Auctioned To Daddy: BDSM Romance

by Amy Faye

  We settle in and wait. Ten seconds turns into sixty. A minute turns into two. They're waiting for us, and we're waiting for them.

  Whoever is on the move has a disadvantage. The ones hiding will have cover, they'll be able to see the other side.

  I don't like having to be the ones to make the first move, but the alternative is to wait for the cavalry to arrive, and that's not going to happen. No chance in hell.

  I start moving first, and the others follow behind. Right before I get past the corner, I look back at the group. Maguire's still with us. After the first two went down she seems to have cooled it a little.

  I grab the guy's ankle, pull him back towards me. The MP-5 in his arms comes with him, and I pick it up. I check the safety, check it's loaded. I already have it pointed into the darkness when I step around the corner.

  A shot rings out, thuds into my chest. I go down hard, the pain exploding through me in spite of the bullet-proof vest I'm wearing. I press the trigger of the automatic in my hands and it jerks alive, spraying three shots in the direction where the first bullet had come from.

  I can't hear the body hit the floor, but I see a crumpled heap of guy, sitting there in the darkness.

  Rob Green grabs me, pulls me back, just in time to see someone else moving to take the guy's place. A shot rings out, but I'm free of the wall now, and the shots smack into the thin plywood walls instead.

  I take a deep breath. I don't know how many are left, but I know it's at least one, and I know we've got to get this over with, and fast.

  Chapter Fifteen

  MAGUIRE

  I don't want to ever even have to think about what went through my head, watching Ryan Beauchamp—drug runner, gun smuggler, and all-around scumbag—go down for what I thought would be the last time.

  He opens up on the guy who shot him. How strangely like him. Someone runs up and grabs him, pulls him back, as if they were pulling him back from the brink of death.

  That direction's a no-go then. Unless someone brought grenades, but that seems too much to hope for at this point. After all, why would they have brought grenades?

  Someone steps forward, pulling something out of his pocket. I hear the sound of metal flinging itself against a plywood wall.

  Why would they have brought grenades, indeed? The only thing that he shows of himself around the corner might be the bareliest part of one finger. I hear the thing slam into a plywood wall, and then I hear it rip a hole in the whole office section of the building.

  We move fast, now. If Ryan is still hurting, he doesn't show it. In we go. I keep my gun down. Nobody's getting shot by me—not today. I'm not a criminal. I won't get myself killed if I can avoid it, but I'm not going to shoot anyone if I don't have to.

  That would put me on the same level as them, and I'm not on the same level as them. I never will be. Not in a thousand lifetimes. Not in a million years.

  I want to talk to Spider. To tell him my plan. If he knows what's going on, it'll be easier to get him not to have himself pulled out.

  He could be in the wind in an hour if need be, especially if it was with Beauchamp's permission. Knowing that there wouldn't always be the chance of some gang member behind you, showing up like a magic bullet, would go a long way toward peace of mind.

  Ryan sticks close to us. Sticks close to me, at least. Too close to get anything like a message off, besides an occasional slap on the back to let him know I'm here, he's got cover and support.

  The entire raid is over within four minutes. I can hear shots going off in the distance. Easy. I know that we're not losing the gunfights because it doesn't take long before there aren't any.

  Instead, I see McCallister's men moving towards the truck. Trying to get it out of there. It's big and painted plain blue. As inconspicuous as it can get. Well, that's great for them.

  I force myself to focus up. They might be done with gunfights, but that doesn't mean that I am. We're at the end of the hall. There's a door, nice and big and in the dark it looks gray but it might be red or blue.

  Wes motions for me to take the left side of it. Hawkins takes the right, and Wes leans back against the far wall and rears back to kick hard like a mule.

  The door latch explodes through the hinge, splintering the door along with the shattered lock. The ring of the lock softly tinkles as it hits the floor, and Wes pulls out of the way as shots spray through the now-open door.

  Hawkins pulls a grenade off his belt. In the dark I can see the cylindrical shape of a flash grenade. He gives it a light toss. The loud pop deafens even my ears. I should've covered them, I realize all too late.

  We swarm the room. I can't hear my own voice as I start shouting, almost by rote: "Get down! Get the fuck down!"

  There are three of them, there. One of them tries to bring a gun up, but he's dropped by Hawkins. The other two go down on their knees, hands up. They've got guns within easy reach, where they dropped them.

  I step forward, kick them away. I don't know how motorcycle gangs feel about prisoners. Do they keep them? Set them free? Kill them?

  Wes looks at them, perplexed. Is there something going on here that I'm not understanding? I wonder if he recognizes these goons, even in the dim light. Maybe taking prisoners at all, or surrendering when there's a gunfight going on, those are the strange things.

  My ears are still ringing so loud that I can't hear my own thoughts. But that doesn't mean that I don't see it when Wes grabs the guy and stands him up. He's rough about it. If he recognizes them, I think, they're not likely to be friends.

  Then they're moving. Wes keeps his gun up, trained on their backs. He's giving them instructions, but God damn it all, I can't hear them. I wonder how anyone could hear again so soon after that fucking noise.

  Still, when he points at me, and points at the door, I know what to do, more or less. I pass a gun on the floor. Pick it up. An automatic, like the others. Just in case I ever need it, and if I don't, it's evidence.

  Then I take the lead. I don't know where I'm going, but I'm walking halfway backwards anyways, keeping an eye on the prisoners behind me. Keeping an eye on Hawkins and Beauchamp, as well.

  I let Beauchamp call the shots, the ringing in my ears finally starting to subside by the time he points me in the direction of the door into the warehouse. I push it open. No surprises. I've already seen through the windows in the thin plywood walls what I'm going to find.

  A few crates. It's a small place, compared to most warehouses, but then again there can't be that much to find. I already know what I'm going to find in there.

  Someone's already on the forklift. When he pulls in close, I recognize the older Beauchamp. He picks up one of the pallets, drives off with it. They're loading up the truck, and they seem to be in a God damned hurry about it, too.

  I swallow hard, the sound of blood surging in my ears almost as deafening as the ringing that had overtaken my hearing for minutes on end.

  I feel a little light-headed. Hawkins goes on ahead, loads the prisoners up into the back of the truck. He's not explaining what's going to happen, but I don't have to guess. They'll be let off, eventually. Probably a few miles into the desert.

  They'll be able to walk back to town, which won't be fun, but they'll have their lives and they'll only be an hour out of civilization.

  By that point, though, we'll be long gone. They'll come in here and find nobody and nothing.

  Logan Beauchamp takes another crate. Ryan stands beside me, wordless. Everything's happening without any instruction from him, but even still he watches like an instructor waiting to give out a grade.

  "What's going on that truck?" I ask.

  He doesn't answer for a minute. I figure I shouldn't have asked and don't bother asking again. The question will just be forgotten by time, I think.

  "Guns. Probably the same stuff that they're using at the warehouse."

  His answer surprises me, after the long silence that he treated me to.

  "And what are we going to do wit
h them?"

  "We're going to wait for McCallister to give us a call."

  "That sounds like a terrible idea."

  "How else do you figure you meet the man?"

  I don't have an answer to that, except that I'm not sure it works that way.

  "Green!" he suddenly shouts. "We got less than five minutes, get that cab up and running!"

  The guy I don't recognize jumps up in the cab and I can see him leaning over, fiddling. Checking for a key. He finds one in the overhead, and fits it into the ignition. The engine turns over quickly and easily, and I'm about to breathe a sigh of relief when the whole place explodes.

  Chapter Sixteen

  RYAN

  It doesn't occur to me until the heat already hits that maybe I shouldn't have moved. There's no other choice, though. Not really.

  I'm not going to leave Rob in there, not if he's alive. Not if there's even a tiny chance that he survived the blast.

  What I should have known, and what didn't even remotely occur to me until the flames were already grabbing at my arms, at my legs, and trying to finish the job that the bullet in my vest started, was that there was no way he'd survived it.

  It's two long strides to get up to the seat of the rig, and the door feels as if it wanted to fall off anyways when I pull on the handle. The heat, searing the skin on my hands, doesn't matter.

  I grab Rob and pull him down on top of me. Logan's got me before I can even get free of the fire, pulling me out by my waist. I'm trying to stay upright, to carry Rob out of the fire.

  My second clue that he wasn't going to make it was that he didn't fight me. Not even for an instant. Most of the time, with a rescue, it takes a second to calm someone down.

  In that time, people drown the lifeguard. They knock a fireman down the stairs. They alert the guy that the cop is trying to rescue you from. Everyone panics when they realize that they're never getting out of there alive.

  Rob doesn't fight me for an instant. He's hanging there on my shoulders like dead weight, and when I slip over with Logan pulling me hard out of the flames, he tumbles off my shoulder.

  I've seen plenty of dead bodies before. Dead friends, even. Rob's no different than any of them. He's cooked, and I can see it already. Flash-heated. His clothes are fused to his skin.

  We were never close, and I've seen bodies before. Worse bodies than this. Stuff that is impossible to ever forget. But even still, seeing this body, like this, I turn over and I lose my lunch on the hard concrete floor.

  Logan helps me up a minute later. I look over at Spider, and at his boss. I don't know if they've had a chance to talk, or pass a message. I might have seen it, if I hadn't gone running off.

  I would have done it again, though, if I had the chance to do it over. The whole thing was raw instinct and reflex.

  She looks like she's in a bad way. I can see the way she's sucking in breaths, like each one might be her last so she'd better make the most of it. She's going to pass out, inhaling smoke like that. I grab her and start moving her towards the door.

  I can already hear the cavalry arriving, way off in the distance. The low rumble of motorcycle engines. We don't have long to get the fuck out of here, and there's no way we can hold the place.

  We start moving hard and fast. Out through the back, over the fence. I can tell Maguire's thinking about panicking. She's barely holding on. I don't give her time to freak out.

  She has to go first. Up the fence. Down the other side. Get in the car. Follow. Don't ask questions.

  She takes it surprisingly well. I didn't think she was capable of it. I don't know if I'm capable of it. But I don't have a choice. There's no room for her questioning me.

  No room for questioning myself, either, not when everyone's lives are at stake. I need to be in control of myself, and I need to be confident in my decisions.

  We have to get the hell out before things get ugly. When we pull up into the parking lot outside the bar, nobody needs to explain to Spider, or to Logan, or for that matter to Maguire.

  Nobody is going to talk about what happened, not any time soon. Things didn't go our way. Nobody expected a car bomb. The truck was right there. Waiting for us.

  Nobody was expecting the bomb, but someone had planted it. Someone had told them to expect people coming. The idea hits me like lightning and just as hard. When I get through the door, and into the bar, I have to stop myself from screaming it.

  We've got someone on the inside. Someone who was working with McCallister. Someone who was in on the plan.

  I look at their faces, one by one. Maguire? I can't imagine that she'd be working with Brent. If she was, why would she need me? I'm supposed to be there to provide a way in to his organization.

  If she's got a way in, then why not?

  Spider works for her. I know it. So if he's working for her, it makes no sense for him to have been involved, either.

  I look at Logan, a long hard look. I know I didn't tip them off, which means that there are only two choices left.

  Only two choices left, and one of them is lying in a smoldering pile on the floor of enemy territory. I can't imagine that he killed himself to sell the lie.

  Which leaves just one, an idea that I don't want to imagine. One that I can't imagine. Logan is my brother, and there's no way that he would betray me. I don't know anyone who I guarantee would betray me.

  Nobody but Spider, at least, and I don't know if it's a betrayal for him to have gained my trust with the express purpose of exploiting it. After all, he was never close to me because he thought it would be a good idea.

  It was always a plot for him.

  But Logan—I take a deep breath, pour out six beers. The sixth tips over, right onto the floor. In loving memory, I whisper to myself. He was a pretty-boy, and he wasn't my best guy.

  But in a way, they're all my brothers. Logan and Brian are my brothers by blood, but even Spider is my brother by choice.

  I don't know how it happened, and I sure as hell don't know why. I've got a lot of questions to answer, and I've got to answer them soon. Before I can even think about trying to make another move on McCallister.

  But right now, I have to mourn my brother. I pick up the glass I set out for myself, raise it over my head.

  "Rob was a good guy, a good friend, a good brother. He gave this club everything. And now, he's given us the ultimate sacrifice. He will be avenged. But first, tonight, he'll be remembered."

  I drink deep. I don't need to look between the others to know that they are doing the same. The beer tastes good on my tongue, but somewhere between the taste buds and my brain, things sour.

  Someone warned McCallister. Someone who knew about the job being moved up. Only five people knew about it. One is dead, two are cops, and one of them is me.

  I don't like it, and the question keeps swirling in my head. I can't begin to imagine Logan selling the club out. Which makes it all that much harder when I can't find another answer, not for the life of me.

  There's only one way Brent McCallister and his boys know we're coming, and that way is straight out of Logan's mouth.

  Chapter Seventeen

  MAGUIRE

  I look Ryan Beauchamp in the face, and for the second time in as many days, I'm seeing a side of him that in all the time we investigated him, I never knew existed.

  He looks down, almost depressed. A week ago, I wouldn't have been able to say for certain that he had feelings.

  My mother never had. As long as she had a needle, she was happy. Nothing else mattered. Not the man she'd made a child with. Certainly not the daughter she'd given birth to.

  The only thing that had ever mattered was that God damned needle and what it could do for her. What any of the people around her could do for her. How they could get her more of that powder.

  Every time I look in the mirror, I can't help wondering what she would have looked like without it. I never saw any family resemblance, not in her face.

  But eventually I guess Gran and Poppa
felt sufficiently bad for their single-parent daughter. They finally agreed to meet me when I got into high school, not that it mattered by then. Not in terms of anything that was really going to have a long-term effect.

  I don't blame them. Especially not when I saw the pictures they had, the ones that they'd managed to get before my mom started popping those needles into her skin.

  We might have been twins. Now that I'm getting older, I can't help wondering. She looked, all the time I knew her, like she'd been hit by a bus.

  Would I look like that, if I had stayed? What was it that was different between her and me, that made it so she was always on that stuff, and I never even needed to try it?

  People like Beauchamp were the ones who did that to my mother, and it's people like me who save her. That's the only difference that I can figure out.

  But now, more than my mother ever did, he seemed to be upset. He almost seemed human. The others drank in silence, but I could see the others watching him.

  Even Hawkins had stopped trying to talk to me, after the bomb went. He froze up, like really froze up. It was at that point I figured out that he wasn't going to be much use to me. Not any more.

  He was fried. He wasn't even much use to himself, not any more. I made a mental note to call Danny and get him the hell out of here before he hurt himself.

  Spider, the person Hawkins had pretended to be for almost a year now, would have to figure out his own way out, but it wouldn't be hard. Not the way he was taking that biker's death.

  Nobody dared to speak. I pulled down my third glass and reached behind the counter to grab the beer dispenser. Nobody tried to stop me.

  The elder Beauchamp stepped back, pushed himself away from the bar, and went over to Ryan. He clapped his brother on the shoulder.

  "You gonna be alright? I ought to get back home."

  "You go ahead, I'll clean up here," Ryan said.

  Even I could hear the distraction in his voice. He was a million miles away, thinking about other places, other things. Questions that he couldn't answer, or something.