Unbreakable: Unrequited Part Two (Fallen Aces MC Book 2) Read online

  Table of Contents

  ALSO BY MAX

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWENTY-NINE

  THIRTY

  THIRTY-ONE

  THIRTY-TWO

  THIRTY-THREE

  THIRTY-FOUR

  THIRTY-FIVE

  THIRTY-SIX

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  THIRTY-NINE

  FORTY

  FORTY-ONE

  FORTY-TWO

  FORTY-THREE

  FORTY-FOUR

  FORTY-FIVE

  FORTY-SIX

  FORTY-SEVEN

  FORTY-EIGHT

  FORTY-NINE

  EPILOGUE

  NOTE FROM MAX

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  UNBREAKABLE

  Copyright © 2016 Max Henry

  Published by Max Henry

  All rights reserved. No part of this eBook may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, including electronic or mechanical, without written permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. Max Henry is in no way affiliated with any brands, songs, musicians, or artists mentioned in this book.

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this eBook with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you are reading this eBook and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return it to the seller and purchase your own copy.

  Thank you for respecting the author’s work.

  Published: February 2016, by Max Henry [email protected]

  Edited by: Lauren McKellar

  Cover Image: DollarPhoto Club

  Cover Design: Sara Eirew

  Formatted by: Max Effect

  ALSO BY MAX

  FALLEN ACES MC SERIES

  Unrequited

  Unbreakable

  COMING SOON

  Tormented

  Existential

  Redundant

  BUTCHER BOYS SERIES

  Devil You Know

  Devil on Your Back

  Devil May Care

  Devil in the Detail

  Devil Smoke

  BANJAXED SERIES

  Pistol

  Loaded

  Recoil

  OTHERWORLD DESIRES (Paranormal)

  Battle to Become

  Methods for Mayhem

  I am not what happened to me,

  I am what I choose to become.

  - Carl Gustav Jung

  ONE

  King

  How fast does a heart beat before it becomes a heart attack? I wish I knew—then I’d know if I should be prepared to drop the bike in a hurry or not. Fuck me. I left her treading water in the shark tank, biding her time before the inevitable happened.

  I should have pushed the issue—fought harder. I should have taken Elena with me when she asked, damn the fucking consequences.

  Debris flicks out from under my tire as I skid around another corner, but where am I headed? I don’t even know where the fuck this guy lives . . . where they live. What if I’m too late? Fuck. I should have done this weeks ago. I should have moved Elena first and then worried about convincing the officers I was doing the right thing.

  Is my loyalty to the club worth a life? Two lives? There was a time when I would have said yes. Now? I’m not so sure.

  The vibrations from the engine rumble through my legs as I let the revs slow me down. My gut twists, my chest heavy with the gravity of the situation as my heart thunders at an incredible tempo against my ribcage. What do I do? How can I fix this? I don’t want to stop; there’s an incessant need in me to keep on riding until I get somewhere, to be able to do something. But common sense screams the obvious at me: You don’t know where you’re going or what you’ll do when you get there.

  I need a plan. Moreover, I need my head to calm the fuck down and give me a damn chance to think this through rationally.

  Breathing is a task as I pull over at a grassy area on the side of the road and idle the bike across to the tree line. I haven’t felt a panic this deep-seated since Garret went missing. I haven’t felt this useless since then either. I’m messing with people whose reach is way beyond mine. If I was to get Elena out today, where could she go? Where could we hide that Carlos wouldn’t find her? Too many loose threads.

  I heave a sigh to clear my fuzzy head and kick the stand out. From memory, I’ve got two bullets lodged somewhere in my side and shoulder. Strangely enough, the pain isn’t so severe any more. Blood has stuck the cotton of my T-shirt to my skin, and each twist of my arm pulls the fabric taut over the wound site. I roll my shoulders in a few slow arcs, easing the shirt free. The burn returns, spreading with relentless enthusiasm along my entire right side.

  Why am I so tired? I drop down into the grass, sitting with my elbows hooked over my knees, and fish out my phone from the breast pocket of my shirt. The way I’m feeling, I’m going to need help to get this done. The sunlight glares off the screen as I scroll through to Hooch’s number. Tucking the device against my stomach, I hunch over and shield my eyes as I squint at the display. Yep, got it. I thumb the dial icon and bring the phone to my ear.

  The connection rings and rings and finally clicks over to Hooch’s voicemail. My hand itches to hurl the phone toward the road, but with a great deal of self-control I manage to set it down on the grass between my legs instead. Gonna need it again later. I punch the bike’s fuel tank to relieve the tension instead. The metal is unrelenting, and my knuckles throb. That shit’s gonna bruise.

  I should head back to the clubhouse like Judas said and get myself sorted out. Gloria’s probably there by now, threading her curved needle in preparation. I can always count on her to dig the stray rounds out of me and stitch me up in record time. Putting myself first isn’t such a crazed idea; what use am I going to be to Elena if I can’t muster the strength to fight properly? My heart drives me to try anyway, to show that Carlos fucker I won’t stand by and let him hurt her, but my head screams at me to see reason in this madness.

  I’m shot.

  I’m sweating buckets and my heart is racing.

  I’m no real use to anyone right now.

  I should plan her escape out and make sure I’m not going to fuck things up by rushing at the situation like a wounded bull at a gate. But damn, he has her. Carlos has Elena, and if this is what he had in store for us, then . . . it doesn’t bear thinking about what he’s potentially doing to her. Heart versus head—who’s going to win? I’m supposed to be her savior. I’m supposed to show the woman how fucking much I
love her by taking her out of this bullshit she’s caught up in and giving her the life she deserves, making her my queen. Yet here I fucking am after four hours of semi-delirious riding, sitting an hour out from Kansas City without a fucking clue in the world as to where I should start looking.

  Some fucking hero, huh?

  I stare at the green branches around me for what seems an age, mulling over the pros and cons of different tactics to get Elena out. Do we go in guns blazing? Or opt for a covert approach? Do I try to get the backing of the brothers when the club has enough of its own shit to deal with? Or do I go this alone?

  My phone vibrates between my legs, snapping me out of my growing frustration. Why can’t I see the answer?

  “Where the fuck are you?”

  “Hey, Hooch.” My head swims and I drop onto my back, throwing my free arm over my eyes to block the insanely bright sun.

  “Don’t ‘hey Hooch’ me, you asshole. Everybody else rolled in an hour ago. Where the hell have you gone?”

  “South.” I tip my head back and let the light breeze that’s kicked up lick over my throat and cool my skin. “I need you to do me a favor.”

  “Fuck favors. Apex is ready to skin you. You best be gettin’ your ass here, brother.”

  “Can’t.” Drawing in a breath, I run a hand over my beard. “I need your help sortin’ something out, something I should have done months ago.”

  “Were we on the same job today?” he asks sarcastically. “Tell me you were there and I wasn’t imagining it. Nothin’ you got goin’ on could be more important than this.”

  “Maybe not to you,” I reason, “but I sure as fuck know I couldn’t live with myself if I left this any longer.” So tired . . . The wounds are really doing a number on me.

  The line goes quiet, only the distant hum of conversation audible while Hooch gives me the silent treatment.

  I almost nod off.

  “There’s a rumor that today has somethin’ to do with you,” he finally says. “That true?”

  I struggle to concentrate on his words; the blood I slowly lose messes with my focus. “Possibly. Don’t know.” I shouldn’t have stopped; relaxing has only given my body an opportunity to shut down. I don’t need this right now.

  “Care to explain what’s going on then?” Hooch’s tone is cold, sharp, and nothing less than I’d expect. “We lost good men today, so before I do you a favor, I want to know I’m not helpin’ out a rat here.”

  “Fuck you.” The heel of my hand slams into the dirt beside me. “You think I’d be the rat?”

  “Rumors aren’t good, brother. They say you’re muddyin’ the waters.”

  “Tell me, man. What benefit do I stand to get out of helpin’ Carlos? Or the Blood Eagles for that matter?”

  He grunts. “I don’t know for sure, but everyone is riled the fuck up right now. We’ve got men here who’ve fuckin’ strapped up and ridden over, ready to roll out the minute they heard of the fuckin’ mess today.” He sighs. “I sure as fuck ain’t ever seen the place like this, and I’ve been runnin’ under these assholes’ feet since I was a wee fuckin’ squirt. This is serious, King.”

  “I know.” I press my eyes shut; images of Elena, and Twig slumped over his tank, melt together.

  “You with me?”

  “Pardon?”

  “I lost you for a bit there. You good?”

  “Bit light-headed, to be honest.”

  “Why?”

  “May have some stray metal lodged in me.”

  Hooch’s tone shifts from angry to concerned. “You need help gettin’ home?”

  Do I? I lie in the sun, relishing the warm rays as I mull it over. I made it this far—could I make it back? “Not sure.”

  “While you decide, tell me the truth about what’s goin’ on. Lay the rumors to rest and tell me what’s really fuckin’ happening with you.”

  I need to spill if I want his help, but I can’t discuss it over an open line. Yet getting him to where I am wastes time—time neither Elena or I have right now. I shut my eyes and grit my teeth, suppressing the urge to yell, to growl, and to smash up everything around me to release the tension. I just want to ride, to get to her, to know she’s okay . . .

  I’m fucking fed up and furious, and if things don’t go my way soon, people will find out what happens when the good ones break.

  “I need help,” I admit. “I don’t think I can do the ride back to you without coming undone halfway.”

  “And where the fuck would you be?”

  I roll my head to the side to look for a sign within view, but my vision’s shot to hell. “About sixty mile out from Kansas City . . . I think.” A quick nap might be on the cards while I wait on the asshole to show up. “You should see my bike from the road.”

  “You really sound like shit, man. Do I bring first-aid?”

  I chuckle. Nurse Hooch, at your service. “Yeah, that’d be good.”

  Hooch sighs, a defeated sound. I can just imagine him sitting there, pinching the bridge of his nose as he holds the phone to his ear. “You realize they’ll notice I’m gone?”

  “I’m sure they will.”

  “This better be fuckin’ worth whatever bullshit lie I spin when they ask why I’m leavin’ in a time of crisis, King.”

  “It fuckin’ is. More than you’d know.”

  TWO

  King

  “King.”

  Thump.

  “King. Wake up, man.”

  Thump, thump.

  “Shit.”

  ***

  “. . . shouldn’t be much longer. Call me if you need anything. I’m headin’ . . .”

  ***

  “His fever’s gone, so he should improve now.”

  “About time.”

  ***

  The incessant whine of a power tool pierces through the delicious dream I’d been having of Elena barefoot and pregnant in the kitchen of our newly finished house. The vision was so strong, the smell of cooking breakfast is still ingrained in my nostrils. I could have sworn it was real, if it wasn’t for the fact that the house is still nothing but framing out the back of Mom and Dad’s, and Elena isn’t with me.

  What the fuck is that noise?

  Groaning, I grind the heel of both hands into my closed eyes and roll to my back. Ahh, shit. What the fuck did I do last night? Was it even last night? Memories of the run, the ambush, and patchy visions of the ride after come in dribs and drabs between the skull-rattling drone of whatever the fuck is going on outside. A grinder. The whine is a fucking grinder. Who the hell grinds shit this early in the morning?

  I roll my head to the right and look around. This sure as fuck ain’t my room—at the clubhouse or my new place. What the fuck . . .? Taut tape pulls on my skin as I push myself upright and swing both legs to the side of the bed. My bare feet hit the cold wooden floor with immediate pins and needles. How long was I lying down?

  A quick inspection of my side shows a dressing over where I remember one of the bullets catching hold. I lift a tentative hand to my shoulder and find, as suspected, a matching dressing over the other wound.

  Five solid minutes of wriggling my toes and flexing my calves later, I have enough feeling back in my legs to chance standing without folding over. They don’t have to be capable of running a marathon, just operative enough to shift gears and use the foot brake on my way to Elena.

  God, how is she? Chills run across my flesh at the thought of her being hurt by that fucker’s hand. If Carlos has laid a single motherfucking finger on her, I’ll—

  Laughter echoes from outside of the plain bedroom I’m in. I look around again at the picture rail that circumvents the timber walls, the heavy drapes that pool on the floor beneath the window, and the ornate mirror hung over a simple four drawer dresser. Nothing about the place is familiar. Nothing.

  Unease prickles down my spine as I locate my boots, clean and polished, sitting by the foot of the bed. My belt hangs over the footboard and my jeans are freshly laundered and
folded, resting atop the dresser. No shirt though. Where the fuck is my cut?

  The voice returns, loud and abrupt as it battles against the fucking horrible sound of the grinder. The tool shuts off and the crunch of footsteps on gravel grows closer to where I am. Fuckin’ paper-thin walls. I tug my clothes on and buckle my belt, as what I assume is the front door closes with a muted thud. The heavy footfalls continue to grow louder until they stop outside my door. Where the fuck is my gun? I check the sheath tucked inside my boot and find it empty. Fuckers even took my knife.

  The door opens with a quick arc, and I’m left standing half-dressed, half-prepared, and not even close to being half-happy with the current situation. A burly man with dark hair that’s graying around the edges stands in the doorway, dirty work clothes on, and a pleased smile toying his weathered and cracked lips.

  “Good. You’re awake. You can join us for lunch.” He spins and walks away without another word.

  Lunch? Explains the “early morning” grinding then. How long was I out? I shuffle across to the built-in wardrobe and open it in the hope of finding a shirt to wear when the guy returns and tosses one at me from the doorway.

  “Should fit you. We had to trash your old one, sorry.”

  I nod and tug the over-sized T-shirt over my battered body. “Thanks.”

  “And your vest is hanging in the entry cupboard.” The guy glances up the hall and then winks. “The good woman didn’t want you worrying that it wasn’t being looked after with due care.”

  Where the fuck am I? As long as it’s not Bates Motel I guess I should be grateful for what they’ve apparently done. I gesture to the bandages and clear my throat. “Uh, thanks for all of this.”

  His earlier mirth disappears and a stern apprehension takes its place. “I would have dropped you at the local hospital the day after we patched you up”—he thumbs down the hall—“but your boys here have looked after us very generously.”

  I frown and walk toward him. My boys? The guy nods once and heads toward where the murmur of voices drifts from, still talking about lunch and how his wife’s got a roast in the oven for dinner so not to overstuff myself. Hungry as I am, I couldn’t care less about eating right now. I sigh and follow where he went into a drab yet tidy living room and gestures to a sight for sore eyes.