Helpless: Belial's Disciples MC, #1

By AJ Adams

Fracas Macintyre has been in and out of trouble all her life but this time it's worse than ever. In debt to a loan shark, she's caught up in a war between the Alistairs, nicknamed The Irish Mob, and Belial's Disciples, England's nastiest MC. Kidnapped and at the mercy of Caden Winslow, Fracas is convinced that life is going to get very nasty indeed.

 

Caden Winslow is an ex soldier used to taking care of business. When an Alistair henchman steals his beloved Busa, he simply takes one of theirs hostage and expects a simple trade will solve the problem. However, Caden is about to be pulled into a war.

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ellen Whyte
• Release date: Jan 1, 2021
• ISBN: 9781393325291

AJ Adams

AJ Adams writes twisted love stories set in the violent world of the Cartel, Camorra, Belial's MC and Prydain. All AJ Adams novels are self-standing and although some feature the same families, you need not read them all - but it would be awesome if you did. If you enjoy these novels and want to stalk, please know that AJ is the pen name for Ellen Whyte. Ellen married her best friend and moved to the tropics where they are living their own Happily Ever After. When she's not writing, she's cooking and pandering to her rescue cats Target, Swooner and Tic Tac.

Book preview

Chapter Zero: Caden

In my dream I was walking up the path, my boots sinking into the mud, the rain coming down in a steady stream of cold water. I could hear music coming from the farmhouse. Loud, Russian pop music. A sense of horror swept over me, yet I couldn’t stop my dream self from reaching for the door.

I woke up screaming.

It was a mistake to sleep. I knew I’d be walking up that damn path again, but sense had told me that I had to get some rest. You can’t prepare for an execution if you’re half zonked from exhaustion. So I’d closed the curtains, tossed down a large whiskey and shut my eyes. I’m very disciplined, so I slept. And had that fucking awful nightmare again. Even discipline can’t stop dreams, but when I woke, the clock said I’d been out four hours. It was enough.

My gear was packed and waiting. The Busa had a full tank and I’d carefully spread mud over the number plates. If anyone did get a look at me, they’d be unable to identify the bike beyond a reasonable doubt. That was good enough.

I rode out the gates without anyone spotting me and made for the coast. It was quiet, and the roads were dry for once, so I opened her up and let her rip. I took back lanes so that I could avoid Bonnington with its curious villagers and police CCTV, but even with the detour it took me just half an hour to get to the cottage.

It was still deserted, an abandoned place with an overgrown garden and a roof that looked as if it leaked like a sieve. I drove past it, parked the Busa in the copse beyond, picked up my gear and made for the beach. Ten minutes later, I was swimming out to sea, making my way to the house where my prey was waiting for me.

I’d timed it perfectly. The sun had dipped below the horizon, and the sea was turning dark as I swam up to the cliff. It was a mere fifty metres or so to the top, but the rock face was sheer. Ordinarily it would be difficult to climb during the day and impossible at night, but I’d spent a careful few hours over three separate nights the week before preparing the place for an easy ascent.

Proper Planning and Preparation Prevents Piss Poor Performance, my old training sergeant used to say. I’d taken his advice to heart, making certain that this mission would go off without a hitch.

I found the yellow toggle lying a few inches under the water’s surface easily enough. I pulled it sharply, feeling rather than seeing the invisible fishing line coming down the cliff. The thin rope that I’d left curled up on a small ledge came snaking down after it. I tied it round my waist, untied the bigger waterproof bag from my back and swapped my fins for Cliffs. It was damn tricky as the waves were swirling all over me, but having the rope to cling to made it easier, as did the shoes that protected my feet from the sharp stone.

To be certain, I gave it five more minutes, just so the darkness was total, and then I swarmed up the cliff. The rope made it an easy job to reach a snug little shelf near the top. I stashed my fins in a handy crack, sat down and waited till midnight.

Despite my wetsuit, it was cold, but I didn’t care. The thought of what was coming kept me warm. I waited till my watch flashed a silent alarm, and then I stood up and listened. I heard nothing, so I went up the last few metres and took a peek over the top. There wasn’t a soul to be seen.

I hauled myself over the edge and ran silently over the grass. Hawthorn Lodge had once been a hideaway for a royal duke and his mistress. It was small, luxurious and built so that security could sit out front while the occupants frolicked safely in the house and the little garden.

The current owner had more enemies than a dog has fleas, yet the silly bastard hadn’t invested in a regular patrol. He’d assumed any trouble would come from a frontal attack so he’d built up his defences there by building a ten foot wall and steel gate, but he’d relied on geography to provide security at the rear.

Big mistake.

Now I was here, the lodge stood almost invisibly in the dark. The lounge and living quarters were at the front of the house, while the bedrooms were at the back. I found him where he should have been, in the master bedroom, but he wasn’t alone. There was a girl with him, or rather, under him. It wasn’t a problem. I’d anticipated he might have company.

I opened the other little kit bag I’d carried on my back and took out the surgical gloves, the small cylinder and the thin rubber hose. The gloves and the wetsuit meant I’d leave no trace of myself. It wasn’t part of my plan to be caught, in the act or afterwards.

I inserted a thin file under the French door, took a slim slice of wood off the frame and slotted the rubber hose into the gap. A few seconds later the fentanyl gas was flooding into the room. You may have heard of it; the FSB, Russia’s secret service, used it to knock out the terrorists who took an opera house full of hostages a few years ago.

The FSB screwed up and ended up killing some of the hostages, but I did better. He collapsed in mid-fuck, and I cut the glass out of the door in order to leave any alarms undisturbed. The gap in the glass was clearing the gas, and I opened up the bedroom door to the hall to help ventilate the place. I checked his heart and was pleased to find it beating strongly.

The girl was okay, too. She was skinny, covered in cheap tattoos, and by the little halter top and fishnets lying on the floor, she was a pro. She wasn’t marked up; she was lucky. This man might have hired her for a night but given his tendencies, she might have found herself in trouble. Still, this wasn’t the time to explain.

Some stockings tied them both securely by the wrists, elbows and ankles. I had packed a gag for him, a nice big red rubber one, sure to stifle any screams. As for his playmate, I found her knickers on the floor, shoved them in her mouth, and secured them with another stocking. Now all that was left in the kit bag was a scalpel.

The girl was beginning to wriggle and moan. I dragged her into the bathroom and dumped her in the bath. Anyone else might have killed her, just to be safe, but I’m fussy about civilians. She’d be stuck until someone came to rescue her. It would be uncomfortable, but she’d not suffer any lasting damage.

Then I went back and slapped him awake. Colonel Vukoja. Remember me? I could see by his eyes that he didn’t. The fucker had forgotten. It made my blood boil. The farm outside Kladovo last year. You were on your way to the border.

Now he remembered. He was beginning to sweat. He was also trying to speak. I guess he knew what was in store for him, and he didn’t like it one bit.

I’d caught up with Niko Stankovic in Sofia six months ago. He’d changed his name to Levy, but he called his dear old mum in Belgrade every month, the idiot, so he wasn’t hard to track down. Six weeks later I’d taken care of Kolvo Abramov, who’d been hiding in Limburg, in the south of the Netherlands, pretending to be a Jewish refugee from anti-Semitic Russia. The other two, the brothers Radic and Zupan Chomatenos, had bought theirs two months ago in a house outside Paris. They’d changed their names and had surgery, which was a smart move, but they’d kept up with Abramov, and that was a fatal mistake.

The Dutch police found Abramov, but I’d disposed of the other bodies carefully, so nobody even suspected there’d been a spate of revenge killings on the continent. Vukoja would’ve heard about Abramov; all of Europe had heard of the gruesome killing, but he might not have realised the rest of his mates had vanished, too. By the look of him, Vukoja was kicking himself for not keeping closer tabs on his old crew. His bad. My good fortune.

Vukoja had been the leader, so he was wilier than the others. I’d spent the best part of the last year looking for him all over Eastern Europe, and ironically he’d been sitting a few miles away from my own home back in England.

I’d come back for a breather after the Paris job and found him while checking out the Serbian antique market. Vukoja was running through his funds fast, so he popped out of hiding to sell a Djordje Mitrofanovic, a painting he’d stolen from some poor bastard during the Kosovo War.

His fundraiser would cost him his life. I traced the transaction, and then it was a snap to locate his new name and location. It had taken me a couple of weeks to scope out his security and work out how to get to him. Now he was finished, but he couldn’t quite believe it. He was signalling an urgent message with his eyes, blinking and nodding vigorously.

You want to offer me money?

He grunted furiously, motioning towards a painting on the wall. It was a repro and badly framed, too. Unless he’d nicked the Mona Lisa, which seemed doubtful, it looked like he was pointing me at a hidden wall safe stuffed with cash.

There isn’t enough money in the world to buy your freedom. I showed him the scalpel. You should have made sure you’d killed me. I touched the metal lightly to his chest. As you have a fondness for bathing in blood, I’m going to help you have a lovely, relaxing evening.

Vukoja’s eyes bulged, and he made a screaming sound. I should have felt good, knowing he was suffering as much as his victims had, but actually I felt nothing. I’d chosen this revenge because it was apt, but I can’t say I took any pleasure in it.

Vukoja was nicknamed Dracula because of his kink, but he didn’t invent it. Curiously enough, slow slicing has a long history. While searching for him I’d done quite a bit of reading, and apparently there was a medieval Hungarian countess who bled virgins for her daily bath. It was also a big thing in China, where they called it the Death of a Thousand Cuts. It’s incredibly painful, mostly because of the psychological torture. If you do it slowly and carefully, your victim shouldn’t actually bleed out. However, from all accounts nobody has ever lasted a thousand cuts, not even in China.

Stankovic made it to sixty five, I informed Vukoja. Abramov got to a mere forty seven, and the Chomatenos brothers didn’t even reach that. Let’s see how far we get.

As it turned out, this tough nut wasn’t so brave when it came to spilling his own blood. He was squealing by the third cut, and we kept having to take little breaks after the twenty fifth. Despite that, the fucker died on me far too quickly. Vukoja was definitely dead by the thirty-ninth cut, but he may have croaked three slices earlier. I might have mistaken his death rattle for an anguished groan.

The last time we’d met, Vukoja had shot me but forgotten to finish me off, an act the sloppy bastard was no doubt cursing himself for during our bath. I’m thorough, so I cut his throat. The scalpel was a beauty, and I ended up hacking off his head. I left it on the edge of the bed, inspired I think by a vague memory of The Godfather. I looked around the blood-soaked room, didn’t see anything that would lead anyone to me, packed my equipment and left.

It was just past six in the morning, and the sky was beginning to turn that dark turquoise that signals the sun is on the way up. I collected my fins on the way down to the water, and after swimming a mile, I began dumping my gear. The sea is deep there, and even if anyone did find something, which was unlikely, the water would’ve destroyed any forensic evidence.

I swam for another hour, dipping under the surface frequently and cleaning my hair to get rid of all the splatter before finally stopping and stripping off the wetsuit. It had been soaked with blood, and I didn’t want to risk any of it clinging to a thread or seam.

I don’t know if you’ve ever tried this, but treading water while you’re taking off a wetsuit is a killer. I went under so many times, I came near to drowning. The pisser was that when I finally made it, my Jammers came off with them, so I ended up swimming commando the last two miles. I was exhausted at that point, but the tide was with me, carrying me home rapidly.

By the time I staggered out of the water, the sun was climbing rapidly into the sky. It being mid-week, there wasn’t a soul on the beach. It’s not popular, anyway, being small, rocky and with the water too deep for safe swimming. There’s a much better spot a few miles up the coast near my place, so anyone wanting a day out would be there.

I sat on the beach, knowing I’d have it all to myself. A quick once-over confirmed that the sea had washed off all the blood. All I had to do now was collect the Busa, dress and go home.

It was finally over. Everything I’d planned had come together. There had been five of them, and now there were none left. They’d all gone much faster than I would have liked, but circumstances had dictated that speed was essential for my own safety. If I’d been able to change things, I would have made them suffer for years. Even so, pain magnifies time, and I was certain that the hours it took them to die had seemed a lifetime.

I had my revenge, and I would keep my freedom. It was mission accomplished. I tried to feel good about it, but I was numb. Exhaustion probably. I’m strong, but swimming miles in the open ocean takes it out of you, even if you do take a break to pause and refresh in a glorious slaughter between dips.

I sat on the beach, staring out over the ocean. The sun was shining, and there was a breeze. It was a perfect spring day. When I was a kid, we used to spend practically every holiday at the beach. I tried to remember what it had been like, but the memories of sailing, swimming and splashing around seemed to belong to another person.

This was no good. Blood, war and death had taken up too much of my life. I’d go home, find a nice girl, settle down and live happily ever after, surrounded by family. I was done with killing.

I dashed the water out of my hair and started walking to the cottage where I’d hidden my bike.

I thought it was the end, but actually, it was the beginning.

Chapter One: Caden

Iwalked over the stony little beach and into the copse beyond. I went straight to the elderberry bushes grouped by an old oak and that’s when I realised someone had nicked the Busa.

I couldn’t believe it at first. There wasn’t a soul near this place. Bonnington, the nearest village, was ten miles away and the cottage up the road had been unoccupied for years.

Most likely some green conservationist bastard had gone for a walk, found my ride and stolen it. I’d find him, get my Busa back and kill him, but first I’d have to source some kit. I decided to try the cottage. It was deserted, but maybe I could raid the place for an old bed sheet or curtain. Going cross-country didn’t bother me but I would be damned if I did it stark bollock naked.

I knew someone had moved in before I could see the place because a radio came blasting on, shattering the silence. When I got close enough to see, I spotted a lanky nerd type standing in the doorway, waving at a red Ferrari bombing down the lane, techno pouring out of the windows.

When the nerd went back inside, I took a quick look around. There were tyre marks on the soft earth by the house. I recognised them straight off as the Busa’s treads. This was the fucker who’d pinched my ride. There was only one thing for it: I kicked down the front door and went in.

It wasn’t as impressive as it sounds. The cottage was a two-story crock, once the home of gamekeepers in Victorian times, and so the wood was rotten and the lock ancient. Mind you, the door opened straight into the parlour, and it shattered into a million splinters, so I made quite an entrance.

The nerd was sitting at a table, fiddling about with some computer gear. He was still frozen, staring at me in open-mouthed astonishment when I punched him in the face. A second blow to the gut and another to the balls had him on the floor, vomiting and moaning weakly.

Where the fuck is my Busa? He didn’t answer, so I kicked him in the ribs. Where the fuck is it?

I was about to kick him again when he began babbling. Stop! Jesus! Stop! What the fuck’s a Busa?

My bike, you pissy little wanker. I kicked him for emphasis, getting him square in the belly. The Suzuki Hayabusa. Where is it?

I dunno!

I could see by the flicker in his eyes that he knew very well where my ride was. I kicked him again in order to encourage him to come clean, and then the weak bastard passed out on me.

I kicked him a couple of times more out of sheer frustration and went into the kitchen. There was a pan filled with bacon grease on the stove, some groceries on the table, a backpack on the floor and a big ball of pink twine on the counter. He had no sharp knives, but I found a box cutter. It wasn’t much, but it would do.

I went back to the parlour and hogtied the lying fuck. Then I went back into the kitchen and raided the backpack. He was a skinny son of a bitch but he had some cycling shorts and a t-shirt that fitted. The tee was skin-tight, and when I went back and bent over him, it ripped.

The nerd didn’t come round as I secured him, but a couple of kicks after brought him back to planet earth. By the whining and struggling, he didn’t seem happy about it.

I showed him the box cutter. Three seconds before I start flaying. He moaned and didn’t answer, so I rolled him onto his side and sliced his chest, cutting along a rib. It was purely surface damage, but there was an impressive amount of blood. He screamed a bit and then fainted again. This was getting me nowhere.

I sat on the sofa, waiting for him to come to. I was trying to convince myself it wouldn’t help to kill the bastard— because I’d not get my bike back—when I spotted a handbag. It was red, a bit bashed and stuffed with makeup and a raft of papers. Women never move more than a few feet from their bags, so there had to be one in the house.

I found her in the pantry. The bitch had locked herself in, so I broke that door down, too. As that one wasn’t rotten, I used a small bench. When the lock finally gave, I found myself looking at a lovely little package. She was about five foot four, with long dark brown hair, delicious creamy skin, and she was dressed in super tight leggings and a tiny top that showed off every curve to perfection.

The image of loveliness shattered when she began yelling. You fucking maniac, get the hell away from me!

Where’s my Busa?

She backed away. Get lost, bastard! Don’t you dare touch me!

I reached for her, and then she put up a hell of a fight.

She kicked, bit and punched, showing much more bottle than the nerd. I’m trained to subdue, so by twisting her arm behind her back and holding on to her hair (soft as silk by the way, nice) I quickly got her under control.

Women tend to be untouchable, because they’re usually civilians. You work around them, remove them from the scene and leave them alone. But as this one was working hand in glove with the nerd, she was fair game. That’s the thing about equality: if you fight alongside the boys, you can’t demand special treatment when you’re caught.

Looking at this fighter’s tits shaking about under the tight tee made the next move a no-brainer. There’s a very simple way to break most men, and with a girl this luscious, I’d have no trouble convincing the fucker I meant business. Let’s go talk to your boyfriend.

He’s not my boyfriend, you fucking arsehole! Let me go!

Shut up.

I marched her into the parlour, kicked the nerd as I walked past him and began stripping the bitch. She had a great body, lush hips, nice arse, lovely curved legs and great tits, but she wasn’t keen on showing off her assets.

I had a hell of a time taking her kit off because she fought me every inch of the way. I’d managed to strip off her top, and I was trying to pull down her leggings when she got her teeth around my wrist. She had a bite like a Rottweiler and was intent on gnawing her way to the bone until I stuck a hand between her legs. That made her squall and lose her concentration.

Amateurs are like that: they can’t resist reacting. If she’d kept her focus and kept her teeth fixed in my arm, I’d have had to let go. I would have belted her, but I would have let go.

As it was, I got a good grip on her, lifted her off her feet, and bent her face down over the sofa. She had a tattoo on her lower back—flowers in red, yellow, green and black. It led the eye straight to her arse, at least, that’s where mine were. She really had a wonderful backside, round and sweet. Perfect for fun and games.

The girl wasn’t in the mood to play with me, but her screaming got the nerd’s attention. He looked up, moaning still, the soft bastard. I shook his woman in front of his eyes, enjoying the way her arse was bumping up against my hips, and I gave it to him straight. My bike, or I take this bitch for a ride.

You bastard! the girl yelled. Get the hell off me!

Her screaming didn’t rock the nerd. What the fuck do I care? She’s a whore.

Fuck. Not good. I could see he meant it.

For a second I was tempted to follow through and take her. I thought about it but I didn’t do it. Rape’s not my thing. Never has been. Don’t ask me why because it’s part and parcel of warfare, not just as a perk for winning troops but also as a tactic to destroy the opposition’s morale.

It’s popular because you start with a village full of weeping women, and nine months later you’re looking at a crop of enemy kids. Keep them and you raise little cuckoos that always remind you of the defeat, but kill them and you’ve got a plethora of grieving mums who’ll hate you forever.

I understand how it works, and even though I can see the value of it, it’s just not something I do. It’s a weakness probably.

Anyway, I was looking at that amazing tat, and I had a hard-on the size of a cruise missile, but if the girl had thought for a moment, she would have known she was safe because I still had those cycling shorts on. But she didn’t, and she panicked. She was a flexible little thing, and when she twisted, she managed to slip out from my grip. Instead of running she bounced up like a gummy ball and went for me.

I’ll kill you! Arsehole! Wanker!

She was punching, slapping and screaming, not doing any damage but definitely distracting me. She certainly had energy and application. If she’d been trained properly, she’d be the equivalent of a nuclear bomb. Luckily for me, she didn’t even know how to punch properly.

I shoved her onto the sofa, kept her steady with a knee in the small of her back, reached for the twine and hogtied her, too. I ignored the stream of insults and turned back to the nerd.

Right. New strategy. I showed him the box knife again. In five seconds I start cutting nerves and muscles. The ones in your hands. You won’t be able to feed yourself, that didn’t seem to appal him, or type on that fancy laptop. That got his attention. You’ve got ten fingers. Once I’ve finished with your hands, it’s the eyes.

He was screaming before I even reached for his thumb. I took it to town!

What town, you stupid fuck?

Skegness! I took it to Skegness!

Who did you sell it to?

I dunno!

I thought this time he was telling the truth but I needed certainty so I rolled him onto his face and reached for his wrist. I sliced into his hand and he shrieked like a banshee as the blood spurted. The sight of it made the girl scream, too, but she didn’t piss herself or throw up the way the nerd did.

I gave him a couple of seconds to get himself together and then put the question to him again. Who did you sell it to?

It was a bloke in the pub!

"What pub?’

I dunno! He was trying to wriggle away from me. He was also crying his eyes out. He really was a loser. No wonder he had to buy a whore; no decent woman would have him. Don’t hurt me, please!

Name of the pub.

I dunno! It was in a back street. It was dark! An old pub. Touristy.

Skegness is a holiday town, filled with families looking for a seaside holiday that doesn’t involve endless airport security, lost luggage and crap foreign hotels that are permanently under construction. I knew of more than twenty pubs there, and there were probably twice that number that I didn’t.

While I was thinking, the nerd was crying softly. My hand! I need to see a doctor! Ohmigod, my hand!

I couldn’t hang around here forever. There wasn’t any point, and I needed to motivate him to get my bike back. The girl was useless to me, and I didn’t see anything else he valued. He was making a fuss of his hand, though. It gave me an idea.

You lose one hand right now. Then you’ve got twenty-four hours to get my bike back. After that, I come back, and you lose the other. Now, which one are you gonna lose?

This time I wasn’t bluffing. I was all set to go for it.

The nerd knew it because he jack-knifed in fear and began screaming. Wait! Wait! I work for Alistair!

The name made me pause. Denzyl Alistair was a thug from Lincoln who did some dealing, loan sharking and pimping. He might be able to trace the Busa.

What does Alistair want from you? I looked at the nerd and realised it wasn’t important. Never mind. This tart, is she his?

Yes. The nerd was looking smug. I’ve got her for a whole week.

I’m not a tart! The girl was yelling, bouncing up and down on the sofa, scarlet-faced and furious. You perverted fuck! Let me go! At once!

She tried to kick me, not an easy thing to do when your feet are in the small of your back, and she rolled off the sofa, landing with a smack on the rug. Instead of crying, she swore at me. She had more guts than he did, and I liked her for it.

Now I had a plan. I went outside and found a car, a Toyota Prius for chrissake. The girl fitted nicely into the boot, her handbag on top of her. She was swearing at me all the way.

Shut the fuck up, or I’ll take that blade to you.

She saw I was really pissed off, and she shut up. It was like throwing a switch: the foulmouthed tart disappeared, and there was just a girl. A good looking one with a great rack and a mouth that looked as if it would suck like a Hoover.

A surge of lust drove through me. I remembered those lush legs and arse pushing up against me. Seeing she was a pro, I’d have her, bury myself inside her and fuck my way to oblivion.

I pushed the thought away. There’d be time for that later. First, I had to get the Busa back. I slammed the boot shut, went back into the cottage, made my way to the kitchen, and switched on the gas under the pan with bacon grease. It melted and brushed easily onto the curtain. A careful application of flame, and the whole thing was going up nicely.

I went back to talk to the nerd. Tell Alistair he can have his ride back as soon as you return mine.

Hey wait! No-no-no, that’s not right! The nerd suddenly realised he was stuck between a rock and a hard place. If Alistair found out that he had lost one of his girls, he would be very, very unhappy. And the thing about Alistair is that he spreads his unhappiness around. He has a set of heavies with brass knuckles who are guaranteed to put you in hospital for a month, minimum, or six feet under if he’s really upset.

I didn’t give a damn about the nerd’s health. I’m taking your wheels. You won’t see them again, and don’t even think of reporting it stolen. The smoke was now drifting in from the kitchen. I could see I had the nerd’s attention. When you get my Busa, bring it to Perdition.

What? Look, be reasonable! I’m sorry about your bike, okay? Maybe I could pay you—

You still don’t get it, do you? Let me explain how I feel. Two minutes and several broken bones later he got the point. At least, I think he did. The broken nose muffled his speech a little.

By now the flames and smoke were pouring out of the kitchen, and there was a nice warm crackling sound. I had been thinking of leaving him, but I had an idea that the pissy little fucker wouldn’t have the balls to make it by himself, so I dragged him out and left him on the road. I could see him wriggling away and screaming as I drove off. Maybe I should have cut that twine, but I just wasn’t in the mood to give him any more breaks.

On the Busa it would have taken me no time at all to get back home, but the Prius was dead slow. By the way it cornered, the nerd hadn’t even bothered to get the tyre pressure right. Mercifully, the girl was quiet. I should have been back home mid-morning, but when I finally pulled up outside the main gate it was lunchtime. There were people all over the place, setting up tents, and there was a massive bonfire all set to go. It looked like Belial’s Disciples were making themselves at home.

The MC aren’t exactly into green cars, so I got some funny looks, but Crush, the local chapter’s president, waved me in and escorted me to a parking area corralled by oil drums.

What the fuck are you driving?

I tossed him the keys. It’s all yours, Crush.

Hot?

Maybe. I wasn’t going to underestimate the nerd’s stupidity. It belonged to one of Alistair’s satellites.

Crush blinked. What’s that little pisser doing in these parts?

Don’t know.

I opened the boot, and at the sight of the girl, Crush began grinning. Hey, is that for me, too?

You can go fuck yourself! The little tart blew up instantly. You evil bastard, let me go!

Whoo! I like her!

Crush is a man who enjoys performing to the stereotypical outlaw biker image. This time I could see he meant it, and so did the girl. She opened her mouth, spotted Crush’s cut and went very quiet.

You can’t have her. She’s my collateral. I pulled her towards me, snapped through her ankle ties with the box cutter and threw her over my shoulder. She muttered furiously, but she’d stopped fighting. I could feel her raise her head and look over the crowd of gathering Disciples. She shivered and went limp. I guess she didn’t like the look of the party.

Crush was still curious. Collateral for what?

Alistair’s man took my Busa.

You’re shitting me!

I left Crush staring after me, and knew I’d soon have my brother round, asking questions. In fact, he was waiting for me, watching one of his crew plaster a No Go sign on my back door and talking to Mitch, his food and beverage manager, about a late delivery.

My brother looked at the girl who was now hanging silently over my shoulder, took in the ripped tee and my bare feet, and frowned. Mitch, finish this and see me later?

Sure, Rex.

They call my brother Rex because he is Sir Cole Davis Haldane Winslow, tenth Viscount Ravenshurst, and about fiftieth in line to the throne. Rex is my brother, or to be more correct, my half-brother. He’s legit, the only child of the ninth Viscount and his lady, an earl’s daughter.

I’m a by-blow, the result of a passionate fling between our father and a good-looking waitress from Serbia. He had her, she had me, and when she decided to call it a day, my father persuaded her I’d be better off being raised as his bastard then hers.

I’m illegitimate and the eldest by two years, which would make trouble in some families, but Rex and I have always been close.

Rex is usually cool to the point of cold, but now he was looking at me, his eyes filled with worry. What the fuck’s going on? Who’s the girl?

Give me just a second.

I ran upstairs, dumped the tart on my bed and took a look around. There was nothing here that she could hurt herself with—unless she jumped out of the window.

Stay. I told her. Move off the bed, and I’ll make you sorry. She didn’t say anything, but I could see she wouldn’t be making trouble. She didn’t like the look of the crowd outside, and she’d probably heard what happens to unaffiliated women at these gatherings. I could leave her for a short while.

Back in the kitchen, Rex was making coffee and sandwiches. Ham, cheese and tomato, my favourite. It’s all over the news, he said quietly.

I was so knackered that I could feel my knees shaking. I sat down and took a sandwich. What is?

Rex stared at me. Bloodbath at Hawthorn Lodge. Mystery Polish millionaire slaughtered in his own bed.

Oh that. Sitting in my own kitchen, it didn’t seem quite real.

Yeah, Caden, that. Rex set a mug of coffee in front of me. Want to tell me about it?

No. I’d deliberately kept him out of it, but Rex had his own ways of keeping up with things. I could tell by the casual way he was talking that he knew chapter and verse. His blue eyes, the same as the ones I saw in the mirror every day when I shaved, bored into mine. It’s over. Forget about it.

If it’s over, who’s the girl?

I explained and Rex groaned. She belongs to Alistair? You’re a crazy bastard, you know that?

The girl for my bike, seems simple to me.

Rex sighed. You should join us, you know. We could use you.

Although he hardly ever wears the cut, Rex became a member of Belial’s Disciples a couple of years ago. I’d never understood why he got involved with that lot, but it made him happy so I’d left him to it.

I’m not a joiner, not anymore.

All right, Caden. Listen, with last night’s events, do you need any help with anything?

No.

Will anyone be pointing fingers at you?

No.

If they do, where were you?

Here. Setting up for your bloody awful gathering.

Okay.

Nobody will ask.

Okay. Rex sounded quiet, calm, but I knew he was worried. He does that a lot, worry about me, I mean. He shouldn’t. The other killings had gone undetected, and I’d not left a scrap of evidence at Vukoja’s, either. They’d think it was an inside job or that the guards had been sloppy and let someone in the front door.

If anyone did guess how it was done, there was still no proof. Can you imagine the brief in court? Are you suggesting that my client swam five miles across open ocean, in the dark, and then walked up a cliff? Or are you saying he flew?

The average civilian has no idea of how well the British army trains us. They think it’s all guns and tanks, not realising that most battles are fought on foot in challenging terrain. Any prosecutor trying to tell them otherwise would be ridiculed. I was perfectly safe.

I finished my sandwich and coffee, and I could feel my skin itch. Salt water always does that to you. I was