by Amo Jones
O Come, All Ye Sinners
A Dark MC Christmas Anthology
Cover by Simply Defined Art
Formatting by Champagne Book Design
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License Notes
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This book is a work of fiction. Any similarities to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Thunderstruck
Copyright ©2018 MariaLisa deMora
Edited by Hot Tree Editing.
Out of Sight
Copyright © 2018 Giana Darling
Edited by Ellie McLove
Hellraiser’s Reckoning
Copyright © 2018 Amo Jones
Hollow Heart
Copyright © 2018 Anne Malcom
Long Time Coming
Copyright © 2018 Chantal Fernando
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Thunderstruck by MariaLisa deMora
Synopsis
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Out of Sight by Giana Darling
Dedication
Epigraph
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
About Giana Darling
Hellraiser's Reckoning by Amo Jones
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Hollow Heart by Anne Malcom
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
About the Author
Other Books
Long Time Coming by Chantal Fernando
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Epilogue
On the fifth day of Christmas, MariaLisa deMora gave to me…
One plea for mercy
Two bodies writhing
Three clues to find her
Four reasons to love him
Five allies to save her
And a man determined to get his life back…
Wildman learned a long time ago that it wasn’t healthy for a man to trust. Trust led to a false confidence, and that could get a body killed. Only the mercy he’d earned would determine if that ending came quick, or slow. Brothers and the brotherhood of the club were his only allies.
Wildman
Hands grappled for a hold on his arms, strong fingers digging in, blunt nails leaving furrows of red behind. Wildman dropped to a knee and countered, willing to risk a bite as he yanked hard on the jaw of the man in front of him. He pulled and twisted, dislocating it with a sickening snap and leaving it wobbling in the wake of the man’s screams. A figure approached from the side and he burst from the crouch and used the top of his head to blast that assailant’s nose flat on one cheek, the flowing blood black in the shadows.
Another came at him from the side and he met them halfway, tucked his shoulder low, hefting the body high into the air before he yanked it down across his lifted knee. The crunch of bone resonated through him, and he twisted the man’s head around until his neck popped and bulged obscenely, dropping the still-twitching body to the shell and gravel driveway. When there were no immediate threats, Wildman took a moment to glance around.
His old mentor Po’Boy was in the middle of three men, but he was the one holding them there, which told Wildman he was not only doing fine, he was likely enjoying himself. Twisted straddled a man to the side, his president’s fists pounding the face to an unrecognizable mass of flesh and bone. Get him, man.
Four more individual skirmishes, four more wins for his brothers and friends.
Tonight the Incoherent MC had taken on an advance guard of the Mexican cartel that had been trying to horn in on their IMC territory, something that had been locked down and undisputed for decades. This had been planned as a preemptive strike alongside their allies in the Caddo Hobos MC, and one that looked entirely successful. Tonight, the cartel hopefully relearned the lesson that the IMC and CoBos didn’t give a shit what the motherfuckers wanted, and were entirely willing to pay in red if needed.
A sound from behind him had him spinning around in a crouch, scanning the area close to him. They were in a trucking company’s compound outside Baton Rouge, and until the first gunshots had ripped through the air not five minutes ago, the night had been riddled with bullfrog cries ahead of the approaching storm. Lightning played along the edges of the rolling clouds overhead, occasional bright flashes bringing everything into a stark focus.
It was one of those bursts of light that gave him his first glimpse of her.
The vent in the rear door of a trailer parked nearby was open, wired that way so it would take a fuckton of intent to close it. That ain’t right. The sounds of the fight faded to the background as thunder crashed, the accompanying flash highlighting the woman’s face behind the mesh, the single eye he could see wide and frightened—and staring straight at him.
The next lightning flash showed an empty hole.
He shook his head. There was more than one reason for a person to be stowed away inside a truck trailer, but in this case, given the owners of this company were the dirtbags currently breathing their last in the haze of dust floating through the air around him, Wildman was confident whatever this woman was, the one thing she wasn’t was a terrorist.
He ducked low and ran to the side of the trailer, dragging his piece from where it dug into his waist. An odor of unwashed bodies hit him, sweat and shit, and so much goddamned fear. The air reeked of it, something he was far too familiar with. Nope, not a foreign terrorist or one of the mules the cartel uses, she’s here involuntarily. There was a murmur of conversation from inside, quickly silenced. And not alone. At the back of the trailer, he scanned the lot again, seeing only friendly members still on their feet.
Lifting a hand overhead, he waggled his pistol side to side as he gave off a soft whistle similar to a dove, gratified when Po’Boy’s head immediately lifted and turned his way. With a single powerful blow, the man finished off the enemy he’d been holding upright with a fist around his throat. Then Po’Boy gave his own whistle and came Wildman’s direction, bringing three additional men with him.
Wildman met him at the doors, hand already on the latch. Under his breath, he shared what he knew. “At least one wom
an, from the smell an unwilling guest of our friends.”
Po’Boy nodded and stepped back, bringing out his gun while the rest of the men moved so they formed a deadly arc of iron and bone. My brothers. Same patch or not, he felt the same about every man here. With a brusque nod, Wildman turned back to the trailer.
The latch moved quietly under his hand and he drew a hard breath, holding it as he lifted and pulled in the same movement, throwing both doors wide. Silence greeted him, the shadows far at the front of the trailer holding their secrets. Clothing and blankets scattered the floor he could see; a large rat sat on its haunches and stared at him with black eyes before scampering towards a drain hole.
Stepping back a half stride, he lunged forwards and jumped, feet landing on the edge of the door as he pushed upright, feeling exposed as he made himself a target. Lightning flashed behind him, eliminating the shadows, and he saw a cluster of milling bodies where darkness had been, the faces turned towards him showing a mix of emotions that ran the gamut from angry to terrified.
As he walked forwards, thunder and lightning picked up the pace, blasting them with a series of strobing flashes and bone-rattling booms. He watched, mesmerized, as one body broke away from the cluster of what could only be captives, women, most appearing worn and exhausted, ill-fitting clothing tattered and stained.
She walked towards him, hips swaying side to side with deliberate movements. As she neared him, her arms lifted from her sides so they were outstretched, as if she intended to herd him from the trailer. Every twist of muscle seemed planned, choreographed into a dance of deflection, seduction, and her use of her beauty to protect the other women nearly took his legs out from under him, imagining what she might have been subjected to.
It was the face he’d seen through the vent, the siren call that had pulled him in here. Unlike the other women, she’d tamed her hair into a long braid that hung down her back. She was dirty and bruised, dark circles on her neck mapping out the latest abuse she’d suffered.
Chin lifted defiantly, she glared at him and another flash of light exposed her piercing grey eyes. Under the dirt, behind the blood pooled in marks under her skin, there was a beauty like he’d never seen. The symmetry of her features was poetry; her mouth, even twisted in anger, was the perfect mix of arches and curves. Her body was lush, breasts straining at the tight man’s undershirt she wore, hips flaring from a waist he could span with both hands, ass round and taut. Jesus, what the fuck is she doing here? Why?
“You speak English?” The women were all Caucasian, but that didn’t mean American. Wildman took a step forwards, looking past her. The clacking of her teeth brought his attention back to the brunette. “What the fuck, woman. I’m not the enemy here. Do you speak English? Any of you?”
They met in the center of the space, and wordlessly she folded to her knees. “Yes, we all speak English.” The accent wasn’t local, but it sounded like it was her native language, and he nodded. At least they wouldn’t have to try and figure out how to repatriate foreigners. Cartel being as they were, with the widely-scattered connections they boasted, these women could have been from anywhere, brought here as sex workers.
As if she read his mind, her lips pursed and she reached for him. He gritted his teeth because damn if his cock wasn’t waking up to say hello, not giving a shit if what she offered was coerced or not. If she wanted to suck him off with an audience in the middle of a growing thunderstorm, his dick was entirely on board with the program. Fuck man, that ain’t like me. He might not mind hitting club pussy at a party, but that was just getting off. For intimacy, he’d always gone private, getting lost inside the act for however long the woman would let him.
He reclaimed the space he’d given up, taking a long step backwards, moving away as quickly as he could from her clever fingers. That ain’t who I am, lady. She stared up at him, and the anger in her gaze raised a chill up his spine.
Softly, she said, “I’m offering. You don’t have to take from them. Mercy, please. They’ve been through enough.” She swallowed hard, the muscles in her neck moving, and he focused on the bruises there. Fingertips had made those oval marks, which meant someone had choked her hard. He looked closer and saw the healing splits in her lips, the dark smears of old blood on her temple. “I won’t fight,” she promised softly. Then, blinking fast, she struggled for a minute and finally got out, “Unless that’s what you want.”
“Jesus.” Wildman shook his head. “No, no. That’s not why I’m here. You speak English, that’s good, because my Russian is the suck.” He gestured behind him without turning around. “I guess we’re rescuing you.” It didn’t matter what she thought she needed to give him; as far as he was concerned, she was an innocent in their war against the cartel. “You don’t have to do that, darlin’. Come on, get up.”
“You’re not part of them?” He had no doubt who she referred to.
“Not even a bit of it. They’re assholes and serve their best purpose as worm food.” A cough behind him had him backtracking. “So, yeah. We’ve cleared them out. You’re all free, I guess. You got places to go?”
“We all have families, and names.” She stared at him. “You’re letting us go?”
“Yeah,” he said, reaching down slowly, gratified when she didn’t flinch away. “Don’t bite me.”
He helped her to her feet and took a step towards the side of the trailer when it shifted. The mass of women stirred restlessly, and he glanced around to see both Po’Boy and Twisted standing in the opening. Lightning flashed, outlining them in brilliant light, and he looked back to see the women all staring at the new men. Except the one who still had hold of his hand, standing in front of him, so close he could feel the heat from her body. That woman, the one he’d lifted from her knees, had eyes only for him.
“What the fuck do you think we’re supposed to do with eleven abducted women?” Po’Boy’s anger was evident, and aimed directly at Wildman. “Huh? What do you think we’re gonna do with that much bullshit? We can’t keep ’em, man. That’s…there’s no reason not to just take them to some fuckin’ mall somewhere and dump their asses out. The less they know about us, the better, but here you are sayin’ we need to take them back to the IMC house? Y’all’s clubhouse? Fuck, brother, did you hit your head?”
Po’Boy took a breath and Wildman chose that moment to interrupt, because once the man was on a roll, he was hard to redirect, and a body had to take opportunities where they were given. “You see how many men there were when we got here?” Po’Boy stiffened and glared at him. He sighed and turned to Twisted, hoping for a more level-headed approach. “Did you? I did. Nearly two dozen.” Sweeping an arm behind him, he indicated the bodies stacked to one side like cordwood. “We’re missing six or so, and that means we’ve got some cleanup yet to do. It’s bad enough we didn’t fully contain the shit, but if we compound it by turning the women loose, we’ll be fighting against LEO to find those runners.”
“Why do you say that?” Twisted’s voice was deceptively calm, but looking at him, Wildman could see the anger raging right underneath that lie.
“We take the women to the mall like Po’Boy wants, what are they gonna do? Call home, that’s what. They call home, you think their loved ones aren’t gonna wanna know where they been? Between us and the CoBos, we control everything right now, but we turn them loose, we’ll have a media shitstorm on our hands.” He put his thumbs together, making a frame with his fingers. Using a falsetto, he imitated the talking heads on TV when he said dramatically, “This just in, nearly a dozen women appeared out of thin air at the local shopping mall, each with a terrible story of abduction and abuse. Pictures at eleven.” He dropped his hands and Po’Boy snorted. “Go ahead, laugh. But you think about it, and you’ll see I’m right. We take ’em to the clubhouse and tell them we’re helping them out. Get them some clean clothes, showers and baths, get some food into ’em. They’ll sleep while we finish dealin’ with the trash that shouldn’t have gotten away.” He shrugged. “Put your
mind to it, and you’ll see I’m right.”
Twisted turned away, fists propped on his hips as he glared at the trailer where Wildman had closed the ragtag prisoners back inside, singing pretty lies about making sure everything was safe for them. The brunette’s accusing frown had been the last thing he’d seen, and her disappointed expression had torn at him. He’d still locked the latch, though, closing her and the other women back into their dark cell.
“Fuck.” The shout echoed off the trees encircling the parking lot, and Wildman bared his teeth because that meant Twisted agreed with him.
Four hours later, the second vanload of women had been delivered to the clubhouse in Mandeville. Last out of the vehicle was the brunette, and she’d scowled at him as she walked past, headed inside.
“Why can’t I call my husband?” That was one of the other women, and the brunette shushed her absently.
The delivery of the “we’re rescuing you, but on our terms” speech had been left to Wildman, and he thought he’d done a decent job, explaining to the women that it should only be a matter of hours before they’d be allowed to call their families. He’d cited the storm as the main reason, making it difficult to transport them to the local authorities. None of the women had called him out on the lie, or the fact that the women were in essence being abducted again, but the brunette hadn’t been fooled. He’d read the knowledge plain on her face, so her active cooperation was a surprise.
“Our prospect by the bar has room assignments. We don’t have enough for separate quarters, but we have three bathrooms with tubs, and a communal shower room we’ll set aside for you ladies. Give you a chance to put yourselves back together while we get things rolling to take you back to your families.” He followed them inside, nodding at the member who stepped in front of the door at his back. The orders were to not hurt the women, but to detain them at all costs.
