate grounds. The trip into town had taken over two hours. Peach-colored clouds floated by leisurely. The compound was in the shadowy pit of a wide valley, circled by evergreen-covered hills, making it seem darker than it was. Lights inside and outside the various buildings were switching on.
 

As she watched, a kid walked across an open field and entered a building. She straightened, searching the grounds for more kids or an idea of where he might have come from. Her friend had implied that her brother lived with a group of boys here on the compound, not in the general population of the club.
 

“What are you looking at?” Mad Dog asked.

“There was a kid over there.”

“So?”

“What are kids doing here at the compound?”

He gave her that lopsided smile that was no smile at all. “You think bikers don’t procreate?”

“I had no thoughts about that whatsoever. It just seems strange to see a kid here.”

Mad Dog shrugged. “There’s a school over there.”

“Where?”

Mad Dog looked at her, his eyes narrowing as he studied her. “What’s your interest in it?”

She met his gaze. “Curiosity.”

He poked the fire. “Curiosity ain’t a healthy thing here, sweetheart.”

A chill brushed over Hope’s arms. She rubbed them, trying to convince herself her reaction was from the cool evening air and not Mad Dog’s hard eyes. “I’m going to get my sweater.” She climbed over the big log bench and retreated to the picnic table where they’d set their purchases. His bike was parked nearby. She took her zip-up hoodie out and pulled it on. She’d been lucky her current wardrobe worked here. No way she could have afforded new clothes for this gig.
 

She risked a look at Mad Dog; he was still tending the fire. She went over to the picnic table and started to arrange the packages of plates and plastic cutlery. Using the activity as cover, she searched the compound in the area where she’d seen the boy. Nothing moved as her gaze spanned the area. Her shop and cabin were over that way. Maybe she could slip out tonight and check it out a little closer.

She turned back to the campfire, but halted immediately. Mad Dog was standing right behind her. He said nothing, though suspicion radiated through his narrowed eyes.

Hope shoved her hands into the pockets of her hoodie. “What?”

He didn’t respond. He just walked back to the fire. After a while, he turned the potatoes, then put the steaks on the grill. “How do you like your steak cooked?”

“Medium well. Fully dead.”

Hope set out the other things for supper—their fruit tray. Salt and pepper. Butter. She wished she had some candles—not for the ambience, but because she didn’t want to sit in the dark, alone with her enigmatic rescuer. Before she knew it, he brought their steaks over with the baked potatoes.
 

They fixed their plates in silence. At the first taste of her meat, Hope groaned, savoring the delicious taste. “You’re a helluva griller.”

“Been doing it a while.” He mashed his buttered potato with his fork. “You did good with the bikes this afternoon.”

“Pike thought I didn’t know anything about bikes.” She shook her head. “I get tired of being underestimated.”

He finished chewing the bite he’d taken. “We don’t run into a lot of female wrenches.”

“Why doesn’t the club let women in?”

“It wouldn’t be a brotherhood then. Women complicate things.”

Hope smiled at him. He seemed to really believe that. “Women comprise half the human population.”

“The half best avoided most of the time.”

She bit her lip. The motion only momentarily delayed her next question. She knew nothing about him, if he’d had any sisters as a kid or any girlfriends as an adult, but surely he’d had a mother. “Did you hate your mom?”

His gaze became unfocused as he considered her question. He took a bite, then set his knife down and pressed his thumb to the upper inside of his left arm, holding it there as if it hurt. He swallowed. “Great question, Dr. Freud.” He looked at her, his eyes and face a blank. “I lived almost half my life with her and yet never knew her.”
 

“Oh. Are your folks still alive?”

“No.”

Hope nodded and looked at her plate. “Sorry.”
 

“Whatever. A kid only needs his parents for the first few years of his life. After that, he’s on his own anyway.”

Hope frowned at him. She yearned to have family around her. To belong. It was why she was here. “So no siblings either? You sound like a loner.”

He looked up from his plate. “I was.” His gaze hardened. Not in a good way. “Until you.”

“I won’t cause you any trouble.”

“You already have. I nearly killed a man because of you.”

A chill whispered down her spine at the memory. That guy would have been the first to rape her. The first of dozens. “What happened to him? You know, after.”

“You forget what I said about curiosity?”

She shrugged. “I am curious. About a lot of things.”

“Like what?”

She shrugged. He was keeping his secrets. She’d best do the same. “Things. Don’t you wonder about stuff?”

“Not if it could get me killed.”

“So what’s important to you? Not family. Not the job you just left for the one here at the club. You are like a tumbleweed caught here in Wyoming. What do you live for if not family or work?”

“My brothers.” Mad Dog’s voice was a husky whisper.
 

Her gaze wandered across his face as she tried to understand the emotion of his comment. The soft firelight danced across his harsh face, leaving a glow in his eyes. He lived for the same men who tried to tear her apart. His internal code of conduct had forced him to save her, and yet he’d bullied the poor shopkeeper.
 

Maybe he had a short-circuit somewhere, something that triggered now and then and made him unstable. Like a mad dog. Didn’t meth do that? Leave toxins in the brain?

He looked from her to the fire. She played with her food.
 

“I live for the open road,” he said, his growly voice breaking the silence. “The wind. Freedom.” His brown-hazel eyes were mesmerizing in the soft light, the faint line of his scar an ever-present reminder he lived in a world of violence.
 

“Freedom to do what?” she asked, fearful of his answer.

“Whatever I want.”

“That’s why you were in Alaska.”
 

He waited the space of a breath before answering, “Yeah.”

“How long are you going to be here?”

“A while.” After that, he said nothing.
 

She gazed off into the distant woods as she considered his words. He lived for freedom. What did that even mean?
Freedom
.
 

She cut into her steak, forcing herself to eat. The WKB compound was situated in the remote hills and valleys of the Medicine Bow Mountains. If she had to run, she could go days without finding food or help from any other humans. Best eat and store the calories away now, when she could.
 

When Mad Dog finished, he disposed of his paper plate in the fire and his plastic utensils in the trash. He came back to the table and looked down at her. “I’m gonna head out now. I’ll send Feral over to take you back to the house. Stay put tonight. I won’t be around to get you out of trouble.”
 

Hope swallowed involuntarily. How had he known about her plans to check the area where she’d seen the boy?
 

“Of course,” she answered noncommittally.
 

Everything would be cool as long as she didn’t get caught. If she found Randall tonight, they could be gone before dawn tomorrow. After she left, she would never again see the man called Mad Dog. That realization gave her an unsettled feeling, a weird mixture of relief and disappointment. He was one guy she would never forget.

It was a while before Mad Dog’s friend drove his old beater into the campground. He parked a little ways from the picnic table. He got out of the car and sent a look around the grounds before hunching his shoulders and heading over to her.
 

His scraggly beard was some shade between red and brown—or maybe the fire just made it look that way. His head was shaved, making him look older than she suspected he was. He wore an ancient Megadeth tee that was torn at the collar. A hole halfway down showed white skin and lean ribs.
 

He shoved his hands in his pockets. “Hey.”
 

“Hey yourself.”

He sat across from her. “Mads said I should get you back to the house, then hang with you there.”

“Sure.” Hope smiled at him. The kid gaped as if he’d never seen a smile. He tore his gaze away and looked at her plate. She’d only eaten half her steak and a few bites of her baked potato. She pushed her plate his way. “It’s cold, but you can have it.”
 

He picked up the steak with his hands and ripped into it. “Thanks.”

It was hard not stare at him while he ate; he was vaporizing the food she’d left. “Why do you call him ‘Mads’?”

He shrugged. “Seemed the thing to do. Mad Dog’s always mad at something. He gets crazy mad. Mean mad. Bad mad. Fightin’ mad.” He grinned at her. “When he shortened my name to Feral, I shortened his to Mads.”

She laughed. Feral was a rebel. “What was your name before Mad Dog changed it?”

He swallowed a huge mouthful. “Burt Ferrell.” He bit into the potato. The kid was young. About her brother’s age. She wondered if he knew Randall. Mad Dog’s warning about curiosity whispered through her mind, but she ignored it. What was wrong with two people talking, getting to know each other?

“You been around here long?” she asked.

“Long enough.”

Great. He subscribed to the same school of conversation as Mad Dog. She looked down at the table while he ate. “So what’s Mad Dog—Mads—doing tonight?”

The kid swallowed the last of the potato. “I don’t ask a lot of questions. Mads stays cooler that way.”

“If he’s such an asshole, why do you hang around with him?”

“I never said he’s an asshole.”

She shrugged, dismissing that. “So why?”

“I want in. He’s hard but fair. It’d be good to be sponsored by him. The others respect him.”

Hope passed the plastic container of fruit toward him. “The cantaloupe is sweet. Have some.”

He picked up the fruit and spilled some onto her plate, eyeing her suspiciously. “Why’re you being nice to me?”