Impulsively (Dante's Nine MC) (23 page)

“Eyes on the road, buddy,” I tease.

“Not so easy with you sitting there, looking like that,” he
murmurs.

“There’ll be plenty of time for every nasty thing you’re
thinking of,” I assure him, “
after
we take Bruno down.”

“Trust me, I’m committed to the cause,” Brooks says, “I’m
willing to put jumping you on hold to go after this guy. And that is fucking
saying something, all right.”

We ride along in silence for a spell, the glowing beacon of
Vegas falling away in the rear view mirror. We’re going to try and intercept
Bruno at the Devil’s Playpen, catch him in whatever diabolical acts he’s been
perpetrating. My working theory is that he’s trying to manipulate this case to
the benefit of his own bank account. But the specifics are still rather hazy.
Hopefully, he’ll give us another clue or two tonight.

“Can I ask you something, Red?” Brooks asks, keeping his
eyes on the dark road ahead.

“Shoot,” I reply.

“What’s your end game, with all of this?” he goes on. “The
Bruno thing, I mean?”

“Well. He’s clearly trying manipulate the law to his
advantage,” I reply. “All I want is for him to get what he deserves. The FBI
should know the truth about him.”

“I mean for you,” Brooks clarifies, “what do you want out of
all this?”

“I...don’t really know,” I confess, looking out across the
dusty, dusky landscape. “I guess I just want to make a difference, for once.”

“You don’t feel like you make a difference at the FBI?” he
asks.

“I’m not sure I believe that the law is something to put
faith in anymore,” I say quietly. “More and more...this life you lead is
starting to make sense.”

“I’m really glad to hear that,” Brooks says huskily. “Not
that you’re losing faith in what you’ve always believed in, of course. But I’m
glad that you’re seeing things from another angle. Justice isn’t black and
white. I know that better than most. It drives me crazy that most of the people
in this country trust the legal system implicitly, when it’s as fucked up and
corrupt as anything else.”

I steal a glance at Brooks, suddenly remembering what Kassie
told me the other morning in the elevator. Brooks’ history is
complicated—that’s what she told me. But what kind of complicated, I wonder?
What makes him so vehemently distrustful of the law?

“My turn to ask you something, if you don’t mind,” I say
quietly.

“Go ahead,” Brooks says, “I don’t want to keep any secrets
from you.”

“Kassie mentioned that your life before joining the Nine
was...uh...less than sunny,” I begin. “She used the word ‘complicated’.”

“That’s the right word for it,” Brooks sighs deeply. “Did
she mention any specifics?”

“No,” I reply, “she said I should ask you.”

“I’ll have to remember to thank her for that, at least,”
Brooks chuckles shortly. “I guess I wouldn’t expect Declan to keep secrets from
his old lady. I don’t blame her for mentioning it to you. I’d do the same for a
friend.”

We sail past the wooden sign that bears the Wraiths’ sigil.
I hold my tongue, waiting for Brooks to continue on his own. After a heavy,
seemingly endless moment of silence, he takes a deep breath and goes on.

“The truth is, Red, I never planned to become a civilian
again, after I joined the Navy. I’d wanted to serve my country my entire life,
just like my dad did. The proudest day of both our lives was when I enlisted. I
fucking loved being in the military. All of a sudden, my life had structure.
Stability. I had friends, family, a steady job. And I honestly thought that I
was contributing to something good. Something pure. Freedom and justice have
always been more important to me than anything.

During my first tour, everything went pretty smoothly. Well,
as smoothly as it could go. I did my job, served my country, believed in my
mission. I met Dec, and a couple of other guys who really understood me. There
was...a girl, too.”

“Oh,” I say, feeling my heart sink, “You...uh...fell in love
with her?”

“Not in the way you’re thinking,” Brooks says quietly.
“Besides Dec, she was the best friend I made. Natalie. I loved her like a kid
sister. She was a firecracker, as good a mechanic as any guy around. She
fucking loved her job, and her country. She was one of the good ones.”

“You keep saying...was,” I say softly. “Did she...? She
wasn’t—?”

“She wasn’t killed,” Brooks says, his jaw tensing with
long-suppressed ire, “but she may have preferred that to what ended up
happening. My dad passed away during my and Natalie's second tour. I went on
leave for his funeral. Just for a few days, but...” Brooks can barely speak
through his clenched jaw. “There was this lieutenant, Davison. Entitled rich
boy type. He’d been after Natalie since the day she showed up. She had no
interest in him, turned him down every time he tried something. But he wouldn’t
take no for an answer. While I was gone, he decided he was tired of waiting.
He...he forced her...”

“Fucking scumbag,” I whisper, my heart breaking for Brooks’
friend.

“I knew something had happened the second I got back,” he
soldiers on. “She didn’t want to tell me, at first. But the truth came out
eventually. She refused to report what had happened, and I don’t blame her. The
military is a fucking joke when it comes to prosecuting that kind of thing. No
one was going to get justice for her, so I...took matters into my own hands. I
tracked down Davison, and beat him to a pulp. I might have killed him, if they
hadn’t stopped me. I was dishonorably discharged for assaulting an officer.
Natalie left the Navy, the one thing she loved most. Last I heard, Davison had
been promoted to commander.”

I can’t even speak, I’m so appalled by Brooks’ story. He
glances over at me as the Wraith’s Nest comes into view.

“I still believe in justice,” he tells me, “and I still
believe in freedom. But what I’ve learned since joining Dante’s Nine is that
sometimes, you find freedom and justice where you’d least expect them. It’s not
a matter of right or wrong, Red. It’s just a matter of seeing things the way
they really are. Whatever happens with Bruno and the FBI...just remember that
you have the freedom to decide what justice really means to you.”

Before I can formulate a reply to Brooks’ words of wisdom,
something catches my eye at the heart of the Wraith’s Nest. Things are usually
pretty rowdy at the Devil’s Playpen at this time of night, to be sure. But
something’s going on inside the strip club that goes above and beyond the usual
chaos.

“What the hell...?” I mutter, as we park the car and step
out into the night.

We watch from afar as a stampede of finely-dressed men flee
the Playpen, leaping into expensive cars and peeling off into the night.
Pricking up my ears, I hear a whole different kind of cacophony than the usual
blaring music and raised voices. Bloodthirsty shrieks rise in waves from the
club as the hard rock cuts out. Breaking glass and loud crashes sound from
inside. It sounds like some insane brawl has started up, scaring away every
last patron. A bottle of tequila smashes through one of the front windows, and
Brooks and I take off toward the fray.

The din of battle is deafening as we race into the Devil’s
Playpen. My eyes struggle to adjust to the sudden darkness as my mind works to
make sense of the scene playing out before me. Nearly every member of Dante’s
Nine and the Devil’s Wraiths is here tonight, seemingly squared off against a common
threat. That’s good. For a second, I thought Bruno might have found a way to
turn the clubs against each other. But the actual situation at hand is even
more baffling to behold.

A pack of scantly clad dancers face off against the MC
brothers. They’re absolutely livid, ready to burn the Playpen to the ground by
the look of them. Each of the two dozen girls is screaming in unadulterated
fury—many of them are armed with broken bottles, whips, and stilettos wielded
like bludgeons. The girls of the Devil’s Playpen seem to have declared war.

“What the fuck is going on here?” Brooks shouts to his club
brothers.

Declan and Leo glance at Brooks from the front line. Leo’s
golden eyes are blazing as he shakes out his mane of jet-black hair.

“One of the girls got beat up pretty badly,” he yells back.

“They’re staging a fucking coup,” Declan adds, ducking as a
high-heeled shoe flies at his head. Kassie and Kelly are nowhere to be seen,
but I recognize more than a few of the dancers who are lined up for combat.

“Someone’s hurt?” I ask, rushing forward, “Who?”

“It’s Belle,” shouts Mac, the snowy-haired president of the
Wraiths, “Belle Taylor. The new girl.”

“Who beat her up?” Brooks growls, his voice full of deadly
anger.

The assembled brothers exchange stormy looks. No one offers
up an answer.

“I said, who the fuck is responsible for this?” Brooks
roars, his fists balled tightly.

“She says it was Tyke,” Leo reports solemnly.

I feel the air leave my lungs in a painful rush. Tyke? The
sweet, shy kid with the blonde crew cut and the easy blush? How could he have
done something like this?

“Tyke...Tyke has a thing for Belle,” Brooks says,
uncomprehendingly.

“We know. It doesn’t make any sense,” Declan says. “We’re
just trying to calm everyone down so that we can get to the bottom of this.”

“Where’s Tyke now?” Brooks asks, his face unreadable.

“Took off,” Leo says, “He was too gutted to stick around.
Seemed blindsided by the whole thing.”

“And Belle?” I ask. “Where is she?”

“In the back,” Mac says, “the poor thing is a fucking mess.”

“Can I see her?” I ask. “Maybe I can help.”

“If you can get past them, you can do whatever the hell you
like,” Leo says, nodding at the brigade of strippers.

I turn to face the line of fierce women. They covered a lot
of situations at Quantico, but I have to say that this was not one of the them.
Still, I have a hunch that the timing Belle’s assault is no coincidence. I have
to talk to her.

“I’m going in,” I tell Brooks, “Just...wait here.”

The women eye me suspiciously as I make my way toward them.
But no one tries to impale me with a stray heel—so I take that as a good sign.

“What do you want?” snaps one of the head girls, a
voluptuous blonde with mile-high legs and a broken bottle clutched in her fist.

“I just want to talk to Belle alone,” I say, “I’m trained to
handle these kinds of situations.”

“What are you, a counselor or something?” asks a
porcelain-skinned red head.

“Or something,” I shrug.

“She’s in a bad way,” says a tomboyish girl with a pixie
cut, “if you can do anything to help her through this...”

“I think I can,” I say, “if you’d just let me through?”

The women exchange loaded glances, deliberating in silence.
Finally, the busty blonde says, “Just you. None of these MC fuckers.”

“Thank you,” I tell her, darting around the assembled women
in search of Belle Taylor.

I don’t have to hunt for long. As I make my way into the
belly of the strip club, I spot a single sliver of light coming from one of the
dressing room doors. I pad toward the illuminated room, and a soft sobbing
catches my ear. I ease the door open as gently as I can.

“Belle?” I say softly, “Belle, is that you?”

“Who the fuck are you?” a voice asks from within. Jesus, she
sounds so young.

“I’m...a friend of the Nine,” I say, unsure of which name to
offer at this point, “Can I talk to you for a second?”

The door flies open before me, and I gasp as I take in the
sight of Belle Taylor. Her girlish face is swollen and tear-stroked, a ghastly
black eye blooming across her skin. A surge of rage rises like bile in my
throat. This will not stand.

“I already told them everything,” she says, struggling not
to weep in front of me.

“I have reason to believe...that that’s not entirely true,”
I say slowly.

She tries to slam the door in my face, but I wedge myself in
before she can. Frustrated, she storms away from me, bracing herself against
the makeup-covered counter. Her shoulders tremble with suppressed anger, but
there’s something else brimming up inside her. It’s fear.

“I know you’re afraid, Belle,” I say softly, “And I know we
just met. But I’m going to need you to trust me now. I need you to tell me who
really did this to you.”

“It was Tyke,” she spits, “I already said—”

“I know that’s what you told the girls,” I reply, taking a
tentative step toward her, “but I can also see that it’s killing you to say
that. It’s killing you because you care for Tyke. And because...it wasn’t him
that did this.”

Belle’s eyes find mind in the dressing room mirror,
confusion clouding her baby blues.

“What do you know?” she whispers.

“I know that someone recently paid you a lot of money,” I say,
making my way toward her, “and I know that this someone is not a good person. I
think he’s the type of person who would buy a false accusation from someone who
may not be in the position to refuse.”

A long, drawn out moment passes as a thousand emotions crash
across Belle’s bruised face. I watch as the wave of conflicting impulses rears
back and washes over her. All at once, she sinks down onto the floor, wracked
with heartbroken sobs.

“H-he said...h-he’d kill me,” she weeps, holding her face in
her hands, “if I d-didn’t...blame Tyke.”

“Who said that?” I press, kneeling beside her.

“You know who,” she wails, shaking her head, “He gave
me...t-ten thousand dollars...to do this to me...and s-say it was Tyke. I tried
to say n-no, but...he knows where my family lives, in Indiana. And I
couldn’t...I
couldn’t
...”

“It’s OK Belle,” I whisper, tucking her candy-colored hair
behind her ear. “I don’t blame you. Neither will Tyke. But Belle...I need you
to tell me who did this to you. I need you to say his name for me.”