Page 24 of A Biker for Noelle
“Around six feet tall, unshaven, dark brown hair, with facial tattoos. He didn’t stick around long. I had Poet tail him to a local hotel. He’s still there, keeping tabs on him now. What do you want to do?”
Adrenaline surges through me. “Don’t make any moves yet. Send Tech to watch over my place. The rest of you head over there with Poet. Stay out of sight. You don’t need to draw any unwanted attention. I’m on my way.”
“Understood.” He ends the call.
As I leave the bed, I glance down at Noelle, who is fast asleep, her hair splaying across the pillow. I take a moment to watch her before walking to the other side of the room, my movements silent. Stepping into the closet, I retrieve a pair of jeans and a warm, long-sleeved flannel shirt and slip them on before pulling on my socks and boots. I slip my cut over my shoulders while looking back at Noelle again.
I holster my gun at my hip and sheath my knife inside the shaft of my boot. Grabbing my keys, I look back at Noelle one last time before padding into the hallway and quietly entering the living room checking on Zack.
Finally, I go to step outside into the predawn air. The cold cuts deep when I open the door, biting at my skin. Digging the phone from my pocket, I open the security app and arm the cabin. Outside, shadows from the branches of the trees dance across the ground at my feet as I make my way to my truck, the hardened areas of frozen ground crunching beneath my boots. I throw the door open and climb in, the engine’s hum breaking the silence as I pull away.
The drive down the quiet roads on the way to town is agonizing, each passing second increasing tension building inmy chest.What does this motherfucker want with Noelle?My gut tells me this man is entangled in the situation Noelle and her brother are running from.
Headlights break through the darkness as a vehicle approaches the bend in the road ahead. I pass Tech in his truck, heading to my place. We slow our speed long enough to acknowledge each other before seeing nothing more than taillights in the rearview mirror.
A short time later, I roll into town, heading for the hotel. I spot my brothers’ vehicles parked near the dumpsters at the backside of the building. I park and step out into the biting cold, every breath a vapor plume.
Wire steps forward and extends his hand. “I got the key from Bill. He’s in room 213, but the place is crawling with guests. We need to keep this quiet,” he says.
I keep my voice low. “Split up. I want eyes everywhere in case this asshole has friends lurkin’ about that we don’t know about.”
Venom races through my veins as Rooster and I make our way across the parking lot and up the staircase leading to the second floor of the exterior rooms. As we approach room 213, I glance around and catch sight of an older man perching against the railing five doors down from our location, the glowing embers of his cigarette illuminating his aged face. He turns his head, noticing me watching him. The old man casually takes one last toke, snubs the cigarette beneath his boot, gives us a nod, and then disappears into his hotel room.
A muffled voice floats through the hotel door. “Like I told you. I saw no signs of the bitch, but my instincts say she’s somewhere in this little shithole of a town. And Iwillfind her.”
The motherfucker’s words intensify my need to get answers. I draw my weapon, holding it steady while my men cover mefrom behind. With a steadying breath, I tap the keycard against the pad beneath the handle and burst into the room.
Inside, the room is dimly lit, a single lamp beside the bed casting a yellow glow. The bastard’s eyes glint with surprise and fury while he holds a whiskey bottle halfway to his lips. Photos scattered across the table nearby catch my attention—all images of Noelle. The man’s eyes dart over to the bed, where a gun lies at the foot next to a wad of cash and a set of keys.
“Move, and you’re a dead man,” I spit, aiming my gun steadily at the man’s chest. Coming up behind him, Rooster aims at the bastard’s head. Wire walks into the room and secures the weapon on the bed, tossing it along with the other items into a duffle bag he snatched from a nearby chair.
I stare the bastard down with violent intent. “Who are you?”
The man smirks. “I’m not telling you shit.”
“You’ll wish you had.” These are the last words the son of a bitch hears. In one swift motion, Rooster swings the grip of his gun, crashing it against the man’s skull, and a sickening thud echoes through the room. I watch as the man’s body collapses to the dingy carpeted floor. “Brewer, bring your ride around. Poet, dig through his shit and find identification on the bastard, and if you find any, send it to Tech. I want to know all we can about this guy.” I holster my weapon. “Load him up and take him to the shed.”
As I lean against the cold steel of the shipping container, hidden on the backside of the club’s compound, I fold my arms across my chest, eyes locked on the man tied to a chair in the middle of the dimly lit interrogation room. He put up a bit of a fight, so mybrothers have already worked him over a little. He’s breathing heavily as death looms in the stale air.
I flip his driver’s license over in my hand. “Carlos Reyes from Texas. We could have made this short and sweet, but now…” My calm voice is tinged with a deceptive warmth, letting our guest conclude what happens next. “You have no idea whose town you stumbled into, do you?”
He meets my gaze defiantly, or at least he tries to. His nostrils flare, and his eyes haze over with the realization that he will draw his last breath tonight.
“Why are you looking for Noelle?” I ask, stepping closer, my shadow falling over him like a dark, forbidding omen.
“Fuck off,” he spits. “I’m not telling you shit.”
I can’t help the smirk creeping across my face. The stupid son of a bitch doesn’t realizeyetthat this is not going to end well for him. With a flick, I gesture Brewer to step forward. He is a mountain of a man with fists that know how to break bones and a smile that rarely touches his lips unless blood is involved, but tonight, I’m inflicting all the pain.
“Take off his shirt,” I order, the steel in my tone undeniable that I mean for the stranger to feel an immense amount of pain before his death. Brewer grips the man’s shirt, ripping the fabric, exposing his flesh. “This is your last chance, Carlos.” I slip a pair of brass knuckles onto my hand. “You might want to reconsider answering my simple question. It only gets worse from here.”
With no warning, I bring my fist down on the man’s ribs. There’s a sickening crack—the sound echoing off the steel walls.
The man gasps, air escaping his lungs.
“Who sent you?” I asked.
“Go fuck yourself,” he wheezes, struggling against the zip ties biting into his wrists.
