Lone Star (Dartmoor Book 7)

by Lauren Gilley

  “Fox told us to follow them – not to kill them.”

  “He should have sent someone else, then,” Ten said, voice toneless, now. He gestured toward the still-cowering, sniveling man with his gun, a half-hearted flick of one wrist.

  “There wasn’t anyone else,” Reese said. He could hear his own voice, low and flat – his usual voice. He had control again; felt right, now, reasonable, able to think through the situation. “We’re weapons,” he said, remembering being told that, years ago. “We’re tools. We’re for getting jobs done. Candy needs to know who’s killing civilians. No one’s told us to kill yet.”

  Ten breathed harshly through his nose, the sound of each breath an audible rush. His gaze flicked to his would-be victim, and back to Reese.

  He’s scared, Reese thought. “Do the job,” he said, and felt almost sorry, almost gentle.

  Ten stared at him a long, tense moment, just breathing. Then he holstered his gun and turned. Went over to the woman, and crouched down beside her. “She’s alive,” he said, after he’d felt for a pulse, voice back to crisp efficiency. “We can’t transport either of them on the bikes.”

  Reese nodded, something like approval easing the last of the tension in his chest. “I’ll call Fox.”

  Twenty-Nine

  Cars rolled up. Two black Mercedes sedans, followed by a boxy black van, all with tinted windows, all jumping the drain at the curb and entering the lot behind the garage with sinister purpose.

  The mechanics smoking out back all lifted their heads, posture stiffening. Their huddle dispersed; they stepped back at least five paces, giving the cars and van a wide berth. Dropped their cigarettes to the pavement.

  “Shit,” Michelle said, pulse leaping. She knew fear and deference when she saw it.

  Axelle leaned in front of her to pop the glove box, and came out with a set of binoculars that she pressed to her face just as the car doors opened. “Latin guys,” she said, “wearing all black.” She passed the binoculars over and Michelle checked for herself.

  She counted seven men total – the van hadn’t opened yet – all of them between twenty and forty, she guessed, mid-sized guys in black jeans, black shirts, a few sporting chains she thought were real gold, heavy cross pendants winking in the sunlight.

  She spotted two white guys, big, muscled-up thugs, their arms bared to show off biceps like hams. She felt her brows go up in surprise.

  One of them opened a rear door on the lead Mercedes, and the man who climbed out, adjusting the buttons on his shirt cuff, was the sort who reeked of money.

  Young, slim, clothes – a silk long-sleeved button-up over fitted white slacks and mirror-shiny loafers – all tailored and molded perfectly to his trim physique. A long, prominent, straight nose, and full lips; Ray-Bans hid his eyes, but the dramatic arch of his brows told her they were lovely. He wore his long, silky hair pulled back in a bun, a few loose tendrils framing his sharp face. Diamonds caught the light at his ears, and on the cross he wore. When he reached to smooth a hand along the crown of his head, she saw a matte black watch that cost more than her car. He belonged on a yacht somewhere, sipping Cristal. On the upper balcony of a Mexican villa, one of those glorious, sprawling white stucco affairs with infinity pools shaded by manicured palms, overlooking white sand beaches.

  But he was being escorted up to the back of an industrial auto shop, so she was leaning toward cartel boss rather than international playboy.

  “Damn, it’s them.”

  “The cartel?” Axelle asked. “What do we do?”

  That was a damn good question.

  ~*~

  To Eden, the shouting in the back sounded like a warning. A last scramble before something went to shit. She whirled to search for the receptionist, and found the girl struggling to stuff her laptop into a bag, shaking terribly, eyes wild. Trying to grab her things and get the hell out.

  Eden lunged toward the counter.

  The girl squealed and tried to bolt.

  But she wasn’t willing to drop her bag, and that slowed her. Eden snagged her wrist and gripped tight, pinning it down to the counter. “What’s happening?” she demanded.

  “Shit, stop, please,” the girl panted, face blanched white. “I have to go! They’re coming!”

  “Who’s coming?”

  The shouting had given way to loud, what sounded like forced laughter. Greetings and welcomes and beneath that a low, smooth, lightly-accented voice that left the girl shuddering hard.

  “Who?” Eden repeated. “Tell me and I can help you.”

  Footfalls – many steps – drew closer, echoing off the concrete and steel of the workshop.

  “Is it the cartel?”

  The girl finally jerked a nod, her lips trembling.

  “Come on.” Eden all but hauled her over the counter – she didn’t weigh a thing – and then shoved her down to the ground beneath it. “What’s your name?”

  “G-Gwen.” Her teeth were chattering with nerves.

  “Gwen, I’m Eden. When I tell you to, run out that front door and get as far away from here as you can, okay?”

  Gwen swallowed, and nodded, tears bright in her eyes.

  Eden pulled her gun. Above and behind her, she could hear that the entourage – because that’s what it was, no doubt – was heading for the office – where Jinx was all alone with a Chupacabra ally, and about to be face-to-face with the real thing.

  She had a moment to think about the smart option – the selfish but far safer urge to go bolting out the door with Gwen and wait for backup. Maybe try to go around the side of the building, and search for a window, a rear door that would give her the drop on somebody.

  But stubborn pride wouldn’t let her abandon someone – even if he was a surly biker she’d just met.

  “Christ,” she muttered, and crawled down the length of the counter toward the office.

  ~*~

  Carlos shot to his feet, still clutching the walkie with one hand, groping at the air with the other, eyes frantic as a spooked horse’s.

  Jinx tensed all over, but he didn’t stand, not yet. He wanted to – wanted to be on his feet and away – but as the knob turned, and the door opened, he knew that moving was the most likely thing to get him shot. He gripped the flimsy metal arms of the chair and kept his face neutral.

  A big, thick-necked white guy in a muscle shirt entered first, stone-faced. Hired goon, Jinx knew, immediately. Two well-dressed Latino men with visible guns on their hips came next, gazes shifting around the room, searching for threats. They clocked Jinx, but didn’t stare fixedly; took up casual positions against the filing cabinets. Unbothered, at ease.

  There was no mistaking the young man who waltzed in next. Dressed just flashy enough to show off his wealth, but not to be garish, with his sleek black hair and his shades and the rocks in his earlobes: this was the man in charge.

  He took up a position at the corner of the desk, totally at ease, unruffled. He slowly pushed his shades up onto his forehead, revealing dark, intelligent eyes fringed with long lashes.

  He looked first to Carlos, gaze hooded, mouth twitching with obvious distaste. A look that sent Carlos stepping back and bumping into a shelf. “This is him?” he asked, tipping his head a fraction toward Jinx.

  “Sí. The Lean Dog.”

  The young man’s head turned, then, a slow movement, followed by a slow, deliberate blink, as he raked an indifferent gaze over Jinx, from undercut to boot toes and back again. “Hmm. Dog indeed.”

  “Not for long,” Jinx said.

  A beat passed before a smile stole across the guy’s face, teeth straight and bright white. “You think you can lie to me. That’s cute.”

  “I’m not lying,” Jinx said through his teeth, and called on every bit of stern sincerity he’d ever possessed. “The Dogs won’t be able to hold together when your people set up shop. I don’t want to be part of a failing club.”

  “My people?” His brows went up. “You think you know who my people are?” Still s
miling, helplessly amused.

  His boys in black adjusted their stances; straightening their chains, checking their nails, making a show of looking bored.

  Jinx kicked his chin up. “I think they’re the ones about to take over Amarillo.”

  The boss chuckled, smile widening, eyes crinkling at the corners. “What’s your name, perro?”

  “Jinx.”

  He lifted a manicured hand and splayed it across his heart. “I’m Luis. And these” – a gesture to the others – “are my father’s people. This is his business. I’m only a poor soldier.”

  “Poor’s not the word I’d use,” Jinx said.

  Another laugh, light and easy. But Luis’s gaze sharpened. “Not as poor as you, probably. Look at you, you spent so much on your tattoos you can’t even afford a shirt with sleeves.”

  His thugs sniggered.

  “And your club has left you so bereft of soul that you come crawling to me, begging on your belly for scraps, just like the Dog you are.”

  Oh. That didn’t sound…

  “Do you know what I think?” Luis said, pacing slowly forward down the width of the desk, drawing closer. Behind him, his hired muscle stood with hands clasped in front of them, gazes shark-flat, ready for violence. “I think what your club needs is an exorcism. To have all the dark spirits driven out by a man of the Cloth.” He laughed again, low and vicious this time. “If you’ll beg for me, maybe you’ll get on your knees and pray for the Holy Father–”

  The window behind Jinx shattered.

  He didn’t care who’d provided the distraction, or why, but he was going to take it. He threw himself backward in his chair, tipping it over, curling up tight so he hit the floor on his shoulder, head protected. Sharp bits of broken glass bit at his bare arms, the pain little bright sparks, but he scrambled up onto his knees and drew his gun.

  Overhead, someone shouted angrily in Spanish. He glimpsed feet shuffling as the two big goons shoved Luis behind them, shielding him. Someone let out a frightened yell – it sounded like Carlos.

  He heard the crack-crack-crack of gunshots. Glass rained down on the back of his neck, and one of the Chupacabras in black fell back against the cabinets with a shout.

  The window ledge was low, and right there. He swiped at the jagged glass teeth along the frame with his gun, and then dove through, pulling the blinds down with him and not giving a damn. He landed at Eden’s feet: braced apart, her gun raised and held expertly in both hands as she fired through the window and into the office.

  “Bloody get on your feet!” she hissed. “We’ve got about two seconds before the rest of their boys come over this counter at me.”

  If they survived this, he’d have time later to feel embarrassed about the fact that a woman had saved his ass, but right now, he was only grateful. He scrambled to his feet, untangling his arm from the blinds as he went.

  After her next shot, Eden’s slide kicked open: she was out of ammo. “Shit,” she muttered as she ejected it.

  “Go, I’ve got a full mag,” he told her.

  She didn’t hesitate. Jinx ran backward, cracking off a few shots of his own. On the other side of the counter, he saw men running toward them, guns in their hands.

  “Get low,” he shouted, and ducked down himself, running crouched over.

  A shot pinged off the linoleum just to his left.

  He heard a high, feminine scream, and thought it couldn’t be Eden.

  It wasn’t. Eden had the receptionist by the arm, one hand on the back of her head, forcing her low, shoving her toward the door.

  “Go, go,” she chanted, and the girl was going, leading the way toward the door.

  Behind them: curses, some in English, some in Spanish; the thunder of running feet, squeak of shoe soles.

  Another chunk of floor exploded.

  The receptionist pushed open the door, Eden shoved her through, Jinx followed–

  And his leg caught fire. Down low, right in the meat of his calf. An awful, sharp, bee-sting pain that took his breath. He’d been shot before, but only grazed. This hit rattled his bones.

  He staggered across the threshold and out onto the sidewalk.

  Eden turned, expression tight with well-channeled nerves, and swore when she saw him. “Where are you hit?”

  “Leg,” he said through his teeth. The pain was surging upward in waves. He felt the hot wetness of blood running down into his sock, already filling his boot. His vision swam, in and out, edged with black spots. Shit, he couldn’t pass out, not now, not from a fucking leg wound.

  “We have to go.” She snapped a fresh mag into her gun.

  “I know.” But he took only two hobbled steps before he nearly buckled.

  “Jesus Christ, this can’t be happening,” Eden muttered, but she came and put herself right under his arm on his bad side, her free arm around his waist. “Lean on me. Move, man.”

  The receptionist stood in front of them, clutching a satchel to her chest, lost and terrified, tears running in black mascara streaks down her face.

  “Gwen, you have to run,” Eden said, starting to sound desperate. “I can’t–”

  A car roared around the corner, and skidded to a halt in front of them.

  Jinx’s vision was taking another swim, but Eden said, “Oh, Axe, thank God.”

  He leaned harder on Eden than he wanted to, and they lurched their way up to the car. The passenger door popped open, and Michelle got out – what are you doing?! – but she had to, because the car was a fucking coupe, and they had to flop the front seat. Jesus. She had a gun in her hand, though – good girl.

  “Let’s go, let’s go,” she said, her gaze on the building behind them. “Who’s this?”

  The receptionist was still with them.

  “Put her in the car,” Eden barked.

  They reached the curb after an eternity.

  “Where’s he hit?” Michelle asked, and he caught a glimpse of the worry on her face – a hard, soldier’s worry, not the panic of a civilian. A lot of the time, he didn’t think Candy deserved her, even if that was uncharitable toward his friend.

  “Leg,” Eden said.

  The pain spiked so sharply his vision whited out as he half-crawled, and was half-pushed into the backseat. He cursed and scrabbled to keep hold of consciousness.

  “Hey, don’t drip blood on the leather,” he heard Axelle say.

  “Oh my God,” the receptionist, already inside and pressed to the far door, whispered, a low, panicked chant over and over.

  He heard gunshots: that was Michelle returning fire.

  Eden tromped all over his leg as she climbed in, and this time, he was going to pass out. His last thought, before the darkness overtook him, was regret that he’d been so damn useless.

  ~*~

  Axelle had her foot on the gas before Michelle had her door shut. By the time the latch clicked into place, as Michelle was opening her mouth to say, “Go!” Axe was already gunning it.

  The tires screeched when they grabbed pavement, but they were new, and they did grab. The GTO spun out in a wide arc, and then launched like a rocket, engine roaring.

  She’d spent the last ten minutes quietly terrified, hearing gunshots ring out inside the garage, heart pounding as she worried about Eden, worried about the biker queen in the seat beside her. She badly didn’t want to have to tell an MC president that she’d gotten his pregnant old lady killed.

  But now that she was driving, the GTO’s familiar vibrations shuddering through her bones, she’d slipped into that zone of perfect calm. She felt like a surgeon: precise, expert, balanced. Her pulse had slowed, her breathing evened, and she felt damn-near invincible.

  She swung them into the short driveway of the garage, racing for the street.

  “Car coming up on the right,” Michelle warned.

  “I see it.” One of the black Mercedes that had pulled up behind the garage. Sleek, and powerful, but it didn’t have the jump on her.

  She did a fast check for traffic on
the road – and it was a busy one, in this industrial section of town – and spotted cars coming from both directions. She had time, though; cranked the wheel and floored it.

  “Shit,” Michelle whispered.

  The girl with pink and green-tipped hair let out a quiet shriek in the back.

  “It’s fine,” Axelle said, like she would have to a scared animal. “It’s fine, it’s fine.”

  The GTO slid neatly out onto the road, and she accelerated away from the car behind them.

  The Mercedes, though, had come at the road from a tricky angle, trying to rear-end her. She saw the impending crash in a quick glance at the rearview mirror. The Mercedes slammed into the car behind them, an ugly crumpling of hoods and fenders. She heard the awful crunch of it; a horn got stuck, blaring shrilly.

  She kept going, eyes on the road.

  “Oh my God,” the girl said again, twisting around to look at the back window.

  “Hey, what’s your name?” Axelle asked. When she didn’t get an answer: “Girl with the hair. What’s your name?” She pressed the gas and crossed the double-yellow line to leap-frog around the slow car in front of them. An oncoming dump truck laid on the horn, and she slid neatly back into place just before the truck rushed past, the wind coming off its top rocking the GTO side-to-side.

  “This is Gwen,” Eden said. She was sitting mostly on top of Jinx, Axelle saw with another mirror check – he was passed out – and fiddling with her gun, checking the magazine. “Gwen, meet Axelle and Michelle.”

  “We’ve got a tail,” Michelle said. She held her own gun on her lap, grip white-knuckled despite the calmness of her tone.

  Another mirror check revealed the cool blue headlights of the second Mercedes, two cars back, but already trying to pass one.

  “I see ‘em.”

  There was a Dairy Queen up ahead on the left, with cars clogging the parking lot – but a clear lane through the drive-through.

  “Hold on.”

  Axelle cut the wheel hard, and steered through a tight gap between the two oncoming cars. The second one laid on the horn, and she caught a glimpse of the driver’s big-eyed, furious face before she slipped up the exit ramp of the drive-through and hit the gas again. The GTO gave a low, glad growl that echoed off the brick of the building and the retaining wall that hemmed in the drive-through.