Road Warriors (Motorcycle Club Romance Collection) (Bad Boy Collections Book 4)

by Faye, Amy

  The whole thing might have taken sixty seconds, which is slow for anyone, but then again I've been robbed enough times that I splurged on a better lock. That they get in at all means I should get my money back.

  The first one in is Maguire. She's got her gun drawn, but she keeps it low. Off-line. If she was trying to kill me, then she'd have come in hot. Next is the big guy. The bruiser.

  He's got his gun up. They might have talked, but they haven't come to an understanding on whether or not they're shooting to kill. I don't have the luxury of questioning it.

  Maguire can't bring her pistol up fast enough to tag me as I move across the doorway, but she can say something. She doesn't see me, or she keeps her mouth shut.

  I can thank her later for the fact that her friend hasn't heard me come in. With the light shining down on them, neither one has night-vision, but I can barely handle the dim light shining into the room from the porch light.

  It means that when I catch the big guy in the gut with my shoulder, he doesn't see it coming until it's too late, and by then he's on the ground.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  MAGUIRE

  I can't point the gun at him. He's moving to pick up Danny's gun from where it fell on the floor, and he could shoot the big oaf any second now, but I can't force myself to point the gun at him.

  "Stop," I say. I try to sound more confident than I feel, but it doesn't come out even a little bit right.

  "You going to make me?"

  Ryan turns. He's got a darkness in his face that reminds me out of the blue that he's not just some pretty boy.

  The part of me that feels the fear now wants to put the gun down. I want to tell him that I'm sorry for coming here, that we'll leave. It's what he wants and he's going to get what he wants.

  But then the training takes over.

  "Put it down, Beauchamp, or I swear to God you'll have a new hole to breathe out of." My hand tightens on the gun.

  "Not until you tell me what you're doing here. Do you have a warrant?"

  "No, but—"

  "Then tell me what the fuck you're doing breaking into my house, or come back with a warrant."

  I take a breath. There's a lot more going on here than I'd like. Someone needs to calm down, and it's going to be me—whether I like it or not.

  I slide my pistol into it's holster and show my hands. Ryan slips the magazine out of Danny's weapon, and cycles the bullet out of the chamber before handing it back to him. He sets the magazine on the table.

  "One of these days, you're going to piss off the wrong guy," he growls. Ryan looks exhausted, and a big part of me knows why he's so annoyed. Part of me doesn't blame him for it.

  But there were more factors at work than whether or not Ryan was happy with me about my plans.

  "Spider's dead," I tell him. I'd hoped to break it to him easier than that, or at least give myself some sort of lead-in. But he's not looking patient.

  "What does that have to do with me?"

  "Two things. First, there was a note attached. One that made it imminently clear that it was retribution for the robbery you pulled yesterday."

  "Okay."

  "Second, because you drive a very specific, very recognizable, bike, Beauchamp. A bike we saw driving away from the body being dumped." Danny's not picking up the subtlety of the situation, and I haven't told him anything I didn't have to.

  "Well, what can I say? I wasn't there."

  "If we thought you could have possibly been there, then you'd be in irons, Beauchamp."

  Danny's pissing him off. I can see it in Ryan's face. I don't know whether to stop him, or kiss him. Ryan pissed off looks just as incredible as Ryan any other time.

  In the current situation, though, a pissed-off Ryan Beauchamp will be a wild card we need in play. I just have to hope, for my sake, that Danny doesn't push him hard enough to get himself hit in the face. I don't want to have to broker that situation.

  "So that leaves three more," Ryan answers. He's ignoring Danny now. That's the right way to go. I try to send him all my positive thoughts. I don't know if he gets them or not.

  "Exactly," I tell him. I try to get it across to him that I don't want a complete list, not in front of my partner. I don't know if he gets the message, but he does what I want.

  "Which means we're in a real hurry."

  "Why don't we just arrest this… upstanding citizen? Gang violence isn't our problem, boss."

  "Why not, boss?" Ryan mimics the voice, then switches back to his natural voice. "I'd love to hear this."

  "You know why, Danny. The sons of bitches watching the Crazy Horses aren't getting it done. We get them, we get credit for it."

  "With Donaldsen breathing down our necks, though…?"

  "Even with Donaldsen breathing down our necks. He can't block our getting the credit for the catch, if we get him. He'll sign on and pretend the whole thing was his idea, just you watch."

  "If you say so," Danny agrees. He sits back from the table. "I don't know what this guy's bringing to the table, though."

  Ryan speaks up. "Have you met Brent McCallister, Agent Ball?"

  "No, and if you say you have, you're a liar," Danny growls. "Not in two days."

  "You know what they say—squeaky wheel gets the oil." Ryan looks like he's enjoying this, now.

  The doubt on Danny's face builds into disbelief and then anger, but he keeps a lid on it, and as he tries to figure it out, I can see he's having less and less trouble believing.

  "You met McCallister?"

  "Did I say I had?" Ryan shrugs. I can't stand it when this son of a bitch plays coy. I can't stand it one bit, and I can't help but find it sexy as hell.

  "Don't play games with me, Beauchamp." I try to put an edge to my voice, an edge that I might use with Danny when he steps out of line. It doesn't work.

  "Well, let's just say that there's a damn good reason that you ain't found the guy in a while."

  "What? Are you about to tell me he's dead?"

  "I don't know. Maybe." Ryan sits forward, leaning his weight on his elbows. "But he's not in Arizona. He's not in the United States. He's not in Mexico. He's incommunicado, and nobody inside seemed to be trying to reach the guy. Is he dead? I figure so, but maybe not."

  "So you don't really know anything, then, is that what I'm hearing, Beauchamp?"

  Danny's frustration plays into my hand, now. He needs to keep it under control, but he might just have it under wraps for now. I could kiss him. I won't.

  "Well, I wouldn't say that, now." The smile across Beauchamp's face looks like he's gotten away with something. "You have pictures?"

  "Of what? Your bad hair days?" I enjoy the way he rolls his eyes at my barb.

  "Of the big names in the Crazy Horses. You want to know who's running it, I can tell you that much. But no names. They probably used fakes. I know faces, and those don't change so easy."

  "Alright," I agree.

  It takes twenty minutes one way to get into the office, five to print off photos, and twenty minutes back. Forty-five minutes total.

  It takes about thirty seconds to pull up pictures on my phone. I'm sure as hell not supposed to have them, but as long as Danny doesn't rat me out—and he never has before—there's nothing to worry about.

  Ryan flips through the pictures for a minute before he drops the phone onto the table. "There. Those two."

  He jabs a finger at it, as if to drive the point home more, somehow.

  There are four people prominently walking down the street in the picture. "Which two?"

  "This guy is the one who they had hitting me. He's a good hitter, Agent Ball. You'd like him." Danny lets out a sharp breath through his nose. "This one seems to be in charge, far as I can tell."

  "That's Marissa Scheck. McCallister's girlfriend. Fiancée. We figure she's his messenger."

  "Well, I never saw her make a fuckin' call to consult with her husband-to-be. I'm thinking maybe they've cut out the middle-man. Ya think?" He gives me a look that
suggests that it doesn't take much thought.

  He's right. It doesn't.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  RYAN

  I don't like this situation one bit, but what I like so much less is that it relies on Logan coming through. I've trusted him with more than this, plenty of times. Dozens. Hundreds.

  But that was before I got confirmation on who the leak was. That was before Spider turned up dead. It wasn't me. Couldn't have been. Unless I've been having strange Ambien-blackouts. And I don't take sleeping pills.

  It wasn't Maguire. Couldn't have been. She's going against all her orders on this job. It's why she's so resistant to bringing me in, something that her 'partner' obviously isn't in on.

  He thinks we're just a little below board. He probably isn't even aware of the job we pulled. Or at least, he's not aware that she's involved, at least. Who knows. Maybe I'm not giving him enough credit.

  Someone knows, though. Someone knows there were five people there, and that two of them are dead now. I don't have the luxury of imagining that it's going to be days or weeks.

  We might have hours to defuse and deal with the threat. It begs an important question. If they were going to kill me, why hadn't they done it when I was in the room with them?

  If they aren't going to kill me, why the charade? Why "2/5?" There's too many questions right now, all swirling around in my head, and I don't God damned like it one bit.

  The situation is eating at me. I swallow hard and force myself to keep my focus. The engine cuts off when I turn the key, and lean the bike over.

  I can't let Logan know that I'm aware of what he's been up to. I have to play it straight. They might still be tying up loose ends, even if he's involved with them.

  And who knows. Maybe he doesn't even know that he's the leak. Maybe I'm overestimating his involvement. There's a thousand possible solutions. I should be careful not to jump to the worst possible conclusions.

  I swallow hard. That still means I have to figure a way not to let on that I know what he's done. I flip his key out of the ring and take a grip on it. The door is locked, but I open it.

  "Hello?"

  I call out. The sound of my voice seems to echo through the empty halls for a while. I swallow again. He should be here. Where else would he be? There's no other jobs planned for today.

  I check in the garage, and sure enough, his bike is there. A day like today, there's no way that he wouldn't take it. Never mind that the truck is right there beside his Harley. No, he's here. He has to be.

  I call out again. "Hello?"

  No answer again. My hands are starting to clam up. I don't like the thoughts that are running through my head. The ideas that I'm starting to have.

  It doesn't make any sense. There's no one else who could have been the one to be working with the Crazy Horses. They wouldn't kill him, not if he was working with them. It didn't make sense.

  None of it makes any sense. I swallow hard and take a breath, and pull the pistol out of its holster on my belt. I don't know what I'm going to find, but I know I'm not going to like it, and I know that there's a very good chance it could be dangerous.

  If there's any danger, I want to be ready for it, and I want to be ready now. I rack the slide on the pistol and flip the safety off. All it will take is one little pull of my finger.

  I start mentally ticking off the rooms in my head. The kitchen was the first place I checked. I passed by the den, didn't see anything. But I didn't look that hard.

  Then I went down the stairs, checked the garage. But that took me through the downstairs lounge.

  There's an office, I could check the den more carefully, and then there's the bedrooms upstairs. I go through them mechanically. I keep the pistol aimed at the ground, but I'm ready to bring it up at a moment's notice. Nothing, nothing nothing.

  I go up the stairs, work left to right. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. I notice, though, as I go into the last room. Logan's room. The door isn't closed. It's just blown most of the way shut, as if by the wind.

  I push the door open with my foot.

  "Drop it!" I don't, not right away.

  Logan says it again. He's got a shotgun, and it's trained right on me. I de-cock the gun and put it on the bed.

  "Where's the girl?"

  "What are you talking about, man?"

  Logan lowers the gun halfway. "The girl. Where is she?"

  "The cop?"

  "Sure. The cop. Where is she?"

  I think about it for a second. "I have no idea."

  "So she's not with you?"

  "No."

  Logan lowers the gun the rest of the way. "Close that door behind you."

  I close it. He gestures toward the bed. I move the pistol and take a seat. Logan takes a minute before he starts talking. "Spider's fuckin' dead, Ryan."

  "Yeah, I know. I was coming here to warn you, in fact."

  "Someone ratted us out to the Crazy Horses. You know what I'm thinkin? I'm thinkin' that girl of yours, she found a very different way in with them than the one she told you about."

  In my head, I dismiss it immediately. "What makes you say that?"

  "I sure as hell didn't do it. Spider, he's—"

  "He was working with the feds."

  Logan cuts himself off. "No shit?"

  "I mean, I can't give you hard proof. But he must've been the reason I got arrested. The timing fit. So I was keeping an eye on him."

  "Fuck. Then, shit. I dunno."

  I don't know how much to tell him about my own suspicions. He'd deny it either way, but some part of me hopes that I'd be able to at least find some explanation with his help that would absolve him.

  There must be some explanation, but I can't find one. Logan's not acting like someone who's absolutely confident he won't get his ass shot.

  If I had to pick anyone now, I'd have to side with him. Maguire fits. But I can't shake the feeling that she's not involved. There must be something else involved, but I can't see what it is.

  "What's our next move?"

  "Next move? We deal with the girl. Scheck."

  "How do you figure?"

  "I don't know, yet. She's got some big mother-fucker working right under her. Hits like a mack truck, and he's good at it. Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee, all that shit."

  Logan frowns. "That's not what I like to hear, Ryan. Simple. I prefer simple. Send in a few of our guys with heavy weapons and take the place out. That's the kind of planning I like to hear."

  "You know they have more guys than us, though. We can't take them all at once. There just isn't a way to do it. So no matter what we did, it would just open up a war. A war we can't win without some kind of edge."

  Logan lets out a breath. "Yeah, I know."

  I know exactly how he feels. I can't blame him for wishing, but we don't have the luxury of wishing any more. It's time to get down to business.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  MAGUIRE

  I lean back in the seat. It's not often that I let someone else drive, but I don't remember the last time I slept, so I'll let Danny handle it. Just this once.

  I open my eyes what feels like a second later, and we're sitting outside of the field office. I look up, tiredness still clinging to my eyes.

  "Did I fall asleep?"

  Danny shrugs. "Only a little."

  "I didn't snore, did I?"

  He shrugs again.

  I don't like it one bit, but I don't have anything to say. I slide out of the car and straighten up. A yawn rockets through me. Surprise.

  He goes through the door first. I go through second, still rubbing at my eyes. We've only got another forty hours until I'll be effectively out of a job, and I don't know how in the fuck we're planning to do any of this.

  Still, with a name on the list, now, I can at least say that we're moving forward. We know who we're looking for, and who we're looking at.

  Scheck is the sort of woman you'd expect to be a gangster's wife. She's the sort of person who might
get a false positive on a lineup because she looked about right and the witness is guessing.

  Well, sometimes appearances can be deceiving.

  Sometimes they aren't, though. Lots of times, you look at someone, you think 'they look like a scumbag,' and they are. It's a fine line between knowing that you're just guessing based on their looks, and remembering that sometimes you guess right.

  This is one of those cases where it's easy to guess right. I swallow hard. This information changes a lot. We can start talking about who's really in charge, now.

  Is she using McCallister's authority? If that were the case, wouldn't Beauchamp have heard about it? She'd have used the old 'well, Brent said…' act. But she didn't, or at least, he didn't hear her do it.

  Which paints a different picture entirely. Whatever happened to Brent McCallister, nobody had any question whether or not he was coming back, or at least no question that he wasn't coming back soon. He was gone, and he was going to stay gone, and that was how it was going to be for them.

  The thought that they might have deposed him crosses my mind. But I know these types. I've been dealing with them since long before I got into the A.T.F.

  I don't know any of them who would have accepted a woman as their leader, right off the bat. Would there have been some kind of fight? Some kind of confirmation? Is there a group of them running the gang now?

  I shake my head. No use speculating. We know that she's got some control, which means that everyone near the top is going to be a close associate of hers. That's our way in.

  I don't need another one, and I sure as hell don't need to sit here and speculate. The lack of sleep is starting to get to me, and I can feel it. I need to get myself under control, and I need to do it now.

  I comb through photos, taking notes. Not every person in every photo is going to mean something. But as I look, rubbing the sleep out of my eyes, a pattern is beginning to emerge.

  Danny brings me a cup. It's hot and I take a sip of it. I'm not a coffee drinker, never have been. He knows that. I drink it anyways, my face twisting up in disgust. How could someone drink something so bitter?