Hellbent (Four Horsemen MC Book 5) (36 page)

He grinned viciously. "You got your shitkickers on?"

Dash scooted his forward, tightening the laces on his boots with emphasis. "Sure do."

Fetch nodded. "So—kick down the door?"

"Hang on a sec. Should we check if it's just unlocked first?" Dash hesitated.

"Nope." Crash grinned. "One, we need a great big exit hole. And two, I like to make an entrance."

"Like you mean it, boys," Noah ordered. They moved out, a three-man battering ram coming for the door.

Crash and Dash moved in unison, raising a knee and angling for the weak point in the lower hinges. The door gave halfway and they kept the pressure on it as he and Fetch leveled a solid kick at the bend in the wood. It snapped and they stepped through.

There had to be twenty guys in the room, all sporting Raptor colors and nasty dispositions, judging by their expressions. He searched desperately for a glimpse of blonde hair, any sign of Shep, ignoring the men about to descend upon their plucky little rescue team.

"Hey, guys. 'Sup?" Crash asked, back-kicking the door hard enough another piece snapped off.

"They look all kinds of serious," Fetch chipped in. "Think they're upset about something?"

"Oh, shit!" Dash kicked a piece of the door away with a smirk. "You're not mad about the door, are you?"

Crash feigned a stricken expression as the Raptors started coming at them. "We were going to leave a note, I swear!"

"You could have knocked." Manson melted out the crowd of tall, leather-clad and ugly. He flexed brass-knuckled fingers.

"Yeah, but I didn't." Noah's honey-toned drawl dripped a confident lethality. He stared into Manson's eyes, picturing them going flat, lifeless. He spread his arms. "You wanted me. Here I am."

Manson's eyes narrowed. "I'd have already beaten that attitude out of you if you hadn't chickened out of our fight."

"You think I was afraid?" Noah's laughed morphed into a sneer. "Oh, yeah, my heart's racing. Come a little closer and see how scared I am."

Manson grinned, flexing that hand hardware again. "I intend to. But you should know your boyfriend isn't going to be able to save you this time."

As if cued, two thugs dragged Shep into the open circle around Manson and dropped him unceremoniously at his feet. The former VP was bare-chested, barefoot and bloody. Most of his face was purple, his left eye swollen shut, and blood trickled down his jaw.

Noah's knees would have buckled if they weren't already poised in his fighting stance. His gut dropped and a sharp pressure squeezed his ribcage. His vision reddened, an anger burning his gut fierce enough he half-expected to feel brimstone escape his lungs when he forced himself to breathe again.

Manson kicked Shep and the man let out a hazy groan.

Noah's fists clenched. "And to think, I was gonna kill you quick."

"Oh, yeah?" Manson challenged.

"No, not really." Not an ounce of humor in those words. "You got me. Now let him go."

"Oh, I will—after he's done witnessing me beat you bloody." He slammed a fist into his palm. "Now stop stalling."

Noah felt Crash, Dash and Fetch tense behind him. He turned to face them, shaking his head. In low tones, he instructed, "Grab Shep and get him outta here, soon as you see the opportunity. I got this."

Crash put a hand on his shoulder. "Pretty Boy—"

"I'm not fucking around." He growled. Something deep and wild clawed at his stomach, an unrivaled rage rising through him.

They nodded.

"You know, as I was beating on your boy—" Manson grinned, all stained teeth and brutality. "I kept telling him if he'd call you and get you over here, I'd stop. And that stupid bastard spit in my face."

Noah swallowed, fear and anger fueling the adrenaline stinging the back of his throat. He forced his knees to loosen, raising his tight fists. Slowly he shifted his weight left to right as he circled Manson. The fucking ape stood his ground.

"So, I broke his thumb."

A fierce ache throbbed down his spine as he held tightly to the leash of his restraint. He bared his teeth. "Keep talking."

"You know, I think it’s sweet—what you two have." The men surrounding him snickered, muttered slurs echoing through the open space. "Don't you fuckers write your name on your bitches, so you don't lose track? Isn't that right, Junior?"

"That's the way we heard it," the slack jawed asshole drawled.

When Manson leaned toward Shep, Noah stepped forward, chest bowing.  Dash's low, "Easy brother…" snapped him out of it before he crossed the room, removed whatever hand Manson thought he was going to touch Shep with and beat him to death with it.

Manson winked as he pushed Shep to his knees, baring his bleeding back to Noah's view. Shep gasped, body tensing as he came-to with the shock of his kneecaps smacking concrete. He let out a shallow grown as his body sagged.

Sweet Jesus.

Carved too deep in the flesh over his left shoulder, angry red lines etched out
Pretty Boy.

"We were going to go ahead and ink him for you …" Manson snickered. "But we decided slicing him up would hurt more."

"You should really stop adding to my to-do list," Noah growled.

His prospect brothers stood back to back in a triangle, trailing him as he backstepped and circled counterclockwise on Manson. He angled for an opening. He'd crowd Manson, herd him away from Shep, and the guys could grab him and book it for the door. But if the bigger guy saw him coming, he'd get the drop on him and Noah might not be able to find them enough time to get Shep out.

He loosened his shoulders, bouncing a little on the balls of his feet. He shot a glance over his shoulder gaze connecting with Crash's. He waited for the slight head nod and fell back into his slowly swaying circle.

"I gotta say,
pretty boy,
" Manson rasped, stepping away from Shep. "I kinda liked hearing him finally scream."

Noah stared him down, hoping his thoughts were written in his eyes.
I'm going to put you down.

Dash snickered. "Dude, who'd have figured a guy that ugly for a perverted, sick …
just damn ugly
… sadist?"

Crash lifted his hand.

"Totally being sarcastic there, C. Put your hand down." Dash shook his head.

He shrugged. "Just saying."

It was enough distraction that Manson turned to look at them. Muscles coiled in anticipation, Noah darted the second Manson's eyes left him. He brought his arms up crossed to block the wild punch the bigger biker tossed at him, pushing out and throwing Manson's weight off balance. He followed up with a speeding one-two volley that snapped Manson's head back.

Then he darted out again, grinning. Therein lay the genius of his fighting style. He'd been outmatched by his father's weight class—no way he could go toe-to-toe just standing there and
taking it like a man.
Yeah, he intended to get stronger, but quicker was mission critical.

Sure, he could drop an elbow like a blacksmith striking an anvil now, but that was just the showy stuff the crowd like to see. He won fights because he was lightning quick, sneaking in an entrance the other guy didn’t know he’d left open, fast as a rattler strike, and getting back out before he could blink the blood out of his eyes.

Manson surged forward, meaty hammer of a hand too big to dodge, but clumsy enough to block. Noah twisted his wrist, bring the strongest part of his forearm to intercept between those brass knuckles and his jaw. He turned with the motion, bringing his sharp elbow into the fleshy muscle over Manson's diaphragm, viciously pleased as the man hacked all the oxygen out of his lungs. Completing the turn, he slammed his other fist in the guy's mouth. He felt teeth scrape across his fingers deep enough to bleed.

When Manson recovered, glaring at him with renewed malice, Pretty Boy taunted, "C'mere and get me, big boy."

The Raptors drew closer to Manson, shouting their encouragement, and leaving their six looking a little short-manned.

Pretty Bow blew a kiss at the pissed off psycho.

With an outraged howl, Manson came barreling at him like a freight train. He had more than enough time to dodge, but he didn't. He just stood there, arms raised and let the motherfucker hit him. The concrete jammed Noah's shoulder as he and Manson hit and for an awful second, he thought it had dislocated. But nah—just jammed.

The pain lit him up with adrenaline.

Noah pivoted, swinging his legs as he pushed down with his still good arm and managed to roll Manson underneath him.

Shep's ragged gasp of pain told him the Trio was making a dash for it with the former VP. Noah had to control this fight long enough for them to get to the door. He got in one punch before Manson got back in the game, fighting back. A solid hit to his jaw rang Noah's brain like a pebble slingshot at a bucket, but he stayed on top.

An angry shout echoed above the jeering crowd. "Hey—get those fuckers!"

They'd been spotted. Crash and Dash employed the shove them out of the way as you run approach to escaping, Fetch fireman-carrying Shep over his shoulder as they booked it.

 Time to end this.

Noah flipped himself backward, pivoting on his bad arm—
motherfucker, that hurt—
and leapt to his feet. He gestured with his hands, breath labored as he called, "Come at me, asshole. I'll put your ass six feet down."

Manson was on his feet and almost on top of him in seconds. Noah dodged left, right, left again – Manson's fist swooshing past his face close enough to move his hair.

"Your aim sucks! I'd have knocked your jaw off by now!" To prove his point, Noah clocked him in the jaw hard enough one of his buddies shoved a hand in his back to right him.

The Raptor stood still and gestured to his chin. "Try that again, fag."

"I'm bi, actually." Noah grinned and swung. He watched Manson's eyes gleam as he turned too far, hand harmlessly winging past Manson's cheek and towards the guy still standing too close behind. In one fast, smooth motion, Noah slid his hand under JUNIORS cut and closed around the hilt of the gun holstered there.

He yanked his hand back, banging the hilt against Manson's temple as he took two quick steps back. He leveled the gun at the guy's head and cocked it. "Your brain splatters on the count of three."

Manson stiffened, spine rigid. "You don't got the fucking—"

"One. Two." Noah made solid eye contact and winked. "Three."

He pulled the trigger.

The gun kicked in his hand as it fired. The percussion muffled the other sounds around him. The back of Manson's head spattered across his gaping brothers' faces. Pretty Boy watched him slide to the floor in a pool of his own mess with a profound satisfaction.

He took the moment of stunned silence to look around the room. Shep and the guys were gone and he was surrounded by vengeful Raptors. A chorus of clicks echoed off the walls as guns cocked around him. The barrel of .45 pressed against his temple and he turned to see Manson's ugly ass VP grinning at him.

 It would probably be the last thing he ever saw.

Chapter Thirty-Six

Your brother's back. Watch it. Have it.

~Four Horsemen Charter

*
* *

The unmistakable sound of a Texas chopper revving in the parking lot growled through the remains of the door they had smashed. It could have been a chorus of angels for as sweet as it sounded to Pretty Boy's ears. And he'd never been a big fan of Texas choppers, probably because Duke had one.

Duke.

Oh. Shit.

Pretty Boy hit the floor, praying he didn't get trampled as he heard the chopper coming in hot right through the damn door, but it wasn't Duke driving.

Coyote let out a yell that was somewhere between battle cry and terrified as the bike's tires landed on the concrete. Pretty Boy curled into a ball, protecting his head as Raptors scrambled around them. Yo knocked over two Raptors too stupid to move out of the way of a crazy man crashing a bike through a warehouse, and managed to stop inches before crashing Duke's chopper into the wall.

The lights cut out. Raptors were shouting and running around him, and more motorcycles came through the door. He heard boots pounding down the stairs from the second floor, then punches and bodies hitting the concrete. Pretty Boy jumped to his feet, blinking rapidly, trying to adjust to the dim light. He had no fucking clue what Yo's plan was, but if it gave him a chance at walking out of here, he was on board.

The lights started flickering back on, the ancient fluorescents buzzing and popping back to life. Junior was on his knees and Duke stood over him, gun pressed to the asshole's forehead. Duke grinned. "Surprise, motherfucker."

He had never thought he'd be glad to see Duke. Fetch, Crash, Dash and Voo had each taken a few down with their bikes and the remaining Raptors were surrounded by heavily armed Dixie Mafia thugs.

A familiar voice came from the top of the stairs. "Sorry to break up your little party, gentlemen. But I'm going to need you to let Pretty Boy here go. On account of my new friendship with these here boys."

Beauregard.

"You made a deal with us," Junior growled. "We got you into every corner of this town, and you swore you'd never harm a hair on our heads."

"Hmmm. Good point." Beauregard pulled his pistol from his shoulder holster. He fired a round into Junior's kneecap. The man screamed as he dropped to the floor. "Calm down. The hair on your head is fine."

"You … motherfucker …" he wheezed.

"That's not very polite." He bared his teeth in a mockery of a smile. "Now, my good friends the Horsemen are going to depart with their lost little pup. And you're going to stay here with me. It is my understanding that some very nice men in very blue uniforms want to talk with you about all of the illegal activities going on in this here building I bought in your name."

The bastard had bought the Raptors and sold them out. And he'd used the Horsemen to do it. Pretty Boy shook his head.

"You givin' us to the cops? We'll snitch on every underhanded thing you've ever done," Junior threatened.