Dangerous (Nomad Outlaws Trilogy Book 2)

by Tory Richards

  I raised my gun and took aim, shooting at a rider that was far from all of the club windows. He went flying off his bike, and then his bike crashed into a cabin. For the first time the Destroyers looked in our direction, finally realizing that they were caught in the middle. Shouts followed, and then we were being fired upon, too. Within seconds it became a fucking all-out war. The rider that I'd hit didn’t stay down long. One of his brothers had pulled him up behind him. There was blood running down his arm.

  His rescuer made a circular motion with his arm, and then swerved away from the clubhouse. The signal made the rest of his brothers fall into line behind him as they raced away, back down the road to leave the camp grounds. The clubhouse door flew open and Wreckers filed out, red-faced, cursing, shooting at the retreating bikers. One of the Destroyers fell sideways off of his bike and hit a tree. That fucker had to be dead. Another hit the ground and rolled several times before stopping.

  Their brothers continued on without them.

  "Fucking assholes!" someone hollered after them. Several Wreckers ran to the downed Destroyers.

  I left the cover of the tree, making my way to Reaper, aware that Jim and Fury were right behind me. "What the fuck?" I snarled, putting my gun away. The adrenaline was still racing through my blood. "What was that all about?"

  "Fuckers are crazy coming here like that," Reaper snapped, his expression angry.

  "They wanted to make a fucking statement," said his VP, Wolfman.

  Reaper nodded. "Take Raze and Puck, follow them. Bring one back, alive, if you can," Reaper ordered.

  Sirens sounded in the distance.

  Shit. Someone had called the cops.

  "Sure thing, Prez."

  The three men ran to their bikes without question.

  He turned his attention to the brothers who were checking out the downed Destroyers. "Those fucker’s dead?"

  "This one is," Puck responded, standing over the man who'd hit the tree.

  "This one still has some life in him." Moses straightened, giving the man on the ground a hard kick to the side.

  "Get him out of here before the cops arrive," Reaper ordered. "We'll question him later. And remove the dead man's cut and wallet. I don't want the cops identifying him."

  The sirens were moving closer. Moses and Puck picked up the moaning Destroyer and hauled him out of sight somewhere.

  "Any of you hit?" Reaper called out, looking over his standing group of brothers. Head shakes flooded us all with relief. He pinned his eyes on me. "You hit one."

  "Not bad, but his bike is toast." We both glanced in the direction where it had slammed into the cabin, grinning at the wreckage. "They were in and out fast."

  Reaper nodded. "Not the first time we've had a run-in with them, but it's the first time they've had the fucking balls to come to our home." He rubbed his hand across his lower jaw, his eyes moving over his brothers. "Tiger, Rex, roll their bikes out of sight."

  “I can use one until mine is repaired,” Fury snapped. “Shot up the fucking gas tank on mine.”

  "What's their story, brother?"

  "Fuck if I know." Reaper gave me a dark, serious look, followed by a long pause. "They're dead. No one gets this close to our families, shooting the place up without a fucking care about who they hurt. When we go after a club, we plan shit right. We don't hurt families or civilians."

  I knew that.

  The sirens were closer, and then they were there. Three cop cars with flashing lights pulled to a stop in front of the clubhouse. Three doors opened simultaneously, three officers exited their vehicles, their hands automatically going to their side arms. Reaper and I remained standing where we were, making them come to us. Their gazes were nervously zig zagging all over the fucking place, taking in the scene, looking for the reason that they'd been called.

  "Someone phoned in gun shots coming from this direction."

  "And you naturally assumed it was us?" Reaper grinned, not the least bit worried.

  The officer shrugged, his gaze still moving around the area. He was middle aged, short and stubby, and looked like he'd been on the force a long time. His attitude was laid back, telling me that he wasn't one to jump to conclusions. "Maybe you'd like to explain all the fucking bullet holes I'm seeing."

  Laughter sounded.

  "Well, you see, it was like this, sheriff--my brothers and I was inside, minding our own fucking business in our own fucking clubhouse, when someone showed up and just started shooting up the place."

  One of Reaper's brothers snorted.

  "We were lucky none of us were hit," Reaper continued, crossing his arms.

  "The guy over there doesn't look so lucky," said the younger cop. He was already heading toward the body. He was cautious, his gaze darting around as if he expected someone to jump out at him from behind a tree. I was surprised that he hadn't drawn his gun.

  "What happened to him?" The heavy-set officer asked Reaper with a nod in that direction.

  Reaper didn't hesitate or think about his response. "You think we just sat around while our families, our women, were being shot at? We protect what's ours. Not sure, but I think the tree did him in."

  "He's dead!" The cop who'd checked him out was walking back to us, saying something into his radio. I had a feeling that he was calling the coroner. "Looks like he took a bullet to the upper shoulder."

  Reaper had been right.

  "Who shot him?" the third cop, who until then had been walking around the place and scoping shit out, finally spoke up.

  He was about my age, maybe late thirties, and I could tell by his look that he was ex-military. Buzz cut, stiff posture, in control. His gaze moved back and forth between me and Reaper. The other Wreckers, the ones who had stuck around, were just lingering and waiting.

  Reaper shrugged. "Hell, could have been any one of us. They were shooting. We were shooting."

  "They, meaning another gang? How many were there?"

  I watched Reaper tense at the word “gang”, and I had a feeling that the younger cop had used that word on purpose to get a reaction out of the Wreckers’ president. Most MCs took offense when their clubs were called gangs. There was a big difference between a motorcycle club and a gang, and the cops knew that.

  "There were a few of them, don't know how many for sure." He purposely left out the fact that he knew that they were Destroyers. The last thing Reaper wanted was to give the cops a reason to go after another MC, especially one that he wanted to end himself.

  The older cop, Officer Smith, according to his name tag, released a resigned sigh. "I suppose everyone has a permit for their weapon." It wasn't said as a question.

  "You know it," Reaper said with a tight jaw.

  Officer Smith turned his eyes to me. "I don't believe I've seen you around here before. You new to the Wreckers?” He was looking me over, probably for any identifying patches. The only one that I wore revealed that I was a nomad.

  "I get around," I began, offering my hand. "Name's Jace." As a nomad, it paid to be on friendly terms with the law. I never knew how long I'd be in any one place.

  I often found myself on both sides of the law, depending on the type of job that I was hired for. I owned Crawford Security, a business that covered security systems, private investigations, and personal protection. My Uncle Pat, along with his two sons, Adam and Andy, ran the company out of their home in Florida. We had a small crew who went out on the actual jobs. Uncle Pat was confined to a wheelchair, the result of an accident involving a drunk driver. He took care of the business side of things and did a damned good job.

  As for the other half of my business, the one in which I made a shit-ton more money and often handled alone, Uncle Pat would send me the contact number, and I handled the rest. If I needed help I would hire people like Rebel and Moody, as I'd done for a job down in Florida a few months ago. In fact, I'd used them for a lot of jobs, because they were trustworthy and they got shit done the way that I wanted it done.

  When Officer Smith ac
cepted my hand shake it confirmed the feeling that I'd been getting from him. He was working with the Wreckers, and I could count on him for help if I ever needed him. Reaper had told me a long time ago that he had some cops on the payroll, and that if I ever offered my hand and they took it that meant that they were friends. They weren't bad cops, just cops who were more lenient with the club and willing to overlook certain things. Of course, they weren't obvious about it. They couldn't afford to be.

  "You here for the shooting?" he asked me.

  "Yep." I made it a point not to say too much when talking to anyone from law enforcement. You could get into trouble that way. If he wanted to know something, he'd ask.

  He nodded before turning his attention to the military-like cop who'd returned to walking the area. "You find anything?"

  He shook his head. "Just a bunch of shells." He kicked at something in the soft dirt. "Some blood." He glanced up. "Unless it belongs to the dead man, someone else could have gotten shot."

  "Want me to call forensics?"

  Officer Smith stared at the younger cop for a minute. I could tell his mind was working things out. "I'll take care of it. You can take off now. Donavan and I will handle it from here."

  The expression of the younger cop revealed that he hadn't been expecting to be dismissed. Eventually, though, he nodded and headed for his squad car.

  I looked at Reaper. I wondered if Donavan was also on the payroll. The smirk on his face told me that he knew what I was thinking. He glanced over at his brothers, giving a nod for them to get lost. They did so without question or hesitation.

  Just as the police car was driving away, the medical examiner's van showed up. They got out and went straight to the body. Smith gave Donavan a look and motioned toward the medical examiner’s team, a clear indication that he wanted him to deal with them. As he took the hint and walked off, Smith turned his eyes back on us.

  "If the tree didn't kill him, we'll be back. Until then, I'll write this up as a justifiable ‘stand your ground.’ "

  I snorted. New York's ‘stand your ground’ law was weak. It required that you retreat from your attackers. Hard to do when you're trapped and have nowhere to go, as the Wreckers had been in their clubhouse. I had a feeling, though, that Smith knew how to write a report to spin the incident in a way that would not invite questions. It didn’t surprise me that he wasn’t being more thorough in his investigation of what went down. Most cops that I knew who were on an MC’s payroll didn’t want to know the full details of an incident.

  "If you find out who attacked your club, be sure and contact us so we can follow-up."

  "I'll be sure to do that," Reaper replied.

  It was obvious that there was an understanding that neither one meant what they'd said.

  We watched silently as both cops headed to their cars and drove away. The medical examiner's van was close behind them. I gave a chuckle, drawing Reaper's watchful scrutiny. "All he has to do is question some of the civilians staying in the camp, and he'll have his answers."

  Reaper nodded, agreeing, but said, "He won't. He doesn't want to know the truth because then it would complicate shit. Smith likes to keep things simple. He knows what went down here, and he knows we'll deal with it in our own way. As long as no civilians are hurt, he really doesn't give a shit if two outlaw clubs kill each other off."

  "I thought as much, but what about Donavan? He on the payroll, too?"

  He released a deep breath. "Yeah, most of them are. Except for the newbie's who are out to make a name for themselves by taking down an outlaw MC. Eventually they'll come over to our side for the money. Plus, they see what we do for the town and the surrounding areas on Lake George. They like that we do charity runs and donate to the town. If we go away, so does their extra revenue. We contributed a large chunk to the town for so-called beautification last year."

  I knew that to be true. It was the same everywhere I went, though not all cops took bribes to turn a blind eye to club activities. The ones who did made life a lot easier for us. There was a line, though, to what they could ignore, killing being at the top of the list. They'd barely asked questions, hadn't looked around, other than a quick onceover outside. They hadn't confiscated guns, taken statements from anyone, or taken any pictures. It wouldn't surprise me if they didn't come back later.

  The Wreckers must be paying them well.

  Chapter 6

  Luna

  I was going to be sick, I was shaking so badly. After Jace, Fury, and Jim took off, Casey and I remained on the floor for a few minutes, breathing hard and too afraid to move. We stared at each other and listened to the rapid sound of gunfire that could be heard down the road at the Wreckers' clubhouse. I cringed every time that a shot rang out, fearing in my mind that somehow the bullets would reach us. I'd never been shot at before.

  I was also worried for Jim, Fury, and Jace.

  "Are you going to be okay?" Casey asked me from across the room. There was genuine concern in her voice. She didn't appear to be as frightened as I was.

  Would I be okay? I laughed nervously. "Just give me a few minutes to digest what's happening," I explained. "What do you think is happening?"

  "It's a rival club thing. For whatever reason the Destroyers decided it was a good idea to come here and attack the Wreckers, which is never done. I mean, their clubhouse is at the end of a dead-end road. Either the Destroyers are that stupid, or they actually thought they could take the Wreckers out."

  "I don't know anything about MCs."

  A soft laugh escaped Casey. "Neither did I until I got involved with Jim. He explained what life is like in a biker's club. It's a hard, dangerous way of living, but the idea behind it is that they live the way they want to, and not the way society dictates. They have their own bylaws."

  "So they are criminals."

  "Don't let them hear you say that. Jim doesn't tell me everything that goes on, he's not allowed to, but he’s told me enough for me to know what I was getting into if he made me his old lady."

  I'd heard that expression before. "So you're just dating right now?"

  "I guess that's what you can call it." She thought for a minute. "Making someone your old lady is a big deal to these men. It's not done lightly, and I guess Jim wants to be sure of his feelings for me."

  I saw the disappointment in her eyes and gave her a sympathetic smile. "Do you think it's safe to get up now?" Just as the last word slipped from my mouth, the sound of bikes could be heard coming our way. We kept our eyes locked, listening with relief as they continued past the trailer. I think we both released a deep sigh of relief.

  "I think it's safe now."

  Minutes passed without the sounds of shooting. I moved to my feet as Casey did, picking up my half-eaten plate of lasagna, too. I was no longer hungry. As I set my plate on the counter, we heard the sound of more bikes approaching, and I stood frozen in fear that the Destroyers had come back. Casey glanced out the window.

  "Relax, honey, it's some of the Wreckers. They must be following the Destroyers." She turned back to me with a smile. "They're not about to let a rival club come in here and shoot the place up without retribution."

  "So what, now they'll go to the other club and shoot them up? Sounds like a bunch of boys who never grew up."

  Casey laughed. "Some would say that. But be careful, Luna, they aren't playing. They take their clubs and their laws seriously. You don't want to be on the bad side of an outlaw MC." We heard the sound of police cars whizzing by in the opposite direction, their lights flashing and sirens blaring. "Someone called the police."

  "Do you think anyone was hurt?" My mind went to Jace and his big, muscular body. It was hard to imagine that something as small as a bullet could take him down easily.

  Casey shrugged. "I guess we'll know soon enough." She began cleaning up. "I'm sorry dinner was ruined."

  I forced a smile. "It's not your fault, honey. We can do it again."

  "Minus the gunfire," Casey joked. We both laughed, though t
here was little humor in it. It was more of a nervous kind of laughter to calm the inner turmoil that remained. She covered what was left of the lasagna with foil and slipped it into her fridge. I snatched up a small piece of garlic bread and began to munch on it. "Well, I guess that explains whether anyone was hurt," she said, and I turned to look in the direction that she was nodding towards to see the medical examiner's van drive by.

  "Oh, no!" I gasped loudly. The bread was halfway to my mouth when I set it down. A sick feeling came over me. I walked to the door and stared through the screen at the trail of dust that was left behind. The medical examiner wouldn't have been called to the scene if someone hadn't been killed.

  What if Jace had been killed? And why did I care so much? I didn't even know the man. It infuriated me that he occupied my mind as much as he did. I had no business wanting another man. It was too soon. Only…only I hadn't thought I'd ever meet another man who could make me so hungry, so aware of myself as a woman. I thought Seth had ruined me for other men. But obviously my libido was strong enough to overshadow his abuse.

  "Honey?"

  I blinked, bringing myself back to the present. I turned back to her, where she was standing in the kitchen. "Yeah?"

  "It's one of theirs," she said with obvious relief in her voice. "Jim just texted me so that we wouldn't worry." So that Casey wouldn't worry. He had no reason to think that she was worried about Jace. I was thankful that he'd gotten in touch with her, though.

  A Destroyer had been killed. I wondered what that meant for the Wreckers. "I suppose someone is going to jail."

  "Probably." Her tone wasn’t very convincing. "Hey, what are you doing Friday night?" She began wrapping up the garlic bread.

  "I'll have to check my social calendar," I joked. We both laughed, because other than swimming in the lake and hanging out with some of the campers, there was really nothing to do.

  "Well, if you're not busy, go to a party with me." She put the bread into the fridge and turned around with two beers in her hands. "The Wreckers have a party every Friday and Saturday night at their clubhouse. I've been a few times, they're a lot of fun. And it breaks up the monotony of this boring place."