Wild Ride (Let it Ride Book 2)

by Cynthia Rayne

  What the fuck had happened to him? War was hell, but Steele hadn’t seen anyone this bad off before. Justice was going full-on Rain Man.

  Steel heard the crunch of gravel beneath tires outside, and he pulled his weapon then took a peek out the window. He recognized Ash’s Forrester.

  He turned to his brother. “Justice, we’re gonna sort this out, but I need you to be calm and hold on a few more minutes for me. I don’t want you to freak out, but Ash and that bastard Beauregard are gonna walk in the front door.”

  Justice wrapped his arms around himself and rocked back and forth.

  “Mind if I take this with me?” He crouched forward, hand reaching for the gun. Either Justice didn’t hear him or didn’t care, because he kept rocking, gabbling to himself.

  Steele grasped the weapon, clicked the safety on, and tucked it into the pocket of his cut.

  Crisis averted for the minute. Unfortunately, Justice’s mental state would have to be a problem solved another day. Right now, he had to save Coyote.

  As soon as Steele heard the front door squeal open, he backed out of the room and met up with Beauregard and Ash in the foyer. Both of them had brandished their weapons.

  “The place is clear. You can holster ’em.”

  Ash tucked her gun away. “Number one was a bust. Nothin’ but a foreclosed house with a roomful of bodies. The prospect just made it in the front door when he was gunned down.” Then she got a whiff of the living room and pressed two fingers beneath her nostrils. “Apparently, it happened here too. Is Coyote…?”

  Steele didn’t blame her—the smell would gag a maggot.

  “And what about you? That means Coyote wasn’t…” He didn’t trust himself to speak—showing emotion in front of Beauregard wasn’t an option.

  “No, we checked all the bodies.” She gave him a gentle smile. “No Coyote.”

  But his brother wasn’t quite out of the woods yet.

  Steele’s phone vibrated, and sure enough, he had a text from Ace. He summarized the contents for Ash and Beauregard as he read.

  “Ten and Ace found bodies too. Along with a Raptor prospect dead in a ditch a block away from the safe house. They had to have found it by searching for bikes.”

  He waited anxiously for the next text.

  “Coyote ain’t there either. The Raptors have another hideout.” They had no clue where it was.

  Beauregard waltzed over to the living room to take a gander at the bodies. The mobster didn’t seem moved one way or the other by the gory scene. Although Steele supposed Beauregard had probably seen—or, more likely, caused—worse.

  “Gotta hand it to those cartel boys. They’re efficient. Looks like the Raptor problem has been solved, though.” Beauregard dusted his hands off. “Did you find our missing heroin?”

  Steele shook his head. “Nope, but if it was here, I’m bettin’ the cartel took it with them on their way out.”

  “Pity. We could use a bargaining chip.” Beauregard lit up a smoke. “Now just have to worry about the cartel.”

  “You’re talkin’ about goin’ to war.”

  “No way ’round it,” Beauregard said flatly.

  Unfortunately, Steele didn’t see another solution either.

  Ash piped up. “You could make a different deal with the DEA and go into witness protection. If you testify against the Tres Erre, you could negotiate for probation and—”

  “And die in a hail of bullets six months from now when another cartel assassin squad shows up at our new front door? No thanks.” Beauregard’s lip curled.

  Steele gripped Justice’s gun. “Well, in the meantime, we’ve got another problem. Justice seems to have lost it.”

  “Why? Because of the Jackson Pollock-style stains in there? You biker boys and your scruples.”

  “If you don’t have somethin’ useful to say, shut the fuck up.”

  Beauregard flipped Steele off but shut his trap.

  “Post-traumatic stuff?” Ash asked.

  “I think the blood triggered him. He got some on his hands and just lost it. We’ve handled a lot of ops together, and he’s never been like this. Justice doesn’t say much about his Navy SEAL days so I don’t know what went down, but I’m guessin’ it was pretty damn bad. Hey, do you still have Etta May’s number? Justice can’t continue this operation. He needs some professional help.”

  Ash pulled the cell from her pocket, thumbing through the numbers. “Yeah, I got it. And I’ll get some wet wipes from the Forrester so you can clean him up.”

  “Thanks. Tell her you’re with the club and drop Pretty Boy’s name. We need someone who knows what the fuck they’re doing to stay with Justice while we figure out our next move.”

  “I’m assuming we’re bringing Justice to her?” She stared into the living room.

  “Yeah, I’m guessin’ she doesn’t have experience with mass murders.”

  “I’m on it.” She dialed the number and headed outside to make the call away from the smell of death.

  While Beauregard cooled his heels, Steele checked on Justice. His brother still huddled on the floor, but the crazy level had dipped a good twenty-five percent. After Ash returned with wipes and a thumbs-up to drop Justice off at Etta May’s, Steele hustled Justice into the downstairs bathroom and cleaned him up.

  As he wet-wiped the blood away, Steele prayed for a miracle.

  Chapter Twenty

  Half an hour later, Steele was distracted—his mind was swirling, trying to come up with a new angle on this situation. After they left Justice at Etta May’s place, Steele and Ace sat in the van, spit-balling solutions while Ten, Beauregard, and Ash had their own session. It was admittedly a weak-ass plan, but they were fresh out of options.

  His phone vibrated again. The ID came up Unknown Caller, and he flashed back to the phone call he’d gotten in Inferno.

  Please let it be the computer chick with a lead.

  Gripping the phone tight, he hit the green button. “Hello?”

  “No time for greetings, Dearie. It’s Fox, and I know where Coyote is.”

  “He’s alive? Coyote’s okay?” Steele could hardly believe it.

  “Ain’t that what I just said? I had to intervene, you were makin’ a mess of things.”

  He pumped a fist in the air. Steele had never been so happy to hear a creepy, cascading computer-generated voice. If he ever got a chance to meet the hacker, Steele would buy her any comic book she wanted—despite the snippy tone and her tendency to leave his ass in the dark. Literally.

  “Who is it?” Ace leaned closer to eavesdrop, and Steele shoved him away.

  The foxy chick started speaking again. “Dead people don’t message their friends, Dearie. Now pay attention. Coyote doesn’t have much time. He could only message me a couple of lines. I guess he snatched a smartphone from one of the bastards who took him during some sort of confusion.”

  Steele would bet money the confusion came from a cartel attack. “Why didn’t he call me directly?” It stung that Coyote didn’t trust Steele to find him.

  The phone line crackled. “Don’t go emo on me. We use an underground messaging app so luddites like you can’t trace us or read it. Those bird-brain guys might not be bright, but they can check a call log.”

  Steele flexed his fingers and resisted the urge to cuss her out. “Text me the address and I’ll go after him.”

  The call dropped, and Steele held his breath until he received a big beautiful text message with an address.

  Ace looked over his shoulder at the phone. “What the fuck’s goin’ on, Steele?”

  “I know where our brother is. We just got ourselves a bonafide miracle.”

  Now they just had to get to Coyote before the cartel killed him.

  ***

  “If we were starring in a horror movie, this would be the place bodies started piling up.”

  Steele turned to Ace, who was frowning. “I heard that. This is The Town that Dreaded Sundown.”

  Ace had pulled into a run-dow
n city forty minutes from Hell—shabby houses, rusty chain link fences, billboards sprayed with gang graffiti. It was a bit after eight in the morning and driveways were empty as they pulled by. Steele figured most folks must’ve already gone to work.

  “We’re at our last stand, brother.” Ace parked on the opposite side of the street from a two-story, green house. Ten, Ash, and Beauregard were half a block behind them on the opposite side of the road so they wouldn’t attract as much attention.

  According to the mailbox at the corner of the lot, the house belonged to The Miller Family. With the Raptors and cartel stopping by, Steele bet the Millers were no longer among the living.

  Ace leaned forward in his seat to get a better view. “Two bogeys in the driveway. Dim bastards, ain’t they?”

  Steele was crouched on his knees on the passenger side and watched from the side window as two burly men in dark gray hoodies carried trash bag after trash bag into a moving van with tinted windows.

  “Yeah, I was thinkin’ the same thing. They gotta be haulin’ heroin outside.”

  “Not much of a smokescreen—people don’t put trash in a car.”

  The van didn’t have a logo either, and the two hooded thugs were definitely not movers. Steele could tell from the large, block-lettered RR cartel symbol on their hands. The vehicle and large trees in the yard blocked the view from any nosy neighbors—great place for a blitz attack. Along the side of the driveway were tall, scrubby bushes, which would also provide some cover.

  Steele didn’t give a damn about keeping or selling the drugs. As far as he was concerned, the Tres Erre could take turns shoving it up each other’s asses. But if the cartel had the heroin, then the Horsemen had lost an important bargaining chip.

  “Fangs out, brother, we got company. I’ll take care of this one, and you take a run at the other one.” Ace didn’t turn back to him as he spoke so they didn’t tip off the thug headed in their direction. The other one continued loading the van.

  “You got yourself a deal. Do me a favor?”

  “Sure. What?”

  “Can the fighter pilot lingo.” Steele wasn’t in the mood to go on a mission with Maverick.

  “But you can oorah all you like?”

  “Yup, just like Uncle Sam intended.” Steele grasped the door handle and waited.

  As the thug rounded the hood, he slammed a hand down onto it, presumably to rattle Ace—who yawned into his palm. The man flashed the gun beneath his hoodie as he approached the driver’s side door.

  Ace hit his attacker in the face with the car door then dragged the big thug’s ass inside while Steele surged out of the van and sprinted toward the vehicle in the driveway.

  Steele rushed at Hoodie football-style and tackled the bastard to the ground behind the van. He smashed the thug’s head against the pavement. “How many dickheads are inside?”

  “Fuck you.”

  Steele bounced Hoodie’s head off the concrete again. “Tell me how many or I’ll scramble your brains some more.”

  Blood bubbled from his lips. “Quatro and the Bruja.”

  “Thanks for your cooperation.” Steele slammed the man’s skull again, and he fell to the pavement, limp. Five against four wasn’t bad odds. Plus, they still had the element of surprise—Hoodie hadn’t gotten the chance to alert his buddies inside.

  Sticking close to the bushes, Ace strolled up the driveway. He was followed by Beauregard, Ten, and Ash. Everyone moved at a slow, unconcerned pace.

  Then they huddled behind the moving van, staring at the fallen cartel member.

  Ten pointed to Hoodie. “We should kill him and his partners. If we don’t, they’ll come after us. Any objections?”

  There was only one possible holdout. Steele glanced at Ash, who wore a gratified smile. Yeah, no objections there.

  “Excellent. No one’s feelin’ high and mighty today. It’ll make this easier.” Beauregard grinned.

  Ace pulled a thumb at his van. “Mine’s tied up in the back end.”

  Ten scanned the road with the efficiency of a predator. “Can’t, the street is too exposed. We’ll take care of him at a second location—preferably outside your car.” His mouth quirked into a rickety thing much too scary to be a smile. “Upholstery’s a bitch to clean.”

  Beauregard looped an arm under one of Hoodie’s armpits while Ten took the other. They hauled Hoodie’s ass deep into the shadows of the garage.

  Steele watched as Ten pulled a silenced Beretta from his jacket pocket and pumped two bullets into the man’s skull. It made a slight popping noise, but that’s it.

  Steele watched the street, but no one was out rubbernecking. This was probably a lock-your-doors, mind-your-own-business sort of community.

  “I’m going in first.” Steele crept to the back door, followed by Ace and Ash. The mafia boys brought up the rear.

  Weapon drawn, Steele ripped open the door and rushed into the kitchen. Pop, pop, pop—suppressed shots rang out, and Steele hit the deck as automatic fire exploded into the cabinet behind him. The bastard must’ve hit the spice cabinet because a cloud of fragrant dust hit the air. Unable to help himself, Steele sneezed, but so did his opponent—a guy with long black hair pulled into a ponytail.

  Ponytail pulled his M4 Carbine up to get off another shot, but Steele fired two into his chest then bum-rushed him before kicking the rifle out of his hands. Bloodied and weak, Ponytail made a grab for the weapon, but Steele finished him off with a shot to the head.

  Ace, Ash, Beauregard, and Ten came rushing into the groovy orange and yellow seventies kitchen. Steele grabbed the weapon and checked the chamber—it still held a few more rounds. In all likelihood, Ponytail had used this to gun down the Raptors.

  A door on the far end of the room slammed against the wall, and another thug with a goatee ran into the kitchen. Steele glimpsed stairs behind him. They must lead to the basement.

  “Hey, over here,” Ace called.

  When Goatee turned, Ace slammed a fist into Goatee’s throat and then shoved his ass backward down the stairs. Cursing, the man tumbled back down to the cement floor.

  “And that’s how we roll ‘em in the big blue yonder.” Ace spun around.

  Steele drifted over. A peculiar smell wafted from the musty basement—rotten meat. He guessed the odor was coming from whatever was left of the Millers. Ace stepped on the top stair and shot Goatee twice in the back.

  “Show off.” Steele headed through the doorway at the end of the kitchen and into the living room. Weapons out, the others followed him.

  Steele found two more thugs—one with a big hairy mole on his chin and the other with what looked like diamond earrings in both lobes.

  Behind them, Steele glimpsed Bruja.

  For evil incarnate, she sure was beautiful—long, dark brown hair, bronzed skin, big breasts, and a tiny waist. She couldn’t be more than twenty-five, yet she ran one of the most ruthless cartels in Mexico.

  “Well, if it isn’t the biker with the big mouth. I told you underestimating me could be fatal.” She had a wicked gleam in her eyes.

  The two thugs grabbed Coyote from the orange plaid couch in the corner of the room and used him as a human shield.

  Steele gasped.

  He hadn’t arrived too late this time. He could still save his brother—Coyote wouldn’t die on his watch.

  Coyote’s left hand was bandaged with a blood-stained towel and duct tape. His wrists and his mouth had been taped shut too. He hung limply in their arms, and his eyes were half-mast—puffy dark half-moons lay beneath them. Coyote looked exhausted from the blood loss and the stress of being held captive, but he was alive.

  “The rest of your men are dead. It’s over.” Steele raised his weapon. “Let him go.”

  “Not quite.” Bruja moved further behind her two remaining thugs. “I have another squad running around town as well.”

  Hairy Mole shoved his Glock beneath Coyote’s chin.

  And then things got hectic, happening all at once.


  Before he could react, Steele heard a shot go whizzing by his head. It hit Hairy Mole square between the eyes, and the man slumped to the floor, stone-cold dead. Steele figured Beauregard or Ten must’ve dropped him, but he couldn’t take his eyes off Coyote to check.

  Earrings snatched at Coyote’s stained Avengers T-shirt, trying to tug him closer, but a bullet pierced his skull too. As Earrings dropped to the ground, Bruja slipped an arm around Coyote’s waist and slithered behind him.

  “Let him go.” Steele surged forward.

  “I need a hostage.” She slid a knife to his throat.

  Steele wondered if using the blade meant she hadn’t been carrying a gun. Maybe she counted on her crew to do all the dirty work. Confirming his suspicion, Bruja edged closer to one of her fallen men and started to shimmy downward to grab a gun.

  “Hold it right there, honey.” Ash stepped up beside Steele and cocked her piece. “You didn’t bring a gun? That’s sloppy. Look at the odds you’re up against. Let Coyote go, and then—”

  “I’ll gut him like a fish.” To prove her point, Bruja sliced a thin red line into Coyote’s throat.

  His groan was muffled by the tape.

  “Put it down, Ash,” Steele ordered. “The bitch killed her own fiancé for money and power. She’d slice up Coyote without a second thought.”

  Hesitantly, Ash lowered her weapon.

  “Tell you what. You can take me instead. I’m bigger than Coyote, and I ain’t bleedin’ to death—I make a better hostage.” Steele crouched and placed his gun on the floor. Then he raised his arms above his head and slowly stood. “Once we get south of the border, you can do whatever the fuck you want with me…as long as Coyote goes free.”

  Ash gasped.

  Eyes gone wide, Coyote muttered behind his gag and shook his head.

  Steele ignored them both, focusing on the cartel queen instead. “We got a deal?”

  Bruja slapped his brother’s cheek. “I don’t know. If young Coyote here survives the trip to Mexico, he’ll be useful—computer skills, he speaks Español, and he’s so very handsome. Maybe I’ll even take him to my bed.”

  Coyote stiffened. He met Steele’s gaze, and his eyes were cool and calm.