Burning It All: A Hellfire Riders MC Romance (The Motorcycle Clubs Book 16)

by Kati Wilde

  Jack will probably figure all that out. I’m just texting on nerves now. They’re closer.

  I won’t fight. Not until I have to. I’ll keep the cell with me as long as I can.

  On silent, no vibration. I’ll shove it down into my cast and pray they’ll only give it a cursory poke while searching for weapons. They’ll look for a phone, but maybe they’ll think the burner is the only one I have, and won’t look hard for another.

  I’ve got to put this one away soon. Their headlights are glaring through the back window. But there’s one more message I need to send. Just in case I don’t come back.

  I love you, Jack.

  • • •

  Jack

  I love you, Jack.

  The world goes gray. Everything fades around me, as if all that’s bright and warm is sucked out right through my eyes. My knees hit the floor beside Lily’s bed. Her scent fills my head but it’s not her. Just the soap on my wet skin. The sheets.

  Then everything turns fucking red.

  Creek.

  At two in the morning, the bastard sent a message saying the cargo they were picking up wasn’t live. Escorting guns, not girls. But I went and looked for myself. Saw what I needed to see.

  Lily had already left for work when I got back to the house. When her call came in, I was in the shower. Probably stroking my cock while she texted me.

  I love you, Jack.

  I never said it back. I never told her, as if saying the words was like writing in a ledger and making an accounting of how much I might lose. As if by never saying I loved her, that could never be taken away.

  But I won’t be the one who loses everything today.

  I text Stone with one burner and call Creek with the other. He’s riding point on the escort. Eight bikers and four men in a RV heading up Highway 97.

  The rumble of his engine sounds through the headset in his helmet when he answers. “Creek.”

  “You picking up more cargo today?”

  “You have the wrong number.”

  “Fuck if I do.” I’m not sending a message to his goddamn burner and hoping he sees it before this job is done. “Where would they take Lily?”

  A pause. “That’s not our cargo and I haven’t heard anything about a pickup. If she’s being handed over, Daddy or God would give the location. If she’s not, maybe the old kitchen. They won’t take her home.”

  To the Hangmen’s clubhouse. But they might use the Eighty-Eight’s burned-out farm. Otherwise, either Red Eye or Sherlock’s father would tell him where to take her.

  “I’m sorry, man,” he adds. “If I hear—”

  I end the call. If he hasn’t already heard, then he won’t hear. This is Sherlock acting on his own. Because he’s got something to prove.

  My burner rings as I’m dragging on my jeans. Stone, the Riders’ enforcer. I answer it. “You looking for Lily’s phone?”

  “I’ve got someone on it. You heading out to the airfield road?”

  “Now.”

  “Gunner will meet you there. Widowmaker’s calling the others, waking everyone up.”

  “I want a brother watching every road.” I grab my holster, my kutte. “Lock down the whole fucking county. Bikes and vans or SUVs. Get the Coyotes on the horn, cover the roads farther south.”

  “We’ll lock it down, call in every favor we got. We’ll get her back.”

  Yes, we will. And then I’ll fucking breathe again.

  • • •

  Lily

  It’s fucking Valentine and Sherlock at the head of the pack, of course. I look for Creek, hoping to see him, but it takes me only a few seconds to realize that all the Hangmen surrounding my truck are younger ones.

  That’s bad fucking news. Older men can hurt me just as much as younger ones, but there’s a reason our prez almost never allows Riders with fewer than five years under their kutte to sponsor their friends—get too many boys together, and nothing matters except measuring their dicks. I spent five years afraid that if I ever backed down, I’d lose my place. Boys together is like magnifying that fear into one seething and brainless testosterone-filled circle jerk, where each member never wants to look weak in front of the others.

  When that happens, they never put the club first. But I’ve still got to try.

  I have my window rolled down and my hands in plain sight on the steering wheel when Val and Sherlock come up to my door. Sherlock’s wearing a brand-new “President” patch on his shoulder.

  Quietly, I tell him, “I can say that you all stopped to help me change my tires. This doesn’t have to end in a war between our clubs.”

  Sherlock scoffs, his mouth twisting up into a half grin. “No war ever started over a slut. Not when it’s so easy to go pick up a new one.” His greedy little eyes harden. “So get out of the fucking truck.”

  “I don’t know,” Valentine says. He leans in, hand braced on the window frame, his baby blues locked on my face. “I think you ought to give me ten minutes with her in the truck bed, first. For a…rematch. See how she likes being pinned on her back.”

  I won’t fucking puke. I won’t.

  I’m just going to fucking kill them all.

  “We’ve got no time, man,” Sherlock tells him. “And no one touches her. The boss wants a look at her first. If he doesn’t like her, then she’s ours. So get the fuck out, bitch. We’re on a goddamn schedule.”

  Stomach roiling, I open the door and step into the glare of headlights and a dozen stares.

  “Pat her down, man,” Sherlock says.

  Every muscle stiffens as Val starts running his hands over me, tweaking my tits with his fingers, breathing heavy in my face. He finds the burner tucked into the back of my jeans and clucks his tongue. “Naughty girl likes to shove things down her pants.”

  “Fuck off.”

  “Oh, I will. Just gotta make sure there’s nothing else down there first.” His fingers push down the front of my jeans.

  I stare ahead, jaw clenched. He doesn’t shove his fingers into me like I expect. Instead he pulls his hand out of my pants without touching my pussy and moves down, sliding his hands over my thighs.

  “She had a knife in her boot at the fight,” Sherlock reminds him.

  Valentine finds the knife. And the hope inside me sinks when he starts checking the cast. He slips his long fingers down between the brace and my skin, right into the phone.

  He hesitates for an instant. Then keeps going, checking the hems of my jeans.

  “She’s clean,” he says. His eyes are on mine as he gets to his feet.

  He’s still an asshole. Such a fucking asshole. But I could kiss him right now.

  “Then get her into the fucking van,” Sherlock says. “And let’s roll.”

  • • •

  Jack

  The hood of her truck is still warm. I didn’t pass a single fucking car riding out here. But they couldn’t have gone long. Not more than a half hour. So they likely took a side road. That’ll help them hide a little longer, but it’ll also slow them down.

  Gunner’s searching through the truck cab, hoping to find her burner. Maybe she had time to snap a picture, get a license plate.

  “Anything?”

  He shakes his head, looks down the road. “You think they might have headed to the airfield—made her fly them out of here?”

  “I called in. Her boss hasn’t seen anyone but the regulars.” I’ll send one of the brothers there to look around, anyway.

  “Stone got a ping from her phone yet?”

  “No,” I say and rub at my chest. He might not get a fix on her GPS. Out here in the middle of nowhere, there’s a hundred fucking dead zones. And if she’s on a side road, the chances of picking up a signal from her phone are even lower. “The prez and the veep are headed out to the Eighty-Eight’s farm.”

  “You got eyes on the clubhouse?”

  “Yeah.” Two brothers waiting to see if anything other than a bike drives out to the Hangmen’s home. I don’t expect them to se
e anything. Not with the way Sherlock grabbed her and got out so damn fast. Like he’s on a deadline. Which means I’m running out of fucking time.

  My cell buzzes. Stone. My blood’s pounding in my ears as I answer it. “You got something?”

  “A hit on her phone’s GPS. It’s gone again, but she was on Black Butte Road.”

  I’m on my bike before he finishes telling me, firing up the engine. “You know which direction they’re heading?”

  “No. If I get another hit, I’ll know.”

  I look to Gunner. Leaving the house, I only grabbed my holster and extra ammo. “What are you carrying?”

  “Just the .45 I’m packing and some toys in the saddlebags. Two semi-autos, clips, a couple grenades.”

  Not much. But it’ll be enough.

  Just hold on, Lily. We’re coming for you.

  And we’re going to mow the fuckers down.

  • • •

  Lily

  They push me out of the van and I stumble out into the pale morning sun, pain shooting through my ankle. Leaves crunch under my feet. An abandoned farm, it looks like. The house is weathered, the porch sagging and windows broken.

  His gaze on the overgrown lane, Sherlock says to Val, “Get her inside until the boss arrives.”

  Val grabs my elbow, hauls me along. My ankle throbs with every step. A cable tie binds my wrists behind my back, the plastic cutting into my skin.

  A screen door hangs on its hinges. Inside it smells like mold and mice. Quietly I tell him, “Blowback’s coming for me, Val. I’ll tell him you helped me, but you don’t want to be here when he comes.”

  “You won’t be here that long.” He shoves me down into a corner of the room. “And I helped you as much as I can. I don’t like you, Zoomie, but this shit isn’t right.”

  “Shit like raping me in the back of a truck?”

  He grimaces. “I was just going to try getting a few minutes to tell you—” His mouth snaps shut when the screen door creaks open. His voice raises. “Shut the fuck up, bitch. The only time you should be opening your mouth is if you’re asking to suck on my cock.”

  From the doorway, a Hangman says, “They’re coming up the lane. The prez wants us out there to greet him.”

  Leaving me alone…but there’s nowhere to go. I can’t fucking run. Just watch the two black sedans coming toward the house. The boss. Rolling up in an expensive town car, surrounded by muscle dressed in black suits. Jesus. No wonder Sherlock is bowing and scraping. Tall and tanned, with hair slicked back and wearing a bespoke suit, the asshole looks like he bleeds money.

  Red Eye, I’m guessing.

  My stomach crawls into my throat when his goons head into the house, ignoring me as they search the rooms. They’re quiet, efficient. Not just meatheads with brass knuckles. That’s training.

  That’s fucking trouble.

  One of the goons searches me again. He doesn’t grope or poke. And he finds my phone.

  Shit. Shit.

  That’s my only link to Jack. I want to beg him not to take it, but the only sound that comes from my throat is a rough whimper. Fear’s starting to ice up my skin in hair raising shivers. I clench my muscles, lock everything down as the goon heads out on the porch and hands off the phone to Red Eye. His jaw tightens as he glances at it.

  Then he comes in. A fucking snake, smooth and oily. He crouches down in front of me, his gaze on my face. “So you’re the one who took out Croc. You’re just as stunning as they said.”

  Fuck off, I think. But I know a lot better than to say it. So I just stare back at him.

  He looks down at my phone. “Who searched you before?”

  I keep my mouth shut but in the next second I’m tasting sour bile when the goons bring Val into the house, the barrel of a gun pressed up against his throat. His frantic eyes meet mine and I hate him, fucking hate him, but he doesn’t deserve what’s about to come.

  Sherlock hangs back by the door, looking suddenly uneasy. “Everything all right, boss?”

  “We’ll see.” Red Eye taps the screen of my phone. “Your passcode?”

  I don’t care if he knows. There’s nothing on there I need to hide. That’s why we carry around burners. “Eleven thirty-two.”

  “Thank you,” he says and begins poking around. “You know who this man is?”

  “Valentine? Yeah. He’s a fucking asshole.” Not my friend. Not someone who would help me. “I beat him in the ring once and he couldn’t handle it. That’s probably why he’s trying to sell me to you now.”

  “Revenge.”

  “I guess.”

  “Ah.” He pauses, reading something on the screen. “‘I’m off the airfield road. They blew my tires. Must have known my schedule. My money’s on Val, since he can’t keep his fucking mouth shut.’”

  My chest feels like it’s sinking in. “Like I said. He’s just an asshole who sold me out.”

  “Yes.” Red Eye draws in a long breath, as if he’s so fucking weary. “But it’s a problem when people can’t keep their mouths shut. A problem with an easy solution—and a lesson for others. You need to teach your boys that lesson, Sherlock.”

  Fuck. I close my eyes when they start stinging. Such fucking bullshit. This asshole was going to teach them all a lesson whether they found the phone or not. To make sure they always knew the price of crossing him in any way.

  They drag Val outside but I can still hear him pleading. Red Eye cocks his head and listens. He smiles faintly when a pistol cracks and Val goes quiet.

  “There,” he says. “Problem solved. And you, gorgeous girl, are going to be fine. We’ll see you heal that ankle up, grow that hair out. You’ll be well taken care of…as long as you keep winning.”

  “Winning what?” What the hell kind of competition do sex slaves enter? “The Rape Olympics?”

  He grins. “The Cage. You just have to fight.”

  Or die. And hold on. Hold on until Jack finds me.

  Red Eye waves one of the goons over. “You need to take this now, because you probably won’t enjoy your mode of travel. No spitting.”

  A pill. To put me to sleep, most likely. So I can’t see where we’re going…or bring attention to myself as we’re getting there.

  I take the tablet, swallow it dry. I keep quiet as a goon comes back with duct tape and seals my mouth shut.

  Red Eye smiles at me like I’m a good little girl. Just keep thinking that, asshole.

  “Now,” he says and stands with the phone in hand. “Let’s say good-bye to your Jack.”

  • • •

  Jack

  I hit Black Butte Road and don’t know whether to go north or south. Gunner’s just behind me. Two dozen other Riders are heading this way, riding toward Black Butte from all directions, using other side roads. No matter the route these fuckers take, a brother will come across them.

  Reception’s shit. I roll into the road, trying to get a bar or two. There’s nothing out here but cows and barbed wire and trees.

  The phone buzzes in my hand. Lily’s picture pops up on my screen.

  Hoarsely, I answer it. “Lily?”

  “No.” A male voice. Not Sherlock. “I’m sorry to inform you that Lily has been in an accident.”

  My chest fills with cold lead. “Let me speak to her.”

  “That’s impossible, I’m sad to say. She’s dead.”

  Bullshit. “Send a picture.”

  The laugh on the other end of the line blasts away my fear. Rage fills the hollows left, pounding like a burning heartbeat in my ears.

  “Who are you, Jack? I can tell this isn’t your first time playing this game,” he says.

  A game? “Fuck games. Let’s talk an exchange.”

  “Jack. I have everything you want. What could you possibly have left to give?”

  “You let her go,” I tell him. “And I don’t tip off the feds about the Winnebago traveling north on Highway 97.”

  Silence answers me.

  My heart’s thumping through my chest. I
don’t want him to end the call. He’s using Lily’s phone. I need to keep him talking until Stone can see where she is.

  I keep my voice level. “Not interested?”

  “I’m suddenly interested in many things, Jack. But I’ll pass on that deal. If this route is tainted, then that cargo will be lost, eventually. Better to keep the sure thing.”

  “You take her, I swear to you that you’ll lose everything.”

  A smooth chuckle is followed by a sigh. “Her last words were that she loved you. Hold onto that, Jack. In an hour, she’ll be out of your reach. There will be no use looking for her. So, for your sake, you should give up now.”

  “You don’t ever want me to give up looking for her. Because that’s when I’ll come looking for you.”

  My burner vibrates. Stone. With a location for her phone.

  “Good luck,” the bastard responds. “And good-bye, Jack. I’m sorry we couldn’t meet under different circumstances.”

  We’ll be meeting again. Real fucking soon.

  I end the call and look to Gunner. “How far?”

  “Ten miles,” he says.

  Almost ten minutes on these roads. Too damn long. “He said she’d be out of reach in an hour—I figure that’s the airport in Bend. So they must be moving out soon.”

  And they have no fucking idea we’re almost on them. I ride hard, looking ahead through every bend in the road for a sign of them.

  We blow past her on a curve. Not a van or SUV. Two armored cars. California plates.

  Those cars don’t belong to the Hangmen. But they fit the voice on her phone.

  I almost roll my bike on the one-eighty. I see the indecision on Gunner’s face as I ride back past him but I don’t have one fucking doubt. She isn’t where her phone is. She’s in those damn cars.

  He’s on my tail again a minute later. I catch sight of the vehicles and hang back. It’s not going to do any damn good to ride in, guns blazing. Not against armored cars—and not with Lily in one. And we can’t get on their ass. I got a look through the windows as we blew past, and I’m not mistaking the muscle sitting in the front seat of both vehicles. They can use their doors as shields. If we’re too close, they only have to stop and start shooting. They’ll pick us off easy on our bikes.