Hell on Wheels (Four Horsemen MC Book 6)

by Rayne, Cynthia

  “Well, fuck. You’re the second woman who’s turned me down in the past month. My mojo is off.” He sounded perturbed, not pissed. Charlie figured most women took him up on the offer.

  “I think your mojo is fine,” she said. “I’m…not on the market. I’m sure you’re a fantastic date.”

  He raised a wicked brow and his mouth curved into a sinful smile. “Who said anything about dating?”

  She couldn’t help but laugh at his audacity. “And on that note, I’m going.”

  Steele shrugged. “Your loss, sweetheart.”

  “I’m sure.” Charlie rounded the counter and shuffled down the hallway to find an office door. She knocked on it. “Coyote?”

  The door swung open and a man stood in front of her wearing acid yellow trousers with a patchwork coat of many colors–red, blue, pink, green, and bits of orange. Beneath that vibrant horror, he had a plaid waistcoat over a white button-down shirt, and a blue polka-dotted ribbon was tied around his throat.

  Just looking at him hurt her eyes, and she blinked a few times.

  He did a little twirl and the outfit wasn’t any better from the back. “What do you think?”

  “I think Rainbow Brite would say your outfit is too loud,” she said, wincing at the sheer ugliness. Charlie focused on the rest of his features to give her eyes a rest. He looked like he was in his twenties. He had long, straight black hair, high cheekbones, and copper skin that hinted at Native American heritage.

  “It’s supposed to be loud. It’s from the eighties, and everything was flashy then. Don’t you recognize me?”

  Charlie frowned as she eyed his costume once more. “Willy Wonka? A clown?”

  His mouth fell open. “No, I’m the sixth Doctor.”

  “Doctor who?” she asked.

  He laughed, pointing at her. “Ha! Made you say it.” Then he turned and walked into his office. He peeled off the coat and carefully hung it on a hook on the wall, along with the waistcoat, which left him in the yellow trousers and white shirt. He shrugged on a leather cut like Axel wore.

  “You’re Coyote, right?” she asked. Unless some crazy guy had broken in?

  He nodded. “Yep, that’s me, but I answer to Yo as well. Sorry about the getup. I just wanted to try out my new cosplay outfit.”

  “Cosplay?”

  “Yeah, costume play for the next comic con.” He bit his lower lip. “If I make it there.”

  Charlie took a good look around his office. Coyote didn’t seem like a biker. There was a definite nerd vibe. On the wall, he had framed Avengers posters, along with one that featured an enormous blue box and the words: Keep Calm and Call the Doctor. Across his desk, he had an assortment of action figures. He had a big-screen television in front of a recliner on one side of the room, as well as an X-Box.

  It looked like a dorm room. At MIT.

  “Little disconcertin’, huh?” he asked.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Yeah, out there, it’s like the Wild West,” he said, waving a hand at the doorway. “And in here, its nerdvana.” He shrugged. “But it works. If the zombie apocalypse starts, this is the place to be. We got ammo to last for years and plenty of entertainment. All we need is some of Voo’s canned goods.”

  Charlie laughed.

  He wagged a finger at her. “Don’t laugh, it could happen one day. Then you’ll be wishin’ you horded toilet paper and Twinkies.”

  That didn’t any make sense, but Charlie left it alone. “Okay. So, about Beauregard…”

  “Right. You’re gonna be stealin’ from Voldemort.” He whistled. “I’m not sure if that’s brave or stupid.”

  Charlie laughed. That was one reference she’d picked up on. Beauregard was the big-time evil in town, so it was fitting. “Probably a mixture of both.”

  “Well, I can help you out.” He leaned forward to whisper, “Ever since he tricked our club into helping him, I’ve been itchin’ to take a gander at his Chamber of Secrets.”

  Ewww. Charlie frowned.

  And so did Coyote. “Oh, man, did that come out wrong. So very, very wrong. Moving on,” he said, clasping his hands together. “The vault is in his study, and I’m pretty sure he has cameras in there. I mean, he has them up and down the driveway, so we know he’s a bit paranoid. And who wouldn’t be? When you’re a killer, people are bound to be gunnin’ for ya. So, we need to give him a virus.”

  “A virus?”

  “Yeah, I wrote it myself, though not for this particular project.” He tapped away at a keyboard and pulled something up on the screen, peering at it. Two different monitors sat on his desk. Charlie didn’t mess much with computers. It was too easy to track your movements with one of those. The nightly news was full of criminals who’d screwed up one way or another with social media. No, thank you.

  “All you need to do is plug this into one of his computers,” Coyote explained as he handed her a tiny black thumb drive. And, truth in advertising, it was almost exactly the size of her thumbnail.

  She glanced at the tiny thing, worried she’d somehow lose it between here and Beauregard’s place. “That’s it?”

  “It’ll give me a backdoor into his security system, and he won’t even notice,” he said. “I’m a computer ninja.”

  “But how do I do that, if the place is being videotaped?”

  “You’re gonna have to be sneaky,” Coyote said. “Since you’ll be cleaning, I’d just pretend to dust off the computer and quickly plug it in.”

  She nodded. It sounded simple enough.

  “Afterwards, I can access his cameras. I’ll be able turn them on, turn them off, and access the feeds.” Coyote studied her. “One professional to another, how will you crack the vault? Will you drop into the study on a wire like Tom Cruise in the first Mission Impossible?” He held out his arms for effect. “Ooh! Or drill the safe?”

  “Nothing that exciting, sorry. I do it the old-fashioned way, by trial and error. I’m going to enter combinations, one by one, until I get it right.”

  She usually started with the default numbers. Most companies had a default code all of their safes were set to, and a surprising amount of people never changed the code. Though she doubted Beauregard would be that foolish. Then she’d move on to more personal numbers, like anniversary dates.

  The corners of his mouth turned down. “No drills? No wires?”

  “I could do a drill job, but that’d set off alarms. I’d never make it out of there with the loot. Not with all those guards.”

  Coyote sighed. “Ah, I get it. With your way, you can walk out undetected.”

  “It’s low-tech, but it works.”

  “Well, if you get me into his computer systems, I’ll search for likely combinations– important dates, birthdays, and such. And if you give me your phone number, I’ll text them to you.”

  “That would be a big help.” Charlie gave him the digits and Coyote whipped out his phone and entered the number, then sent her a text.

  “Good. Then text me when you want to try numbers on the safe, so I can manage the camera feeds. I’ll loop some video of an empty office while you’re trying them out.” He held up his hands like some guys would brandish a weapon. “I got the quickest fingers in Texas.”

  Charlie grinned. She liked Coyote. He was…adorkable. An adorable dork. “You know what? You ought to come over to the dark side with me. With your computer skills, you’d make a killing.”

  “I know, right?” He sighed. “But I’m a Jedi and I don’t use my powers for evil.”

  ***

  Coyote might’ve vowed not to go to the dark side, but Beauregard lived there. And by the looks of things…evil paid well.

  Charlie surveyed Byron Beauregard’s study as she waited for him to meet with her. When she’d arrived at the manor, a big guard had escorted her into his office with a few terse words.

  Everything was so freaking fancy–antiques, shelves full of leather-bound books, and a Persian rug on the floor. She wondered if all of his precious possessi
ons eased his guilt. He’d had to kill a lot of people to get where he was.

  People like her father.

  She doubted the bastard felt guilty about his crimes. She bet he’d gunned her father down and hadn’t thought about it since. But why? What had Scott been doing in this town, messing around with a slime ball like Beauregard?

  No, don’t ponder that now.

  She placed a hand on her pounding heart and willed herself to calm down. Be cool, calm. As a thief, she’d learned to master her emotions. If she didn’t remain level-headed during a job she’d get sloppy.

  But Charlie couldn’t help but stare at the vault, positioned right behind his desk. It was built into the wall and the size of a door. The safe seemed to stare right back at her, gleaming and black. Vaguely sinister.

  The answers she was looking for had to be in there. All she had to do was crack it open.

  Charlie noted it had a number pad. Thank God it wasn’t the new biometric kind that required a thumbprint to get in. She wanted to get closer to it, take a good look, but she didn’t dare move a muscle. Beauregard might come in any second. Plus, the camera issue. She needed to scope the room out when the time was right. Hopefully, when she had a plausible reason to be in there.

  Her dad had taught her the skills needed to crack a safe. She’d practiced on those crappy ones you’d find in a hotel room as a teenager. Her father would randomly select a number and sometimes, she’d stay up all night, trying to crack it. Charlie always got in, no matter what. And once she’d cracked a safe at a pharmacy, but the dumbasses hadn’t changed the factory-issued number. Scott had been shot in the leg and she’d needed the high-octane painkillers, along with some antibiotics. She’d dug every bit of the bullet out and after a few weeks, he was good as new…except for the puckered scar on his skin. And a slight limp.

  That’s when he’d started making noise about one last big heist. He said he’d get enough money to set them up and then they’d go legit. Scott had talked going back to Pennsylvania, maybe getting his old job back. Charlie used to imagine about what their lives would’ve been like if he’d succeeded. She’d have finished high school, maybe gone on to college. Would she have a legit job now?

  Focus.

  Charlie couldn’t afford to get lost in stupid daydreams. She had to live in the here and now. Would she be able to get out of this alive? Or would Beauregard shoot her, too?

  “Sorry to keep you waiting,” Beauregard said as he strolled into the room.

  Charlie jumped in her seat. “Um, no problem.”

  He said the words politely, but she doubted he meant that, judging by his grin. He was used to people waiting on him, waiting for him. Beauregard wanted Charlie to know that her time belonged to him.

  He tucked a black American Express card in his billfold before pocketing it. Holy crap. He had a Centurion card. She’d heard about those. It was a charge card without a limit. She could do some serious damage with that.

  She normally never bothered with credit or debit cards, since they were highly traceable and the first thing to be cancelled. Scott had taught her to toss them, unless she wanted to end up on the nightly news in a grainy security video.

  Charlie was a cash fan. It was virtually untraceable and ready to go without passwords and pins. And maybe a tinge of conscience entered into the equation, as well. With plastic, she could wipe someone out financially with an outrageous shopping spree, but that wasn’t her style. She only took enough to get by. Beauregard’s AMEX might be worth the risk. And if anyone deserved financial ruin, it was this guy.

  Charlie had looked forward to sizing him up, getting a sense of him. Or a whiff, to use her father’s terminology. She gathered any information she could.

  Axel and Frost failed to mention his beauty, although straight men probably wouldn’t care. His blond hair fell over his forehead in an artless wave. And he had big blue eyes. She put his height around six-foot and Charlie bet his body was ripped, because he moved with muscular grace, though she couldn’t see much of it beneath his expensive black pinstriped suit.

  His home and clothing told her about his wealth, but the antiques and the books on display indicated something else. He was cultivating an air of respectability. Most thugs reveled in their outlaw nature, a mixture of bravado and stupidity. But not Beauregard. Interesting. He was a thug pretending to be a gentleman. Or wanting to be one?

  “Did you have to wait long?” he asked, raising a brow.

  “Nope.” Damn, she’d been quiet a long time. Charlie offered him a wide, slightly flirtatious smile and lowered her lashes.

  She’d gone for a bubble-headed-blonde approach. When she grifted, she adopted a persona, even if the con was a few minutes long. A naïve, ditzy type seemed perfect. People wouldn’t assume she thought too much about anything. Ergo, she wouldn’t be considered a threat.

  Charlie had put together a somewhat provocative outfit–a black miniskirt, knee-high leather boots, and a tight black sweater. She thought it rode the line between dressing up and appearing sexual–which was what her persona would wear to a job interview.

  Beauregard didn’t respond to her flirtation. Instead, he sat down at the desk and grabbed a fountain pen and a legal pad. “I’m a bit pressed for time, so we’re going to jump on in, okay?” The question was rhetorical and polite for the sake of being polite. He’d already established his dominance.

  “Fine by me, Mr. Beauregard.” The less time she spent around him, the better. She wanted to snuggle up with the vault behind his desk and be on her merry way with loads of his cash stuffed in her pockets. And the evidence to put him away for life. She didn’t want a confrontation.

  “You’re Ms. Nash, right?”

  She gave him wide vacant eyes. “Yes, Charlene Nash.” As Charlie said the last name, she waited for a flare of recognition in his eyes, but saw none. She could’ve used an alias, but she couldn’t bring herself to. It was her subtle way of saying fuck you. He’d figure out who she was easy enough anyway. Afterwards. But she’d be long gone by then.

  “My housekeeper said you don’t have any experience cleaning.”

  Charlie had stayed in hotels for the past few years and they’d always came with maid service, no matter how low-end they were. And when she and Scott managed to stay in an apartment now and then, housekeeping hadn’t been a big priority for either of them.

  “Not professionally,” she said, as though it were an admission. She bit her lower lip. “But I keep my place spick and span.” Another lie. She was a slob, always had been. Scott had complained about the “trail” she left around the house–discarded socks, dishes from a meal, any jewelry she’d been wearing. Every once in a while, he’d grab a clothesbasket, gather up all of her stuff and shove it on her bed, so she was forced to put it away.

  He steepled his hands. “She said you were bartending at Perdition. Why the sudden change of career?” His intense perusal was unnerving, almost unnatural. Like he could see into her soul or something.

  Did he suspect her?

  No. She was being paranoid. The man was a killer, but he didn’t have supernatural powers.

  Charlie was good at this. She’d practiced for years. “I’m looking for extra work. I have bills to pay.”

  He cocked his head to the side. “Tell me. Are you a hellion?”

  Charlie frowned. She hadn’t heard the term before, but from the way he’d said it, she though the answer should be no. She came up with a maybe response that rode the fence. “I don’t like labels, but I hang around Perdition and Hades, if that’s what you mean.”

  “And how long have you been…hanging around the club?”

  “Only a couple of weeks. I’m new.”

  “I see.” He cocked his head, continuing his nerve-wracking perusal. “And did you tell any of them you were looking for work here?”

  Charlie wasn’t sure if this was a job interview or an interrogation. “I don’t think that’s any of their business. Do you?”

  His lips for
med a thin line as he contemplated her answer, and then he inclined his head as though he found her response pleasing. “And what brought you to Texas?” he asked. “I can tell by the accent you aren’t local.” He gave her an aww shucks grin. “No twang.”

  Hmmm. Evidently, she’d passed his initial scrutiny. Beauregard had determined she wasn’t a threat, but she knew his down-home demeanor was an act. He intended to lull her into a false sense of security. Charlie knew, because she used the same tactics. “I’ve never been one to put down roots. I travel here and there.” Charlie said with a shrug. “I’m not ready to settle down yet.”

  “What about your family?”

  An image of her father flashed before her eyes. And her mouth went dry. She licked her lips. “It’s just me now. My father…died a while back. I don’t have anyone else.” Charlie hoped her expression didn’t give her away.

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” he said.

  Yeah, I bet you are, you son of a bitch.

  His brows furrowed and he seemed to be thinking it over. Wondering how useful she might be?

  Charlie tried not to smirk. Pulling a con on a fellow con artist was gratifying. Particularly one who had a lot to answer for.

  “Now that we know each other a bit better, tell me more about yourself. Your personal life.”

  Hmph. He’d just used the word we.

  “Like what?” she asked all wide-eyed.

  “Have any of the brothers take a particular interest in you?”

  Just to be authentic, she put up a little protest. “What does that have to do with cleaning?”

  His amused curiosity evaporated. “My job. My rules,” he said. “Answer the question.”

  For a man like him, information would be a necessity. It would keep him one step ahead of his competition, which could be the difference between life and death. Ergo, she needed to appear invaluable. Charlie thought on her feet, grasping for something…someone that’d give her value.

  “Axel,” she said. “He’s taken an interest in me.” It was sort of the truth, which worked.

  “Axel?” Beauregard chuckled. “My, my, the president himself.” He pursed his lips. “And I had it on good authority he keeps to himself these days, ever since that ugly business with his former fiancée.”