FOG churned over the ocean, the wind blowing the roiling mass over the highway, turning the silvery night a dark, angry gray. Wisps curled around the truck as Gedeon “Player” Lazaroff maneuvered one of the severely tight curves on Highway 1 along the northern California coast. He was familiar with the highway, but most of the time he rode his Harley and had his brothers riding with him. In some ways he was thankful they weren’t with him, but he would have welcomed the comfort of their company.
The dark gray mist thickened so it seemed an impenetrable wall and he slowed down, although he was so close to home his inclination was to step on the gas to get there faster. He was nearly desperate to make it back to the Torpedo Ink clubhouse and the solace of the room he used there. He owned a house and normally would have gone there, but at this point, he didn’t have the time. The clubhou
se was much closer and the longer he was out in public, even in the seclusion of the truck, the more dangerous it was. He knew that and he had vowed never to take chances with anyone’s life again.
The cell played Master’s short tune, announcing a call, and Player hesitated, swearing under his breath. Sweat beaded on his forehead and trickled down his face. He wiped at it with his palm before hitting the Bluetooth. Cell phone service was spotty at best on Highway 1 and he hoped it wouldn’t work. Naturally, he wasn’t that lucky.
“Yeah?” He was abrupt. Off-putting. Hoping Master would get the hint.
“You okay? Where are you?”
“About four miles from home.” Deliberately he hadn’t distinguished between the clubhouse and his residence.
There was a small silence. Four miles from home meant Player had been pushing hard. Far too hard. Risking trouble. Already, they’d broken the rules by separating. Torpedo Ink members stayed close. When running a mission, they paired up, eyes on one another at all times. They’d gotten into unforeseen trouble and Player needed to get home fast. Master wasn’t able to drive as fast. He carried an unexpected passenger with him and Player couldn’t risk being in close proximity with her, not in his present state of mind, although he’d only told Master he was feeling very sick and needed to get home.
Master had to drive the passenger’s vehicle home anyway, so it had all worked out for the best. They’d reported to Czar and let him know Player was coming in early without Master, and Master was bringing in “baggage.”
“Tell me,” Master insisted.
“Fog rolled in.”
“Pull over. I’ll send someone to you.”
“I’m close. I can make it. Just one of my damn headaches.” Player poured confidence into his voice, ignoring the way the road seemed to be coming alive with the fog wrapping it in loops and whorls like smoke from a pipe. “Less than four miles now.” He shook his head, trying to clear it. All that did was rattle his already hurting brain. He clenched his teeth against the pain.
“You sure? Go to the clubhouse, it’s closer.”
“Yeah. Good idea. I can make it.” He could. There was no one with him. He was good. Just make it into the yard. Park the truck. Get to his room and lie down. His head was pounding. It felt like his brain was coming apart. He had made it home a day early, so that was a good thing. “I can make it no problem,” he reiterated, trying to pour confidence into his voice.
Blue and red cut through the gray veil of fog in the rear-view mirror, and he cursed silently as he looked down at the speedometer. Shit. Speeding. He could have sworn he’d slowed down. Hadn’t he? He couldn’t remember now. He was sweating bullets.
“Gotta go, Master, you’re breaking up anyway.” He needed to concentrate. He dropped the connection before Master could protest.
They had run what was supposed to be an easy assignment, trailing a couple of “Ghosts” that Code, their computer genius had uncovered. Find out where the two were going, which motorcycle clubs they were targeting next. Easy, right? Torpedo Ink wanted to know who they were.
The “Ghosts” turned out to be businessmen who had been preying on weaker members of the various outlaw motorcycle clubs, specifically those members who gambled, getting them in deep and then making certain that they gave up information on the clubs running drugs, guns or trafficking in return for getting out of debt. The Ghosts wanted cuts into those particular businesses.
When the clubs reacted negatively, they had the presidents’ old lady kidnapped, raped and tortured until the club complied or she was returned dead and another woman was taken. The Ghosts had a particularly vicious group of hitmen doing their dirty work for them.
Player’s club, Torpedo Ink, had rescued two women belonging to separate MC clubs from the hitmen the Ghosts kept on retainer. In both cases, Torpedo Ink had been hired secretly so no one associated them with the rescues. The larger clubs didn’t want it known that they had gone outside their club looking for help. Torpedo Ink didn’t want it known that they had helped. They were a small club and they wanted to stay under the radar, from law enforcement, other clubs and definitely the Ghosts.
The Ghosts kept themselves out of the line of fire, hiring hitmen to do their dirty work and infiltrate the clubs for them. That’s why they called themselves Ghosts. They believed no one could ever trace them. They didn’t know about men like Code who were that good with computers and could track just about anyone.
Player took his foot off the gas and eased the truck to the side of the road, watching the sheriff pull in behind him. He was two lousy miles from the Caspar turnoff and the clubhouse. Two miles. In his present state it was dangerous to have any interaction with any other human being. That had been the reason he’d separated himself from Master. Being safe. Making certain everyone was safe. Now this, all because he wasn’t paying attention. He knew better.
He hit the back of his head against the seat twice in recrimination and fished his license out of his wallet. Transporter and Mechanic, fellow members of the Torpedo Ink club, always kept the vehicles in the best of shape, the paperwork up-to-date and in the glove compartments. He had no doubt everything was in order, but he was so tired he wasn’t certain if the truck was clean of any weapons. He just couldn’t remember if he’d given everything to Master or if he’d kept guns with him.
He was exhausted, seventy-two hours without sleep, and he’d used his psychic gift for far too long, something he knew better than to do. It not only drained him and took a huge toll physically and mentally on him, but if he used it for too long, it began to spill over into his reality. That was the main reason he had pushed so hard to make it back to his home. He needed to be where he was surrounded by familiar things and he could replenish his strength and allow his fractured brain time to recover.
He’d always kept that side effect from his fellow Torpedo Ink members. They thought he would get a migraine and Alice’s Adventures Wonderland characters would appear. It would be funny and they would all get a laugh. They had no idea how truly serious and fucked up that reality could get, or how it could really morph into something far, far more dangerous.
He buzzed down his window and shut off the truck as the deputy walked up to his vehicle. He recognized him right away. Jackson Deveau was a good cop, but one difficult, if not impossible, to misdirect. Just his luck. Player’s head was pounding so bad his stomach began to twist into knots. He glanced around the truck hoping like hell everything was in place and there were no weapons in sight. He had a carry permit, but it was best to not make any waves—especially with Jackson.
“Player,” Jackson greeted as he took the license, his dark eyes moving over Player’s face, seeing too much like he always did. “You all right?”
It was never good to try to deceive Jackson if you didn’t have to. The members of Torpedo Ink suspected he was a human lie detector. He just seemed to be too good at figuring everything out.
“Feel like shit. Was trying to get home and didn’t realize I was speeding until I saw your lights. Sorry man.” He resisted rubbing his pounding temples. “Do you need the registration and insurance? The truck is registered to Torpedo Ink and the insurance is up-to-date. Czar’s going to kick my ass for this.”