Caged (Desert Hussars MC Book 2) Page 3

  “Well, I don’t think we’d all agree 100% on any plan,” Hanna said. “So this seems to be the best we’ve got.”

  “Alright. We’ll meet tomorrow. Get the moving parts ready.”

  As they parted, Hanna felt James eyeing her and she refused to look back at him. She had enough on her mind, she didn’t need to try and convince her uncle he was crazy for thinking she had gone and done exactly what she did. Especially now that the extent of the consequences had just increased in a way she couldn’t imagine.

  Chapter 8

  They pulled out a bike that belonged to a member that skipped town several years ago. As per Hell Hussar rules, they trashed it beyond recognition. That proved to be a fortuitous move since it would keep anyone from identifying the bike and giving them away. Just to be safe, however, Roarke painted in colors that Amber had used on her own bike. He was trying to close as many of the holes as possible. Hanna did have a point, this plan was shaky, at best. But he was going to make as sturdy as possible.

  He wasn’t going to admit that he was running out of options, he was going to let anyone know he was just a little bit nervous, maybe even scared. He wasn’t going to be weak, not when Rick was watching him like a hawk and Hanna’s police contact was giving him the evil eye at every opportunity. This was the best way to prove what he was capable of and it was going to work, it had to work.

  So late that night he and James dragged the motorcycle wreckage onto the street. They’d contacted Roarke’s surgeon friend at the hospital.

  “Can you trust him?” James asked.

  “He’s sewn me up more times than I can count,” Roarke said. “If I can’t trust him, then I’ve been doing something very wrong.”

  “Alright.”

  James was reluctant to give any praise or any indication that he was agreeing with this. Hanna claimed he was a dirty cop but he seemed to be incredibly attached to his own honor. He was doing the dirty cop thing all wrong with how righteous his face constantly looked when he was talking or glaring at Roarke.

  “He’ll respond in the ambulance, we’ll ride to the hospital, and then park it in the hospital room,” Roarke said. “I’ll give you the signal to leak us when we’re situated. But some people might have already put in anonymous tips by then.”

  James nodded stiffly and that was the end of them talking.

  Amber had, predictably, not been happy about any parts of the plan. But Roarke didn’t particularly care at the moment what sort of opinion she had to give on the matter. She had betrayed her family, as far as he was concerned. He knew she did what she did out of concern for Elizabeth but she’d ruined any chance they had of getting an upper hand in this labyrinth. She’d chosen the sibling who turned against them all, and that was something he was not going to forgive easily.

  So she stood there, arms crossed, ready for the ambulance to show up. The plan was to have it all take place early in the morning, the world was asleep and unable to poke any holes in the plot. James would claim to be a first responder and call, in turn, their contacts at the hospital. The ambulance would come and silently drop them off at the hospital. It would all be on record but attracted as minimal attention as possible.

  “Alright, let’s get this show on the road,” Roarke said.

  And then it was in motion. James taped off the wreckage of the motorcycle and took pictures like any crime scene. Amber and Roarke got into the back of the ambulance and took off several minutes before other police officers showed up and wondered why the ambulance's lights and siren were off.

  They didn’t talk during the bumpy ride over. Amber was unhappy and Roarke was practically seething. Between the two of them they couldn’t seem to really formulate even a little bit of civility. At this point he was far past trying. So they rocked and moved with the bumps in the road, hearing only the sounds of the devices in the ambulance move as well. They didn’t have radios in emergency vehicles, not any that weren’t for communication, anyway.

  They got to the hospital and got out with just as much stoicism.

  “We’re going to room D on the third floor,” the ambulance driver said. “Someone should be waiting there.”

  “Should,” Amber echoed with haughtiness.

  “Shut it,” Roarke ordered.

  They marched into the hospital. The sun was rising now. They didn’t make eye contact as they moved through the hospital and towards their destination on the third floor. When they got there, they shut the door behind them and turned on the news, flipping through channels and waiting. They finally found the story featuring them on Channel 6. A reporter was in front of the staged wreckage, reporting Amber’s name, her condition being critical, and her position as Roarke’s sister.

  It was all vague enough information that it would draw anyone in, especially someone who cared about her. Roarke stepped over to the window and saw that a gaggle of reporters had swarmed outside the hospital and made a home in the parking lot, waiting to get the scoop.

  “It’s like you’re a fucking senator or some shit,” Roarke mumbled. He hadn’t expected quite so much press but the more the merrier, as far as he was concerned.

  The door opened several times over the course of an hour. It was members of the gang, coming in to offer status updates. None of them were the face that Roarke was hoping to see. Until he finally saw the one he was after.

  “Amber?” called a familiar, small quiet voice.

  But when Roarke saw her there was nothing about her that was small and quiet. He saw a cunning woman hiding in that newly adult body. He saw a snake wearing their mother’s face and their father’s physique. He saw someone who had pretended to love him, pretended to be the good in the world. He snapped.

  He dove for her, trying to get his arms around her in a hold to keep her down. She panicked. She yelled out. It was happening so fast and in a way that Roarke couldn’t seem to control. He’d gotten sloppy at the end. It was unravelling now as Isabelle, open only for a moment, was closing fast. Their window was gone and she was slipping through their fingers just as quick.

  He lost his cool, and then they lost everything.

  ***

  Isabelle was gone. She got out, just like James had warned she might and Amber had insisted she would. She’d managed to land a knock to his gut while he tried to hold her down and get the cuffs James had given him on her. She let out a scream, and several nurses rushed in to the sight of him with his sister in a headlock, her struggling to fight free, and then taking off in hysterics while he chased after her.

  By the time he got to the ground floor, having lost her, security was already right behind him and he just kept running straight out the door. He didn’t stop running until he thought his heart was going to burst right out of his chest and his lungs were just going to explode. He didn’t know where to run, where they wouldn’t immediately think to look. His apartment was off limits. The bar would be too. They’d have cops ready and waiting at Robert’s house and Amber’s apartment if he tried that. He had no idea where Hanna lived. He was beyond being up the creek without a paddle, he was about to be adrift in the ocean in nothing but a rowboat.

  He made a split decision, turning left at Main Street and using what energy he had left to sprint down the sidewalk, pushing people out of the way as he did so. In the distance there were sirens, they could be for anyone, but if he didn’t operate under the assumption they were for him, coming for him, then he’d never get to a safe zone in time.

  He saw his salvation and burst the door open, locking it behind him

  Chapter 9

  Hanna had been forbidden by both Roarke and James, respectively, with interfering with their idiot set-up mission. And now she knew that had been a huge mistake. Roarke was too easily goaded. She had no idea what happened in the hospital room, but based on the news feed, it wasn’t anything that was going to help them.

  “Roarke Withers, known president of the Hell Hussars biker gang went on the run today after an altercation in the hospital room o
f his sister Amber Withers, recently identified as the victim in a motorcycle accident early this morning. Roarke reportedly assaulted Isabelle Withers, his youngest sister, who recently came forward with allegations against him. According to hospital staff, he had her in a choke hold, evidently attempting to restrain her and possibly kidnap her. Withers took off when security was called and a warrant has been issued for his arrest under assault charges--”

  She clicked the TV off and stared at the dark screen instead, glaring at her own reflection. She didn’t think of herself as a micromanager. She liked to let people do their own thing. She’d excelled at things like that in group work at the police station. But damn was she angry now. Neither her uncle nor Roarke was going to listen to her, too busy staring daggers at each other and measuring their dicks in some kind of perpetual pissing contest.

  Now there was no shot of getting the police involved on their side, and Roarke had gone and made it that much more difficult for them to do their work in finding these girls. On top of all of that, Isabelle had no idea where he would have run to. Despite what her irritation was telling her about him, she knew he wasn’t dumb enough to go back to his apartment or to any of his relatives. Even the bar was a dangerous place. So where did a man go when he had nowhere to run? More importantly, where would Roarke think to hide?

  Well the answer, of course, was that he wouldn’t hide. He was proud, not so proud that he would get shot over it. But wherever he went it would be to a place that he wouldn’t really consider as a hiding spot. It would be somewhere he felt like he had ownership of, an agency over. Someplace he could control so he could trick himself into thinking he was doing this for his own reasons. So where would that be?

  The first place she thought of was the auto shop but she quickly put that out of her mind. It was too obvious, even Roarke would know that. The bar was the second best option, though it didn’t seem much safer. Still, if anyone was going to know where he was, it was the crowd gathered at the bar. At least she’d find allies there, or people she still hoped were her allies.

  Chapter 10

  “He’s crawled up into a hidey hole,” Rick said. “Like a fucking bitch ass spider.”

  Rick threw back his shot and slammed the small glass down on the counter with more than gusto. It was with anger. Hanna was surprised it didn’t shatter under his force. He and a couple of the guys had gathered in the bar. Amber wasn’t there, and it was one of her replacement girls working the bar.

  “What the fuck does that mean?” Hanna asked, trying not to get too overly impatient. Roarke wasn’t here to stop Rick if he tried anything and, strong and capable as Hanna was, she wouldn’t be a match for a man twice her size and several of his drunk friends.

  “There’s an old room downstairs, entrance is behind the bar. It was used during prohibition and now it’s just kind of an extra room when we need to sleep someone where they won’t be found,” Rick said. “Like I said, bitch ass hidey hole. Go cuddle with your fucking kicked puppy.”

  Hanna walked away, not giving into Rick’s taunting as she walked around the bar and found the trapdoor he mentioned. She walked over to it, giving it a pull. It was locked.

  “You got a key?” she asked the bartender who shrugged.

  “Locks from the inside, safer that way,” she said over the pop of her gum.

  “Then can you get his attention please?” she asked through gritted teeth.

  It was painfully clear how few her allies really were when Rick wasn’t there. She tried not to let the nervousness spread and show, however. She wasn’t going to give any of them ammunition or a reason to come after her. She didn’t care if Rick called her a coward and cursed her name or played darts with a picture of her face. She just needed to talk to Roarke, sort this out, and maybe smack him hard across the face for his stupidity while she was at it.

  The bartender walked over to the trapdoor and knocked on it hard with her foot three times. There was a pause and she did it again with more gusto. After a few seconds, the lock began to jangle and the door swung open. A wild eyed and angry looking Roarke popped his head out.

  “What?” he demanded in a snap of his jaw and tongue.

  “Visitor,” she said, pointing to Hanna.

  His eyes softened on seeing her, but only just. He let out a sigh and shook his head. He walked away without a word but left the door open behind him, which Hanna took as an invitation to follow him down the stairs and into whatever cave-like tunnel he’d carved out for himself.

  She found, however, it wasn’t so bad down there. She imagined some kind of strange medieval dungeon like the Cask of Amontillado but was instead treated with a rather normal looking basement room, except for the trapdoor entrance. The walls were painted cement, the floor plain gray cement. There was a bed shoved into the corner, several boxes and file cabinets. It looked, if nothing else, like a messy storage room.

  “It was much cooler during prohibition,” he said. “I promise.”

  “What the fuck happened?”

  “You know. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”

  “I’d like to get your version of it.”

  “My version of it is that I was a moron.”

  He paced around in front of her, his hands flying just a bit. She could tell he’d been down here for hours to himself. He’d been waiting to give this rant to someone and she was fairly certain that he’d been waiting for her. She sat on one of the stacks of empty milk crates that was used to carry new boxes of beer up to the fridge and crossed her arms.

  “She bought it too, that’s the worst part. She was falling into the trap. It was working. I swear to God Hanna, it was working. We had her,” he said yelling at the nothingness in the space in front of him. He looked ready to strangle an invisible, unfortunate man in front of him.

  “But?”

  “But she’s like the fucking poster child for evolution or something,” he said. “Or like a jedi. She saw it coming and adapted. Totally turned herself inside out and made me out to be some kind of monster or something. And you know the worst part? I think I actually saw her smile while it was all going down. She liked what she was doing to me, to our family.”

  That’s when he dropped onto the bed, pacing worn out. He dropped his face into his hands and let out a muffled groan that was very nearly a yell by the end. She didn’t know what to say. She figured she was within her rights to offer him a hug, a comforting squeeze of the shoulder. After all, they had slept together, it’s not like they were strangers or had some sterile friendship that required ten feet minimum distance at all times.

  But she was also afraid of where that could lead. She wanted to tell him. She truly wanted to tell him what she was, who she was. Every day she felt less and less like Laura, but she wanted him to know that name, know where she came from. But she couldn’t trust him. He was the father of the child growing inside her and she was terrified of him knowing her in any real way.

  “I think I always knew, too,” he said. “When she was a kid she used to play pranks. I’m thinking it’s just normal kid shit but one day she actually drowned Amber’s hamster. We blamed it on something else so Amber wouldn’t hate her the rest of her teenage years but she fucking killed an animal. I thought it was just an accident you know? Shit happens. But she didn’t cry over it like you’d think a kid would. I knew that the first sign of a psychopath is animal cruelty or whatever, but I just liked seeing so much light in her. I wanted so bad for her to be the one that redeemed us, got us all out of this craphole. She was the best of us.”

  Hanna listened and watched. She couldn’t tell, in the dim light, if Roarke was crying, if his eyes were watering or she heard a crack in his voice. She wasn’t sure if she wanted him to be crying or stoic, which she’d be able to handle more. She understood his pain. He built up an idea of his sister, an idea she likely cultivated in his head. He wanted so much for her to be one thing, that he couldn’t understand the possibility of it being wrong. Of everything he put his hope in
over the years of being wrong.

  “I hated my old man, you know,” he said. “You notice I never talk about that fucker?”

  “I didn’t want to ask.”

  “Well, he was beyond an asshole. He was irresponsible, he was a drinker, he only ever cared about himself and would bawl his eyes out about how bad of a father he was when he got just that drunk,” he said. “Then one day he was shot by the Caracals and I was the man of the house.”