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Don't miss the first book in the Hot Rides series,
Drive
,
available now!

 

And keep reading for a sneak preview of
Chase
,
coming in December!

 

 

For Gabriel, the FBI is just a painful memory. His new team of motorheads may work for the Feds undercover, but they're nothing like the backstabbers and bureaucrats he left behind. Hunting drug dealers and smugglers in Miami gets him the adrenaline rush he wants and the justice he needs. All that's missing is the seal on the badge—and Nikki, his sexy ex-partner.

 

Until she shows up at his garage, wearing short shorts and a look that spells trouble. Nikki has never forgotten the heartbreak Gabriel left her with last time. Even if she can't have him, she still has to work with him. There's a homegrown terrorist recruiting military vets into a cult of fear and deception, and they all have roots in Miami.

 

It will take Gabriel and all the Classic Rides crew to stop a catastrophe. But in close quarters with sparks flying, it's only a matter of time before the old flame ignites . . .

 

 

Identities were like T-shirts, easy to change out until you found one that fit.

Gabriel Ortiz had worn so many identities in his life, sometimes he wasn't sure who he was anymore. At least until he got behind the wheel of a car. It was easier to tap into the parts of himself that were Gabriel, and not a made-up persona for a job. When it was just him, his car, and the road, things made sense. Lately he'd spent almost all his spare time behind the wheel of his new ride, a bad little Nissan Skyline he'd rebuilt piece by piece.

“I cannot believe how badly you smoked them.” Roni Chazov, one of his fellow mechanics at Classic Rides, smacked him on the shoulder. She grinned at him, a rare thing these days, and flipped her long, red hair over her shoulder. Men fell over themselves for Roni's attention, but she'd always been one of the guys to him.

“Yeah.” He nodded.

“You could at least act like you're having a good time.” Roni crossed her arms over her chest and turned to face the line of cars across the street.

Hip-hop thumped from a chrome-plated lowrider. Half a dozen other cars had their hoods popped while drivers and onlookers kicked tires, talked shop, or bragged about their fastest time. Several of them were Gabriel's friends and coworkers, people he'd bled with. People he'd die for.

“They're watching us,” Roni said, pitching her voice low.

“I know.”

Their crew's reputation had always been solid on the streets, but now people were scared of them. Fear didn't sit well with Gabriel. At least not while he was himself. He'd pretended to be men who thrived on that kind of attention, but that was not Gabriel. Not his real self. He didn't like it at all.

“What do you think they're saying?” she asked.

“Probably wondering where we hid the bodies.”

“That's not funny.” Roni shot him a glare.

“Hey, you asked what they were saying. I just answered.” He shrugged. It wasn't an understatement. Rumors were all over Miami about what their crew had done to a couple of hit men out for the Chazov twins.

“Yeah. I miss the days when they just wanted to know what was under the hood.” Roni tapped the Skyline's tire with the toe of her boot.

Gabriel nodded. They'd all known the day was coming when their undercover FBI operation would change the street game. But none of them had anticipated this. Thanks to a friend at the Miami-Dade PD keeping the details of the arrests under wraps, they'd been able to put a spin on the latest exploits to paint themselves as the new street bosses. With their biggest rivals out of the picture, Gabriel and his crew were it. Which was the biggest joke there was. They were the crime kings who didn't do crime.

“Where's your twin?” Gabriel asked.

“Where do you think?” Ice laced Roni's tone.

“Things okay between you two?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay.” He shrugged.

Unlike most of his crew, Gabriel had experience with long-term, deep-cover missions. They were hell on the body and the soul. That they were three years into the operation without any real problems with their people was remarkable. In his book, Roni's sister shacking up with their field tech wasn't all that bad. He was even happy for them, if he could be happy about anything.

Roni leaned toward him. “I was thinking—”

Gabriel's pocket chimed, and an echoing noise emanated from Roni's pocket.

That couldn't be good.

He dug his phone out of his pocket, unlocked the screen, and tapped the message notification from—speak of the devil—their field tech, Emery. In Gabriel's peripheral vision he could see the others doing the same thing.

 

 

“Shit,” Roni said. She glared at him. “Get driving. You're fastest.”

Classic Rides was the business they all worked out of, restoring classic muscle cars, and after hours was when they did their FBI gigs. They didn't keep anything at the garage except tools and cars, but thanks to current events, they had a huge target on their backs. If someone wanted to fuck with them, the Shop was a prime opportunity.

Roni jogged toward her new V10 Viper while Gabriel pulled the door open to his Skyline and dropped into the driver's seat. The onlooking pedestrians scattered, jumping onto the sidewalk as Gabriel peeled out in a plume of exhaust and squealing tires. He glanced in his rearview mirror. The closest headlights were over a car length away. Aiden's if he had to guess. Their fearless leader was the shop owner, and had wrapped up his life's savings in the Shop.

The fastest route to Classic Rides this time of night was via I-95. Gabriel ignored a red traffic light, barreling through before the oncoming traffic had even let off their accelerators. Another car turned onto the old two-lane street ahead of him, blocking him. He jerked the Skyline into the left lane, stomped on the accelerator, and shifted. The car lurched forward, the engine barely even working. Yet. There was a discernible lack of vibration as the car coasted over the road as if the tires never really touched the asphalt. This really was the fastest car he'd ever had.

And right now, he needed every second it could buy him.

Being part of the crew at Classic Rides had given him a purpose when he had nothing. After his world crumbled, and everything he thought he had, walked out the door, the crew had put him back together. They'd given him a mission. Something to live for. The garage might just be a building, but it was more to him.

“
Ándale, ándale
,” he chanted.

He coasted through another intersection, weaving between cars, and passed under the overpass, cutting a sedan off as he changed lanes, ignoring the angry blare of the horn. The speakers began to ring and Emery's name flashed across the display mounted into the dash.

Gabriel pressed a button on his steering wheel, activating the call.

“Talk to me.”

“You're the closest. I have no eyes on the facility. Someone had to have taken the security out at the power source.” Normally Emery was quiet and rather mild-mannered. That was a well-constructed front. Right now, Emery cursed and growled with the best of them.

“I should go in hot, you mean?” Gabriel maneuvered around the slower traffic, making liberal use of the shoulder. There were only two exits to go. He couldn't see Aiden in his rearview mirror. He pushed the car faster, his focus narrowing to the vehicles around him and the way the Skyline handled.

“Yes, but hold up a second and wait for backup. We don't know what's in there yet, and I want them alive.”

He could hear the frustration in Emery's voice. Classic Rides had remained as secure a location as they could make it. No doubt Emery would take it personally should the facility ever be breached. Like now.

“No can do, Brain.”

He flipped on his blinker as he coasted over the white line, cutting off a red van. The Shop was a few streets over from the highway, still a couple lights to go.

“That's not a good idea. Wait for backup.”

Emery's voice drifted into the background. Gabriel pulled the hand brake and let the car whip around at a ninety-degree angle. Cars honked and their tires screeched as drivers swerved to avoid him. He gunned the engine and shot forward, the familiar storefronts a blur as he focused on the retro sign of Classic Rides ahead, with the purple and indigo night sky behind it. Palm trees waved in a stronger than normal breeze.

A single bay door was open and all the lights were on. The parking lot was empty, save for the cars for sale, lined up along the perimeter. Hell, the gate and chain were down, too, almost as if someone had opened the Shop for business. It wasn't exactly a covert setup.

Screw it.

Gabriel steered the Skyline into the parking lot and shifted hard into park. He grabbed his primary weapon out of the center console, while keeping his gaze on the open door. His 1967 Pontiac GTO was inside. If whoever thought about hitting them tonight touched the car, he was likely to ignore the directive to take any and all adversaries alive.

He got out of his car and crept toward the bay door, keeping his eyes on the storefront windows.

Nothing moved.

In the distance he could hear the rumble and whine of engines. The others would be here any moment. The smart thing to do would be to wait, but this shop, these people, they were his safe haven. His family. When it came to those things, he'd face down a dozen thugs for them.

He took a deep breath and peered around the open door, into the garage.

Four cars sat ready for the morning. A tune-up, an oil change, Gabriel's other ride, and a complete restore job. All the familiar smells filled the air: oil, rubber, and lemon-scented cleaner. Nothing was out of place, except the woman with dark hair wearing a suit, standing with her back to him. She appeared to be looking at something on the workbench surface.

Suits meant Feds.

He took another step, gun trained on the woman.

“Turn around,” he barked.

The woman straightened and for a moment neither moved. Did she have a partner? Someone hiding as her backup? There were easily a dozen places in the garage to take cover. They'd designed it that way for exactly this reason.

She pivoted to face him and everything stopped. He didn't breathe or blink. The world could have stopped moving for all he cared.

The hair was different and he'd never seen her in drab black before, but the face was still the same. Or similar. She'd always smiled when he'd seen her, but that was before. Now, her lips were compressed in a tight line. Pity, she was rather stunning when she smiled.

“Hello, Gabriel.”

“Nikki?” He lowered his gun, frowning. Lights slashed across the garage as one and then another car turned into the parking lot. He stalked toward her, needing to know it was really
his
Nikki before the others arrived and all hell broke loose.

It can never be said that
Sidney Bristol
has had a “normal” life. She is a recovering roller derby queen, former missionary, and tattoo addict. She grew up in a motor-home on the U.S. highways (with an occasional jaunt into Canada and Mexico), traveling the rodeo circuit with her parents. Sidney has lived abroad in both Russia and Thailand, working with children and teenagers. She now lives in Texas, where she splits her time between a job she loves, writing, reading, and belly dancing. Readers can find her at sidneybristol.com, on Facebook, and @Sidney_Bristol on Twitter.