Trip's Retribution (Hell Raiders MC Book 3)

by Lowe, Aden

  He let the conversation drift around him, content to just sit and watch. Hanger's daughter put a plate of scrambled eggs with bacon and toast in front of him and he ate every bite without question. By the time the buzz began to wear off, his belly was full and his ass wasn't happy about the hard chair.

  A glance at Stella confirmed the time to move on had arrived. A few farewells later, they climbed on their bikes. A moment of regret struck Trip. He missed chilling with old-timers like Hanger. A few Raiders were older, but he rarely found time to just shoot the bull with them. He needed to do that more often, kind of stay in touch with what the MC should be about.

  The wind in his face and the roar of the engine washed away the rest of the bad vibes from before. The miles melted away and he deliberately skirted Saxons territory even though doing so added another hour or more to the ride. He'd rather another full day on the road than to get sucked into that nightmare again.

  Shortly after nightfall, he and Stella blew into Stags Leap and past Rita's Rattlesnake. No bikes in the lot meant the Raiders were either back at the clubhouse or at their own places, so they didn't stop.

  A few bikes sat in haphazard-looking locations around the big converted farmhouse the Hell Raiders called home. The big barn hulked over it all, long since repurposed to storage for the weapons, gear and supplies Kellen accumulated in case whatever kind of shit hit the proverbial fan. He parked in his usual spot, not far from the side door near his room.

  He paused to stretch with a groan. Long hours on the road never got easier. He was starting to understand why some old-timers switched to trikes. The thought of just falling into his bed for about twenty hours appealed to him in a big way. Unfortunately, he had to brief Kellen on the meets first. Even a shower and clean clothes would have to wait. Duty before comfort.

  Someone had already informed Kellen of their arrival, and Trip found him waiting in his office. The Hell Raiders president rose from his seat to clasp Trip's arm and slap his back in their usual greeting.

  "Glad you made it home, brother."

  Trip dropped into the extra chair. "You and me both, man. Shit got tight there for a bit with the Saxons. Those fuckers...Well, let's just say I'd rather not go back there." He shook a cigarette from his pack and lit up, wishing fondly for more of Hanger's weed.

  Kellen, looking just as tired as Trip felt, leaned back and propped his booted feet on the desk. "We cleared to pass through?"

  "Yeah." He took a deep drag from his cigarette. "We have to cross through Saxons territory, huh?"

  Kellen shrugged. "It'll save us time and money. We don't have to go play with them."

  Trip took a deep breath. "One of us at least has to stop in and see how Buffalo's doing. He's the type to take serious insult if we didn't." He gave a condensed version of their stay with the Saxons.

  "We can do that. The run is reason enough to keep it short and sweet. We say hi, be all nice and sorry for the idiot, then get back to work."

  "Alright, we'll do it. Just don't say I didn't warn you." Trip levered himself to his feet, almost groaning from the ache in his back. "I'm going to grab a shower and hit the rack for a little while. Fucking tired."

  "It'll work out okay, no worries. Get some rest and we'll work out the rest of the details in a couple hours. No time to waste. The client stepped up the schedule."

  "Schedule? What's he want us to do, check in along the way or something?" The stubborn streak in Trip rebelled at the very idea.

  Kellen grinned a little. "Nah, man. As long as this load goes through smoothly, we have a contract. Run once a week, sometimes twice."

  Well fuck. Trip absorbed the information and just nodded and kept his opinion to himself. A contract like that would spread the Hell Raiders thin—not a problem during peaceful times, but if anyone decided to make a move against them, they could be vulnerable. He didn't like it. Not his place to say, though.

  Chapter Eight

  The four days before the run passed quickly. Trip stayed busy mostly with his regular duties, and taking care of the few preparations they needed. Kellen left the final decision on riders up to him and he spent some time selecting the strongest brothers with the skills to do whatever might be necessary.

  The last night before they were to leave, Kellen pulled them all into the conference room where they normally held private meetings. "Everybody clear on the job?"

  Ten heads nodded around the table. Ryker lifted a hand. "How long we expect this run to take, boss?"

  Trip spoke up. "Round trip we're looking at four days. We're flying under the radar, so it's double-nickel all the way and eight hours on, eight off, with the driver keeping his log books legit. The client doesn't want DOT to have a reason to crack that trailer. I'll send the route to your cell phones in the morning as we leave. Tomorrow will be a long day, about twelve hours on the road to meet the truck. We'll overnight and pull out early the next day."

  Once more, Ryker asked the burning question. "We going heavy?"

  Trip nodded. "Yeah we are. The client expects trouble. We're there to make sure that truck gets where it's going. And there's a nice bonus for each rider if there are no delays."

  Eyes lit up around the table. With a bonus on the line, these men would do whatever it took to make sure they arrived on time. After giving a few more details, Trip turned the meeting back over to Kellen.

  Kellen met the gaze of every man around the table. "I'm sitting this one out. Trip will be my voice for the run and Fabio will be Road Captain. Ryker, you're scout. 'Nuff said?"

  They all agreed and the meeting ended. The men's cheerful mood seemed a little forced for a moment, then they loosened up. Most of them considered riding into potential battle right at the top of their Favorite Things list, and Trip agreed. He never felt more alive than when facing down certain death, a gun barking in his hand and a bike thundering under him.

  Beer started to flow freely, with most of the Hell Raiders partaking. Ryker, conspicuous both for his size and the way he kept himself tightly controlled, watched everything warily and sipped water.

  Trip made his way over to the big MMA fighter, stopping along the way to exchange greetings with a few others. "You ready for this?" For some inexplicable reason, he felt the need to warn the scout ahead of time.

  Ryker shrugged and regarded him with a speculative gaze. "Always. But something's got you on edge about this run."

  Caught out, Trip had to admit it. "Yeah, li'l bit. We're running through Saxons territory, and those fuckers are righteous bat-shit crazy. I don't trust them."

  Around them, the party atmosphere built. Ryker's gaze slid over the crowd. "Let's step out and get some air."

  Fabio sat alone at the end of the bar, and Trip paused beside him. "Hey, man, you got a minute?" When Fabio nodded, he continued. "Come outside? Got some concerns."

  Outside, away from the noise and crowd, the three men walked a short distance from the house. Trip wished for a couple more hits of Hanger's weed. That shit worked miracles with stress.

  Fabio rolled his shoulders as if the tension tightened his muscles, too. "'Sup Trip."

  "Wanted to touch base with you on this run. Like Kellen said, the client expects trouble." Damn it, he wasn't quite sure how to explain. "But I have a feeling there might be something more."

  Ryker gave him a steely-eyed look. "You're about as jumpy as a first-timer in the cage. We riding into an ambush or something?"

  Trip hesitated a moment, then shook his head. "No, at least, I don't think so. The thing is, we're going through some sketchy territory. Saxons MC."

  Recognition showed immediately on Fabio's face. "Trouble waiting?"

  Trip nodded. "Could be. I don't trust them. Their prez is laid up right now." He went on to describe Buffalo's unfortunate accident. "The VP, I don't know how to take him. But if they thought they could grab the truck and make a profit, they'd sure as fuck do it."

  "I'll make sure we're ready for a possible hostile takeover, then." Ryker scowled, appar
ently adding to his mental list of preparations for the run.

  "Good." They talked a few more minutes, discussing possible scenarios for an attack from the other MC, and how to respond.

  Despite the early hour, Trip succumbed to the fatigue making his muscles ache and said goodnight. Noise from the party buffeted his room and flowed around him, but he turned on music and rolled into his bed anyway. After a couple years living in the club house, nothing kept him from sleeping.

  ***

  Roughly four hours in, as they neared the Tennessee line, Trip called a halt for lunch. Nothing but food and fuel would pull them off the road now that they were underway. Still, with a long haul left ahead, he saw no reason to push the men or machines too hard. Time enough for that in the next few days.

  The Hell Raiders avoided the fast food joints in favor of a busy truck stop. Given a choice, they always went for real food over the other stuff. They parked off to the side, away from the general traffic, and headed inside en masse. Since they were flying low, Trip didn't post a watch at the bikes. Doing so advertised the whole fuck-off attitude of outlaws, and he preferred they come off as casual riders. No need for local LEO attention for some guys just passing through on the way to some fucking theme park down south.

  Inside, the truck stop looked like any of a thousand others, and the men quickly ordered their meals and seated themselves. They talked quietly and ate, careful to avoid scrutiny. Had they just been out riding for the hell of it, they would likely have cut up and played a little. But on a business run, everyone behaved like a model citizen. The food was good and they welcomed the relaxation after the time on the road even if they didn't get to have much fun with it.

  At first, Trip paid no attention to the three men seated to his left wearing trucking company jackets over their flannel shirts. They were just some guys enjoying their lunch. But then the truckers talked a little louder, throwing around remarks about biker trash and criminals. One by one, the Hell Raiders took note, and looked to Trip for direction.

  He gave a very clear do not engage signal. They couldn't afford trouble, especially not related to the job. It might not be easy, but they needed to just ignore and let the bastards go on their way happy to have bested a bunch of bikers.

  Apparently dissatisfied with the lack of reaction, the truckers upped the ante, growing louder and louder with more disparaging comments. Tension filled the air as the silent Hell Raiders resisted everything within them that insisted on honor and defense. Other customers noticed and quietly shifted away from the section, expecting big trouble.

  Finally, one of the truckers rose with a heavy scowl and approached a table full of Raiders. "Settle a bet for me, fellas?"

  Ryker, seated closest to the truckers gave a nod. "What is it?"

  He shifted from one foot to the other and threw his shoulders back, working it up to say something big. "Well, I say bikers always run in a pack because they're just too fucking scared to go alone. My buddy over there says it's because bikers are all fags, and the other one says it's because y'all are pussy fags, ain't got the balls to do nothing and can't get away from getting ass-fucked for a minute, anyway." He grinned, looking back over his shoulder at his companions.

  Enough was fucking enough. They couldn't let that shit stand. Trip met Ryker's glare and gave a slow blink of approval. Ryker stood and towered over the man. "If you care to try it out, I'm happy to go out to the back lot, alone. It'll take you about thirty seconds to figure it out."

  The man's face reddened and he blustered. "I ain't going nowhere with you. Probably get out there and get shot in the back."

  One of the other truckers chose to join in. "Nah, Steve-o, you'd get ass-raped. Boy ain't got the balls to shoot nobody, back or front."

  Ryker shrugged and made as if to sit back down. "Well, if you're too pussy to go out there with me, I understand. You don't want to get your little jacket mussed up."

  So much for avoiding attention. Trip shook his head. Every eye in the fucking place was on them. Shit.

  The trucker's face went first white, then so red Trip expected him to stroke out. Then he laughed. "Sure, I go out and kick your ass and the rest of your little gang jumps me. I don't think so, punk."

  Ryker threw his head back and laughed, only to fall silent and take a step closer to the trucker. "Pussy." He leaned into the man's face. "My brothers won't interfere, win or lose. You and I call it, they'll see it's a fair fight. Now put up or go home."

  The man paled again, the battle in his mind obvious for all to see. If he backed down, no one would ever look at him with respect or fear again. "Deal. Let's go." He spun on his heel and waved his companions to follow. They did, albeit warily.

  The Hell Raiders had no such issues. At Trip's nod, they rose as one and trouped out the door. Trip dropped a substantial tip on the table and headed out after the others. The delay for the fight would probably take less time than shepherding all the Raiders away from the table anyway.

  Out in the parking lot, the Raiders traded good natured remarks and made casual bets with the other patrons, most of whom had found one reason or another to be out there too. At the center of the loose gathering of observers, Ryker stripped off his cut and black tee-shirt and handed them to Fabio, followed by a handgun and two knives.

  Ryker stood shirtless, hands loose at his sides, bruises from his last match still visible on his ribs. Danger radiated off him, a formidable Mixed Martial Arts fighter and a veteran of dozens of matches. Beyond the ring, Ryker was lethal in a street fight and often picked up extra money in underground fights. "Okay, pussy. I'm unarmed. I'll even give you first punch. Take your best shot."

  For a moment, the trucker and the onlookers seemed stunned. No one gave away the first punch. The jerk recovered quickly though and reared back to launch a fist at Ryker's face. Too bad for him, the punch lost its momentum long before it connected.

  Ryker let his head rock back slightly then smiled with deadly intent. "That your best? Or you want a do-over?"

  Trip shook his head. Okay, so maybe it would take a little longer than he'd first supposed. It looked like Ryker intended to toy with his prey a little.

  The expression the man wore said someone had just stepped on his grave. A heavy shudder ran over him and he raised his hands as if to placate. "Now, look—"

  "No, you look. We sat there and ignored your nasty remarks until you came right up to my table and insisted on a reaction. Just so you know, I'm undefeated this year." Ryker moved in a quick blur and landed a resounding open-handed slap to the man's face. "You better consider yourself lucky mister. If I'd been in a bad mood, your blood would soak this lot about now."

  The trucker grabbed his cheek where Ryker's livid handprint marked him. "That was a bitch move. You're all talk." He lowered his head and set up to deliver a head-butt to the gut.

  Ryker grinned again. "A bitch deserves a bitch move." He easily evaded the man's charge and stuck out a foot to trip him.

  The man surged to his feet, dust from the lot coating the front of his shirt. This time he skipped the preamble and swung. The blow managed to reach Ryker's belly but didn't get through the hard muscle to have an effect. He followed with a big punch to the jaw, which also landed.

  Ryker laughed. "You don't have a clue, pussy. Not worth my time. Just so you know, my last opponent is still in the hospital. You consider yourself lucky I'm not letting loose you on." He unleashed a quick combination that brought the trucker to his knees. "And you might want to remember this before you go talking trash next time." One last blow and the man fell unconscious to the ground.

  Ryker turned and took his weapons back from Fabio, followed by his shirt and cut.

  Sensing a negative vibe off the crowd, Trip signaled the Raiders to mount up. Time to get the fuck out of there before they decided Ryker needed to be taken down a notch. They might not take so well to the news that a professional fighter had taken down one of their own.

  Chapter Nine

  The truck s
at idling at the side of the lot while the driver finished his walk-around. Trip and the Raiders pulled up outside the gate, waiting to fall in with the truck as soon as it rolled. No need to get cozy with the driver beyond making clear to him who was in charge. Once they were on the road, he didn't piss without permission.

  Finally, the truck bucked against the trailer then started forward with a grinding of gears that made Trip wince. He lifted a hand and as it cleared the gate, Ryker moved out ahead and the rest of the Raiders closed in around the truck.

  Over the next two hours, the truck navigated the bypass, supposedly created to facilitate traffic through the downtown area. Moving a mile or two at a time, then standing still for long moments to allow some blockage to clear turned into a form of torture for Trip and the other Raiders. In normal circumstances, they would weave through traffic until they found a clear way and move the fuck on.

  The only positive note Trip found in the whole situation came in the form of a beat up old Toyota. Three girls, college students unless he missed his guess, rode in the car, laughing and flirting with him and Crank as they idled alongside the truck. Crank ate it up, and convinced the girls to put their windows down. They giggled at his outrageous suggestions and dared one another to take him up on it.

  Trip watched, half hard and tempted to drag one of the girls from the car and fuck her right there in the middle of traffic. Wavy blonde hair swung around her shoulders and blue eyes flashed with mischief. She drew her shirt up, revealing naked tits that just begged for his mouth.

  Beside him, the truck bucked and roared again as traffic began to move. Just as well. Probably saved him from catching a damn felony. The Good Samaritan in him insisted he take a moment to deliver a safety warning.

  He paused next to the car and leaned down. "Mama, you're lucky I have things to do. Don't show them tits to anyone you don't really want to take them." He hit the throttle and let the bike surge forward, leaving the girls in his rearview. Right where they belonged. Chicks like that were jailbait, even if they were legal age. That kind woke up the next morning, horrified and ashamed they'd let a biker fuck them and liked it, and started screaming rape.