Lyrics on the Wind (Lost Kings MC Book 17) Page 2

  Slater, NY: Loosely based on Schenectady County. Until recently it was the Wolf Knights MC’s territory.

  Ironworks, NY: Loosely based on Rensselaer County (Troy, NY). In the beginning of the series, it was run by the Vipers MC. It is now considered territory of the Lost Kings MC.

  Union, NY: A fictional area two hours south of Empire, NY, where the “downstate” charter is located.

  Crystal Ball: The strip club owned by the Lost Kings MC and one of their legitimate businesses. They often refer to it simply as “CB.” Located in Empire County.

  Furious Fitness: The gym Wrath owns. Often just referred to as “Furious.” Located not far from Crystal Ball.

  Strike Back: Owned by Sullivan Wallace but members of the Lost Kings MC have worked there in the past.

  Johnson County/Johnsonville: Fictional area where Heidi grew up. About an hour west of “Empire.” Where Strike Back Gym, The Castle, and Zips are located. Possibly the new home of a Lost Kings MC support club? We’ll see!

  Zips: Racetrack owned by Eraser where all the illegal gambling/racing in the area happens.

  The Castle: Formerly a juvenile detention center. The building is now used to house the underground fighting ring run by Remy and Griff. Murphy used to fight here. Other LOKI members also blow off steam in the cage here from time to time. Located in the middle of nowhere, NY, it once-upon-a-time housed Griff, Vapor, and possibly Teller during their “troubled youth” days.

  Kodack, NY: Another fictional NY area located in Western New York. Somewhere near Buffalo, perhaps. This territory is run by the Devil Demons MC.

  Empire Medical Center: Local hospital where all the Kings receive medical treatment. Heidi also works there now.

  OTHER MC TERMINOLOGY

  Most terminology was obtained through research. However, I have also used some artistic license in applying these terms to my romanticized, fictional version of an outlaw motorcycle club. This is not an exhaustive list.

  Cage: A car, truck, van—basically anything other than a motorcycle.

  Church: Club meetings all full-patch members must attend. Led by the president of the club, but officers will update the members on the areas they oversee. (Some clubs refer to the meeting room where they hold church as the “chapel.” My club refers to it as their “war room.”

  Citizen: Anyone not a hardcore biker or belonging to an outlaw club. “Citizen wife” would refer to a spouse kept entirely separate from the club.

  Cut: Leather vest worn by outlaw bikers and adorned with patches and artwork displaying the club’s unique colors. The Lost Kings’ colors are blue and gray. Their logo is a skull with a crown. The Respect Few, Fear None patch is earned by doing time for the club without snitching. Brother’s Keeper patches are earned by killing for the club. Loyal Brother is for a brother who’s spent more than five years with the club.

  Colors: The “uniform” of an outlaw motorcycle gang. A leather vest, with the three-piece club patch on the back, and various other patches relating to their role in the club.

  Fly colors: To ride on a motorcycle wearing colors.

  Muffler bunny or “bunnies”: A girl who hangs around to provide sexual favors to members. Old ladies in my series will sometimes refer to them as “friends of the club,” depending on the girl in question. Some clubs refer to them as club whores, patch whores, or cut sluts. These terms are not regularly used in my series. Sometimes simply referred to as a “club girl.”

  Nomad: A club member who does not belong to any specific charter, yet has privileges in all charters.

  Old lady/ol’ lady: Wife or steady girlfriend of a club member.

  Patched in: When a new member is approved for full membership.

  Patch holder: A member who has been vetted through performing duties for the club as a prospect or probate and has earned his three-piece patch.

  Road name: Nickname. Usually given by the other members.

  Run: A club-sanctioned outing, sometimes with other chapters and/or clubs. Can also refer to a club business run.

  I’m sure I’m forgetting something! But that should get you started!

  Chapter One

  Rooster

  The depth of my love for Shelby knows no bounds.

  Now that we’re separated, that fact is abundantly clear.

  I don’t submit to terror. No, I’m used to doing the terrorizing.

  But as I stand in Shelby’s dressing room trying to process what’s happened, dread slithers into my body.

  My worst fear has come true.

  He has Shelby.

  That sick, creepy fuck who’s been scaring the shit out of her for weeks with his insane letters has actually gotten his hands on her.

  All because I was fucking around on the other side of the arena instead of being where I should’ve been—protecting my girl.

  I never thought he’d try something this soon. Tonight. I was so damn confident I’d catch him before he got anywhere near Shelby.

  How could I have been so fucking stupid? So arrogant?

  She has to be here.

  But she’s not.

  My mind struggles to accept the truth. My gut won’t stop screaming.

  The woman I love is gone.

  Someone took her.

  I race past Jigsaw, knocking him into the wall.

  Outside the dressing room, I scan the near-empty hallway. “Shelby!”

  My fear-clogged voice bounces off the indifferent cinderblock walls, mocking me.

  I yank out my phone and study her texts. The last one said to knock three times. She sent it less than fifteen minutes ago. What the hell happened between then and now?

  Sirens pierce the air around the arena.

  The hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

  Police? Fire? I can’t tell.

  Are they here for Shelby? Is she hurt?

  Jigsaw’s shoulder brushes mine. “Think that has something do with Shelby?”

  “I don’t know.”

  The sirens increase in volume.

  I turn left, jogging toward the loading dock exit.

  Bane’s big ass is rushing down the hallway. Where was he when Shelby needed him? This asshole was supposed to watch Shelby for five fucking minutes and couldn’t even do that.

  My fist cracks his jaw, spinning him sideways.

  “Logan!” he mumble-shouts. “The fuck?”

  I hammer my fist into his face once more before Jigsaw bear-hugs me, yanking my body sideways. “Not now,” he growls against my ear.

  “Get off me.” I shake out of Jigsaw’s hold.

  Cupping his cheek, Bane eyes me warily. “What the hell, man?”

  “Where the fuck were you? She’s gone—”

  “There was a fire on Dawson’s bus. What do you mean she’s gone?” Bane’s gaze darts behind me as if Shelby’s tucked in my back pocket or something.

  He’s lucky I don’t punch him again. He left my girl to go fuck around with a fire? What was he going to do? Blot it out with his hands? “You a fucking fireman now?” I growl.

  “Logan!” The door leading outside slams shut behind Trent with a heavy metallic clank. All three of us focus on Trent’s anxious face. “Did you let someone from the venue take Shelby’s trunk?”

  My body jerks in Trent’s direction. “What? No. Why?”

  “Some guy is loading her trunk into a white van outside.” He tugs at his sleeve. “His shirt looked like the one all the arena guys are wearing.”

  I’m already moving toward him. “She’s not in her dressing room.”

  My mind flashes back to Shelby’s clothes and shoes, carelessly dumped all over her room. More than the normal mess Shelby makes.

  The pieces rapidly click together in my mind.

  Jesus Christ. Did this psycho load Shelby into her trunk like a piece of fucking cargo?

  “She’s in that trunk.” I feel it down to my fucking bones, and I bolt toward the exit.

  “Motherfucker,” Jigsaw growls, jogging right
behind me.

  Trent doesn’t question my assumption. He backs up, shoving the door open again. “I knew something was wrong. I tried to stop him,” he says in a rush, following us outside. “He told me Shelby said it was okay. It didn’t sound right. But I wasn’t sure…” His voice falters as his footsteps quicken behind us.

  The bright lights of the parking lot wash over our small group.

  Outside, fire engines, an ambulance, and several cop cars are all jammed into the lot. The acrid stench of burning rubber hangs in the air.

  I scan the crowded area, searching for any white vans.

  “There! That one.” Trent elbows me and points to an older, plain white cargo van with no windows in the back. Virginia plates. Rusty patches on the bumper. Mud-caked tires and splashes of dirt along the sides.

  While my mind catalogs as many details as possible, my feet are already moving toward the vehicle.

  The stairs are clogged with too many people, and I can’t waste another second. I jump off the side of the loading dock and land hard on the concrete below. The impact jars my legs and rattles my teeth.

  Shake it off.

  My boots thunder over the pavement as I dodge firefighters with hoses, cops, and nosy assholes.

  Behind me, Jigsaw’s pounding the pavement just as hard. “Keep going. I’ll get the plate number,” he huffs out.

  So fucking close.

  People shout as I run past them. I knock into a few. They’re nothing more than a blur.

  I hit the back of the van with a thud and yank on the one door handle. The other door only has holes where the handle should be.

  Locked.

  I press and pull, climbing onto the bumper to jiggle or work the door open by brute force.

  The engine screams to life. Shit! Whoever’s in the driver’s seat must have realized he’s got company. The van lurches forward. My feet slip on the bumper. I tighten my grip on the door handle.

  The van rocks up over the curb, bouncing onto the grass, sending workers scattering to get out of the way. It knocks me loose.

  Legs and arms pumping hard, I trail behind the van, trying to grab on again. I can’t let him get to the road. Can’t let him out of my sight or Shelby’s gone.

  I throw my arm forward, reaching for the handle. My hand slaps against the door with a painful sting. Fingers slip against the metal. Once, twice.

  Got it.

  I curl my fingers around the slick metal.

  The engine roars louder. Gravel pings off my shins.

  Next step is to get my feet back on that bumper and go along for the ride.

  The van picks up speed.

  My grip on the handle is tenuous at best. The sharp sting of the metal from my rings pinches my flesh. I ignore it. Focus. Relentlessly, I pound over the uneven ground, trying to get the momentum to leap onto the back of the van. My brain knows it’s a losing battle, but I refuse to accept reality.

  Muscles straining, I swing onto the bumper and hang on tight. The van fishtails, knocking my feet to the ground again. This time, the toes of my boots drag through the grass, but still I hold on. I stare down at the bumper. Too much of a risk to let go and hope I catch it with my hands instead of my face.

  The van careens wildly over the grass.

  I shove my hand in my pocket and yank out my cell phone, snapping a few sure-to-be-shaky photos of the visible portion of the license plate in case Jigsaw can’t get a clear shot with my big ass in the way.

  Finally, the driver slows the van enough for me to pull myself upright. I shove my phone back in my pocket and pump my burning legs faster. The van brakes hard and I smack into the metal door with my forehead.

  “Fuck.” I shake it off and attempt to climb onto the bumper again. The van bounces wildly over the edge of the gravel road, knocking me loose for good.

  My right foot rolls on the uneven stones. Pain crackles through my ankle and leg. My knee slams into the unforgiving rocks.

  “Fuck!” I roll to the side and jump to my feet, then limp a few steps before continuing my chase.

  The van’s moving too fast.

  That stumble cost me.

  Jigsaw whizzes by, boots crunching over the gravel.

  But it’s too late.

  There’s no catching the guy now.

  Jigsaw must realize it too. He stops, rests his hands on his thighs, and watches the van for a few beats. Breathing hard, he turns my way, points back toward the parking lot, and shouts, “Go, go, go!”

  I wobble and hop on my uninjured foot until I can push through the pain and put weight on the other one. Together, we run for the truck.

  People stare.

  A few shout questions at us but I’m not stopping for anyone.

  I slam into the side of the truck with both hands. A fire engine’s parked behind me, boxing me in. “Son of a bitch.”

  “I got it.” Jigsaw throws himself on his bike. Fuck, I’m pissed I don’t have mine. It would make it a hell of a lot easier to move through this mess. His bike thunders to life as I rip open the driver’s side door and fling myself into the truck.

  Fuck the fire engines and everyone else in my way. I don’t even hesitate to slam the truck into drive. Just like the van did earlier, I hop the curb and tear over the grass, avoiding the clogged parking lot.

  The back end of the truck slides as I hit the gravel but I keep my foot on the gas. From what I remember, there’s only one exit from this side of the arena. If the traffic’s bad, I might be able to catch the guy at the stoplight.

  Jigsaw’s ahead of me and once my wheels touch the pavement, I catch up to him quickly. He weaves around cars while I jerk the steering wheel to the right and tear over more grass, careful to keep the tires on the safe side of the steep embankment running along the road.

  Traffic thins out as we reach the connecting road that leads to the highway. Everyone’s trying to get into the place. The road leading out is clearer.

  No white van at the stoplight.

  I slam my fists against the steering wheel.

  Something thumps against my window. I click the button to slide the glass down.

  Jigsaw’s studying the road ahead of us and I follow his line of sight. “He had to go right.” He points to the stoplight. There’s a leader light to turn left and a small line of cars already backed up. “He wouldn’t risk getting stuck here.”

  “Let’s go.”

  We burn onto the highway. Jigsaw’s able to move ahead easier than I am, weaving in and out of traffic ahead of me. My gaze searches the sea of vehicles for the white van.

  Nothing.

  Keeping an eye on the road, I grab my phone and send the photos of the van to Z. Please let one of them be clear enough to make out the license plate.

  Miles and miles of highway go by in a blur. Still no sign of the van. I’ve even lost sight of Jigsaw.

  I pass an exit. Then another one. What if the van got off on one of the earlier exits? He could be headed anywhere by now.

  With Shelby trapped inside her trunk.

  The sick black weight of anger and frustration slithers through my chest.

  How could I fail her like this?

  My phone rings through the truck’s Bluetooth and I punch the button to answer the call.

  “You planning to buy a van?” Z’s voice rumbles through the speakers.

  “He got Shelby. The motherfucker took her from the arena. Right under my nose. He has her, Z.”

  “What the fuck?” All humor vanishes from Z’s voice. “Where are you?”

  “I almost had the guy. He slipped right through my fingers.” My voice breaks on the last word.

  “We’ll get her back,” he says with calm authority. “It’s gonna be okay. Where are you now?”

  I explain what happened and where I am.

  “Can you pull over?”

  “I can’t, Z.” I barely choke out the words. “I gotta find her.”

  “Brother,” he says slowly, “you can’t be sure he even went th
at way. Or that he didn’t get off the highway already. Pull over.” There’s a muffled noise but I still make out Z telling someone to get Jiggy on the phone.

  Z returns to our call. “Where are you now?”

  I flick on my blinker, carefully moving to the right until I can finally stop on the shoulder. I read the mile marker to Z. He’s quiet for a few seconds.

  “Okay. I’m calling Ice so he can get his guys down there. Wait for Jigsaw, then both of you go back to the arena. As much as I hate to say it, cooperate with the cops. We need every resource we can pull into this.”

  “Fuck.” That’s going to mean hours of wasted time answering stupid questions instead of searching for Shelby. But Z’s right. I can’t let my ego or fury get in the way of finding my girl. “He’s dead, Z.”

  “I hear you, brother.” He’s silent for a few seconds. “I’m working on the photos now. Trying to make out the full plate number. Someone is running a partial in the meantime. I’ll call you as soon as I have something.”

  “Thank you.”

  “We’ll get her back, Rooster. I promise.”

  While I trust Z to do everything he can to help, I’ve endured enough trauma in my life to know there are no guarantees.

  Chapter Two

  Rooster

  The arena parking lot’s in absolute chaos when we return. Most of the fire trucks are gone, replaced by more cop cars. A few unmarked vehicles catch my attention.

  My phone’s blowing up with texts from Greg asking where I am.

  Me: In parking lot.

  Greg: Dressing room with cops.

  Jigsaw’s mouth is set in a grim line and his eyes burn with fury as he watches me slide out of the truck. “I sent Z the video I got,” he says quietly. “I was moving fast, so I don’t know how much he’ll be able to tell from it or if he can get the plate number. I’m sorry, brother.”

  At a loss for words, I squeeze his shoulder in thanks.

  He flicks his gaze toward the crowd clustered by the loading dock entrance. “Let’s deal with this. If Z gets anything, I’ll distract the pigs so you can slip away.”