Never Love an Outlaw: Deadly Pistols MC Romance (Outlaw Love) (34 page)

“And I wanna hear him all the way back here before you snap his fucking neck,” Fang growled. “This could be the break this club needs. The cartel's been shitting down our throats for months because we got rats on our ship who'll sell out their brothers for a few fuckin' pesos.”

Rats.
Hearing it sent an icy chill up my spine and everybody else's in the room. Nothing worse than treason in any MC – especially this one.

I'd fallen in with a group of rogues back in Montana a few months ago. The Prez defied a direct order to head south and leave everything past Idaho to the Prairie Pussies. I'd almost fucked my club without knowing it before I turned on their asses for screwing with Shelly and me. The motherfuckers killed our disabled Ma too. She'd been an overbearing bitch to me since I was a kid, but nobody deserved to die like that.

My teeth pinched together, hard enough to break when I thought about it. Ma's death must've gotten back to Fang, same as me turning on the rogues. Only fucking reason he'd spared my ass while locking the rest of the traitors in an old building and burning them alive.

I still heard their screams in my dreams. Always woke my ass up with a smile on my face.

“Brass.” Blackjack said my name, pointing a finger at me.

Shit, what the fuck did I miss? I was about to jump outta my chair when he moved to Rabid next, speaking his name, before moving on to Serial and Splitter.

“Excellent choice, Prez. These boys are good for interrogation duty,” Blackjack said. “Blood on their hands won't sour their guts when we need to get down and dirty. You can count on 'em.”

Fang nodded, looking right at me. Two dozen more pairs of eyes were on us too. Half were jealous, and the rest were just glad they weren't in the spotlight with such an important job.

I stiffened. Couldn't let Blackjack down. He'd helped me get clean since I came south, and I owed the old man big.

Torture was the one thing I hated the most. Didn't have a lotta experience with it either. Most of the time I took my bike and rode with the crew, quick hit and runs, protecting our shipments flowing south from cartel raiders.

Man up and get used to it,
a rough voice growled in my head.
This shit with the cartel's just getting started. It only gets uglier from here.

“We'll do whatever it takes, Prez,” Serial said, flexing his muscles.

His eyes were hungrier than usual, peering out between the barbed wire inked across his face. I tried to keep my distance from his twisted ass. Yeah, he was a brother like any other, but his bloodlust never sat right with me. The giddy spark that lit him up whenever he got orders like this turned him into a total pitbull.

“Well?” Fang said, clenching his bear claw. “What're you fuckers waiting for? You don't need to sit through the rest of this shit. I'm not calling any votes today.”

Me, Rabid, Serial, and Splitter were on our feet before he could rap at the wood, right behind Blackjack.

Five minutes later, we were on our bikes, riding out to the old warehouse where they had the Mexican.

“Mercy...mercy...please...”

I couldn't remember the last time I felt sick. Something about staring at the bloodied man standing over the shallow pit got to me.

Maybe the fact that he shouldn't have been standing at all. Not after the way Serial and Splitter whaled on his knees, making his legs crack, the same damned thing they'd done to his arms before. Thank fuck Blackjack didn't give Rabid and I any shit about keeping our distance.

We played watchmen by the door, making sure nobody pulled up in the empty parking lot next to our bikes. Took over an hour for the kid to crack – poor bastard held up surprisingly well while the boys stubbed their smokes out all over his bare skin. Burned away the screaming eagles or hawks or whatever the fuck cartel assholes worshiped that was inked on his chest.

When Serial took the cinder block to his left hand, turning it into a broken mess, he started to talk. Rabid and I just looked at each other. Blackjack was the only brother with us who really listened – good fucking thing he was along to take charge because none of us knew shit for Spanish.

The Mexican spilled his guts for ten or twenty minutes. Whatever the fucker said, it was enough to make Blackjack nod, motioning for us to come over. I carried the old shovel, pushing it into Jose's hands before we led him out back to the old courtyard.

Nobody said shit while he dug like a good boy. Quite a challenge with his busted hands and beat up body. Something else must've broke once he'd gotten a foot or two into the earth. Bastard started to beg, whining the same shit over and over again.

“Mercy...mercy...”

Probably the extent of his English vocabulary.

Serial and Splitter barked in his face. Rabid was getting pissed too, and punched the fucker in the back. I could tell by the look on his face that he just wanted this asshole to shut up like I did.

“Come on, you sonofabitch! Just a few more feet and it's done.” Serial rolled his shoulders, ready to lay into him with his fists.

I hated the cartel fucks just as much as anybody, but fuck, breaking his ribs wouldn't make him dig the grave faster. I stepped up, ready to pull the weird hothead off the Mexican, but Blackjack got between us first.

“Don't be a jackass, Serial. Get the fuck back there with the rest,” he growled, pointing to Rabid and me.

I froze mid-step, slowly ambling back over to where Rabid was standing before the freak joined us.

Serial sulked over to our place against the wall, lighting a smoke. When he was gone, Blackjack leaned into the man, whispering just loud enough for us to hear.

“You're dead, son. There's no getting around that. Your grave was dug the minute you ended up on the wrong side of Redding after making your delivery. Don't make this any harder than it has to be. Just finish up and I promise I'll make it quick.”

Jose stumbled a couple steps backwards, tears in his eyes. Blackjack's gaze was colder than Serial's had been, nothing but ice. He was offering him the only mercy we were allowed to give.

Finally, the dude looked down, shuffling his feet. He grabbed the shovel and started to dig, this time without any complaints. Later, I gave him a hand and a cig while he went down in the pit, lowering a light for him. His eyes were pitch black, understanding, the kinda look an animal gives a hunter before he pulls the trigger.

I stood over the grave for a few more minutes. When the Mexican stumbled, collapsing into the small pile next to him, I waved for Blackjack.

“Get back, son,” he told me, drawing his nine millimeter. “He held up his end. I'm gonna hold up mine.”

The gunshot echoed through the empty courtyard, even with the silencer on the barrel.

I reached into the pit for the shovel, and then went to work, throwing dirt over the dead body as quickly as I could. The four brothers joined me, covering up his carcass, first with dirt and then using a pile of heavy cinder blocks stacked over the smooth earth.

Nobody suspected shit out here. If this place ever got bought and re-developed, they'd probably find a few more bodies deep in the ground besides the ones the club dumped off.

We were heading for our bikes, eager to hit the road and get the fuck back to the clubhouse, when Blackjack caught up to us. He walked up and put his hand on my bars before I could think about starting up the engine.

“We're not done yet,” he said, scanning his eyes at the other brothers. “1212 Hawkeye Street. That's where we'll find the one and a half mil the cartel dropped for a dead guy.”

“What the fuck?” I couldn't stop it from flying outta my mouth.

Whatever we'd forced outta Jose, I never expected it to be that.

Blackjack smiled. “Prez is wrong about one thing: the biggest swamp rats aren't in this club. Doesn't matter how much money you pay pigs to keep their mouth shut and look the other way – they always flip and sell your ass out when they get desperate enough.”

“So, this is a repo job?” Rabid asked.

Blackjack laughed. “If you wanna put it that way...Charlie Thomas got at least a good half mill from our crew over the years before cancer kicked him off the force. Bastard probably flipped and sold our intel to the cartel to leave a few crumbs for his family. Shame the fucking turncoat knew so much. Hell, his job was blacking out what was already on the books – and now those books with all our dirty secrets, slip ups, and weaknesses are in the Mexican hands.”

“Shit!” Splitter spat, pounding his bike.

“Whining about it won't do any good, brother.” Blackjack lit a smoke, finally moving away toward his own Harley. “Best we can do now is take that fucking money and use it to pad our asses against the hard fuck that's coming.”

We hit the road and ripped through town. My rage was extra hot, a wicked contrast against the cool wind whipping me in the face.

Blackjack's talk just confirmed what I already knew deep in my guts: shit was about to get a whole lot worse. No, the king rat wasn't in our club, but it wasn't gonna work any miracles on Fang's paranoia. Burying Jose was the first real shot fired in Redding, but the cartel war had been going on for months.

And now, instead of turning the tide, those motherfuckers just showed us how fucked we really were.

We cut our engines a couple blocks from the ratty old house. The doorknob was loose. Didn't even have to plant my boot on the wood to break through. I just ripped the knob off and pushed it open, heading into the house while the other guys fanned out through the basement.

Sickness burned my nostrils. No wonder the place wasn't very secure for a cop's house – the man hadn't been whole in a long time. Creeping death and strong medicine rolled off the walls, worse upstairs where I was heading.

Serial pushed past me, heading for the room at the end of the hall. I shot him a dirty look, clenching my fists. I'd settle with that asshole later.

Right now, we had to get whoever the fuck was in this place rounded up. We had to find what we came for and get the fuck out.

I peeked in the dead man's room first. Nobody was on the empty bed, just as I expected. Just as I came out, Serial exited the furthest room, one hand over a little girl's mouth.

Shit.

She couldn't have been any older than fifteen. I moved into the next room, hoping like fuck I didn't find another kid. Dealing with Thomas' wife would be a helluva lot easier.

The sleeping girl in the dark was definitely an adult, but she looked too young to have been married to cancer man. I grabbed her phone first, shoving it in my pocket. First rule of any residential raid was cutting communication. Confiscating phones was usually enough – hardly anyone had a fucking land line anymore.

A second later, a loud scream rang out down the hall. Fuck, Serial must've moved his hand, giving her a chance to howl. The woman next to me popped outta bed, reaching for the phone I'd swiped. She practically flung herself into my arms.

I moved on pure instinct, shoving my lips to her ear while I went for my gun. Hoped I wouldn't have to shoot her. Letting 'em know I had it was usually plenty for intimidation. Fucks only got shot when they tried to run, or whenever a senior brother ordered cleanup.

“Don't. You fucking scream, I'll have to put a bullet in your spine.” Brushing my gun along her back, I let it sink in for a few more seconds before I drove it home. “Just go where I tell you, and this'll all be over, nice and quick. Nobody has to get hurt.”

Hoped like hell the last part was true. Her father was a piece of shit rat, and rats always suffered, including their associates by blood or brotherhood. But fuck, these girls were young.

The woman in my grip could've been fresh new pussy for the clubhouse if she were a little more worn down, a little more desperate...

I tried to keep my cock under control as I led her downstairs. In the dim light, she was pretty fucking hot. So sexy I didn't give a shit when her bright eyes flashed pure venom my way.

Having my hands on her wasn't helping the situation. It was rare to see a girl who had everything going for her, and this chick had it in fucking spades.

I watched it. I felt it. And then I started losing my mind, eyeing her as we walked, sliding my hands across her body with way more interest than any good captor should have.

Those hips, full and lush, perfect for grabbing onto while I drove my dick all the way to her womb. And those tits, perfectly flanked by loose strands of chestnut hair?

Shit!
I had to nudge her downstairs fast just to get my hands off her. One more second too close to those ripe handfuls and I wouldn't have been able to resist. I'd have copped a feel so tight she'd be screaming, threatening our whole operation, and then my brothers would be beating my ass.

But fuck...just looking at her ass wiggling down the stairs ahead of me, I had to wonder if she was worth an ass kicking or two.

Serial had her little sister in his arms. I took my place on the other side of the room, putting several badly needed feet between us.

The old man started his spiel. Nobody had a clue where they'd hidden the cartel's stash, and we weren't going anywhere 'til we had it. Hopefully, working them over would go a lot more smooth and easy than Jose – they were too pretty and innocent to survive half the shit the brothers gave the Mexican.

Blackjack lit a fresh smoke and paced around her, circling the girl like a shark.

“We can do this the easy way or the hard way. I, for one, don't like spilling blood when there's no good reason, but some of the brothers feel differently. Now, we know your loot's not where it was supposed to be – found this shit all torn up myself.” He pointed at the torn up mess of cardboard and shingles on the ground.

Odd fucking combination, but it was what the dead Mexican said he'd hid the cartel cash in.

Her sweet red lips stayed shut. His threats kept coming, tough as leather and cold as the arctic. Still, she didn't move, staring over his shoulder at me instead.

Me. Why fucking me? It was like the girl was reading my mind, x-raying through my skull and seeing all the dirty, nasty, downright degenerate things I wanted to do to her.