Wild Rider (Bad Boy Bikers Book 2)

by Lydia Pax

  “Gut you!” Rattler snarled again. “Gut all of you fuckers!”

  “Not today.”

  Beretta headbutted him in the nose, smashing it and sending Rattler flying back off the truck. He landed on the side of the road, rolling and tumbling hard on the shoulder. If there was any justice in the world, he wouldn't get back up.

  Helen watched, through the mirrors—and saw when he did, dusting himself off and clearly yelling at them still.

  Still out there in the world, still wanting to kill them. But it didn't matter.

  They were gone. They were safe. They had done it.

  Chapter 32

  Beretta had headbutted two men today and his forehead was hurting more than a little. His side ached still from getting shot days ago, and he hadn't had a good night's sleep in more than a week. He was hungry and he wanted a piece of chocolate.

  Even so, he felt good.

  Miles away, in the middle of the city, they had another getaway car stashed away. An SUV, the long kind with eight seats and a wide trunk. All of them working together, into the getaway car the cash went—so much that it all almost didn’t fit. After that, they dumped the dump truck and took off in the SUV. Helen and Locke rode with cash sitting on their bellies and there was more all over the floor.

  They just marveled at how much it was.

  “I have my salary in my lap,” said Helen, thumbing through a stack of bills. “This is how much I made last year. And it’s in my lap. Jesus Christ. I’m in the wrong business.”

  “They say crime doesn’t pay,” said Locke. “And if you ask Rattler, he’ll agree—”

  “After he fucking guts you for talking to him,” said Tank, up in the front seat.

  “Correct. Anyway, my point is, crime does not pay. But crimes against criminals do pay, it seems. I think we’re in the wrong business.” Locke let out a low whistle. “This is more money than we’d ever score selling crank on the streets.”

  Beretta was in the back seat with Helen. He had unconsciously put his hand down on her lap. She slowly, deliberately, pushed it off. He gave her an apologetic look, but she was peering out the window.

  It was going to take some time to heal that wound, he knew.

  Luckily, she’d be able to do it with a cool couple million dollars to keep her quiet and happy.

  That was the plan, anyway. They had so much that a million here and there wouldn’t make that much of a difference. And if there was one thing the Wrecking Crew would trust to keep a person silent even more than being one of them, it was a shitload of money.

  She would be out of this life. Gone forever. She could go buy a house on the French Riviera or in the Swedish Alps or somewhere else that made her happy. And she would be safe.

  That was all that mattered. That she was away from him—away from him, away from giant explosions, away from men with machine guns and assault rifles, away from cranked-up psychos with sledgehammers, away from anybody trying to kill anyone.

  Off you go, fair girl, to a different country where the murder rate is negative, where people steal your car and replace it with a better one, where they hand out chocolates every day to early retirees like you.

  He was being saccharine now but he didn’t quite care.

  They arrived back at the motel, backing in once again so that the fewest people possible could see them taking out the cash. He grabbed Locke, talking low to him.

  “When we’re finished divvying it up,” said Locke, “I want you to take Helen wherever she wants to go. The airport, the bus station, her apartment, wherever. Make sure she’s safe and see her off.”

  “What are you gonna be doing?”

  “Staying as far away from her as possible.”

  “Oh,” said Locke. He shook his head. “That’s too bad, man. I mean, uh, you guys...you were really...it seemed nice.”

  “Seems got nothing to do with it,” said Beretta. “Just do like I ask, all right?”

  “You got it, boss.”

  He walked out and over to Ace, who was picking glass out of his vest.

  “What do you want?” said Ace.

  “An apology, firstly.”

  “Apology?” Ace scoffed. “What the fuck for?”

  “I was right, wasn't I? The whole time, I was right. I told you where the money would be, and there it was.”

  “Not that you fucking found out. We got your old lady to thank for that.”

  “Fuck you,” said Beretta. “You wanted to waste all our fucking time—”

  “That's your problem, Beretta. You think right and wrong is a matter of results. It's not. It's a matter of doing what you're supposed to. And when I'm in command, you do what I fucking say.”

  He shoved Beretta, pushing him across the parking lot.

  “Hey now,” said Locke. “Guys. We're free and clear, here. Let's not get started with—”

  Beretta punched Ace across the face. Locke grabbed him, and Beretta punched him too.

  This brought Tank into the fray. He sprinted from the other side of the SUV, picking up Beretta and tackling him down. The air left him in a heavy, hot rush. Everything felt like it collapsed inside of him.

  “Pin that motherfucker down,” said Ace. “I'm gonna punch my goddamn thoughts into him.”

  But Locke got in his way again, pushing him back—and when Ace took a swing at Locke, Locke punched him back. Tank got up, ready to solve that dispute.

  Beretta rolled over, noticing for the first time that their motel lights were on. Hadn't they left them off? It had been the middle of the day when they left.

  Helen entered the room, clearly disgusted with the display of the men fighting among themselves. She looked like a woman who was ready to wash her hands clean of the whole operation, and who could blame her? They couldn't even get along in victory.

  There was a scuffling and a few thumping sounds as Helen entered the room, and she let out a startled cry. Instantly, Beretta’s pulse ran up. Gathering himself, his insides quaking with pain, he ran to the motel door—and was clocked over the temple with a gun for his trouble.

  Everything went hazy and wobbly for several minutes. Not quite black, but pretty close. Whoever had hit him got him good. He heard gunshots, and for a moment thought he had been shot—but his vision returned and he saw that, aside from the head blow, he was unharmed.

  “Get him up, there. This ain’t no picnic. Stand the man up.”

  Inside the apartment was Ivan and four other men, guns already drawn. Prowler was one of them, staring fury with his jaw wired shut. Beretta had been out of it for a few minutes—because in the room with him were Tank and Ace, along with Helen. Everyone was at gunpoint. Two Furnace men were working with the giant pile of cash on the bed; they had moved it in from the SUV and now shoved it into the bags that Wrecking Crew were going to use. Locke was nowhere to be seen.

  “Where’s the last one?” asked Ivan, noticing Locke's absence as well.

  “He ran off, sir,” said a Furnace guard. “Pretty sure we clipped him in the leg, but he’s gone in the dark.”

  “That’s too bad. We’ll get him later, I suppose.”

  Ivan had a large automatic rifle in his hands. It was black and long, the barrel the thickness of Beretta's thumb.

  “The fuck is this?” exclaimed Ace. “We made a deal, you piece of shit.”

  Ivan smirked. “Why don’t you all just go ahead and give up any more guns you got, all right? It would make me much more comfortable. Boys? Pat ‘em down.”

  The four gunmen came forward and did as told, patting down Ace, Beretta, Tank, and even Helen, and stripping them of any weapons they had on them. Tank had the most, knives strapped to a heavy vest on his chest, a hatchet holstered on his back, and three guns on his waist and legs.

  “One-man motherfucking arsenal,” said Ivan. “I love it. No wonder you’re strong! Just walking around is a weight session, huh?”

  “It’s all in the diet,” said Tank.

  “Did I say you fucking talk? Prowle
r, show the man he can’t talk.”

  Prowler stepped forward and whipped his fist across Tank’s face. Tank, to his credit, barely bent his knees from the blow. Blood brimmed up in his mouth and he spit it down on Prowler’s feet.

  “You guys did great.” Ivan opened up a bag of cash, letting out a low whistle. “Just great. Did even better by distracting yourselves out there with that fight. Didn't you just win a big battle? Come away with cash? The fuck are you so unhappy about? You didn't even know I was going to thieve you, yet.”

  “What are you doing here, Ivan?” Ace asked.

  “Is that any kind of way to greet your friend? I’m here to congratulate you on a job well done.”

  “Fuck off. You’re fucking us over.”

  Ivan shrugged, nodding and laughing. “Well, there is the little matter of my payment. Let’s not forget about that, yeah? You promised me fifty thousand dollars. Only, now that I’ve got a good look at what you’ve brought back, that seems a little disproportional, don’t you think?”

  “Fuck you,” said Beretta.

  Ivan nodded to Prowler, who reared back and smacked Beretta over the head with his gun. That was another hit to his skull. A gash formed on the side of his head, blood pouring down his face.

  “Yeah, disproportional,” said Ivan. “That’s my take on the situation. You see, the way I look at it, you wouldn’t have even been able to do this deal if it weren’t for me and my supplies. So we’re going to switch this around here. I’m going to take, oh...mmm, all of it. And I’m going to leave you with your lives. And that’ll be that. And you fucks can stay out of Stockland from now on. You, and all your drugs.”

  Ace frowned. “We didn’t have any drugs in Stockland.”

  “No, but you were trying, weren’t you? You and that Gallows motherfucker up in the hills. Yeah. That was me who did that. Kinda.” He shrugged. “The Copperheads, really. It's just been one of those things. They knew where you were cooking drugs, I knew where your headquarters was, so we just traded information. And coordinated an attack.”

  “You're working with them.” Beretta shook his head. “I thought they killed your man and his woman?”

  “Oh, that?” Ivan nodded. “They did. But, well, that asshole and his bitch were stealing from me. So it was a truth and a lie, you see?”

  “Lot of that going around,” said Beretta.

  “Oh, ain't you fucking clever? Yeah, cocksucker, I've been playing both sides. That's why I'm fucking winning, isn't it? With that whole warehouse deal, we very nearly wiped you out right then and there, but ma-ha-ha-ha-aan, am I glad we didn’t. Because this?” He patted the stack of money beside him. “This is a whole lot of change. How much you think, Charlie?”

  “We’ll have to weigh it to be sure, boss.”

  “Best guess?”

  He took a look at the different bags and shrugged his shoulders. “Close to ten million.”

  “Ten million dollars. Did you fucking hear that? God. Even that number gets my dick hard, yeah? Ten million. What do you think I should do with it, huh? I think—I think I’ll buy like, ten million Twinkies, a dollar a piece, huh?”

  Ace spat at his feet. “Twinkies are a buck fifty, asshole.”

  Ivan smacked him, hard, with the butt of his rifle. Then he hit him again. And then again.

  “Then I’ll buy six million,” he hit him again, “six hundred and sixty-six thousand and so on! You fucking ingrate cocksucker!”

  Helen cried out, watching this, and tried to go to Ace. But a Furnace man shoved her against the wall and told her to stay still. Beretta, seeing this, felt his temper flare. He was going to tear that man's head off.

  But Tank took a hold of his wrist, shaking his head.

  Not yet, the look said. Be smart.

  Smart, sure. Be smart about how he was going to decapitate that motherfucker for touching his woman. Sure.

  Ace was motionless, bleeding profusely from his skull and head. Ivan took a moment and breathed and then calmed down.

  “Now, you see? I was going to be polite about this. Much more polite than you cocksuckers were about your robbery. An explosion! A machine gun! Good god! The police are not gonna like it when they find out it was a rogue group of the Wrecking Crew doing that, are they?”

  “So you’ll snitch on us too?” Beretta sneered. “You’ve got no honor at all, do you?”

  “Snitch? Boy, I have ten. Million. Dollars. The fuck are you talking about, snitch? I will fucking own the police, just like the Copperheads do. Give me a few weeks and I’ll be the goddamn governor of this town, and that ain’t even constitutionally possible yet.” He drew himself up, sniffing elaborately. “Your blood smells. I’m leaving. Charlie, keep ‘em here and make sure they get out of town, yeah?”

  Chapter 33

  “I don’t get it,” said Helen. “Why not just kill us?”

  All around Helen was blood and loss. Ace was still unconscious and looked to be getting worse by the second.

  The man left behind—Charlie—did not allow Helen to help. He had a thick handle-bar mustache and a heavy gut that seemed to be at least seventy percent muscle. His shoulders and chest were as broad as the doorway. He held a shotgun, waiting for the group to pack their things and leave.

  “Robbing you. Beating you up.” Beretta bled too, but not as bad as Ace. He looked very much conscious as he spoke. “That’s just the cost of business in a new town. We don’t even own this place.”

  “So what? They think you won’t care?”

  “They know we care,” said Beretta. “But they know our back-up won’t. Especially not now when the Furnace has a fucking fortune backing them up. This is the end of Stockland for the Wrecking Crew. And, I suppose the end of the Wrecking Crew for us.”

  “Shut up and pack your shit,” said Charlie. “Or I’ll just send you as is. How about that?”

  “We’re moving,” said Beretta.

  Helen remembered, not for the first time, how much Beretta had distrusted Ivan. He had been right all along; the way he was right about a whole lot of things. It was infuriating, his ability to be right.

  It was infuriating too, thinking that he may be right about the relationship between her and him. Infuriating and terrifying. Her rage had cooled now, and she was left mostly with fear. She didn't want to be without him; she didn't want to be without him and still want him so goddamn bad like she did now. To be without his body, his strength, his lifestyle, and everything else. His compulsions, his constant plans, his need to organize every last detail. She wanted that in her life and it scared her that it might not be.

  It had been so wrong to leave him, to hurt him. She would make it up to him for the rest of his life if she was able.

  Ace groaned heavily on the floor, mopping the carpet with his blood.

  “You really ought to let me help him,” said Helen, banishing her fear for the moment. “If he ends up dying because of that head wound, that is murder. And that’ll be on you. Won’t that start a war?”

  “Lady,” said Charlie, “the second you get out of here, you can do whatever the hell you like. Until that point,” he lifted his shotgun and pointed it at her, “you fucking do what I say, all right? Now—”

  He stopped talking, hearing someone yelling outside. He put his ear up to the door.

  Two seconds later, Locke crashed through the door, smashing it to the ground and flattening Charlie beneath it. Tank rushed forward, lifted the door up—with Locke still on it—and knocked Charlie out with a heavy blow to the face. Then, he let the door fall back down on Charlie, no doubt crashing against his skull again.

  “Ah,” said Locke, stumbling off the door. “There. That was easy.”

  He got up slowly, staggering against the door frame.

  “Helen,” said Beretta, “Look to Ace. Make sure he’s okay.”

  There was no need to tell her twice. She already had her emergency bag out, placing gauze down on the wound hard to stop the bleeding.

  “I can help him some
,” she said, “but he’s going to need a hospital. Really. This is massive head trauma, and we can’t help him here. Tell them he tripped or something, but he needs to go there now.”

  She watched Beretta look through the nearby cabinet, searching the litter there for any sweets he may have left behind. But there was nothing. He sighed and shook his head, shrugging.

  “Right,” said Beretta. “Okay. Locke, Tank, you’re on that with Helen. I’ll meet up with you when I can.”

  “Meet up with us?” asked Helen. “Where are you going?”

  “I’m going to go kill that motherfucker and get our money back.”

  “With what?” Locke and Helen said simultaneously.

  Locke continued, ticking off fingers. “He took all our guns. He took our fucking money to buy guns. We’ve got nothing. We’re lucky if he left us our rides at all.”

  Even terribly mad at Beretta—kind of furiously so, in fact—she still could not stop her wonder at his ability to just suddenly make decisions. It was the most impossible thing in the world for her, and yet here he was, his entire world just unraveled, a plan completely gone to shit, and he was already acting again.

  For the first time, she considered how hard it must be to be caught in a prison of action. To not feel right unless you were doing something. How did you sit still? How would you ever feel right? How would you ever be able to reflect and just enjoy what you had?

  “He’s gotta die,” said Beretta. “For doing this to Ace. For doing this to us. We stole that money fair and square, and he can’t just take it from us.”

  “Listen, I want him dead just as much as you do,” said Locke. “But the fact is that we got this far—we stole all that cash—by working together. If we start splitting apart now, we’re as good as dead. We ride together, and we die together. But if you go off on your own, now, you’re just confirming every goddamn shitty thing Ace ever thought about you, man. You gotta man the fuck up.”

  “All right,” said Beretta. “What do we do?”

  “There’s a stash not far from here,” said Tank. “We set it up when we first got here. It’s not a lot. A couple of guns, some ammo. But it’s a start.”