Joker by Andi Rhodes

Chapter Twenty-Four

^{If there’s anything in this world that I understand, it’s the sanctity of a man’s word, it’s family.}

Joker

Savage.

That’s how I feel right now. I’m a savage beast and I know the moment I step outside of the warehouse and lay eyes on the man who’s been tormenting Riley, uncontrolled rage will take over.

“Yo, Joker!”

I stop walking and turn toward the voice. Grizzly, President of the Satan’s Legacy MC: Portland chapter, is standing among the throngs of people trying to exit the building and he’s holding a box and sporting an angry scowl.

“Yeah?” I ask, frustrated that I’m being sidetracked from my quest for vengeance.

He strides toward me and thrusts the box forward. “What the hell is this? And why the fuck are there reporters outside my fight?”

I stare at the box for a moment before taking it from him and lifting the flap. Inside is a heap of crude—

I whip my head up and narrow my eyes at Grizzly. “Are those bombs?”

“They are,” he confirms. “Twelve of them to be exact. Care to tell me why it is that the first time I relax my rules and agree to a last minute change to the roster, one the Soulless Kings requested, explosives are found?”

Because the last minute change was to draw out a psycho.

“You can’t seriously think this has anything to do with us,” I say instead, forcing annoyance into my tone to override the overwhelming fury.

“Add in the reporters outside and I don’t know what to think.” He takes the box back from me. “Fortunately, the fucker who planted these didn’t know what he was doing. They were embarrassingly easy to disable. But were found all throughout the building and parking lot. Whoever put them there wanted to wipe out everyone here tonight.”

“Come with me,” I say, turning and taking off in a run. “We’ve got him outside.”

I don’t bother to see if Grizzly is following. Either he wants a piece of the guy or he doesn’t. Quite frankly, I don’t fucking care. He’ll be lucky to get a millisecond with the piece of shit before I kill him anyway.

I shove through the doors and hesitate for a moment before I see Fender and the guys over at the side of the lot. It’s dark out, late, and the street lights that remain on the abandoned property aren’t exactly providing the best illumination. I can see the stalker yelling at them, most likely begging for his life, but I can’t make out the words because I’m too far away.

I begin to close the distance between myself and my victim. And that’s exactly what he is: a victim, my victim. Because I’m going to show him exactly the kind of pain he’s caused Riley. Sure, her pain was emotional, a sick sort of mental torture. But his pain? It’s going to be physical and so much worse than he can possibly imagine.

“I didn’t fucking do it!”

His words penetrate the rage induced fog that surrounds me.

Keep telling yourself that, motherfucker.

“I love Riley,” he shouts. “She’s like a daughter to me!” Spittle flies from his mouth and it seems to fall to the ground in slow motion. “You gotta believe me.”

A light flashes to my right but I don’t look at it. I can’t look at it. I’m physically incapable of making my eyes move away from my target.

“Jesus,” I hear Fender bark. “Piston, go handle that shit.”

I’m dimly aware of Piston jogging away from the guys but again, I don’t avert my gaze. He’ll handle whatever the hell needs handled.

When I reach them, I don’t bother slowing or even acknowledging that there’s anyone else near. Instead, I haul my arm back and land a blow to the stalker’s face. His head flies back as Fender and Riker hold him upright by the arms. Blood flies from his nose and he howls in pain. But he doesn’t shut up.

“You’re fucking nuts,” he says before spitting blood onto the ground. “I would never hurt Riles.”

“Time for explanations is over,” I snarl, gearing up for another blow. “Stalking wasn’t enough, you had to plant bombs, too? And bring reporters to capture your sick fascination?”

“Bombs?!” he shrieks, trying to yank out of my brothers’ hold. “I wouldn’t know the first thing about making bombs. I’m a fighter,” he argues, pleading. “If I want to hurt someone I’ll challenge them to a boxing match, not blow them the fuck up!”

“Joker, let’s get this over with,” Greaser snarls. He glances around the parking lot and then returns his attention to me. “We’re starting to attract a crowd.”

I finally let my eyes shift and look around to see what Greaser is talking about. I hadn’t heard anyone moving around us. I hadn’t realized that there was anyone else even in the vicinity until I was forced to notice.

I turn in a circle, my fists flexing at my sides. I want to end this right here, right now, but maybe the Nightmare Room would be better. No audience. Yes, that’s perfect. I can tear him limb from limb and not have to worry about any consequences.

As I shift to look at the stalker, the dim street light reflects off of a shiny surface, catching my eye. The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end and my muscles tense. In the shadows, a familiar face stares back at me from the driver’s seat of a vehicle, an evil grin firmly in place.

Cheryl.

I shake my head as if that will clear the vision before me, as if I’m only imagining things. Because I can’t possibly be seeing what I’m seeing.

I’m sorry sir, but she checked herself out. A friend picked her up.

The rehab employee’s words slam into me and suddenly, I’m not so sure of anything anymore. Cheryl doesn’t have friends. She has junkies who she’ll get high with but no friends. She’s not capable of having friends. Definitely not someone she could call in a crisis and have them come running to rescue her. I may not have made a point to get to know her or even checked up on her over the years, but I know this about her as much as I know she’s a self-serving bitch.

“... what I’m saying.”

I return my attention to the stalker and try to make sense of what he’s saying.

He’s not the stalker.

The voice in my head is loud and clear. And very insistent.

“Give me one good reason I should believe you,” I demand, stepping up to lean into his face. I’m starting to doubt that he deserves to be on the receiving end of my wrath but I need to be sure. Especially since the ideas currently running through my head are so unexpected.

His eyes widen and his shoulders seem to relax slightly. “Because, Riley’s father was my best friend… before he died. I promised I would take care of her. I may not be the best man in the world but I am a man of my word. And Riley is family.”

The words have a ring of truth to them. If there’s anything in this world that I understand, it’s the sanctity of a man’s word, it’s family. And I sure as shit understand that family doesn’t always mean blood relatives.

I look to my right again and see Cheryl holding a cell phone, furiously pressing buttons. She spares me a glance and even in the dark, I can see the spark of panic.

Motherfucker!

It’s not him.

Cheryl. Friend picked her up. Friend. Cheryl. Cheryl has no friends.

I shake my head in an effort to make the words make sense, to put them in some sort of order that will force the puzzle pieces to fit.

She checked herself out and a friend picked her up. Cheryl has no friends.

“It’s not him!” I shout before turning on my heel and breaking out into a run toward the door.

Riley! I have to get to Riley!

My feet hammer against the cracked pavement of the parking lot. I ignore the stares and tune everything else out. Nothing else matters but getting to Riley.

How in the hell could we have gotten this so wrong? I berate myself as I run, furious that I let Riley out of my sight.

We thought we had him.

How could I have, for one second, thought it was okay to act on assumptions? Yes, Riley seemed convinced it was him. The hurt, the betrayal that played out in her expression gutted me and the only thing I could think about was killing the son of a bitch who put it there.

The door bangs against the wall as I barrel through it. I point my feet toward the makeshift locker room, needing to get to Riley as fast as possible.

“Watch where the hell you’re going.”

I spare a glance for the woman rolling a suitcase beside her. She frowns at me but I don’t give her a second thought.

Riley. Get to Riley.

When I get to the locker room, I yank open the door and rush in. I scan the room and find it empty. My heart pounds against my ribs, threatening to burst out of my chest and fall to the ground, as bloody as Cheryl’s face was when Riley beat the shit out of her.

“Riley!” I call out, praying for a response.

I stalk through the space, looking in every corner, every crack and crevice, for something to tell me where she is.

“Joker, what the hell is going on?”

I whirl around and see Greaser and Piston standing there, guns drawn, faces tight.

“She’s gone,” I say, bending over and resting my hands on my knees. My breathing is erratic and my head begins to spin. “Riley’s gone.”

I force myself to stand and shove my way past them, my steps full of purpose, full of fury.

“I swear to God, I’ll fucking kill her,” I seethe as I storm through the building.

“Who?” Greaser asks when he falls into step beside me.

“What is going on?” Piston asks from my other side.

“That asshole out there,” I point to the parking lot. “Isn’t the stalker. Cheryl’s got her.”

“What?!” they both say in unison.

“I saw Cheryl outside, sitting in a car.”

Again, I shove my way through the door and the night air does nothing to cool the burning in my veins. I scan the lot and the car is gone. I try to recall what kind of car it was, images flitting through my mind like a grainy security camera video.

“Mercedes, black,” I mumble as I search the lot.

“What’s going on?” Fender calls from where he’s remained with the man Riley identified as the stalker.

I close the distance between us. “He’s not the stalker.”

“I’ve been trying to tell you that.”

I lift the guy up by his shirt. “I don’t have time for your ‘I told you so’s. Riley’s gone.”

His face pales. “Gone?” He shakes his head in denial even as he glances around the lot as if searching for something, or someone. “She can’t be gone.”

“Well, she is,” I say. “Who are you?”

“Damian. I was her trainer back in Cali.” He glares at the men still holding him. “I can help but you’ve gotta let me go.”

I nod at Fender and Riker. They release him with a shove and he stumbles forward, slamming into my body.

“How can you help?”

“I know who the stalker is.” He brushes his hands over his shirt as if to straighten it. “It’s Leah.”

“Who the fuck is Leah?”

“As I was trying to tell your friends, here,” Damian looks over his shoulders at my brothers and then locks eyes with me. “She’s another fighter. She idolized Riley, took it real hard when Riley left without a word.”

“If you knew who the stalker was, why the fuck didn’t you tell Riley?” I ask, trying to sort through the information I have and the questions that linger.

“Because I didn’t realize it was her until just a few minutes ago.”

“I swear on my father’s grave if you don’t spit out everything you know, I won’t stop my brothers from killing you… for fun.”

Damian bristles and takes a deep breath. “I saw Leah come out of the warehouse.” His eyes narrow. “She was rolling a suitcase and she got into a car with a woman I didn’t recognize.”

Watch where the hell you’re going.

I recall the woman who I almost knocked over in my haste to get to Riley. Blonde hair, muscular build.

Psycho bitch.

“The car was a black Mercedes,” Damian adds.

“Yeah, I saw it,” I agree. “But I have no fucking clue how to find it.”

“I’ll call Squirrel and give him what we’ve got, see if he can find anything,” Fender says as he pulls his cell phone from his pocket.

“If he knows what he’s doing, he should be able to track them quickly.”

“Do you really think it’s a wise decision to question my brother’s ability to do his job?” Greaser snarls, taking the words right out of my mouth.

Damian shifts his gaze from me to Greaser. “I’m not questioning anything.” I glare at him and catch the grin that spreads on his face as he continues to address Greaser’s accusation. “I imagine he’s very good at what he does, but you can give him more information than you think.”

My body is rigid and my patience is quickly disappearing. “Spit it out!” I bark.

Damian looks at me and his grin widens.

“I got the license plate.”