Mercy (Redemption Reigns MC Book 4) Page 7

  “Fuck is right,” one of the men said, grasping her arm and pulling her back to her feet. Instinct had her bowing up before she could think better of it.

  “Don’t ever fucking touch her, Damien.” Tonka was at her side faster than Mercy could have imagined. The two stood toe-to-toe, both with fists balled. “She didn’t do this.”

  “But her fucking people did, Tonka,” the other man growled.

  “He’s right, brother,” a man who was a spitting image of the one Tonka’d called Damien spoke up from behind the two of them. “It’s her fucking people. Lock was one of us, if not in leather, in spirit. How many of us have spent time with that dude? He’s helped us any time we asked, and never asked for anything in return except our friendship.”

  “They’re not her people, Dresden.”

  Artist sighed next to Mercy. She was pretty sure she even heard the woman groan men under her breath before speaking. “Tonka’s right and you know it, twins. Mercy had nothing to do with this.”

  “How can you even say that?” Dresden asked her incredulously. “He’s fucking dead. Her dear old dad’s club even signed their fucking artwork.”

  “Dres,” ‘Speare’s voice cut through the air, quietly, but loud enough that the men fell silent and peered down at their friend on the ground.

  “Look,” Mercy started, taking a deep breath. “I’ll take this one, because I have little choice.”

  Tonka’s mouth opened to defend her and she held up a hand. “No. I didn’t do this. I would never do this. But I can’t stand here surrounded by this man’s blood and say that I have no hand in it. It’s true your friend is most likely dead because of me.

  “I don’t like that fact any more than any of you, and I will do what I can to help. He took my car here yesterday, towed it since I blew a head gasket. Now. I won’t go into the whole ‘Static Law MC aren’t my people thing’ because, A, frankly, I doubt you’ll believe me anyway and I’m tired as fuck at sounding like a broken record. B, that car is my fucking baby and I don’t see it anywhere around here, which is bad news bears, boys. And C, it’s my ultimate dream in life for everything that has to do with Chucky Sheridan to be wiped off the face of the planet. All that, be as it may, doesn’t get us anywhere. You standing here accusing me of something I can’t change, doesn’t fix this fucking problem.

  “The things I can tell you is that I didn’t kill him — and you all know it. I was with Tonka all night and if you don’t trust the word of your own, you can check the fucking cameras at the clubhouse.”

  “What else can you tell us, Mercy,” came from Artist, who was walking around Lock’s body, her boots careful to avoid the blood.

  “I can tell you that one of your people is a narc.”

  This caused an uproar amongst the men, all of them talking at once. They shouted in her general direction, though she did everything she could to not take it personally. They all knew she hadn’t actually killed the guy, and while the outcome of her breathing probably wasn’t going to end well, they needed the culprit.

  “Guys,” she said, in an attempt to quiet them. When it didn’t work she looked to ‘Speare, who whistled through his teeth. She thanked him, for which he nodded and she continued, “I don’t know who, but one of the new men in your club is a narc. Either that, or Lock had some SL ties himself. Do you know if he did?”

  Mercy looked to the bikers around her, though no one offered anything.

  “Don’t know for sure,” came the voice of a new man, startling her. She turned to find another leather-clad man, Hells Redemption cut clear in the sunlight. The fact that he was part of the group she was with should have made her feel better, but it didn’t.

  This guy was dangerous. His face was haunted, dark circles under his eyes. It looked like he hadn’t slept in weeks. Red tinged the white of his eyes, making it almost impossible to determine what color they actually were. His hair was pulled tightly to the nape of his neck, though it hadn’t seen a brush in who knew how long. Cyrus, his patch read, and below it, Secretary.

  The name seemed familiar and after a long moment Mercy recognized it. Poet had mentioned that her secretary had lost his wife. Fuck. Yesterday. This man’s wife had died the day before, at the hands of her father’s men. Double fuck.

  “Cyrus,” Shakespeare said, moving toward his brother. “Told you to take the day off.”

  “Can’t sit around anymore. Navaeh won’t stop crying, begging for her mama. And I’m about to go fucking insane. I just… I can’t, brother.”

  Cyrus turned to face Mercy. “We don’t know much about the man. He may have had SL ties, for all we know. We’ll have to dig for some information.”

  Her mouth opened and shut, as she tried to find words that could adequately express how she felt seeing him. She wanted to apologize, to tell him that she was so sorry for the loss of his wife, the mother of his child. But it wouldn’t do any good. She had spent entirely too much of her life apologizing for her father’s destruction, and it never benefitted anyone. Not those she said she was sorry to, nor to herself. They certainly never changed the things her father did. He was death on wheels, a grim reaper, regardless of the cost to others. Luckily, or not, the man spoke to her before she could get anything out.

  “You didn’t do this. I know the feeling all too well, and please, fix your face because I can’t look at it,” the man said, reaching out and placing his hand on her shoulder. “You’re not responsible, don’t take that burden on or it will destroy you. Reagan always told me the same thing, but I never listened to her. Sorta wish I could, right now.”

  Mercy longed to hug the guy. There he was in the midst of the worst thing she could imagine, and yet he was still being kind to her. Hell, he was one of the only ones, other than Tonka, Poet, and Artist, who didn’t immediately want to kill her on sight. Instead he was nice, comforting, and trying to make her feel better.

  “As for this,” the secretary motioned. “We need to get it cleaned up. Things been rough since taking out Branka and we don’t need the press. Get the crew in here.”

  “Um,” Mercy started, clearing her throat and glancing around. “If it’s all the same to y’all, I’d like to look around. I don’t see my Chevelle. And whether it’s your club’s business, or SL’s business, it’s not something that isn’t known, unfortunately. Everyone within that club knows my car. I’d like to find it, if it’s all the same to y’all.”

  She felt stupid for repeating herself, but it was unavoidable. And the truth. There wasn’t a Lawman around that didn’t know her prized possession. It was a thorn in Chucky’s side, but she loved it. The cops knew it, the club knew it. Everyone knew it. And whether HR had a narc in their midst, either from patch over or one they missed, or if Lock had some ties to the other club, it wasn’t going to go unnoticed. Whoever did this now knew with certainty where she was, that she was in town. And seeing as some of the bikes along the fence had HR decorations, it was also now known who was protecting her.

  Coincidences in the world are rare, and there are none great enough for her to have just happened to come across this shop to take her car. No - with the other club’s lettering scattered around the area, and her being who she was, it was a logical jump to who had taken her in.

  Shakespeare nodded and looked at Tonka. “Go with her.”

  The biker gently grabbed Mercy’s arm, though his touch didn’t put her on edge the way the twin’s grasp had. She let him guide her around the body, stepping over blood splatter, and led her toward the shop. The smell of oil and grease and chemicals filled her nose as they entered the first bay and Mercy took a deep breath. It was like coming home, only not to her actual home. Home was hell, the shop was heaven.

  An old pickup truck was on a lift, the red of the paint rusted, and what remained of the engine on the ground in front of it. It was a 1940s model and she ran her hand over the wheel well as she walked by, taking the place in.

  Hoses lined the walls, each leading to different things — one compre
ssed air, a couple to oil drums. Tires lined the corner. A red metal toolbox rested closely to the truck, complete with a lug wrench and various screw drivers. Her fingers grazed the toolbox and she walked deeper into the garage bay.

  A blue Toyota seemed to be next up for repairs, parked in the second bay. The third bay was empty. No sign of her Chevelle. She turned to tell Tonka the same, when she caught sight of something familiar. Moving hesitantly toward it, Mercy felt her gut twist.

  Lying on the floor was one of the very few things she’d taken from the home of her father. When she’d left, most of the items she’d packed were from her own place, or from her shop, but she’d made a special stop. And now it lay discarded and crumpled on the ground.

  Bending, Mercy reached out to pick the delicate piece of paper up. Her heart ached as she smoothed the photo, the smiling face of her mother peering up at her.

  Shit.

  8

  Chapter Eight

  Shit, shit, shit.

  Seeing Alice Sheridan’s beautiful face, almost brought Mercy to her knees.

  It was one thing knowing Static Law was involved with the death of Lock. It was also one thing knowing that Static Law was invading her escape. It was a completely different thing to know that, not only were they in this town and wreaking havoc, but they also had her car. And because they had her Chevelle, they also had her.

  “Who’s that?”

  “My mom.”

  Mercy’s words were said deadpan, completely void of any emotion. It wasn’t something she generally talked about, and she knew she was going to have to. Even if she didn’t want to now.

  “She’s pretty,” Tonka said, peering over her shoulder.

  “She’s also dead,” Mercy told him, folding the picture and putting in her pocket.

  Alice had been Chucky’s third, and last, wife, at least so far. She’d also been kind, and sweet, and nothing like the monster she’d married. Though, Mercy doubted the woman had known it at the time.

  She hadn’t been involved in anything club related. Hell, she’d never even owned or shot a gun. No, she was the epitome of innocence. In a world full of darkness she was light, a stark contrast to everything her father was.

  “They met at the mall, of all fucking places,” Mercy said, turning to face Tonka and leaning against one of the tire piles. “Sheridan has an ice skating rink in the middle, and she was so talented. Everyone said she had some serious skills and that she could one day ‘go places.’

  “What no one, not even my mom, knew, was that the day she met my father, she signed her own death warrant. Sure he was charming, said all the right things. He convinced her that the MC was just a bike club, the vests for color and fun. The guns under their arms? Just for looks — No, they’d never actually load them or shoot them.

  “My mom wanted to believe him so badly, I think she convinced herself it was true. She wanted to believe in the good of the man who’d worked so hard to win her. And when she got pregnant with me, he moved her to his summer house, and all was just peachy keen. Until one day,” she took a deep breath, forcing her tone to stay steady, to not give away how bad it hurt to think about,oOne day he came home covered in blood. Mom freaked out, said she was taking me — I was all of five, by the way — and she was leaving. She was going to head for Idaho, to be with her family.

  “I remember her packing our stuff. It’s funny the things the mind keeps for later, my little pink bag filled with little pink dresses and god knew what else. Anyway, she got as far as the end of the driveway.”

  “What happened?” Tonka’s voice was soft, wary. It was clear he wanted to know, wanted to know the ending of the little bedtime story Mercy was giving him during the day, but he didn’t. He didn’t want to know because he already knew. He just wanted her to say it.

  “Chucky came flying out the door in a rage. I was fucking five and will never forget the look on his face as he stormed down the driveway, his Colt 45 raised, and the absolute coldness in his eyes as he pulled the trigger. He never even blinked. Just shot her, one straight through the forehead. And just like that, she was gone.

  “It took me years to figure out the rest. I found out he had his men take her body and bury it at the goddamned compound. Her car went to a garage, where it was stripped and destroyed. As for me, well the damage was already done, but you can’t repair it with any tools or paint. Not that I don’t try anyway.”

  “I’m so—”

  “Don’t tell me you’re sorry, Tonka. Like Poet said yesterday, sorry is just a word and it has no solutions.” Tears stung at her eyes and Mercy turned away, blinking them away. “My car is gone. It’s a matter of time before Chucky shows up. We need to call Poet and let her know that a shit storm is coming, and a monster one at that. There will be death.”

  Reciting the motto of Static Law turned Mercy’s stomach and she swallowed hard. The unfortunate part was, she wasn’t wrong. If she knew her father, and she did extremely well, he was probably already on his way down to New Mexico. It was only a matter of time, two days, maybe three, before he got there. They all needed to be ready, be prepared, for the destruction that was coming.

  Tonka nodded and pulled his cell from his pocket. “‘Speare, need you in here.”

  “What’d you find?” The man appeared quickly, out of nowhere. Tonka merely nodded to Mercy. She pulled the photo from her pocket and handed it to him, hoping he’d give it back, which he did after a quick once-over.

  “Your mom?” the VP asked, and she inclined her head slightly. “And your car?”

  Mercy’s eyes darted to the ground, and around the shop once more, before she shook her head. “Not here.”

  “Fuck.”

  “Yep.”

  “How long did it take you to drive here?”

  “A couple days, give or take. Hours sort of blurred in a rush of audio books and music, rest stops, and gas stations.”

  Shakespeare nodded thoughtfully, his eyes pinched, creasing his forehead. “So we have, what, maybe three days or so if we’re lucky before your dear old dad shows up?”

  “Something like that,” she answered dryly, appreciating the sarcasm in his tone when speaking of her sperm donor. It was nice to be around people who didn’t think the son of a bitch hung the moon, even if she wished she didn’t have to think about the guy at all.

  “All hell’s gonna break loose.”

  “Yep,” she repeated, running a frustrated hand through her hair, fucking up her ponytail, but she didn’t care. She glanced around the garage once more, this time seeing tell-tale signs of a break-in. Here there was more garbage littering the ground. If she didn’t know any better she’d say the receipt closest to her foot was from her car. The large drums that had held water had been pushed over, though the liquid not spilling. Small sprinklings of blood could also be seen, almost imperceptible amongst the stains on the concrete.

  “I’d say I could just leave and save you all the trouble,” Mercy started, but Shakespeare held up a hand.

  “Won’t do any good at this point, from what I can tell. Doesn’t look like Static Law is going to give a fuck if you aren’t here when they get here. Even if they did, it wouldn’t matter. They drew first; they caused a much larger mess than just this when they interrupted Poet’s wedding.

  “I think,” the VP continued, his eyes darting from the door to the bays to Tonka before landing on Mercy once more. “You being here when they get here is going to create an even greater fucking explosion of issues, but we may be able to use you to our advantage.”

  “Use me?” Her words were incredulous, ire rising in her gut. There was nothing Mercy hated more than being thought of as a tool, something to be used. Too often had her father tried to make her do his bidding, and she’d be damned if she crumbled merely because Hells Redemption told her to do something. No, she was her own fucking person and no one used her.

  Shakespeare raised an eyebrow, but ignored her for the most part, turning back to Tonka. “Talk to her. Talk some
sense into her fucking woman brain.”

  “I’m right fucking here, and I have enough sense, thank you.”

  “God you’re exhausting. No wonder Artist likes you.”

  Before she could say something equally exhausting as his statement, Tonka interrupted, “You got it, VP.”

  “You’re a mechanic, too, aren’t you?”

  This question surprised Mercy, and she stared, wondering which answer would serve her better. Lie and say no? Tell the truth and say yes? He’d been at the clubhouse when Poet had rattled off her basic details, so it was more than likely a rhetorical question. He already knew she was, so there was no point in giving him lip service. Not trusting the biting words that may come out of her mouth, she chose the smarter route and merely nodded.

  “Think you can take a look at the bikes outside? Gonna need them, I think. We have an account here, linked with the scrap yard across town as well as the parts store in town. Tell them I sent you,” he instructed, as if she was one of his biker brothers to give orders to. He put a hand up to stop her objections. “You’ll be aptly paid for your time and labor. I’ll send a couple prospects to help if you need them, just let Tonka know. I’ll also send a sweetie to get you some better clothes. My Artist has a good heart, but I have a feeling you’d rather not be dressed like,” he waved his hand toward her borrowed clothes, “well, like that while you work.”

  “I’m not a member of Hells Redemption. I’m not an asset for you.”

  Shakespeare’s eyes narrowed, his stance changing as he moved to stand directly in front of her.

  “You’d rather be an asset than a mere hindrance, Static Princess. Count your blessings.”

  “Don’t call me that,” she spit each word, meaning them, her face heating and her heart beginning to race. She knew it was stupid to even attempt to go toe to toe with the man, but she couldn’t help it. If she lost her independence, more than she already had, she’d be in danger of losing herself. And that, she wouldn’t lose, not for anyone.