“Josephine Palmer. She is to be his wife.”
Nerves crackle inside me at the mention of Sunday, and my fist curls under the table.
“We will attend and attempt to liberate her in plain sight. Failing that, stage an intervention on their way home.”
Another voice to my right speaks up. “It has been arranged. Your invitations are procured and assistance selected.”
One of the Angels leans forward, their mask tight, their eyes flashing in the darkness. They are all dressed in leather jackets much like us, black t-shirts underneath, thick silver jewelry around their necks and on their fingers. Leather ties around their wrists, a uniform of sorts. The insignia on their jackets of an angel of death, The Wild Angels MC embroidered around it.
I am interested to note that there are no distinguishing features at all on their jackets. Unlike Ryder, who wears the patch of president, I couldn’t tell you who is running this show at all. It’s as if they all are, but I have been led to believe that Angel is the one in charge. I’m interested in the dynamic and wonder if I will ever know who Angel really is.
The Angel commanding the room right now is second from the left, and his eyes burn as he speaks, low, husky, deep.
“You.”
He points to Creed, who peers back with an inscrutable expression.
Ryder nods. “Of course.”
He almost appears amused by that. I wonder what I’ve missed, and then another Angel adds, “We have arranged assistance. Three Reapers will attend the gala with one of our Angels. They will attempt to liberate Josephine by causing a distraction. If that fails, my club will be waiting along the route, the remaining Reapers running the operation with the committee under the instruction of Angel.”
Part of me wonders if Angel is even in the room because there is no telling who is calling the shots here. Their masks are identical, their hair wrapped in bandanas, no tattoos, no markings of distinction, merely duplicates of one another set around the room. Then they all lean back in one sudden movement and bring the palms of their hands face down on the table in front of them.
Ryder nods, scraping back his chair.
“Thank you for your time. We will wait for instructions.”
I can’t believe my fucking eyes. What the hell is this shit? I have never seen anything like it; it’s almost a staged show, something they obviously do all the time.
As we follow Ryder out of the room, no words are spoken. Their gazes burn into my back as I leave, no further forward in my knowledge of what the fuck this is.
The sunlight almost blinds me as I enter normality, the sudden burst of heat from the sun in direct contrast to the freezing atmosphere inside.
“That place is a fucking tomb.”
Blade growls beside me, and he’s right. It’s as if we were buried alive with demons.
The art on the walls: death, torture, pain. The cold atmosphere and the lack of anything but darkness. It was a surreal experience for sure, and Creed whistles beside us.
“Fuck, that was weird shit.”
Ryder chuckles ahead of us as we return to the guest building.
“They are different; I’ll credit them with that.”
“Can we trust them?”
I’m not certain we can, and Ryder grins.
“I told you; I trust them with my life, and you can do the same.”
“How do you know them?”
Creed voices my thoughts, and Snake shrugs. “We don’t. Not really. But they move with honor and have never given us reason to doubt that. This isn’t the first time they have assisted. A while back, Ryder received an invitation to meet with Angel.”
Ryder nods. “It came from nowhere, and I was curious. I always am where it concerns an MC club. They were new in LA, and I only had good reports of the work they were doing here. Standing up for the victims rather than taking for themselves. They have fed me valuable information since they arrived, and it has proven beneficial. Sunday was no exception. As soon as the jet touched down, Angel was on the phone, telling me what I needed to hear and pledging his help.”
“But who is Angel?” Creed grumbles. “I mean, are they all the president? I couldn’t tell who was who.”