Viper

by Marata Eros

  VIPER

  A Road Kill MC Novel

  Volume 8

  New York Times Bestselling author

  MARATA EROS

  All Rights Reserved.

  Copyright © 2018 Marata Eros

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales, or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or if it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to a legitimate retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Marata Eros Website

  Marata Eros FB Fan Page

  Cover art by Willsin Rowe

  Editing suggestions provided by Red Adept Editing.

  CONTENTS

  Works by Tamara Rose Blodgett and Marata Eros

  Marata Eros NEWS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  SYNOPSIS:

  Vince “Viper” Morgan is president of Road Kill MC, and he will wipe out whatever threatens the brotherhood of the men he leads.

  Candice Arlington is a deep-undercover FBI agent closing in on the worst brand of sexual predators: flesh traffickers.

  They say oil and water don't mix. They’re wrong.

  When Road Kill MC mistakes her as a liaison for the very ones they want to extinguish, Candice finds herself in a position of torture and eventual death, and the final knot to apprehend the man behind it all is unraveling fast.

  Viper won't ask his men to do anything he wouldn't do. However, when Candice is at his mercy, Viper breaks his vow, taking what she offers. He doesn't realize their chance encounter wipes away the numbness he's been living beneath.

  Candice is unable to forget Viper. The life he represents reminds her what she gave up for the Bureau, but he's partially healed the wounds of the past.

  When the nightmare of before reappears—can Viper protect Candice from a menace more dangerous than any other?

  Music that inspired me during the writing of Viper:

  Slipknot

  Duality

  Bad Wolves

  Zombie

  DEDICATION:

  Delores O'Riordan

  You made the art of my words more beautiful with your music.

  Your absence from this world is a robbery.

  Works by Tamara Rose Blodgett and Marata Eros:

  Tamara Rose Blodgett

  The BLOOD Series

  The DEATH Series

  The REFLECTION Series

  The SAVAGE Series

  Shifter ALPHA CLAIM

  Vampire ALPHA CLAIM

  Final Enforcement Vampire ALPHA CLAIM

  &

  Marata Eros:

  A Terrible Love (New York Times bestseller)

  A Brutal Tenderness

  The Darkest Joy

  Club Alpha

  The DARA NICHOLS Series

  The DEMON Series

  The DRUID Series

  Road Kill MC Serial

  The SIREN Series

  The TOKEN Serial

  Final Enforcement Vampire ALPHA CLAIM

  Shifter ALPHA CLAIM

  Vampire ALPHA CLAIM

  The ZOE SCOTT Series

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  Chapter 1

  Viper

  “I say kill the bitch,” Storm announces, reclining his big frame in the chair, balancing on the back legs.

  Looking out over the brothers, I see everyone is in attendance, except Trainer. His old lady's poppinʼ out a kid, so he gets a pass.

  A frustrated sigh slips out of me before I can rein it in.

  Sometimes, a man is just a glorified babysitter, and this is one of those times. At the end of the day, I feel like I'm wrangling a posse of cats.

  “Can't kill a chick—that's just wrong,” Wring states, and I watch Storm figuring he's got the balls to stare him down.

  Interesting. Storm patched in recently, and he’s still gauging his weight within the hierarchy of the club. But Wring is an ex-Navy SEAL. He's quiet with his menace—like all of us ex-soldiers are. I was special forces too. Never revealed my ex-Navy SEAL status.

  Didn't want to.

  Kept shit to myself. Better that way. Gives the guys less to think about if they don’t know. If there's information about me from before I was the president of Road Kill MC, that only makes my job harder.

  I dragged myself through the knothole of the Gulf War. Spent two tours there. The brothers of the Road Kill know those deets. Only Noose knows the shit I won't talk about.

  Sometimes I catch the big bastard eyeing me up. Coming up with mental checks and balances. Or coming up with diddly squat.

  Who the fuck knows? He's not exactly a transparent guy. I stifle a snort. That's a no-shitter.

  But now we got a situation. First, it was the fucking gangs, then it was mafia bullshit. Now we got a sex-trafficking ring jonesing in on our region.

  Not gonna happen on my watch. We don't like scum infiltrating our pond. Pissing where we live.

  Right before Krista, Trainer’s new wife, went on maternity leave from the school where she teaches, she became aware that her school was a target for these sick fucks. Actually, the club had found a reference to the trafficking with photographic proof—thanks to Noose's keen instincts—that there were certain “children of interest” at Krista’s school.

  Whole thing makes me want to hurl chunks. That there's fucking pervs out there that'd cause harm to the defenseless? Can't wrap my brain around that shit.

  I take a deep inhale then let it out slowly, rhythmically tapping my fingers on our old carved wooden table where we meet for church.

  “None of us like the idea of killing a woman,” I state.

  Sounds of affirmation make their way around the table from the fourteen brothers.

  As quiet as a tomb, Storm continues to silently challenge me with his glare. His dark strawberry-blond hair is shoved into a buff-colored hair tie at his nape, and a deep-red beard groomed into a perfect rectangle covers his square jaw. He's brutally fashioned, like a lot of the men who find themselves within the embrace of the MC. His nose's been busted a couple of times, the bridge jogging about a third of the length down his beak.

  He's loud-mo
uthed and inconsiderate.

  Storm's also proven himself to be an asset. His skills and quick thinking have saved the day in dicey situations. He’s either brave or stupid—I'm not sure which—but his loyalty isn't in question.

  That's key in the Road Kill MC. Without loyalty, a man will never be a brother.

  Storm shakes his head. A strand of some of the kinkiest hair I've ever laid eyes on shakes loose, dipping in front of a pair of bright hazel eyes. “We got proof of the bitch's involvement—she lures these little kids, and then—boom—she gives them to these fuckers.” He whips his arms out, narrowly missing Rider, who’s seated to his right.

  Rider leans away, giving him what I affectionately refer to as the “half-eye.”

  Noose stands, catching Storm's attention with a chin hike, and snorts. “Never pictured you to off the ladies, Storm.” His dark-gold eyebrows rise slowly. One is bisected by an ugly scar he got courtesy of a torture session a couple years back.

  Storm makes a cutting gesture across his throat with his palm. “If someone's that brand of shitbird—chick or dude—they deserve to stop breathing.” His hands slap down on his denim-clad thighs, the front legs of the chair tapping hard on the poured concrete floor. “If this twat is handing over the kiddos to freaks, let's take her out. Now.”

  “You're a bossy fucker,” Wring comments casually from his usual corner, grooming his nails with a switchblade.

  “Someone's going to lose an eye,” I remark dryly, attempting to diffuse the overflowing testosterone.

  Wring gives a low snicker. “Shit, I haven't heard that in a century.”

  “Hello!” Storm scowls at us.

  I lift my chin and say in a low voice, “I'll do it.”

  Every brother leans toward me, and the surprise I read in some of their expressions sets off my irritation. “I'm in shape, and I ain't fifty yet.” I stare every one of them down.

  Snare leans forward. “You don't need to, Viper. We got enough brothers to do the dirty work.”

  I feel my eyes harden as I take in the group of tough men. “This is a woman and a premeditated clean-up. Feels wrong, even though we know she's aiding something foul as fuck,” I say, clipping the last word off at the end like an amputation.

  Noose takes my comment as his cue to debrief the men. “And she ain't no troll, fellas.”

  “Fuck,” Wring mutters. “Was hoping she was hiding under a bridge or something.”

  Killing's always ugly, just feels worse to take out something beautiful. “Still female. Still feels wrong.” My stare shifts to Noose in a subtle signal to move forward with what he has. “Spread ʼem.”

  Noose smirks then draws out black-and-white glossies from a large manila envelope, tossing them out on the table like playing cards.

  They spin then finally settle in a haphazard display across the polished wooden surface.

  Every man leans forward.

  The woman's a real looker. Don't have coloring to go by. Hell, her hair could be any color of brown.

  Those eyes could be any color.

  But that gaze holds me.

  And any military man would be the first to say they've got a sense of scale for a person's size. This broad doesn't know her picture's being taken; that much is obvious. And the stuff that surrounds her gives me a clue to her size—small.

  My dread deepens.

  In the picture that's come to rest in front of me, she's standing by a park bench, handing off a kid around maybe six years old, though I'm no fucking judge. Never had any kids of my own.

  I clench my teeth. Her face is angled up at the man. His profile is obscured. Shadows from the low branches of trees hanging overhead stripe his face in a million shades of gray in the broken, dim light.

  But not her—oh no. The sun lights her face just perfectly. Every curve of cheekbone, soft triangle of chin, and lips so kissable it's a slice of tangible despair as I gaze at her face, knowing we've got to eventually end her.

  Maybe not as fast as we'd like, either. We'll need answers first. My eyes run over the photo for a third time. Not gonna like what I got to do to get them, either.

  I cup my chin and briefly close my eyes, accepting the rawness of the upcoming task.

  “God, I don't know, Vipe?” Snare pushes a photo away with a finger like the image burns. “Don't think I could do her.”

  I open my eyes and take in Snare's clear distaste at the possibility of killing a female.

  Noose taps the image closest to him once, and after a lengthy pause says, “I could.”

  “Me too,” Storm replies instantly, raising his upper lip in sneer.

  “I will, even if I can't.” My voice is soft, my intent hard as I survey them all. “She's obviously gorgeous, and damn good at looking harmless.”

  Maybe in some ways, she is.

  “I hear a but.” Wring hikes his platinum eyebrows, stopping his ceaseless self-groom with the knife.

  I nod in his direction. “We can't let tits and ass with a pretty face rob our focus from cleaning the scum that's infiltrating our pond.” I give a single rap of my knuckles on the table. It's loud in the well of their contemplative silence.

  Lariat speaks for the first time, his dark eyes cutting through us. “If anybody's assuming our territory is fair game, we'll be on their radar if we start letting shit slide. Kent is our territory—and greater Auburn, Federal Way—hell, I'm gonna toss in Seattle too.” His deep chuckle is possessive, and certain.

  I hold back a grin.

  “Gettinʼ greedy,” Snare comments in a sing-song voice, his dark blue eyes twinkling.

  “Fuck it,” Lariat says, black eyebrows low above eyes so dark a brown, they damn near swallow the pupil.

  “That's my line,” Noose quips.

  Lariat gives him a long-suffering glance. “Why the fuck not?” He laces his fingers, resting his hands on the table and hiking his shoulders.

  “Why indeed,” Snare agrees.

  “Anyway,” I hold up my hand, palm out, “I'm not going to ask any of my brothers to do something I wouldn't do myself.” I level my stare on the ex-SEALs first then let my gaze sweep the rest of the men.

  “Why?” Wring asks, voice thick with suspicion.

  I chuckle at his caution. “Too easy. If I start passing on any fucking detail that makes me squirm—or I start wanting to grow a vagina—I've lost my respect, and I don't deserve to be Prez of the Road Kill MC.” I point at each one of them—fourteen today. “Not you guysʼ respect, but mine. For myself.” I park my thumb in the center of my pecs, damn glad I have the cajones to make my little pronouncement. A couple of years ago, I was getting soft. After a few dicey events, I got a wake-up call. I couldn't be committing violence if I couldn't make the cut—no pun intended.

  Ever since, I've been working out hard, watching carbs, and hitting the weights. It sucks to have hard liquor instead of my favorite beer, but hey—having the beginnings of a six-pack on my gut is reward enough for not getting to pull down a brewsky.

  Now I can actually do some dirty work.

  And it doesn't get filthier than killing a beautiful woman—or any woman.

  I've killed females before. In war. When I had no choice. While following orders. Didn't like it, though. Not one tiny bit. I know Noose, Wring, and Lariat have done shit for our country they're not proud of. Serving and pride in being an American don't always mix. Sometimes bad deeds are necessary.

  Nobody asks if a man's up to murder when he joins the service. However, murder finds a man if it means to.

  But we can't let Arlington's packaging dissuade us from the greater goal of keeping our turf ours—and keeping the bad shit out. We're not going to tolerate gangs, especially kiddie pervs.

  “We respected ya, Viper—even when you had a beer gut,” Storm says.

  “Thanks a lot.” I nod slowly at him. Then just as slowly, I raise my right hand. My middle finger sprouts like a chubby.

  Frowning, Storm huffs. “Just callinʼ it like it is.”

&
nbsp; “Yʼknow, if you hadn't just gotten patched in—your ass would be kicked right now?” Snare comments in a voice as dry as the Sahara Desert.

  Storm nods happily. “Oh yeah. Feels good to shoot my mouth off without getting punched for it.”

  With my hand still raised and finger extended, I straighten my elbow, hiking the entire thing. “Don't push it.” I let my arm drop back to the table with a thunk.

  Storm snorts, leaning back in his chair again. “Besides Trainer, I've done the most crap detail of anyone here. I can finally speak!”

  We stare at each other.

  “You look decent now, Viper. Don't tell me you're getting to be all needy and shit?” Storm smirks. “All sensitive about your looks?”

  “All right,” Wring says, and causally slaps the back of Storm's head with his palm.

  He's closer than I am. Convenient. A grin forms on my face.

  Storm's head lurches forward, nearly coming into contact with the table. “Fuck!” His head whips to Wring, his slitted gaze shooting daggers. “I hate those goddamned brain dusters.”

  Wring meets the unspoken challenge, his light, azure eyes narrowing like glacial razors. “Learning when to shut up is a talent. Something for you to think about honing.”

  “I thought once I patched in, my brand of honesty was gonna be appreciated.” He shrugs.

  “You're fucking honest, all right,” Noose comments, carefully plucking each glossy from the table and reinserting the pictures into the manila envelope one by one.

  “You let Trainer get away with saying anything,” Storm rants.

  “Trainer's a special case. And he learns pretty damn well,” I emphasize, remembering how Krista patiently taught him to read, plowing through a learning disability and a seriously fucked-up childhood.

  “He's not a dick,” Lariat adds in a mild voice.

  Storm narrows his eyes at Lariat. “Favoritism.”

  Everyone groans.

  “Why'd we patch him in?” Snare's lips twist as he smirks, the motion making the small knot of scar tissue across his upper lip flatten.

  “Masochists, all,” Lariat says.

  Storm grins. “See, you fuckers like a little check and balance.” He gives a decisive nod. “Along comes, Storm and—boom—ya got all the balance you can stand.”