Page 92 of Twisted Road

“It makes it easier for me to know Seychelle needs extra care right now. I’m good at that. I can be a distraction for her. Maybe help her,” Lyric responded.

“Every time I think it’s impossible to love you more, you prove me wrong.” He meant that. He leaned down and kissed each eyelid, the tip of her nose, and then the corners of her mouth. He should have stopped there, but her mouth was irresistible to him. He kissed her, bringing her half out of her seat, one arm locked behind her back.

He tasted everything he would ever need. Her love. Who knew love had a taste? He was addicted to that taste, that feeling. She was the best thing in his life. He knew the club should be his number one reason for living. His brothers and sisters. But it was Lyric. He hadn’t even known how or when it happened. She’d gotten in so deep; he knew he would never get her out—nor would he ever want to.

“I’m going to be fine, Keys,” she whispered when he pressed his forehead to hers. “There won’t be any need to worry about me. You just make sure you get back to me.”

“I will.”

“Give me your word.”

“You have my word,” he agreed instantly. “And I know you don’t like guns, but I packed one in your bag. You keep your word to me if you need to.”

She’d killed one man, and it had taken its toll on her, but after that first moment of awareness, she nodded her head. “I’ll be safe,” she reiterated.

“Come on, you two,” Ice said. “The steam is building up in here. Czar’s giving us the signal, and we’d better get moving. Got to be out of here before dawn.”

Keys took one last look at Lyric and turned away, allowing the monster in him to come closer to the surface. They had two missions to complete on a tight timeline. The first was to get to the victims being held by the militia in the caves above Headed for Hell’s territory. The second was to convince the leader of the militia that it would be a good idea to move his people off the mountain to another location and be done with his moneymaking trafficking scheme. They wanted him to know he was in bed with the wrong people.

The helicopters set down on the side of the mountain away from the entrances. Sid Baily had given them the location of the secret escape route he’d ensured would be there in the caves for smuggling. They’d never disclosed that back entrance to those running the human trafficking operation. To his knowledge, neither had their vice president. It made sense that he would want an escape route for himself if needed.

The tunnel was extremely narrow. Keys had broad shoulders, but some of the others, Destroyer, Savage, Reaper and Master, would have to turn sideways going through. The air was oppressive, and he was very aware of the tons of rock over his head. He had never experienced claustrophobia and didn’t now, but he could see how others might.

The trip through the mountain was long and winding. There were places where the ceiling was shored up with two-by-fours. Being a builder, Keys recognized that the long passageway was unsafe. A small quake would bring the mountain down on top of them. He was grateful when they reached the end of the narrow tunnel and came up on what appeared to be solid rock with no way to go farther.

This was the most dangerous moment. When they moved that wall, they expected to find prisoners. With prisoners would be guards. Once inside, Player could cast an illusion and keep anyone from seeing them. Absinthe could use his voice to compel the women to stay down and cover their eyes.

Mechanic took up first position, with Keys directly behind him. “Rock’s too thick for me to get much of a reading,” Mechanic reported. “If I guessed, I’d say six females. All are to the left as we enter. All appear to be sitting on the ground. Again, vague impression of at least three men standing. One straight ahead, a distance across from this door, and two to the right, standing approximately six feet apart, facing the women. Seriously, Keys, it is a guess only.”

The two entering first would be most at risk. They weren’t wearing colors, and they wore the faces of older men. Both wore short salt-and-pepper hair. If the women were to describe them later, they would sound like no one in the Torpedo Ink club.

“Going in,” Mechanic said.

Keys never tensed up during a mission. If anything, he became calmer and much more relaxed. This was the shit he knew best. He focused completely on his work, and his job was to kill. The women wouldn’t be his problem; that was for Absinthe to deal with. Player would mask the other members of Torpedo Ink. Keys’ job was to kill the guards as quickly as possible. He would only have seconds to confirm identities and dispose of the threat to the prisoners and his team.

As always, he built the moves in his mind, going over and over them carefully. Mechanic had done his best to give him an approximation of where his targets would be. Mechanic was rarely wrong. He hit the sequence of code that swung the heavy door open. He stepped through and to the side, giving Keys a clear path to the two guards on his right. They filled his vision, six feet apart, more like seven, but he had them. He threw his weighted knives with deadly accuracy, a one-two throw that took both men in the throat even as he was in motion, running forward toward them.

He saw Mechanic’s man go down as he finished off both of his guards. Absinthe and Player were already inside, calming the women, casting the necessary illusions needed so the women would have no idea who rescued them.

He continued through the open archway into the wide tunnel that led to the entrance of the cave. Mechanic, Savage, Destroyer and Preacher raced with him. Their job was to take out the rest of the guards and drag them into the cave without leaving evidence of who killed them. They had only minutes to accomplish their part of the mission and get back to the waiting helicopters.

The others collected the knives used, blindfolded the women and loaded them into the helicopters. Steele would assess their condition, and they would be taken to waiting vans. From there, they would go to a medical facility.

There were six men dressed like the other militiamen had been, lounging around, smoking, drinking, two playing cards, all of them bored. They had a small lounge set up just inside the entrance of the cave where they could stay cool and shelter from any weather but still have a good view of anything coming at them from the trails.

None of them expected the attack to come from inside the cave. Torpedo Ink preferred to use knives or break necks rather than use guns that might be traced back to them. The club had a gun range and a weapons repair shop, and they taught gun safety.

The men they were targeting weren’t the assassins from Russia; these were the men working with them to set up trafficking rings. Keys found it easy to kill them. They should have been better trained and more aware.

Sean Stark was in his seventies. A retired army ranger, he’d had an impeccable career. The man had served his country with honor, and when he retired, he had more medals than most, and deservedly so. He was highly respected in the military community. Everything Code learned about him—and he was able to hack into records few could—showed that Sean Stark deserved the respect and admiration given to him.

He was married to his childhood sweetheart, Dawn, a woman who stood by him all the years he was in the service. The two had three sons, Archie, Charles and Bryson. They also had one daughter, Janelle. It appeared they had a happy marriage.

When he retired, Stark did so without fanfare. He retreated to a farm in Vermont. He lived quietly for five years. In that time, several of his men contacted him when they were in trouble. At some point, he took those men into the mountains and established homes far away from others. He led them, working with them in the hopes that he could help to integrate them back into society. When it became clear that wasn’t going to happen, he started a self-sufficient community, where they grew their own vegetables and had small farms for goats, sheep, cattle and horses.

The community grew in size, but they didn’t cause problems. There was no hint of illegal activities such as drug running or selling arms. To allow his men to do that seemed against everything Stark stood for. It made no sense that he had gotten his men involved in human trafficking.

According to Sid Baily, Headed for Hell’s president, the militia community had never caused problems until a few months earlier. They’d always been cordial when they were in town. The last few months, there had been several men, just like a few of Sid’s newer prospects, who treated the townspeople with disrespect.