Guns & Dusty Roads: The Iron Brotherhood Series
Read Guns & Dusty Roads: The Iron Brotherhood Series Online
Authors: Samantha Westlake
Guns & Dusty Roads
The Iron Brotherhood, Book One
Samantha Westlake
Copyright 2014 Samantha Westlake
All rights reserved.
Guns & Dusty Roads – The Iron Brotherhood, Book One
Book design by Samantha Westlake
Cover Image Copyright 2014
Used under a Creative Commons Attribution License:
See all the works by Samantha Westlake!
The Stolen Girl (Wild Roads MC, Book 1)
“Hello, little kitty,” the big biker leered at me as I shrank back in fear. His black glove reached out for me. “You're coming with me!”
When Senator Leonard Sterling comes home from the day's Congressional session, he finds his daughter missing from their family home, her bedroom window shattered, and a spatter of blood on the pieces of glass...
When Elizabeth Sterling wakes up, she discovers that she's in a cheap motel room. Her hands are shackled behind her, attached to a radiator, and she can hear the thudding of heavy boots outside the motel room door...
When Roads, the motorcycle gang's second-in-command, enters the room, he finds that the young woman, forced into a kneeling position on the motel carpet, is glaring up at him. Her beautiful face is filled with fierce defiance as she stares back without a shred of subservience...
The Escaped Girl (Wild Roads MC, Book 2)
My ex-biker boyfriend hadn't told me about his past life. He hadn't told me how his old gang was up to the neck in shady drug deals. And now I couldn't escape...
For Elizabeth Sterling, everything was perfect. She was attending college while living with her former biker turned domestic boyfriend, who she will forever know as Roads. But when Roads announces that he has to go attend to a mysterious matter from his old gang’s past, Elizabeth isn't content to sit idly by. Calling up an old contact, she sets off on her own, determined to discover her boyfriend’s secrets.
But Roads, furious that she came after him, refuses to even speak to her. Crush, the gang's president, has a plan to fix the gang's drug problem “once and for all.” And Skye, the sexy dark-skinned man who helped Elizabeth find the gang, can't seem to keep his eyes (or hands) off her body.
Last time, Elizabeth managed to escape her imprisonment. But this time, she's walked into a cage of her own choosing. And she can't see a way out...
Choosing to Fight: A Lovetorn Fighter Romance
“If your survival was on the line, would you fight? And if you fight, will you ever feel love?”
From years of climbing into the brawling arena, Cain has grown immune to the pain of punches. He knows that he cannot escape his past, but he must fight each night to just stay in place…
Despite the cute guys in her college classes, Lucy insists that she isn’t ready to rejoin the dating world. Just a few months out of an abusive relationship, after being pressured into going on a blind date, she finds every aspect of the night going wrong.
But as the blind date turns south, a dark stranger steps in to rescue her - Cain. And despite his reluctance to open himself up, Lucy finds herself drawn towards this strong, battle-hardened man.
Lucy and Cain draw closer – but even with Lucy’s help,
can Cain stand and fight against the demons of his past? Does Lucy stand a chance of rescuing this dark horse of a fighter from his debts and depths?
DEDICATION
For Mary, who is an ever-present distraction.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
The big man sat at the bar, nursing his beer. He wasn’t really there to drink - not tonight. He wanted a clear head for the deal that was going down - he hoped.
However, the man didn’t want to make it clear to anyone else that he was biding time - at least, not in a way that would make him seem suspicious. So he’d ordered a pint of whatever was cheapest when he walked in, and had stared at it for the last half hour, watching the bubbles go rising slowly up from the bottom of the glass to the head.
This bartender couldn’t pour for shit, that was for sure. Now that most of the bubbles had popped, there was less than half of an actual glass’s worth of beer contained inside, and the big man knew that he definitely hadn’t drank that much of it.
Asshole couldn’t even learn to tip the glass over to one side, letting most of the head run off, so that he didn’t get stuck trying to eat what felt like a beer-flavored marshmallow.
Ordinarily, the big man wouldn’t have stood for this. He would have said something - or, more likely, let his actions do the talking for him by slinging the mug, foamy, crappy beer included, straight at the bartender’s head. Let that make his feelings clear.
But again, that would draw attention to him. So instead, the big man just sat there, quietly put four single dollar bills down on the counter to pay the man for his shitty offering, and nursed at the glass of foam.
Every now and then, he’d glance down at the watch on his wrist, shrugging one shoulder so that his leather jacket slid back enough to reveal the clock face. It was a nice watch, compared to the rest of the man’s appearance. Brushed gunmetal band, similarly muted face, but with twenty-seven different jewels embedded in the clockwork inside. A little cutout window on the face of the watch showed off the intricate machinery ticking away and moving around in distinct little patterns within.
The big man liked watching the little pieces move inside of his watch, sometimes. It was, of course, a million miles beyond his skill level. He was great with machines, sure, but he tended to prefer those that roared and burned with rage and flame. A psychologist would probably read something into that, but the big man didn’t care.
His hands might be optimally suited for holding a wrench or a spanner, wielding it with the strength necessary to tighten up an errant bolt, but he was no good with these little machines. So the watch was, for him, a source of constant wonderment.
So many little cogs and gears, all working together, all doing their own unique job, creating a whole that was so much bigger than any of its parts, he observed. There was a name for that, probably. German, he thought. Started with an S. Right on the tip of his tongue.
But it didn’t come to him, and after a minute longer, the big man let the thought go. He took another sip of the shitty beer, grimacing, and then wiped the back of one hand across his facial hair.
“Oy, gringo!”
The voice was low, barely more than a whisper. The big man glanced around, and spotted a small, ferret faced individual sitting down a seat away from him, looking over at him with a squinty little expression.
“Me?” the big man asked, raising a finger to point at himself. Of course the little man was talking to him, but no harm in playing things slow.
“Yeah, puta, you!” the man hissed back. “You here for the deal?”
What kind of dumb-ass question was that? That wasn’t something that you said to a stranger in a bar. The man felt his fingers twitch, itching to tighten into fists. This little weasel of a man deserved a couple hits, to have someone set him straight on how to actually go about making one of these illicit deals.
But throwing a punch at someone trying to sell you something? Another amateur move. So instead, the big man just nodded, once, slowly and carefully.
“Yeah,” he said. “I’m here for the deal.”
“You got the cash?”
Now, that was another dumb question. The big man just stared back at the little wiry idiot sitting next to him, waiting until the smaller man dropped his gaze. Idiot couldn’t even hold eye contact. Beta. If this was a real society, like wolves, this fool would have already been left for dead.
After another minute, the big man grabbed his mug of beer off the counter, lifting it up to his lips. Without effort, he gulped down the last few swallows inside of it, and then slammed it back down on the counter. With this done, he stood up, and began sauntering towards the exit from the bar.
He didn’t look back at the weaselly little man sitting at the bar beside him.
The little ferret caught back up with him just outside, as he stepped out into the cool air. “Yo, it’s around back,” he said, darting past the big man’s bulky, heavy frame.
Before he followed, the big man took a deep breath, enjoying the fresh air after getting out from the staleness inside of that bar. Bars were great, but they all tended to smell the same after a while - they all had that same scent of old, stale beer, and a stickiness that coated everything inside. It was nothing like the cool, crisp, fresh air of the desert at night, the smell of sand, of the dust of the road, of freedom.
Around the back of the bar, a semi was parked at an angle, its back door raised up and open. One of the ramps had been pulled out, providing a bridge up to the interior. Ferret, in the spirit of the name the big man had mentally assigned to him, scurried up that plank without any wobbling in his balance.
“Stuff’s in here, gringo,” he called out.
The big man eyed the plank with a doubtful expression, but then stepped forward and hoisted himself up and into the truck. Despite his bulk, he moved with a fluid ease, suggesting that the majority of what lay beneath the surface was muscle, not fat. He landed on his ass inside the truck, protected by his thick jeans, and then hauled himself up to his feet.
Ferret was already fiddling with one of the crates propped against the sides of the truck. “Here, see? Good shit, man. Top dollar,” he announced, as one of the crates popped open.
“Let me see.” The big man stepped up to stand beside Ferret, looking down into the case. The big crates were filled with straw, but gleaming, long metal pieces were packed carefully into the material. Even in the dim light of the truck’s interior, they shone with a dark light all their own.
The big man reached into the crate and lifted up one of the metal devices, brushing a few loose strands of straw off of it. The tool clicked in his arms as he racked back the slide, sighted down the barrel. “Looks good,” he said, unable to keep a slight note of approval out of his voice as he checked over the weapon.
“I told you, good shit!” Ferret sounded pleased. The man was probably already counting his profit in his head. “So listen, you gonna buy?”
The big man turned to look at his smaller dealer, setting the assault rifle back down in its crate. “Outside,” he said, nodding over towards the open door of the semi trailer.
Obediently, Ferret hopped out, backing up a few steps so that the big man could dismount. The big man strolled up to the edge of the trailer, but didn’t climb down. Instead, he gazed down, and then gestured, crooking one finger in a “come-hither” motion.
Ferret looked curious, but he crept closer. “What?” he asked, peering up at the big man as he stood at the edge of the trailer’s entrance.
The big man shot him between the eyes.
It was a single, smooth motion, pulling the pistol out from where it was tucked into the small of his back, hidden underneath his leather jacket. Ferret barely even had time to widen his eyes before the barrel of the pistol was between them, only inches from his forehead. Even if he’d known what was coming, he wasn’t fast enough to move out of the way.
The crack of the gun was curiously flat. By shooting Ferret outside the trailer, there was no blood splatter inside, no echo of the round’s report.
Also, now the big man didn’t have to bother hauling the body out of the vehicle.
The big man looked back at the interior of the trailer one last time as he tucked his gun away. He counted eight crates, each one loaded up with seventy-five of the assault rifles. He didn’t doubt that they were all there - Ferret hadn’t been intelligent enough to lie to him, to deceive him about supply.
Six hundred assault rifles, multiplied by the black market price of each?
A hell of a lot of money, that’s how it came out.
The big man pulled out his phone. “Yo, it’s me,” he said as soon as the other end of the line picked up. “Got a truck here for you to pick up and drive back to our camp.”
He waited a minute longer, and then hung up.
The big man smacked his lips as he climbed down, out of the trailer, and pulled the door down and closed behind him. He could still taste the old, semi-flat beer on his lips, on his tongue. It was not a pleasant taste.
“Bartender really can’t pour for shit,” he said aloud, as he hopped down, landing on top of Ferret’s cooling body.
