Chapter 11

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Doc

I stride into the clubhouse, my boots thumping on the scuffed wood floor.

Most of the other prospects and full patch members are running around like chickens with their heads cut off, gearing up for the big ride.

The place is a flurry of activity—cuts being shrugged on, weapons getting checked and holstered, bikes revving to life outside.

Turmoil shouts over to me as he jams extra ammo clips into his pockets. "Yo Doc, you ready to roll or what?"

His eyes are hard and determined.

We're all coiled tight, ready to unleash hell to get Sera back.

I adjust my own gun at my hip, feeling the heavy, reassuring weight of cold steel. "Born fuckin' ready, brother. Those shitstains who took Seraphina ain't gonna know what hit 'em."

My mind flashes to Mandy for a split second.

Her soft curves, the way her hair is getting more natural by the day, and the way her blue eyes dance when she smiles at me...Fuck.

I shake my head to force her out of my mind.

I can’t be focusing on the woman who’s damn well stealing my heart right now.

I have to focus on the task at hand.

There will be time for me and my woman later, once Sera is back safe and sound, where she belongs.

Damon roars, stomping towards the doors. "All right, time to mount up!"

Once we all make it outside, he continues. "We ride hard, no stopping 'til we reach the location. And when we get there..." His gaze sweeps over us, feral and full of vicious promise. "We do whatever we need to get her back."

I swing my leg over my Harley, the bike purring to life beneath me like a wild animal ready to hunt.

My brothers fan out around me, an armada of pissed off bikers dead set on one goal.

The clubhouse disappears behind us as we roar out onto the open road, a pack of wolves racing toward our destination.

Destination: Seraphina’s grandfather’s place.

He’s our best bet in finding her.

Before long, the gates of the ritzy neighborhood loom ahead, all wrought iron and snooty as fuck.

I can practically smell the money oozing from the manicured lawns and pristine mansions beyond.

Gramps sure knows how to live large.

Then again, what else should I expect?

Seraphina does come from a family of billionaires.

We roll to a stop at the security booth, engines rumbling impatiently.

A rent-a-cop in a cheap uniform eyes us warily, hand twitching toward the phone.

Damon leans forward on his handlebars, pinning the dude with a glare that could melt steel. "Bernard residence. Now," he growls, voice brooking no argument.

The guard swallows hard, adam's apple bobbing.

He fumbles for a button and the gates slowly creak open.

Smart man.

We rev through, Harleys snarling like rabid beasts as we prowl past the cookie-cutter mansions.

The Bernard estate sits at the end of the winding road, all stately columns and pretentious landscaping.

As we pull up out front, gravel crunching beneath our tires, the huge oak doors swing open.

A prim and proper butler steps out, not a silver hair out of place.

He clears his throat delicately, dark eyes impassive as he takes in the sight of a bunch of rough and tumble bikers invading his pristine domain.

"Good evening, gentlemen," he intones in a snooty British accent. "Mr. Bernard has been expecting you. Please, do come in."

He steps back and gestures toward the open door in clear invitation.

I glance at Damon, brows raised.

He nods curtly, swinging off his bike.

We follow suit, the quiet suddenly deafening without the rumble of engines.

My hand drifts to the piece tucked in my waistband as we stride forward, boots thudding heavily on the polished marble.

Time to see what dear ol' gramps has to say.

I pray he's got some answers.

We stalk inside, the butler leading us through an opulent foyer that reeks of old money.

Crystal chandeliers, antique furniture, oil paintings in gilded frames—this place is a fucking mausoleum.

He shows us into a wood-paneled study, all dark leather and the stench of cigars.

Perched in a wingback chair like a king on his goddamn throne is Mr. Bernard.

Steel gray hair, hawkish nose, beady eyes that gleam with strength.

He takes a long drag on a cigar, smoke curling from his thin lips. "It's about bloody time," he growls, his posh accent dripping condescension. "I've done all the hard work and now you lot need to go get my granddaughter."

Damon steps forward, muscles coiled tight. "You know where she is."

It's not a question.

Bernard scoffs. "Well, do you think I wouldn't? Of course, I do. Her mother, that spiteful bitch, has gotten her holed up in one of the family's 'therapy facilities.' Load of rubbish. I’m too old to get her myself, so you all need to do the hard work and get my Sera out of there!"

My blood runs cold at the implications.

Seraphina locked away, at the mercy of whatever twisted "treatment" her psycho mother has subjected her to.

Bile rises in my throat and my hands clench into fists.

I want to put them through her mother’s face.

And if I want to do that, I can only imagine what Turmoil wants to do.

"Where is she?" Damon's tone could cut steel. "Name. Address. Anything else is a waste of our fucking time."

Bernard slowly stubs out his cigar, each movement deliberate.

He reaches into his suit jacket and withdraws a folded slip of paper, holding it out between two fingers.

"Northern Nevada. Off the beaten path. I trust you boys can handle the rest." His thin mouth curves in a grim smile. "Oh, and one more thing..."

Turmoil steps forward and snatches the paper from his wrinkled fingers. "What kind of sick 'therapy facility' is this?"

Anger vibrates through his voice.

Bernard leans back, appraising him with cold eyes. "The kind designed to correct...undesirable behaviors. To beat the deviancy out of someone. What do they call it now? Ah yes, conversion therapy. Her mother is relentless. Go get her, boys."

Every second we wait is another moment Seraphina suffers.

We turn to leave, heavy boots thudding on the polished floor.

At the door, Turmoil pauses and looks back at Bernard. "We'll bring her back safe and sound. I fucking swear it."

His eyes glitter, hard as diamonds. "You'd better. And when she's safe, you contact me immediately so we can deal with her mother. Permanently."

Turmoil nods curtly.

The unspoken threat hangs heavy in the air.

We file out to our bikes, engines rumbling to life like a snarling beast.

Adrenaline surges through my veins as we roar out of the gated community.

Wind whips at my cut as I push my bike to its limits.

Hold on, Seraphina. We're coming for you.

And god help anyone who stands in our way.

The heat shimmers in waves off the black asphalt as we speed north through the Nevada desert.

Sweat trickles down my back beneath heavy leather, but I barely feel the scorching sun.

We turn off the main highway onto a dusty gravel road, kicking up clouds of grit.

Up ahead, a cluster of dilapidated buildings hunches against the barren landscape.

As we draw closer, I make out faded lettering on a weathered sign: "Desert Springs Wellness Facility".

The irony makes me want to puke.

I kill the engine and swing off my bike, boots crunching on sun-baked earth.

The place looks like it's been abandoned for years, paint peeling off crumbling walls.

But there's a few cars parked haphazardly around the property.

And I can hear the faint hum of a generator.

Turmoil mutters, pulling up beside me. "You sure this is the right place?"

I murmur. “This has to be it. It’s our best chance at getting your girl.”

I check my gun, slick metal warm against my palm.

The familiar weight is a cold comfort.

Dixon and Mouser flank me, weapons drawn, faces grim.

We approach the sagging front door, our senses on high alert.

It's eerily quiet, just the creak of our leathers and the wind whistling through decaying buildings.

I raise a booted foot, about to kick the door in, when it suddenly swings open.

A weaselly-looking man in a white coat blinks out at us from behind wire-rimmed glasses. "Can I help?—"

His words cut off in a strangled yelp as Turmoil seizes him by the throat and slams him against the doorframe. "Where is she?" He snarls, getting right up in his face. "Where the fuck is Seraphina?"

The little rat just whimpers and claws feebly at Turmoil’s hand crushing his windpipe.

I press the muzzle of my gun under his chin and he goes rigid, eyes bulging. "Last chance, asshole. Where. Is. She."

He makes a choked gurgling sound, lips moving soundlessly.

Turmoil eases up just enough for him to rasp out: "L-last room. End of the h-hall."

My brother releases him and he crumples to the floor, gasping.

We step over his retching form and stride inside, weapons up.

The stench of piss and antiseptic assaults my nostrils.

This hellhole reeks of pain and despair.

We move swiftly, kicking open doors, sweeping each room with ruthless efficiency.

A few more whitecoats scurry out like cockroaches.

Mouser pistol-whips one that makes a sudden move.

Dixon cold-cocks another.

We have no mercy for these sick fucks.

Finally, we reach the last door.

I shoulder it open, bracing for whatever nightmares await inside.

But nothing could've prepared me for the scene of depravity we find.

Seraphina.

Strapped to a blood-soaked chair in the center of the room.

Golden skin shredded, tattoos carved from her flesh, leaving gaping wounds.

One eye swollen shut, the other a glassy slit.

Compound fracture jutting through her leg at a sickening angle.

Bile scorches the back of my throat.

The blood drains from my face. "Jesus fucking Christ..."

Turmoil’s moving before I can even register it, boots pounding across grimy tiles.

He drops to his knees beside her, hands hovering, afraid to touch her ruined body. "Seraphina? Baby, can you hear me?"

Her head lolls, a moan slipping from split lips.

I want to weep.

I want to burn this place to ashes for the pain they’re both in right now.

But right now, we have to get her out of here.

We need to get her to safety.

Turmoil speaks in hushed whispers to her, "I've got you, sweetheart. I've got you. You're safe now."

He starts unfastening the leather straps binding her, jaw clenched so tight my teeth ache.

I help him, cursing under my breath.

We ease her broken body out of that chair, every agonized whimper twisting my fucking heart.

Turmoil cradles his woman against his chest, blood soaking into his cut.

Nothing else matters except getting her help.

Fixing what those sadistic cocksuckers did to his girl.

We'll make them pay.

Every last one of them.

But first, we need to get Seraphina fixed up.

Turmoil carries her out to the van Booger drove, each step measured, trying not to jostle her injuries.

It’s amazing that she’s still alive, still fighting for her life.

I yank open the van door and he settles Seraphina across the backseat as gently as he can.

She clings to his hand, fingers cold as ice.

He squeezes it back, hoping she can feel it through the pain. "Stay with me, baby. Just stay with me."

I pull out my phone and dial Sakura with shaking fingers.

Pick up, pick up...

"Doc?" Her voice crackles through the speaker. "Did you find her?"

There’s no beating around the bush here. I need to just get it out. "Yeah. And she's in bad fuckin’ shape. We need a surgeon, Sakura. Someone who can keep their mouth shut."

Sakura’s silent for a few moments, then, "I know someone. Plastic surgeon, private clinic. He'll do it, but it won't be cheap."

Price doesn’t matter. "None of us give a shit about the price. Just tell me where to go."

I hear her tapping keys, muffled voices in the background. "Texting you the address now. I'll smooth things over, make sure he's ready for you."

"Thanks, Sakura. I owe you."

“Just bring her back safe, Doc. That's all I want."

The line goes dead and a second later my phone pings with the address.

I forward it to the group chat and tell them we’re going there with Sera.

Turmoil hops in the back of the van, and Shiver gets out.

They have a brief conversation and Shiver gets on Turmoil’s bike.

Before long, Shiver is peeling out of the lot and Turmoil’s slamming the door to the van, getting in the back with his woman.

I sit on my bike and head out with the crowd of my brothers.

We all ride like hell to get Seraphina to the surgeon and two hours fly by.

I don’t know how much time passes as we sit in a waiting room, waiting for the surgeon to come out and give us some sort of update.

Eventually, the surgeon emerges from the operating room, weary lines etched into his face. "The surgery went as well as can be expected, given her condition."

He removes his glasses, rubbing his eyes. "I've set the fracture, cleaned and stitched her wounds. Started her on a broad-spectrum antibiotic to combat infection."

Damon’s jaw is clenched tight. "What about...the other injuries?"

The doc sighs. "I've done what I can to minimize scarring from the...carvings. But she'll need time to heal, both physically and emotionally."

His gaze meets Turmoil’s, sympathy swimming in the depths. "She's young, healthy. She'll recover. But it won't be easy."

"We'll get her through it," Turmoil rasps, the heaviness of the situation weighing on him. "What about the baby?"

The doctor swallows hard, "Fortunately, the baby is okay. Granted, your girlfriend has been through a lot of stress. She needs to rest and heal. I won't get your hopes up, or completely shatter them… but be prepared for the worst case scenario. She has been through hell."

Damon nods, clasping Turmoil’s shoulder. "Doc's right. She's strong. A fighter. She'll make it." He turns to the others. "Mouser, Dixon, Doc, Spark—head back to the clubhouse. Let everyone know she's out of surgery. We'll stay with her."

We all say our goodbyes, promising to check in soon.

After a forty minute ride, the clubhouse comes into view, bikes gleaming in the floodlights.

I pull into my spot, cutting the engine.

The silence rings in my ears, too loud. Too heavy.

I need a drink.

Need to fucking forget how horrible she looked.

But more than that, I need my woman.

I need to hold Mandy in my arms and know she's safe.

I find her in my trailer, pacing restlessly in the living room.

She looks up when I enter, eyes widening. "Doc? What happened? Is Seraphina?—"

I crush her to my chest, burying my face in her hair.

She smells like citrus and sandalwood, warm and alive against me.

"She made it through surgery," I rasp, voice breaking. "She’s alive, baby. I just gotta fuckin’ hold you right now, okay?”

This is the kind of shit that we face every day—fears that the same thing that happened to Seraphina will happen to one of our women.

I don’t know what I’d do if something happened to Mandy.