Page 48 of Road to Nowhere (Road to Nowhere 1)

  I narrowed my eyes at him, cocking my head to the side.

  “You know it, Creed! It was a setup, bro. So was that ambush at the safe house.”

  “Naw, that was my fuck up. I let her outside, knowin’ it would lead to no fuckin’ good.”

  “I call bullshit! Even Doc smelled a fuckin’ traitor that night. That’s what Prez wants you to think! That safe house has been in our MC since before we were fuckin’ born. He was waitin’ for you to slip up, do somethin’ that would give reasonin’ for a shit storm. Not to mention that safe house was out in butt fuckin’ Egypt! No one would be able to find that place. Can’t even stumble upon it, unless you already knew it was there. All this shit started at that first meetin’ when he shot Striker in the fuckin’ head all those years ago. A man who’s been his best friend since they were kids, is all of a sudden a fuckin’ traitor? No fuckin’ way… eat my ass and suck my cock. That’s some bullshit right there.”

  My mind immediately started reeling with everything he just said, mainly because it made so much fucking sense. Every last bit of it.

  “This ain’t got shit to do with territory, with Sinners Rejoice, with nothin’ that concerns the Devil’s Rejects. It’s about your old man! It’s been about him since day fuckin’ one! He wants us to think it’s the MC. And he knows we’ll believe it cuz he lives and breathes it… until it comes down to savin’ his own fuckin’ ass! And it’s not just about him. It’s about you, too! We just need to figure out what the fuck he’s hidin’. And who stole that fuckin’ disc. It will clear your name from spendin’ life behind bars and possibly throw in our Prez instead.”

  “Jesus Christ… you’re right. You’re so fuckin’ right.”

  “It’s go time, motherfucker. You’re in hidin’ now, perfect time to find out the truth. No one will suspect anythin’. We ride together, and we fuckin’ die together, brother. I’ll be right there by your side. Just need to figure out where to start.”

  “I know where. Suit up, Diesel. We’re goin’ to fuckin’ Hell.”

  And he was known as…

  El Santo.

  TWENTY-ONE

  *Creed*

  I never thought it would take three fucking months to get a meeting with El Santo. I had never met the motherfucker, but that didn’t mean I didn’t know who the fuck he was. Everyone knew him by reputation, but only a hand full of people knew the man behind the name. Especially the corrupt.

  Men just like me, but far fucking worse.

  Diesel and I pulled up to the underground club around midnight, parking our truck in the shadiest fucking area of Miami. We’d been on the road for eleven and a half hours, only stopping for food and gas. Pissing on the side of the road when need be. We couldn’t risk me being seen since I was still in hiding.

  The bouncer eyed me up and down, from my combat boots to my cut, to my fucking leather jacket. “We don’t accept your kind here,” he sneered, making me want to knock his goddamn teeth out.

  I cocked my head to the side, gritting out, “We were fuckin’ invited.”

  “By who?”

  “Your boss, motherfucker. So how ‘bout ya let us through.”

  His eyes went to my cut, talking into his earpiece, “Creed.” He glanced over at Diesel’s cut, stating his name over the earpiece next. Moments later he narrowed his eyes at me, nodding for us to go in.

  I smiled. “Fuck you very much,” I gritted out as we walked by him, purposely bumping into his shoulder.

  The club was huge and packed with people. Making it hard for us to even get by without having to wait a few seconds for the crowds to separate. The further we got into the place, the worse it got. The music was pounding through the speakers surrounding us, vibrating through to my core as we tried to make our way over to the back doors. Bodies ground up against Diesel and me, random chicks trying to wrap their arms around our waists, pulling us deeper into the mass of people. The place was obviously exceeding capacity, filled to the fucking brim. Everyone dressed to the nines. Beautiful people just getting their night started. Moving to the beat of the house music blaring above the crowds.

  Everything from the flashing lights to the neon strobes, strumming around every corner. There were plush couches along the perimeter with tables stacked with open bottles of Moet and other expensive alcohol. The already fucked up people were dancing their asses off. Eyes closed with their head’s leaning back facing the ceiling, letting the melody of the music take over them.

  I instantly knew that drugs flowed in this place as much as the booze did.

  I didn’t give a fuck about any of it. I wasn’t there to fucking party, and from the looks of it, this wasn’t even the goddamn main event. This was just a cover up for what was behind door number two and possibly fucking three or four. The bouncers let us right in, not asking who we were again. Our names already approved to enter the exclusive fucked up private party. Not one soul could ever get past those doors unless they personally knew El Santo. There wasn’t anything he didn’t know, including who we were. It was the way he protected himself. The motherfucker was a deviant mastermind. Having everything and anything at his disposal at any point in time. It came along with his world, his territory.

  His legal fucking rights.

  We continued our descent to our final destination, walking down a long, narrow hallway that was nearly pitch black. Leading to another door, another dimension. Another fucking world.

  But this wasn’t a club, at least not any kind I’d ever been to.

  As soon as the double doors opened, I swear I could feel the demons oozing out, hovering all around us. Waiting to fucking drag us under. They called this place Hell. The rules were anything fucking goes. From sex to drugs, to gambling, to fucking murder—these black walls had seen it all. This was where the elite of the corrupt partied since they could get away with anything. Sex trafficking, prostitution, drug smuggling, slavery, BDSM. You name it, it was there.

  It made me sick to my fucking stomach, watching the girls who were tied up, bound and gagged. Some for pleasure, but most for fucking pain.

  This was a man’s world, end of fucking story.

  “Creed Jameson,” a woman’s voice purred from behind me. I turned around, locking eyes with a blonde whose tits were on full display. “Follow me, boys. He’s waiting for you. They all are.”

  I nodded to Diesel, and we both followed the busty chick toward the back. Leading to yet another fucking hallway with another set of fucking double doors.

  Anonymity was the key purpose of this club.

  She opened the doors, nodding for us to go through. My hand never strayed far from my gun, prepared for anything, expecting it all. Not knowing what the fuck we were walking into. It could easily have been a setup for all we knew. From what I heard, El Santo was a sadistic motherfucker. A cruel bastard who thrived on pain, pussy, and power. He’d put a bullet in your head just because he was fucking bored. He had no sanctity or value for anything or anyone. Nothing was sacred to him. He respected nothing.

  He didn’t have to.

  He was the best prosecuting attorney in the nation. They called him El Santo for all the good he did around the world. The man could literally get away with murder.

  And he did.

  All the fucking time.

  “You got some brass fucking balls, requesting a meeting with me when you’re a wanted fucking man,” El Santo challenged in a thick Spanish accent, sitting at the end of the narrow, wooden conference table. Leaning back in his chair. His hands resting behind his head.

  His intense, menacing brown eyes were narrowed in, focused solely on me as if Diesel hadn’t even walked in the room beside me. His long, dark curly hair that came down to his chin was wild and crazy, hanging along his pretty boy fucking face. He was dressed like he’d just stepped out of the courtroom which he probably had. His black suit jacket was placed on the back of his chair, leaving him in a gray collared shirt with a black vest and matching black tie that hung loosely around his neck. Exce

pt that wasn’t what caught my attention.

  It was the bloody rolled up sleeves he was sporting like he just beat the fuck out of someone or killed them. I’d put my money on both. His gun holsters were still securely strapped to his sides, but his two Glocks were missing. They were sitting right on the table in front of him.

  Pointing straight at us.

  “Please, by all means, gentlemen. Mi casa es su casa. Take a fucking seat,” he added, nodding to the empty chairs on the other end of the table. Directly in the line of fire with the barrels of his guns.

  There were two other men sitting next to him, one on each side. The man to the right was Benjamin Robinson, but everyone knew him as Bossman. He was a notorious mobster who recently spent some time in the slammer. Was sentenced to life in prison until he escaped, killing a shit ton of guards on his way out.

  Supposedly he had some sort of involvement with Martinez and coincidently was indicted right after his murder. He was wearing his signature ball cap with his hair tied back in a ponytail. Dressed in a plain white shirt and a pair dark jeans. I couldn’t help but stare at his ink. It was an ocean inspired sleeve on his left arm. The detail was unreal, I was tempted to ask for his artists digits, but I thought it was wiser to keep it business like. Rumor has it that the man loved the water, owned a fuck load of boats that trafficked drugs all over the border. I wasn’t surprised he was in Miami.

  I also wasn’t surprised he was sitting beside El Santo. I’m sure he had something to do with his “escape.”

  “Who invited the white guy?” I taunted, nodding to Bossman. We’d done business a few times. I liked him. He was a laid back, zero fucks given kinda guy. He didn’t talk much, but when he did it was always a smart ass fucking response.

  He snidely smiled, scoffing out, “Your mom when she was sucking my cock last night.”

  I chuckled, “Good to see you out, man.”

  “Good to be seen.”

  I didn’t recognize the other man sitting to El Santo’s left. I imagined it was one of his bodyguards judging by his stature and the way he was looking at us. Ready to take us the fuck out if needed. He was wearing a black suit and wire in his ear.

  “Let’s cut the bullshit, shall we? To what do I owe the honor of your presence, Mr. Jameson?” El Santo chimed in.

  “Creed,” I simply stated.

  “I wasn’t aware we were on a first name basis. You can call me Mr. Montero. You haven’t even earned the right to shake my goddamn hand, yet.”

  “Just to sit in your presence then?”

  “No. To answer my fucking questions. I’m known for having very little patience, Mr. Jameson. Would you like to test that fucking theory?”

  “With all due respect, Damien…”

  He grinned, arching an eyebrow.

  “We asked for a meetin’ wit’ you. Not your fuckin’ entourage, yeah?”

  “And here I thought we were all becoming friends now.”

  “Friends is a term I use loosely.”

  “You’re coming into my territory, making demands? You really are just a stupid biker, eh?”

  “Says the man who took the meetin’.”

  He laughed, big and throaty. Grabbing his gun off the table and pointing at me. “I fucking like you! And because of that, I’m going to excuse your shitty manners, and not shoot you in the goddamn leg. You’re welcome. With that being said, what the fuck do you want?”

  I nodded to his gun, silently ordering him to get it the hell out of my face.

  “Bikers…” he dramatically breathed out, laying his Glock back on the table in front of him. But still pointing it at me. “They have no fucking respect for authority. You have five minutes before my hand gets cold and I get trigger happy.”

  “What do you know ‘bout my father?” I asked, knowing I wasn’t going to win this battle.

  “What do I know about him or what do I have on him? See what I did there?” He leaned forward, placing his elbows on the table. “Learn to ask the right fucking questions to get the answers you need.”

  “I thought we were cuttin’ the bullshit. You know exactly what I fuckin’ mean. You help me, and I’ll help you. Now, those are words you fuckin’ understand, yeah?” I mocked, leaning into the table mirroring his posture. “You tell me what you got on my old man, and I’ll get you the fuckin’ evidence ya need to lock his ass away behind bars, for good.”

  He smiled, leaning back into his leather chair. No doubt, understanding my proposal.

  “You’re up for District Attorney, yeah? Breakin’ news… ‘El Santo, Damien Montero, brings down yet another notorious outlaw. MC President, Jameson of the Devil’s Rejects, who has been wanted by the FBI for decades. Evidence found, making him liable for the innocent lives he’s taken and other crimes punishable by the United States judicial system,” I proposed in a serious tone, glancing over at Diesel. “What do ya think, bro? Sounds like a fuckin’ promotion to me.”

  “I’d bet my Harley it was, and you know how much I love her,” he retorted, only looking at Damien, who was glaring at us like we just handed him a golden fucking ticket.

  “So… what do you know ‘bout my father?” I cocked my head to the side. “Am I askin’ the right question, now?”

  “Leave us,” Damien ordered in a harsh tone to his men.

  They did as they were told. Bossman nodded over to me before he walked past us, followed by the suit. Damien didn’t falter, standing up from his chair, walking over to the makeshift bar in the corner of the room. Pouring three glasses of bourbon, setting them down in front of us. He sat sideways at the edge of the table, taking a long swig from his glass before slamming it down on the table when he was done.

  Bringing his fingers up to his mouth like he was contemplating what to say next. “Have you ever wondered why your Prez and Martinez are friends?” he questioned, emphasizing the word are.

  I jerked back, stunned by his response.

  “Hmm… I know you hate the motherfucker, but I’ve come to miss him. Things were a lot more entertaining when he was alive. Especially between your old man and him.”

  “The fuck?”

  “You said you wanted to know what I knew about your father. Not what I had on him. There’s your fucking answer. Now get the fuck out.”

  “You ain’t given me shit.”

  “I’ve given you plenty. I’m a prosecuting attorney for fuck sake. Can’t put words in your mouth. Won’t hold up in fucking court,” he taunted, grinning.

  “It’s up to you to find what I need and then we’ll both get what we want. Entendido?”

  I stood and walked over to the door, having enough of his goddamn bullshit.

  “Oh, and, Creed?”

  I spun to face him.

  “Don’t you ever disrespect me, again. Next time I’ll blow your fucking balls off.”

  And with that, I left. Knowing he could tell me what I needed to know, but he wanted to fuck with me, maybe have me prove myself worthy to him. Who the hell knew… He was just another fucked up son of a bitch.

  When we got back to the truck, my cell phone pinged with a text. I never expected to read the words that I did on the screen.

  “It’s Mia. She’s gone missing, again. We can’t find her or your brother. Neither one of them answered their phones. Please tell me you didn’t have anything to do with this.” — Ma

  My heart fucking dropped, and for some reason, I dialed the first number that came to mind.

  Leo.

  Fully aware that Martinez…

  Was alive.

  TWENTY-TWO

  *Mia*

  Six months had come and gone since I was found, and still no sign of my memory. Although I started having more intense flashes sparks of emotion when it came to certain things. It mostly happened when I was around Noah. Like he would do or say something, and I swear whatever it was had happened before. Almost like déjà vu. Dr. Garcia said there was a good chance that I had or I was developing romantic feelings toward him. The emotions

he sparked within me could seem familiar, even though they were new.

  But I swear it was so much more than that.

  I began having dreams about being gunned down about a month ago, stumbling around in a daze before falling down an endless black hole, landing in strong arms. Then it would warp into losing my baby. Each one hazier than the last, making it hard to put the pieces of the memory puzzle back together. Decipher what I was actually seeing in my dreams, versus what I was feeling in the nightmare. It was all-consuming, almost unbearable some nights. I’d wake up in pure panic and sweat, sitting up in my bed, panting. Remembering what my mind wanted me to forget. Then I’d lie back in bed and hug my pillow, pressing it tight against my body. Immediately feeling comfort as if I was embracing an actual person.

  Which didn’t make any sense.

  Sometimes it felt like I was going crazy, my mind battling within itself. It was hard to feel so much and not remember why it was there to begin with. How overpowering it was to experience such deep sentiments and not know if they were old or new. Real or imaginary.

  I was extremely grateful that one thing had returned to normal though. I was allowed to go back to school to finish my junior year with my classmates. Even though there were only a few months left till summer vacation. I remember walking down the hall my first day back, terrified of the looks and whispers I was sure I’d receive, but it was the opposite. I was welcomed back with open arms. I even ran into my friend, Jill, who surprisingly I kind of remembered. We talked for a while over lunch, agreeing to get together for a mall date since prom season was approaching fast.

  I was nervous to approach my parents’ about ditching the homeschooling, but with the help of my therapist, it was a little easier. I caught up with everything I had missed while I was gone and was actually ahead in most of my classes. I guess I had my mom to thank for that since she had been home schooling me since I found out I was pregnant, saying it was easier on everyone that way.

  My parents’ were reluctant at first, afraid it would be a setback in my recovery. Not realizing I had yet to really take any steps forward. I was beyond relieved when they finally agreed, nonetheless.