1
The moment Ape’s hand landed on his shoulder, Clay Navarro knew the game was up.
It could have been the look in the asshole’s eye that told him, or the way his fingers dug into Clay’s muscle way too hard to be friendly. Probably, though, it was that other thing—that elusive animal intuition that told you your life was about to end.
He managed, somehow, to shrug off Ape’s hand and veer into the head, mumbling something about taking a piss. As soon as the door closed behind him, he leaned down and spoke into the button mic sewed onto his leather vest. He was frantic. God, was he having a heart attack? Wouldn’t that be something, to have a heart attack on the day everything was supposed to go down?
“Shit’s hitting the fan here. Whoever’s listening, I need backup.”
He glanced at the tiny window and considered trying to make a break for it, but there was no way he’d manage to squeeze through. But, man, he couldn’t risk the op at this crucial moment, even if it meant saving his skin. Not when they were so close to taking the sons of bitches down. There was no choice but for him to go out and face whatever Ape had in mind for him—try to stall him and bluster his way through. Whatever it was, they’d catch it on the wire.
Back in the hall, however, flanked by three of his Sultans MC “brothers,” Clay was pretty sure there’d be no bullshitting his way out of this. There was a sick sort of glee on Ape’s face when he shoved Clay into the manky vinyl dentist’s chair, brandished his tattoo gun, and said, “Thought you needed some new artwork, bro.” After a pause, the man smiled and said, “How about your lids?”
“No fuckin’ way, man.” His heart rate spiked.
“Knuckles, then,” said Ape, and Clay knew better than to argue. There was a chance he hadn’t been made—that Ape was just being his usual sick self. Considering everything that was at stake, he had to ride out that hope for as long as he could, and if that meant letting the crazy bastard ink him up some more, then so be it. He forced his body to relax, forced a smirk onto his face.
But then one of the other bikers grabbed for him, and it was all Clay could do not to go down swinging. He submitted at the last moment, pulse flying, reminding himself that he just had to make it through a few hours before it was all over, one way or another. The biker grimly held him, head locked so he was staring straight ahead, unable to watch as Ape pressed the tattoo gun to his finger. He tightened his jaw through the inking—a quick, messy job, even for Ape—and broke the hold long enough to glance down at his knuckles.
DEAD MAN, they said in big, thick black caps. Fuck. “What the—”
“Sit your ass down and stay put, or I’ll pop your fuckin’ eyeball,” Ape said through gritted teeth. He brandished the tattoo gun at Clay’s face.
Clay bolted up, but the two MC brothers were on him in a flash, grappling him back down. One had an arm locked around his neck, holding his head still for Ape and that damned tattoo gun. Clay flinched away, tried to push free, but there was no stopping that needle coming straight for his eyes.
He slammed his lids closed and prayed for a miracle.
“What the shit?” Clay managed to spit out before Ape went to work on his eyelids. The only thing worse than the pain was the fear. He breathed through it as best he could, waiting it out as Ape inked him. He didn’t open his eyes until he was sure the needle was away—and even then he was left blinking and dazed, eyeballs stinging.
“What are—” Clay began, fighting to sound normal even after all this—until he spotted Ape pulling out that little ax he carried around with him everywhere. He stiffened, fought, expected to feel the deep slice of a blade in his skull, to see Ape’s crazily grinning face through a film of blood, his brain matter scattered across the walls.
He should have known better. Ape might be a total lunatic, but he didn’t do anything without Handles’s approval. The only thing he carved was Clay’s shirt. With the sharpened ax blade. The fucker sure had a flair for the dramatic.
So maybe Handles didn’t know yet. Maybe there was still a chance he could ride this out until the end. Or at least until backup arrived.
Something occurred to Clay’s crazed brain as Ape picked the tattoo gun back up and leaned in to etch something onto his chest. The asshole hadn’t touched Clay’s leather cut—the biker vest would have been the first thing to go if they knew for sure he was an undercover agent. Ape was killing time until Handles got back. Nothing more.
I’m not a dead man. Yet.
But if he wanted to convince his brothers he wasn’t a cop, he needed to work a lot harder at being Jeremy “Indian” Greer instead of Clay Navarro. And, right now, Jeremy would be pissed as shit.
“The fuck, man?” he bellowed, elbowing one of the other men away, breaking free. The needle slid against his side, and Ape moved closer, pressed harder. He stank of stale booze and old sweat, piss, and blood.
“Think we don’t know who you are?”
“Are you out of your mind, Ape?” Clay reached for his KA-BAR—of course Ape would have been cocky enough not to take the knife off him—his mind flying through the options. Get the fuck out was foremost among them. He threw a knee to Teller’s groin, took a millisecond to enjoy the sick groan he got in response, and slid a hand into Ape’s filthy hair before the other man could react. Jesus, it was so greasy, he almost couldn’t get purchase. Finally, he managed and pulled the shithead into him.
“You got a death wish?” Clay snarled.
“Do you?” The man’s breath was fetid, rotten, like his mouth had never seen the business end of a toothbrush. “We know who you are, you fucking traitor.”
“Oh yeah?” He inhaled through his mouth, ignoring the sound of the others gathering, and set his blade beneath Ape’s ear, right where the carotid would be in an actual human being. With Ape, who the fuck knew? The bastard probably had raw sewage running through his veins. “Why don’t you tell me?”
Beside him, someone moved, and Clay pressed the knife in—just a couple of millimeters, but enough to make Ape gasp and throw up his hand. “No closer, man. He’s gonna fuckin’ kill me.”
“You wanna tell me what’s going on here, Ape?”
“Got a call.”
