by Lydia Pax
The Cartel members were knocked down to the ground from the tank's entrance. Beretta ran to one and pulled his gun away from him, shooting him dead. Then the other. Bang, bang, simple and quick. He didn't want to leave anyone with any time to react.
He scanned the wreckage, the smoky destruction all around him. Ivan was nowhere to be found.
The hatch on top of the APC burst open, and Rattler appeared. His eyes were bloodshot and crazed, and he held a pair of pistols in his hands. Beretta was not surprised to see him; he was the one who had called him.
“Motherfucker!” he roared. “Where the fuck is my money?”
Beretta had honestly not expected Rattler to come in a tank, though he supposed it had worked out well enough so far. Where the man had even gotten a tank was beyond him. Maybe his ten million dollars had been fifteen million at some point. Rattler had enough contacts and pay-offs in the police department to pick up anything he wanted from them.
Ivan's bodyguards gathered themselves and started shooting at Rattler. Still climbing out of the APC, he took aim and fired, taking them down, laughing maniacally all the way.
“Money!” he roared again, shooting over and over. “Mine! Where is it?”
“Rattler, Christ almighty!” Ivan stepped out into the open, hands up. “You ruined my bar!”
“You stole my fucking money!” Rattler shouted. “Now where is it?”
“I never stole your money,” said Ivan, pointing to Beretta. “That was him.”
They were all about twenty feet apart. Smoke hazed between them, fires burning brightly in the roof above.
Rattler turned to Beretta now, guns jabbing forward. “Where is it?”
“He stole it from me, like I told you on the phone,” said Beretta. “You want it, you gotta talk to him.”
Letting out another roar of rage, Rattler turned back on Ivan and shot him in the thigh, dropping him.
“Somebody start fucking talking!”
With Rattler's attention on Ivan, Beretta took his chance—firing three shots and landing, hitting Rattler square in the head.
Rattler dropped hard, rage twisting his face—rage, even to the end. His body clawed and twitched, struggling to fire his gun one more time, but the strength just wasn't there.
There was a scuffling and a sneeze, and then a heavy bout of swearing. Prowler, the fighter, stepped out from the shadows, dangling a gun from a finger. Beretta had him dead to rights, but Prowler had his hands up.
“I'm gonna throw this down, okay?” he said. “Just let me go.”
“You fucking pussy!” Ivan cried. He was on the floor, struggling to move on a pile of rubble. “Fucking fight him, you coward!”
Beretta shrugged and nodded at Prowler, who tossed down his weapon and ran out the back. No sense in killing someone who had surrendered.
Well, maybe if that person was Ivan...
Outside, there was chaos still. Gunshots and shouts. The occasional clatter of glass and banging of metal. But largely, it was cleaning up—Locke and Tank were moving up and cleaning up the trash that Rattler had left out in the open outside.
It was over.
Beretta walked over the gathered rubble of the collapsed ceiling and broken bar to where Ivan struggled on the ground. A pool of blood was underneath him—a whole lot of blood.
“In the leg,” Ivan said. “In the fucking leg. You know this is fatal, right? It'll kill me dead. Bullet split the artery, I bet.”
“Good,” said Beretta, and he meant it.
Ivan's smile was grim. “Maybe not for you.”
“What do you mean?”
“I'll be dead, and you won't know where I've stashed the money. I hid it. What, you think I just put ten million dollars away in the basement or some shit? Maybe tossed it into a motel like an idiot? Give me a little credit here.” Ivan laughed. “I'll be dead, and you'll never have one red cent!”
Beretta looked at the blood gathering around Ivan. It was coming fast, but there was still time.
“I've got a few thoughts on that.”
Chapter 40
Putting a tourniquet together was medicine 101. Helen had it done and Ivan stabilized within two minutes of being on the scene. She had been following right behind Tank and Locke—and when Beretta started calling for her, she came running.
Now, they were far away from the wreckage of the Hell's Belle. Far away, indeed, from the town of Stockland. With as much firepower as had been unloaded there in the last twenty-four hours, it seemed like only a matter of time before the cops really unleashed themselves there to reassert control.
Even bribed and threatened, they could take only so much—and besides that, Rattler was dead. As soon as they found that out, maybe they'd try their hand at real law enforcement again. As far as Helen knew, the only people who had been affected by all the firefighting had been people in the various gangs—but still, gunfights were gunfights and explosions were explosions, and no one liked living near them. A populace could only take so much on a given weekend.
The Wrecking Crew and their new hostage holed up behind an abandoned gas station well off from the highway. Ivan was led inside and set down on a table, tied there with several straps. With the remaining medical supplies from Beretta's original theft from the hospital, Helen had stabilized him and killed his pain, sedating him.
Soon, she would wake him up. For now, she stood outside the gas station, out of sight of the road, next to Beretta. The sun was coming down over the ridge, casting long shadows on the two of them from the rocky hills nearby.
“If we do this,” she said to Beretta, “we do it my way.”
“You're the Nurse,” he said, smiling.
He moved in to kiss her—and god she wanted to kiss him right back—but she stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.
“That's not what I mean. I mean no killing.”
Now, he frowned. It was a very Ace-like frown. “You serious? This guy'll kill us in a heartbeat. We can't afford many enemies.”
“I don't care. No more killing. Killing is what started all of this. If you want this money, you'll let me do this how I want.”
Beretta huffed. “You know, you need that money too. You're on the Cartel's list. If we don't pay them...they'll come after us. Those two at the bar weren't the end of it.”
“Even so. We do this my way or we don't do it at all.”
Locke had been looking over Tank and Beretta's bike, making sure they weren't damaged in any of the fighting. He stood up off the ground and approached, a wrench in hand.
“I don't want to make any decisions for you, boss, but if we turn him in and we have the money, we can just bribe the cops till they do what we want.”
She could see that Beretta was considering it. He was a lot of things—stubborn one of them—but he wasn't ever a stupid man. He just liked his plans. But plans could change, and if anyone had been shown to be flexible over the last few days, it was certainly him.
Beretta shrugged. “Fine. Whatever.” He opened the door to the insides of the gas station. “Get to work.”
Helen collected herself. In preparation for this, she had dressed again in her scrubs. Working with slow deliberation, she slid a surgical mask over her face. Her breaths were steady and even as she entered the darkness of the gas station, seeing her materials already ready.
There was her bag with its instruments next to Ivan, and—just out of his line of sight—there were all the groceries. She would make use of all of them, probably. The light inside was dim, almost non-existent. Boards covered the windows and every surface was layered with grime and dirt.
The one place where there was light—powered by long cords from the SUV's battery—was over Ivan on the makeshift “operating table.” They had set up a couple of lamps there to keep his vision obscured with the brightness.
On the table, Ivan stirred, and he snapped awake when she broke open a small packet of smelling salts under his nose. His eyes focused slowly, and when they did, she positioned a
lamp over his head to better blind him from the rest of the room.
“You fucking bitch,” he said, his voice slightly slurred. “I know who you are. That mask doesn't do shit for me. You're Beretta's bitch.”
“The mask is to keep your blood off my face.” She slapped him. “No swearing.”
“I'll fucking swear however much I want, you fucking—”
Again, she slapped him, and this time, held a scalpel right above his eye.
“That's better,” she said when he quieted down. “Now, Mr. Ivan. Let's talk about money.”
Epilogue
“You know,” said Helen, laying out all the cash on the bed. “I've always sort of wanted to have sex on a bed full of money.”
It was the early afternoon. She and Beretta were in her old apartment, moving her stuff out. The Wrecking Crew had bought a new space for a bar—a new clubhouse—and after a renovation, she would be moving in with Beretta in a small home right next to it.
There was not a lot to move in her apartment, and one of the very last items was her bed. She had left the heavy bag of cash on the bed as they moved boxes up and down the steps. The money stayed close to Beretta for now until they got a chance to launder it.
But she was feeling playful. Her hands dug deep in the thousands and thousands of bills, spilling them out and spreading them further across the mattress. Moistness developed between her legs, imagining what Beretta could do to her on it all.
They had been safe for almost a week now. The Cartel was paid off in full—more than double, actually, for the loss of their two men. Beretta insisted the Wrecking Crew had nothing to do with it—that Rattler's insanity had interrupted an otherwise tranquil business transaction. And the Cartel, without any better information and six figures richer than they had been before, accepted this explanation.
They were a ferocious, fearsome lot, but a great deal of that fearfulness was due to their razor logic. They lost men but gained money, and the men who could be blamed were already dead. That was that.
The money had been hidden well in a secret cache well away from the Hell's Belle. It took longer than it had with Damage, but Helen eventually made Ivan talk.
She made him talk, and she didn't hurt him a single time. A great deal of pride was left with her for that. It was all psychological—all the power of suggestion. When they dropped Ivan off at the police station, bound and gagged, they also dropped off a heavy helping of cash to let the cops know who the new bosses were in town. Everyone fell in line.
For the moment, Beretta was the boss. That suited Helen fine—she got a special thrill from bedding the boss outlaw in the town. It wouldn't last, probably, as Ace was due out from the hospital any day now. He didn't have any permanent damage, thank god, and neither did Locke. They were both pretty banged up and would be recovering for several weeks, but they were alive.
The hospital itself would be upgraded soon. It received a substantial cash donation from an anonymous benefactor. Helen felt it was only fair after lying to Georgetta the way she had and then taking a couple of weeks off from work to be with Beretta after the destruction at the Hell's Belle. When she returned, the renovations would have already started.
They were alive...and they had Stockland.
The Furnace and the Copperheads were in total disarray. With the heavy blows to them—and the money from the heist now officially theirs—the Wrecking Crew in Marlowe was sending in reinforcements to keep the city under their thumb. Tank was quickly volunteered to go about keeping order in the various bars and underground gambling establishments that the Wrecking Crew had inherited in the city.
Beretta approached from behind her, taking a firm grip on her hips with one hand. He kissed her on the neck and she leaned into it, loving his heady scent.
“That's funny,” he said. “I've always wanted to fuck you in this.”
He held out a box for her. It was long and rectangular, and rather heavy inside. She opened it curiously, smiling.
“What did you get me?”
“Something that's part of my plan. Open it and see.”
Inside was a vest. It had the Wrecking Crew patch on it, “Stockland” on the bottom rocker. On the front were two patches. One was almost expected, once she saw the vest—“Nurse” in red lettering on a black background.
The other, though, caught her by surprise. It said, “Beretta's Old Lady.”
Her heart started hammering. Her own vest. A vest marking her as his. She licked her lips softly, feeling herself becoming more aroused by the moment.
“Put it on,” he said.
As she had been unwrapping the box, Beretta had unwrapped himself, stripping down nude. She looked at him now, and saw that his cock was growing rapidly, quickly coming to full attention.
Slowly, she started to put on the vest, but he stopped her.
“Put it on,” he said again, “and take off everything else.”
Grinning wickedly, she obeyed his command. She slipped off her own dress—easy and fast—and then put on the vest. It hugged against her breasts, framing them spectacularly.
“Your property,” she breathed at him. “Come and take me.”
He grinned, pushing her back on the bed on the pile full of cash and kissing her deep. His tongue tasted like man and chocolate. He'd been treating himself to little balls of the stuff all afternoon. Now she was glad he had, tasting the sweetness on his tongue and luxuriating in the heady feeling of his firm strength.
When he entered her, it felt like the first time. It wasn't, not by a long shot—and yet it was. The first time she had been fucked in this vest, the first time she had been fucked on all that money, and the first time—most importantly—that she knew how completely she was his.
Her legs pulled tight on his hips, urging him deeper inside of her. She moaned with pleasure as he thrust inside of her. His face was alive with passion, more alive than she had ever seen him before. Losing himself, letting all of himself open to her.
“My old lady,” he whispered in her ear. “Say it. Say you're my old lady.”
She moaned and nodded. “Your old lady. I'm yours.”
His thrusts picked up in intensity, viciously pounding down. She didn't care how hard it was—except for loving it. He could fuck her twice as hard. She wanted him to annihilate her. All of her being was lost in his strength, adoring him totally.
“You're my property. My claim.”
“Your property,” she repeated. “Your claim. Yes, Jordan! Yes!”
Her voice reached a higher pitch as his cockhead shifted slightly, pushing at an upward angle to ride hard against her special spot. Everything became pleasure. She dug her fingernails into the dense muscles of his back, gripping him harder than ever before.
In response, his hand came down on her throat, squeezing just enough to cut off her air. He pushed her deeper into the pile of cash they had stolen—the very proof of their dangerous life together.
That was how she wanted it. Living right there, right in the middle of the most dangerous spot alive—the complete property of the baddest man around.
Her eyes widened, her orgasm arriving soon. Her breath was gone. All she could do was mouth at him to please join her, to hurry, to not stop, to never stop...
Naturally, he obliged her.
His cock emptied out onto her body, seed spraying across her belly and up onto her chest. Some got onto the vest, which was fine by her. Every part of her needed to be marked and claimed. She pulled him tight, still riding the aftershocks of her pleasure, loving how strong he was on top of her. His weight, so heavy with muscle, so full of strength, made everything feel right.
He was nothing but danger, but he would always keep her safe. Protected. And feeling so beautifully, gloriously alive.
Stockland belonged to Beretta, belonged to the Wrecking Crew . . . and so did she.
# # #
Thank you!
There's even more to read! I've included the ENTIRE first novel of my Affairs of the Arena
series, Heart of the Gladiator, in this document. Keep hopping forward for even MORE alpha badass goodness.
I'm so happy you've decided to read Wild Rider. Thank you for spending your time with my story.
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- Lydia Pax
But wait—there's more!
Included below, as advertised, is the first novel in my Affairs of the Arena series, Heart of the Gladiator. This is the tale of Caius—an alpha male badass warrior in Ancient Rome who must return to a life of slavery to provide for his daughter—and Aeliana, an ancient medicae who can mend any wound save for her own broken heart. If you love hot, thrilling action with hardcore warriors willing to fight anyone and do anything to protect their love, I think you'll get a kick out of Heart of the Gladiator.
Heart of the Gladiator
Chapter 1
The day was hot—as often it was hot in Puteoli—but there was coolness in the shade of the market.
“Fifty sestertii? For this?” Aeliana held up the basket holding the fresh cloth she would use as bandages. “You must be joking. It’s rag cloth.”
“It’s no joke, medicae. Take it or leave it.”
Around the two, other groups of merchants and customers haggled over prices. Finding a deal was a sort of religion to some, while swindling was a way of life to others. Small animals, piglets and cats, rushed across the stone when a traveler's crate turned over.
