Jigsaw (Hell's Handlers MC Book 3) Read online

  Sure, he was the one who’d earned the Ph.D., but his wife went crazy for roses, and he pretty much used any excuse to buy her some. The clock read five after eight, which meant Mary, their two-year-old, would be well on her way to dreamland. They could crack open the wine and celebrate his accomplishment in his favorite way.

  Naked.

  Excitement surged, and his cock hardened just at the thought of what lie ahead of him. Callie was the sweetest woman he’d ever met. A true southern bell. Born well-to-do in the south, she’d been a debutant at fifteen, and he’d met her at her ball. One look at her shining blue eyes, platinum hair piled high on her head, and the sparkly pink dress that made her look like a feminine present, and he was gone, never to glance at another girl again.

  Everything about their life together made him happy. They rarely argued, spent all their free time with each other, shared most interests, and made love a few times a week. Callie was a great cook, a wonderful mother, and a nurturing partner. In bed, she was pleasing and generous and looked like a dream when she came. What more could a man ask for?

  With a smile on his face and a hard-on in his slacks, he jogged the three steps to his townhouse. For a split second, his brow furrowed. The porch light wasn’t on. Callie always flicked the light on for him hours before the sun set. He’d teased her about it, but she said she hated the thought of him tripping on the steps because it was getting dark and he was tired.

  Sweet woman.

  His smile grew even more extensive. Maybe Callie had a surprise of her own planned. One that included some new lacy lingerie and her white-blond hair flowing around her shoulders just the way he loved it.

  He stuck his key in the lock and frowned as it turned without resistance. Hmm… He was all for surprises, but he’d have to remind Cal to keep the door locked when she was alone. Putting her safety in jeopardy wasn’t worth it no matter what she had planned. They didn’t live in a sketchy neighborhood, but with so many college students enjoying their first taste of freedom, home invasions weren’t unheard of.

  “Hey, beautiful, I’m home!” he called into the dark house. Silence greeted him. Total silence. Not even the ambient hum of the refrigerator or churn of their decades-old HVAC trying desperately to combat the Alabama heat. “Cal?” he called out as he set the wine and flowers on a table full of picture frames in the foyer. “Where are you, sweetheart?”

  He flicked the light switch next to the door, but nothing happened.

  He pushed it up then down again.

  Unease snaked down his spine, and the hairs on the back of his neck rose to attention.

  This wasn’t an ordinary power outage. Something was wrong.

  He could feel it in his gut.

  A thump from the kitchen had his heart stuttering.

  Lincoln glanced around as best he could in the dark, searching for a weapon, but Callie kept the house so neat there wasn’t anything to grab. Maybe the umbrella hanging on the hook on the wall. It was the only thing within reach beside the bottle of wine he’d brought home. He gripped the handle with a sweaty palm and started toward the kitchen.

  The whirring in his head was so loud it drowned out his ability to listen for any unexpected sounds. He had no idea what he’d do if he encountered an intruder. Sure, he was tall at six-two, but he was a geeky science guy who hadn’t seen the inside of a gym since his mandatory PE class in high school. Not exactly ninja material.

  His gaze darted in every direction as he tiptoed his way down the hallway leading to the kitchen. He clutched the long umbrella in his hands like a lifeline. One of his loafers squeaked on the floor, and he cursed in his head. Should have left them at the door.

  Step. Step.

  Closer and closer to the kitchen.

  He choked up on the umbrella, gripping it like a baseball bat.

  With each stride, his eyes adjusted to the darkness until he was able to view the entrance to his kitchen on his left, just five feet away.

  Step. Step.

  Three feet to go.

  Step. Step. Step.

  He entered the dark and silent kitchen brandishing the umbrella like some sword-wielding pirate.

  “Grab him! Watch it. He’s got a weapon.”

  Linc spun left just as a massive fist flew into his stomach.

  With his breath immediately forced from his lungs, he doubled over, choking and clutching his midsection. All his muscles seized while he tried to suck in air, and the useless weapon slipped from his limp fingers to the floor. He tried to get his bearings as he was wrenched upright by the collar of his Oxford shirt and yanked against the hard chest of a man. The next thing he knew, he was staring at a bearded brute in his kitchen while the other man banded his arm across his throat and pressed the blade of a knife into Linc’s cheek.

  Without thought, his hands rose in a position of surrender. Fear sludged through his veins, thick as oil. Was she here? Maybe she’d had time to take their daughter and flee out the back door. A tiny sprig of hope blossomed. “Wh-where’s Callie?” he rasped out, still with difficulty breathing. First time taking a punch, and he had to admit they made it look much easier in the movies.

  The bearded man grinned a gap-toothed smile and stepped sideways.

  Lying face down on the kitchen floor, his wife was motionless. The smooth skin of her beautiful face was pale, too pale for the summer in Alabama. The gorgeous blue eyes that always danced with joy and love when he walked through the door stared still and cold. Beneath her, a dark puddle expanded across the beige linoleum.

  Linc’s knees buckled as bile rose, making him gag. His wife. His beautiful wife. What had these monsters done to her? “Jesus! What the fu—? Callie!” Linc cried as he tried to run to her.

  It was a wasted effort. Whoever held him had an iron grip and strength Linc would never possess.

  “What did you do to her? Oh, my god, Callie!” He struggled like a madman, screaming and sobbing, but nothing broke his captor’s hold.

  She hadn’t reacted to his presence.

  She hadn’t even blinked.

  There was no rise and fall to her chest.

  She was dead.

  “Nooo!” He screamed as his knees buckled, causing the arm across his chest to slip up into his windpipe.

  “Get the fuck up, dipshit. I ain’t carrying your weight,” the man behind him growled in his ear.

  They could let him fall. They could choke him out. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered anymore. His beautiful, sweet wife was dead. But what about…

  His knees slammed straight. What about Mary? Part of him wanted to scream out. To ask about his daughter, but what if that only alerted these thugs to her presence in the house?

  “So, Mr. Cannon, we have a little problem here.”

  What? Cannon? “I’m not—”

  “Shut the fuck up!” the bearded man yelled. “Your job is to say yes or no when I ask you a question, got that Cannon?”

  “But—”

  The man holding him dug the point of the knife into his cheek so hard it broke the skin. Warmth trickled down his face, and Linc gasped in pain and shock.

  “You stole from the big man, Cannon. That was your first mistake. Your second mistake was trying to blame it on someone else. How you managed to skim one hundred thousand dollars, I’ll never know, but I ain’t paid to know shit like that. I’m paid to teach lessons.”

  One hundred thousand? They thought he stole one hundred thousand dollars from someone. What the hell was going on? He’d never taken anything from anyone in his entire life. It was so surreal his head spun, and the bearded man’s words ran together. All he could think about was that his beloved wife was gone.

  Forever.

  A flood of tears coursed down his cheeks, mixing with the blood and soaking into the collar of his shirt. Despite the unfathomable pain of seeing Callie’s lifeless body, he couldn’t tear his gaze away.

  “You listening to me, Cannon?” the bearded man asked. When Linc didn’t respond, the bearde
d man rushed forward and landed another blow, this time to Linc’s face.

  Then another to his gut.

  And one under the chin.

  Thoughts of his daughter once again broke through his fog of shock and grief, fueling into a rage he’d never have thought himself capable.

  He kicked and fought and struggled against the two men with every ounce of energy and strength he possessed. But there were two of them, and they subdued him with ease. Sweeping Linc under his legs, the bearded man took him to the floor then held him immobile.

  His buddy again pressed the knife to Linc’s cheek. “Just in case you didn’t quite understand the message,” he whispered before holding Linc’s face against the floor and digging the knife deeper.

  As one man punched him repeatedly, the other carved some sort of pattern into his face. His mind fully fractured, separating from his physical form until the pain didn’t even register. Throughout the ordeal, he stared into his wife’s unseeing eyes. He stretched an arm out as far as he possibly could, needing to feel her soft skin under his hand, but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t quite reach her.

  All that beauty wiped off the face of the earth because of mistaken identity.

  Sirens wailed in the distance and the two men working him over froze.

  “We gotta split,” the knife-wielding asshole said.

  “Yeah, let’s move.” The bearded man gave Linc one last kick to the ribs before bending down and whispering. “Don’t worry about your daughter. She didn’t hear any of this.”

  Mary.

  They’d killed her, too. An animalistic sound of pain rose up in the kitchen. Linc barely realized he was the source of the agonized wail.

  As the madman stood, maniacal laughter filled the kitchen, and the last of Linc’s soul crumbled to dust.

  They’d pay. Somehow, some way, he’d find these men and their boss and make them pay in the worst way possible.

  Just as Callie died on that hard kitchen floor, so did Lincoln. The man who left the hospital three days later had bandages on his face, ice in his veins, and a heart as hard and black as a lump of coal.

  CHAPTER ONE

  A FULL FIVE minutes early for his appointment, Jigsaw shouldered through the door into Inked, the one and only tattoo shop in Townsend, Tennessee. But even if it wasn’t the lone ink provider, even if there was a tattoo shop on every corner, it’d be the only one to receive his business. Inked was the best, by far. Rip was a master with a tattoo machine and could bring anyone’s vision to life.

  Maverick and Rocket filed in after him, immediately taking seats on the ratty couch butted up against the display window. His brothers had tagged along despite knowing how much Jig hated an audience for this.

  Every year on his wife and child’s birthdays, which just happened to be only three days apart, Jig added to a tattoo on his thigh. Without fail, it put him in a shitty mood, and his brothers damn well knew it. But they couldn’t just leave him the fuck alone. They had to stick their fucking noses in his shit and follow him, so he didn’t “do something stupid.”

  Every damn year.

  Assholes.

  “Hey, Jig,” Rip called out. “Lemme talk to you for a second.” He stepped from behind the privacy curtain pulled around his customer. To say the shop was simple would be a ridiculous understatement. Inked was about as no-frills as it came, with two tattoo stations, a reception desk, a second-hand couch, and a few sketches on the wall. Rip didn’t give a shit about the décor or ambiance. He gave damn good ink and had the reputation to prove it.

  “What’s up, Rip?” Jig asked after Rip waddled his large frame cross the shop.

  “Hey, I’m running about forty-five minutes behind, man. I’m sorry.” Rip gave Jig a sheepish half smile.

  From the couch, Maverick laughed and rubbed his hands together. “Woohoo, does this mean Jig gets to have his face inked on you?”

  Not one to find much shit funny, Jig snorted. Rip was a bit of a psycho when it came to lateness. Threatened to tattoo his face on a client if they were late to their appointment. He’d done it before, too, the bastard. That was the reason Jig never let himself be later than five minutes early. Last thing he needed was Rip’s ugly mug on his ass cheek.

  “I really am sorry, man,” Rip said. He ran a hand through his receding gray hair and shifted uncomfortably, seemingly flustered, which wasn’t him.

  “Everything good?” Jig asked.

  Rip lowered his voice. “Yeah, just had this broad come in crying a few minutes ago. Breast cancer survivor who recently had some reconstructive surgery. Wanted me to ink nipples on her. Someone recommended me specifically, and she’s unwilling to go to anyone else.”

  “Well, fuck me, Rip,” Mav said. “Why didn’t you start with that? Now I feel like an ass for ragging on you.”

  With a shrug, Rip swiped the back of his hand across his forehead. “Shit, I’m sweating, guys. This is a lot of pressure.”

  This time, Jig let out a small laugh. “You did all our Hell’s Handlers back pieces without blinking an eye, and you’re afraid of some nipples?”

  “It’s a big deal,” Rip grumbled.

  Jig slapped him on the back. “Hey, man, no worries. I can reschedule.” In reality, the change to his schedule pissed him off, but what the fuck could he do? He wasn’t about to be the asshole who pulled Rip away from a cancer survivor. Jig might be an unfeeling bastard, but he wasn’t a robot.

  “Nah, not necessary,” Rip said as he walked toward the desk. “I got someone else who can do it.”

  Jig froze and scanned the shop. It was then he realized there was a curtain pulled around the second chair as well. Muffled voices could be heard from behind the fabric wall but not well enough to make out what was being said. “You telling me you actually hired some help?”

  For the past two years, Rip had been saying he needed to hire a second artist. Ever the control freak, no one actually thought he’d let another professional into his shop. He found fault with every other artist out there.

  “Yeah, I did. They’re just finishing up the aftercare convo. Then you can meet ’em.”

  “I don’t know.” Jig frowned. No one but Rip had gone near his skin with ink and needle.

  “They’re good, Jig. Wouldn’ta hired ’em otherwise. Trained ’em myself actually. About ten years ago, right before I moved to the area and opened up shop. Take a look at some of their work.” He dug around behind his desk and pulled out a beat-up binder, laying it out on the counter.

  Like a bunch of teenage chicks who didn’t want to miss out on the gossip, Mav and Rocket hopped up to join him at the reception desk.

  Mav, who had more inked skin than not, whistled. “Shit, Rip. These are fucking amazing. This guy might do better work than you.”

  It was meant as a joke, but Rip snorted and nodded. There was definite truth to Maverick’s words. The lines were so precise, the images so vivid and perfect, it was hard to believe they were done by a human hand. One of the photos was a butterfly that looked like it was literally lifting off some chick’s shoulder. Amazing.

  “Give ’em a shot,” Rip said. “Promise they’ll do you right.”

  Jig sighed and rubbed a hand across his jaw. Time to trim his beard. He’d gotten lazy the past few weeks and had let the growth get a little out of control. He always kept some amount of facial hair because it covered the bottom third of his scar, but he tried to keep it neat. Most of the time. “All right, man. Let’s do it.”

  Seemed like Rip was really trying to push the new guy. Probably wanted to build up his clientele. If the work in his portfolio was an accurate reflection of the guy’s skill, he’d be a fool to turn down this artist. He could help a friend out and get some quality ink in the process.

  “Great.” Rip’s yellow-toothed smile beamed. “Oh, here she comes now.”

  “Wait, what?”

  She?

  Maverick coughed in a weak attempt to cover his laughter, but it quickly turned to a gasp.
<
br />   Oh, yeah,” he said under his breath. “That one’ll do you right, Jig.”

  “Holy fuck,” Rocket whispered.

  Rip wore a shit-eating grin, the fuckstick. He’d purposefully misled them into thinking it was a dude. Jig didn’t want some bitch getting anywhere near him with a needle. He flipped his brothers off and spun to check out this lady tattoo artist for himself.

  Ho-ly shiit.

  About five-feet-eight inches—and that was without the four-inch stilettos—of pure sex and sin strutted her way straight toward him. Somehow, this woman had poured herself into the tightest black leather pants he’d ever seen. They molded around her long, shapely legs and, damn, if he didn’t wish for her to turn around. He just bet she had a stellar ass that would only be enhanced by the grip of soft leather.

  With each step, the side to side sway of her hips drew his eye like he was watching the pendulum of a clock swing back and forth. Forcing his gaze from her hips, he trailed it upward, not oblivious to the tight black tank top that cupped her breasts as snugly as the leather cupped her thighs.

  “Hey, boys,” she said, her voice on the lower side. Husky, he’d call it.

  Mav whistled. “Damn, woman. And I say this in a totally non-creepy, non-flirting way because I have a woman that would shoot off my junk if I so much as hit on another chick, but you are some kinda fucking gorgeous.”

  Jig ground his teeth together as the new lady tattoo artist threw her head back and let out a throaty laugh. Fucking Maverick. Flirting and charming women was just part of his DNA. He truly meant it when he said he wasn’t hitting on her. The man just couldn’t let a beautiful woman walk away without her knowing she was gorgeous.

  “Aren’t you the charmer,” she said, placing her hands on those fantastic hips.

  Damn, her body was out of this world. Not skinny, not even too curvy, it was more…athletic. Sleek lines with swells of muscle in her arms and a flat stomach. The girl must spend some serious hours in the gym.