Force: Blacktop Sinners MC (13 page)

Chapter Twenty One

The failure at the hospital hung heavily over Derek’s head, and what was that legend or myth about some dangling sword? That’s what it felt like, except it wasn’t metaphorical. He would be worked over in under thirty hours by Bones and Bullet, and eventually have a lead slug embedded in his brain. The knife was a dead end, unless he tracked Tess down and he was sure she’d call the cops on him on sight. Maybe he needed to go back to her house tomorrow and beg her. She had to have the knife and she had to have thought of some place pretty damn secretive to stash that fucking blade.

He sat down at his sofa and downed his shot of Jack in one gulp.

In front of him, Ron was pacing, his red hair standing up on ends from where he’d raked his hands through it repeatedly. “This sucks, man. We have to think of something else.”

“I’m going to go beg Tess.”

“Maybe the club isn’t completely wrong and strong arming is the way to go.”

“So we’re going to beat her down with brass knuckles. That just got me tossed out when Smitty went rogue and did it. I need to get her to understand how serious all this crap is.”

“She does, and she clearly is goody-goody Florence Nightingale who wants no freaking part of gang bullshit. I’m not saying we bruise her up, but I am saying that we don’t just beg.”

“Or maybe we need to round this shit back again,” Derek countered, draining his drink. Standing up, he strode back to his kitchen and poured a second overflowing tumbler of Jack. “Someone from our club is working with the Death’s Head crew.”

“No shit,” Ron said, stopping and glaring back at him. “That’s been obvious since we walked into a dark warehouse with Gunner and others lying in wait. It’s not like we can just storm into their roadhouse and demand leads.”

“No, that’d be fatal and just ramp this shit up, but we find a few on neutral territory, rough the bastards up, and maybe some things shake loose. Like you said, it feels already like Smitty is angling to go rogue---Hell, he has with Tess---so maybe there’s someone there with the right incentive who can be made to squeal to Spike.”

“So you’re ready to hunt at one of those crap college kid bars?”

He snorted and stood up, gathering up his jacket. “First, we’re going by the garage, and I’m getting my damn hog back, it should be uncrunched by now. The probies still are scared of me enough to make it top chop shop priority.”

Ron narrowed his eyes at where he was still limping a bit. “Can you ride with broken toes?”

“Consider me hobbled to only your levels of skill,” he said, chuckling. “I can ride you into dust if they took my damn left leg.”

“You know? That’s a huge insult, brother. We get this crap cleared up, make sure everyone gets what’s coming to them, and then we’ll race. I guarantee I’ll beat the shit out of you.”

“Bragging ain’t doing,” he huffed as they went to his truck so they could retrieve his baby. Even if his cut, that beloved jacket it had taken years to earn up all the patches for, was gone, at least his baby was about to purr again. Hell, she’d own that damn open road as she always had.

***

The feel of steel and leather between his legs was intoxicating. It was something he’d always lived for, the raw power humming under him. Some days, especially if the sweet butt choices were poor or the working girls at the club too strung out to really perform, Derek was convinced that it was almost better than sex. The wind was rushing through his hair and beard, teasing him and he could smell the crisp mountain air as he and Ron raced down Route 421 to the main train track line in Boone. There was a loading station not too far from the warehouse district that the Death Head’s crew had staked out for their own drug trade. So far, the Sinners had allowed it because they still had the more lucrative place near campus and because the Death’s Head crew were only dealing crack-cocaine. As of yet, they hadn’t tried pushing into meth, which was the Sinners’ bread and butter.

Of course, with the massive trap they’d laid earlier this week, it was clear they wanted a far bigger cut of the drug trade here and in other places.

Derek sped up and quirked his head to the side to grin at Ron. “You know what?” he shouted over the roar of their engines.

“What?”

“I think I’m going to lap you,” he finished, pouring on the throttle and speeding past his club brother. He cut Ron off just a little and then skidded to stop a block off from the main selling point for the Death’s Head crew.

Rocks and gravel were kicked up as his best friend came to a stop next to him. Ron snorted and raked his bangs back. “Show off. Thanks for cutting me off, jackass.”

“You were fine. A lesser man? He would have wiped out. You’re the one who’s always saying that you can take anything I dish out. Was that not true?”

“Oh, I can,” he said, swinging one long leg over his hog and standing up. Derek mirrored the action and both of them grew quiet even as the last bits of their banter continued. “I’m just saying, you might be a bit rusty even after a few days, cutting guys off like that.”

“Don’t be afraid to admit I gave you a heart attack.”

“You never,” he said, sobering. Ron slipped out his nine mil and readied it.

Derek preferred something a bit more old school, slipping out his own brass knuckles. Guns were expedient, but there was something to be said for the feel of bone crunching under a fist, for the intimacy of it. Besides, somehow people were more scared of that, of the hurt that dragged out. They squealed more that way.

It didn’t take long to spy the Death’s Head crew member on his corner. The leather jacket was distinctive, if a little clichéd, with the skull on the back with the red, preternatural eyes. The dealer probably wasn’t that high up in the club yet. Not only did he have a shit assignment this late at night, but he also only had a few patches on his cut. There were enough to let both men know he wasn’t some punk probie, but he wasn’t board either or probably even in any inner sanctum.

Still, people got sloppy at the clubhouse, had one too many, and said things out on the floor. God, come to think of it, the secrets that Trixie, their roadhouse bartender and Spike’s old lady held, were probably legendary.

Derek gave Ron a quick nod, and they were up and rushing like ghosts through the night for the rival crew member. He reached the punk first and delivered a swift upper cut to his jaw with his brass-knuckled fist that made both a loud crunch and made the other guy’s head snap back. The Death’s Head crew dealer was blinking back, wobbling on his legs and so disoriented that it was easy for Ron to wrap a massive arm around his shoulders and hold him in place to his chest. The Death’s Head club needed stricter membership requirements. This kid was easy to sneak up on, and he was barely 5’8” if he were an inch.

The kid blinked back unsteadily at both of them as his eyes seemed to roll back in his head. “Fucking, Sinners. I ain’t doing nothing. This is
my
territory.”

“Yeah, but territory and deals don’t mean shit to you. Sure as Hell didn’t when we ended up being shot up and lured to your damn warehouse,” Derek said.

“Didn’t set that up,” he coughed out and there was blood mixed with the spittle.

Ron tightened his grip on the other man’s chest. “But do you know which in your club were playing that.”

He snorted and laughed. “
Everyone
knows that. Makes this whole manhandling thing now so much schizophrenic bullshit.”

Ron tensed and the punk was having trouble breathing. “Shut up!”

“No, let him talk. I know we’re putting on pressure, but if he can’t fucking breathe, he can’t tell me what’s going on,” Derek said.

Ron nodded and released his grip, but not before whispering something that Derek couldn’t discern in the other man’s ear. He assumed it was a threat, one of those “if you try and break free, you’re dead” as if that wasn’t completely obvious.

“Were you working with one of the Blacktop Sinners?”

“Hell yes. We were supposed to kill Spike, but word is the cops are hot on the investigation. His ass in Butner state pen is good enough for us.”

“And which one of us---” Derek started and was cut off by the loud bang of a gun. He flinched as the noise rang through his ears and when he looked back, the punk was already sagging to the ground and out of Ron’s reach. “The Hell?”

Two more bullets ricocheted near them, one so close it almost clipped his cheek.

“Fucking Death’s Head, man!” Ron shouted, and they rushed back to their bikes, barely dodging shots as they did it.

Great, all they knew was that there was, for sure, a traitor in their midst who wanted the president dead. They had no proof, no way to stop the blade yet from getting to police hands---even if Johnson was on the take, it wasn’t a guarantee, and their one leak was fucking stiff. Shouting his frustration, Derek mounted his hog and raced back to his home. He was in no mood to be a repeat customer at Boone General; that was for sure.

Chapter Twenty Two

Derek and Ron were stopped at the door to the roadhouse the next afternoon. He rolled his eyes at some meathead probie and Bullet, his mullet exceptionally greasy and tangled today, standing before them with their arms crossed over his chest. Bullet did the talking, his voice sibilant and wheezy.

“Do you have the blade, yet, traitor?”

“Funny you mention that,” Derek said. “I’m
not
a traitor, but the blade we’re still working on. We tried to break into the hospital, didn’t work, but we found something else out last night, and Spike needs to hear it.”

Bullet shook his head. “I let you in and you promise shit won’t start?”

“It never started before early this week.”

Ron held up his hand. “I appreciate you enforcing, brother, but Derek’s still one of us.”

“Traitor won’t be breathing in twenty-four hours.”

Ron smashed his fist hard into Bullet’s eyes, and the other guy groaned as he grabbed it. “He was, is, and always will be so shut the fuck up.”

The probie snickered but stepped aside. “Welcome home then, Grinder. Spike’s in the back office doing some books.”

“Gotcha,” Derek said, striding past them and making a bee line for the back office.

It was harder than he wanted to admit to deal with the stares and judgment of everything around him. This was supposed to be his family and one set of highly suspicious circumstances, and he was some prodigal son, kicked out on his ass. Fuck them. Even if he understood the caution, even if he knew were it Bones or Bullet in his place, he’d be almost as tough on them, it all burned like the bitterest acid.

Ron seemed to sense his dour mood and clapped a hand on his shoulder. “We’ll get that damn blade, and then we’ll make it work, promise. Tomorrow night? You’ll be the damn conquering hero, brother.”

“Thanks man,” he said as they entered into Spike’s office.

The other man looked up at them from his desk. His eyes, the color of glaciers, regarded them through a mass of stringy, black hair. “Do you have it?”

Derek bowed his head a bit in deference to his president. He’d been promoted to lead enforcer three years ago and had literally bled for Spike, still would give anything to keep him safe or make sure his word was law. While he regretted the way Tess looked at him, now that she knew what he did, he would never regret what he’d done. He did what he had to in order to keep his club and his leader safe.

Loyalty above all else.

It was a damn shame that someone in their club didn’t feel the same way.

“I don’t. Going back to the nurse’s in a few to get her to confess where she stashed it. I don’t need to beat her like fucking Smitty.”

Spike’s eyes widened. “I ordered them to search her place. We don’t need the extra cop pressure from a beaten nurse. Johnson is good, but he can’t make everything disappear.”

“Agreed, and I can level with her. I tried persuading and stealing and even bedding her,” he forced his tone to remain hard, even if it was difficult. He didn’t think of Tess at all like just another fuck, but he couldn’t sell that to Spike if he didn’t put everything he had into it. “I’ll get that knife in time.”

“Good because you know I like you, but it looks terrible, Grinder. I can’t change the rules for you or show favoritism. In twenty-four hours, they’ll march you out back, you won’t return, and Ron will be the head enforcer.”

Derek swallowed hard. “Rules are rules, boss, and that’s why we set them up, agreed to the charter.”

Ron grimaced. “But if we could get a couple extra days, boss. We found something huge.”

Spike shook his head. “Favoritism makes people get itchy, and I just can’t. Sorry.”

Derek sighed and put a hand on his friend’s shoulder to restrain him. “It’s okay. I respect that, but we do have a huge problem. We went by the Death’s Head main deal spot and roughed up one of their low level club members.”

“For some blow?”

“No,” Ron said, fielding the question. “We actually found out something. Confirms that someone in the club is betraying us. He said the bulk of the DHC knew it was a board member or inner circle. Frankly, boss, my gut says Smitty. Why else is he so eager to short circuit things and get his paws on the switchblade first?”

Spike narrowed his eyes. “You didn’t bring that lowlife here for a real workover?”

“Weird thing. The Death’s Head must have known we were coming. They iced him right in front of us,” Derek said.

“So no proof again,” Spike said, cracking his knuckles.

“No, but it’s enough to add in with the clear set up. I am afraid that one of the board---
not
me---is fucking with us, and you need to start assessing that quietly. Once the blade’s back, I’ll be able to help too,” Derek added.

Spike gave a brisk nod. “I knew we had a traitor, but I was hoping it wasn’t board, that’s a hell of a blow if it’s true.”

Ron shifted from foot to foot before nodding. “Hell yes it is. So why shiv Derek now?”

“Because I know he can get the damn blade, and he lost it, so he needs to man up and fucking get it,” Spike finished. “Don’t question me, Ron, that’s not how this works. We ain’t a fucking democracy, and everyone knows that.”

“Ron, let’s go,” Derek said, feeling that Spike’s good mood, so to speak, was over. “I need a drink, and then I’ll go see Tess.”

Spike glanced up at him, blue eyes glittering dangerously. “See that you do and that it works. I’d hate to lose an enforcer like you.”

***

“Two Coronas,” he said, slumping into his stool. Derek tried to ignore how everyone moved away from him and the heated whispers. Maybe he could just focus on enjoying the extra leg room and the lack of the rancid stink of sweat through leather. “You can still do that for me, right Trixie?”

The bleach blonde glared at him. “Sure, and I can add the arsenic or the cyanide. You pick, asshole. More than Spike would have done if he weren’t quick on his feet.”

Ron slammed his fist on the bar. “Drinks now. Just cause you’re an old lady around here doesn’t mean that you get the right to act like more than you are. Sweet butt comes and goes, but we’re something better than that.”

She sneered. “Let me not forget my place. But you better be getting that blade. My man isn’t going up river. I am not allowed that,” she finished as she slammed two suspiciously warm bottles in front of them.

Damn, their fucking cooling system must be going south again.

“I’m working on it,” he said. “Life’s a beach, ain’t it, Ron?”

“Had worse.”

“Not usually quite as imminent death threats.”

“Eh, we made it through everything before, got out of wicked beatings at juvie or that time we were at the foster family where it was cloves and vinegar and not much else in the kitchen,” Ron said.

“That’s the year I learned to shop lift produce like a pro.”

“Definitely, so this,” Ron said, gesturing to the see of scowling faces. “Is temporary. Drink your piss beer and get your game face on. That bitch Tess is gonna crack and she’s gonna crack today.”

Derek shrugged and, he couldn’t explain it, just had this feeling to check the door way. Maybe something deep in his gut had sensed it or was just calling to him. As he watched, Tess entered through the door, but she wasn’t done up in any way he’d ever seen her before. She was in high black heels, jeans so tight you’d have to cut them off her and they hugged her ass like crazy, and a tight red t-shirt that stretched invitingly over her cleavage. Her make-up was exaggerated with super red lips and smoky eyes that actually achieved the sensual look that so much sweet butt around her tried and failed to replicate.

Whistling, he felt his dick harden even as every man in the club eyed her. Heat flared through him, and his protective instincts were roaring. Standing up, he walked over to her and grabbed her arm. The other men in the club were leering, and he shook his head.

This woman is
mine
.

He was sure the rest of them could get that with the way he was looming, something easy to achieve when he was 6’6” and towered anyway.

Without speaking, he pulled her to the corner of the club with the sofas (with questionable stains) and the stripper pole complete with stage. “I don’t understand. What’s going on?”

“We need to talk because this shit stops
now
.”

***