Nitro: MC Biker Romance (Dark Pharaohs Motorcycle Club Romance Book 4)

by Ivy Black

  “Si, carnal.” His voice crackles over the radio. “On our way to you.”

  I feel the tightening in my gut I always get right before a battle as well as the rush of excitement. I cut a glance at Prophet and give him a grin. He claps me on the back.

  “Don’t be such a cowboy,” he says. “And keep your wits about you.”

  “Always do,” I reply.

  “Yeah, leave the cowboy shit to me,” Cosmo says and chuckles.

  “Pretty sure you’re so old that you’ll pull a muscle just thinkin’ about doin’ cowboy shit,” I say with a grin.

  “Go fuck yourself,” he says with a laugh. “I’m still plenty young enough to whip your ass.”

  “Keep dreamin’, old man. Keep dreamin’.”

  We all share a chuckle when Cosmo’s radio crackles to life. “Cort’s van inbound,” Grease reports from his spot near the road. “No tail so far. Will keep you posted.”

  “Copy that,” Cosmo replies.

  I slip the remote out of my pocket and flip the switch, getting it primed. A couple of minutes later, we see the white van bouncing down the rutted and pitted road that leads to our warehouse. The windows are all blacked out, preventing us from seeing who’s behind the wheel clearly. It’s one of Tarantula’s guys, of course. But the windows are dark enough that Grease wouldn’t have been able to see through them. If he had, that could have blown this whole operation.

  “Alpha one,” Spyder whispers. “Bogeys have reached the edge of the clearing. They are one hundred yards to your western flank.”

  “Alpha two. You’ve got four sitting one hundred yards from the edge of the clearing on your eastern flank.”

  “Alpha three,” Domino says. “Five bogeys set up on the southern flank. One hundred yards behind you.”

  “Easy,” Prophet says. “Not yet.”

  The van pulls to a stop in front of us, and the driver shuts the engine off. The silence that ensues is deep and profound. It feels like it has a physical weight to it. It’s just like that moment right before a battle breaks out. The proverbial calm before the storm. My gut tightens and my heart starts to flutter, but a slow grin creeps across my lips. The box in my hand feels like it’s growing warm, and the sense of anticipation inside of me is building.

  The doors to the van open and as if that’s the cue they’ve been waiting for, all hell breaks loose. The chatter of gunfire rings out, shattering the silence.

  “Now,” Prophet growls.

  “Gladly,” I say with an excited smile.

  I flip the three toggles on the box in my hand, and there’s a brief pause but then the explosions that rip through the air shake the very ground beneath our feet. I hear the screaming of the men who couldn’t get out of the way of the shrapnel. It’s muffled by the thick smoke that’s billowing all around us.

  “Jesus,” Prophet says. “I think you might’ve gone a little overboard with those things.”

  I scoff. “There’s no such thing as too overboard,” I say with a grin. “Damn, I love blowin’ stuff up.”

  Tarantula and half a dozen Warriors come pouring out of the van and take cover, engaging with the guys to the east of us. I hear the chatter of gunfire deeper in the forest and know that Monk, Domino, and Spyder are engaging with the militia from behind. I hear the confused screaming of the men as the weapons ring out. I’m sure they’re having trouble recovering from the IED blasts and are reeling with shooters behind them. The smoke around the battlefield is thick, and there’s mass confusion among the militia assholes.

  But the guys to our west manage to fall back and reform with the guys to our south—the group that Zane is heading up. The bullets start ripping into the ground around us, forcing Cosmo, Prophet, and me to scramble back to find cover. We duck down behind an old car that’s sitting in the lot—one we brought in specifically for this purpose.

  From the corner of my eye, I see two of Tarantula’s guys go down. They’re howling in rage and pain, telling me they’re alive. For now, anyway. But things are too hot to go render aid. The roar of so many guns reverberates through the air all around me, reminding me of the many firefights we had overseas.

  In front of us, to our south, Zane’s militia have reformed into a firing line, finding cover where they can and are taking shots at us.

  “These guys are resilient,” I say. “I’ll give ’em that.”

  “Yeah, they’re like fucking cockroaches,” Prophet growls.

  I unsling the AR on my back and pop up, squeezing off a couple of bursts that send the militia scrambling. Spyder, Domino, and Monk all emerge from the forest around us and take up positions behind the car we’re sheltering behind. We’d hoped this would be over quickly, but we knew there was a chance these pricks would put up a good fight. So we tried to game out every scenario and knew we needed to get our spotters back to our position as quickly as possible. We needed as many weapons on the firing line as we could get.

  I cut a look over at the Warriors and see that another one’s gone down. This guy’s laying still and not screaming though. There’s one still on the ground, clutching his abdomen and rolling around in obvious agony. He was shot in the gut and unless he gets to a doctor soon, I’m not sure he’s going to make it. The other one is back in a shooter’s position, back in the fight.

  Beyond them though, I see Zane’s men melting back into the trees, circling back around to the firing line. Tarantula rallies his guys, and they find new cover and pick up the fight again, the clattering of their AKs distinctive and loud. I hear the ping and whine of the militia bullets ringing off the car in front of us and am just thinking about how easy it would be for a bullet to tear through the body when I hear a loud grunt and a groan.

  I look over and see Monk flat on his back, blood pouring from a wound on his side. His face is twisted with pain as he puts his hand over the wound. It looks like a shot through his oblique. It probably didn’t hit anything vital, but I’m sure it hurts like a bitch.

  “You all right?” Prophet calls to him.

  “I’m fine. It’s nothing,” Monk calls back.

  The bullets are flying, and Zane’s guys are really pouring it on. It’s not a smart tactic though. They should be staggering their fire, so they don’t all have to reload all at the same time. It’s like they think if they all fire everything in their magazines at once, they’ll win or something. The truth is, they’re just making it easier for us to win this fight.

  As I expected, the firing stops all at once as they have to stop and reload. Tarantula’s guys open up and at the same time, Cosmo and I get up and start firing. We hit three of their guys in the barrage—idiots didn’t bother to take cover while they reloaded. That is the difference between trained soldiers and dudes playing soldier.

  When Cosmo and I stop to reload, Prophet, Spyder, and Domino all open up. The militia gets back into the fight, laying down a withering line of fire. I feel a white-hot line of pain slice through my arm and grunt as I look down to see blood flowing from the wound. It could be a lot worse, so I say a silent word of thanks.

  “You hit?” Spyder calls.

  “Grazed. I’m fine.”

  It is, however, time to bring this to an end. I reach into my pack and pull out a couple of homemade toys. I flip the switch on one and then the other, priming them both, then look over at the guys.

  “I need some cover,” I say.

  They give it a three count then do as I ask and lay down a barrage of fire that drives the militiamen back down behind cover. I get to my feet and press the button on the first homemade grenade to arm it then hurl it straight at the enemy lines. I arm the second and throw that like a football.

  “Get down!” I call.

  There are two explosions, one right after the other, that make the ground beneath us shake like we’re experiencing an earthquake. The sound of the blasts is muted but the sound of Zane’s men screaming sure isn’t. I peek around the car and see that there are small pock
ets of flame on the ground. Smoke is billowing thick all around us but through the haze, I can see shadows retreating.

  “Get back here, you fucking cowards!”

  That had to be Zane. And it sounds like his men are abandoning him now that shit has gotten very real. I take advantage of the moment of confusion and get to my feet, dashing across the open ground between our line and theirs.

  “Nitro!” Prophet calls. “Get your ass back here!”

  I see one guy emerging through the smoke, the barrel of his weapon pointed down, a dazed look of confusion on his face. When he sees me, he starts to raise the barrel of his weapon slowly. Sluggishly. I squeeze off a burst that takes him center mass. The bullets punch into his chest, red blossoms erupting on his blue denim shirt. He topples backward, dead before he hits the ground.

  I see several guys on the ground around me, writhing in pain. As I pass them by, moving low and fast, I put a round into each of their heads, ending them. The smoke all around me is disorienting, but I zero in on the sound of Zane’s voice, screaming at his men to get back and fight.

  I come around the side of a fallen log and find Zane there. He’s been shot through the shoulder and has a gash on his forehead. I sweep the area with my weapon still raised but see that he’s alone. Half his guys are dead, the other half are running. I lower the barrel of my weapon and point it at his face. Zane turns and is surprised to see me standing there. His eyes widen as an expression of fear ripples across his features.

  “You lose,” I say. “I’ll give you credit though. You and your boys lasted longer than I expected you to.”

  “Go fuck yourself,” he spits.

  I see his sidearm lying on the ground near him at the same time he does. And I see the thought going through his mind.

  “Go ahead. Pick it up,” I say. “Pick it up and give me a reason to put one through your fucking face.”

  He hesitates but ultimately turns away from it, knowing he’s beaten.

  “Get up,” I growl. “Let’s go. On your feet.”

  “I’m shot.”

  “In the shoulder. That won’t affect you getting to your feet,” I say. “Stop being a pussy, and get on your goddamn feet.”

  He gives the sidearm another look, trying to judge whether he could make it or not. I finally step forward and kick the weapon as far away from him as I can. It skitters through the undergrowth before finally tumbling under a bush.

  “Trust me, you’re not faster than a bullet but better to remove all temptation,” I say. “Now get on your feet, or I will blow your brains out the back of your head.”

  He grumbles under his breath but gets to his feet. I take up a position behind him and jab him in the middle of his back with the barrel of my weapon.

  “Get moving,” I tell him.

  “What are you going to do with me?” he asks.

  “Me? I ain’t gonna do shit with you.”

  We walk about ten feet before he looks at me over his shoulder. “How’d you know we were gonna hit you here?”

  “We’re better at this stuff than you are. Plain and simple,” I tell him. “We’re actual soldiers. You’re pseudo-soldiers. You guys are the equivalent of putting a Mercedes hood ornament on a Volkswagen.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Original. You know any other words?”

  He falls silent as we cross the open ground. He sees his men lying dead on the ground. I march him out to our position on the battlefield. Tarantula and his guys are tending to their wounded—and their dead while Cosmo and Prophet are getting Monk on his feet, checking his wound. It’s a through and through on his oblique. It’s not life-threatening, but he’s going to need to get patched up.

  “Stop,” I say.

  Zane grumbles to himself but stops. I drive my foot into the back of his knee, forcing him down to his knees. Tarantula and Prophet both catch sight of me and walk over. They stop before Zane and look down at him, contempt etched onto both of their faces.

  “Tarantula, this is the guy who clipped your guys,” I say. “Or at least, the guy who ordered it.”

  Tarantula smirks and then without warning, lashes out. The sound of his fist hitting Zane’s face sounds like a baseball hitting an old leather mitt and sends the blond man toppling onto his side. Blood is flowing from his nose, and he’s grunting in pain. Reaching down, I grab him by the hair and haul him back to his knees. Zane coughs, a spray of blood exploding from his nose and mouth.

  “Look, we can work something out,” he says, his words slurred. “It doesn’t have to go down like this.”

  “No, ese. I’m pretty sure it does have to go down like this.”

  Zane shakes his head. “Look, is it money you want? I can give you money.”

  This time, it’s Prophet who strikes, driving his foot into Zane’s midsection. His breath bursts from him in an explosive gasp and he wheezes, groaning in agony. Prophet leans down and gets into his face.

  “You stole from us, asshole. Nobody steals from the Dark Pharaohs,” he hisses. “What makes you think you can come into our town and steal from us. You really think you can try to start a war between us and not pay a price?”

  Zane spits a thick red glob onto the ground beneath him, his face stretched in a rictus of pain.

  “Please,” Zane pleads. “Please don’t do this. Just let me walk—”

  “Shut the fuck up, homes. I don’t want to hear no more of your shit,” Tarantula spits and delivers a vicious backhand.

  Tears start to race down Zane’s face, mixing with the blood that’s sheeting his face. Tarantula grabs his hair and forces him to look at his guy, lying dead in the dirt, pointing to him.

  “You see that, puto. You see that? You think money can fix that?” he growls. “You think money can fix the four guys you already put in the ground? Huh? My guys. My friends. Mi familia. You think you can fix that?”

  “I’m sorry,” Zane cries. “What can I do to fix this? Just tell me, I’ll do it.”

  Tarantula leans down close to him; his face hovering inches from Zane’s. The blond man recoils, his face etched with terror. Clearly, playing soldier in the forest didn’t prepare him for this. It’s easy to play the tough guy when there are no consequences.

  “You can scream for me, homes. You can scream loud and long. And then you can die,” Tarantula says. “And believe me when I say, you ain’t gonna die easy, bitch. You gonna die hard. Painful. For what you did to my guys, we’re gonna take that out of your ass. Believe that.”

  Zane starts to make a move, but I was ready for it and drive the butt of my weapon down between his shoulder blades. He cries out but pitches forward, landing face-first on the dirt. Spyder comes over and quickly uses a pair of plastic cuffs to bind his hands behind his back. Tarantula whistles and a couple of his guys come over and grab Zane under the arms and haul him to the van, dumping him inside unceremoniously.

  Tarantula gives me a nod and shakes my hand then Prophet’s. “I don’t know how to thank you guerros,” he says. “And I’m sorry I ever thought—”

  “It’s all good,” Prophet interrupts. “I’m just glad it all worked out.”

  “Simon. Me too.”

  A shrill whistle pierces the air, and we all turn to see Bala emerging from the forest path with his weapon at the ready, walking behind Grease whose face is dark and twisted with rage.

  “Doin’ my part to clean up the roads by pickin’ up the trash, ese,” Bala says, a look of amusement on his face.

  Grease looks at Tarantula with derision then turns to Prophet.

  “What the fuck is this about?” he demands. “This piece of shit marches me down here at gunpoint? You gonna do somethin’ about this shit, Prez?”

  Prophet nods to Bala who kicks Grease in the back of the leg the same way I did to Zane, driving him to his knees. He goes down hard and grunts in pain as the small pebbles dig into his skin.

  “What the fuck?” Grease growls and immediately trie
s to stand.

  Bala knocks him back down to his knees. “Stay down, puto.”

  Grease’s eyes widen and he looks frantic as he gazes up at Prophet. “What the fuck is this about, Prez? What the fuck is goin’ on here?”

  Prophet looks at me and gives me a nod, telling me to go ahead with it. I turn to Grease, my face etched with the distaste I feel for him.

  “You’ve been working with Zane and the Golden State Guard,” I say. “Well, the former Golden State Guard. I don’t see them reformin’ after gettin’ their asses kicked this hard today.”

  “What the fuck you talkin’ about?” Grease growls.

  “You know exactly what I’m talkin’ about,” I say. “But if you need a refresher, we’ve got your phone records. We know you’ve been selling intel on our shipments to Zane and his merry band of assholes.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “Blake and I followed you one day, in fact,” I go on. “We have a nice little video of you and Zane negotiatin’ a price. Tell me, did you get the fifty grand in advance? Or were you only gettin’ paid after he jacked us today?”

  Grease’s face pales. His eyes widen, and his mouth falls open knowing I’ve got him dead to rights. He licks his lips nervously and starts to get to his feet, but when Bala taps him on the shoulder with the barrel of his AK, he remains where he is. Bala laughs and points at him.

  “You ever see a whiteboy turn even whiter, homes?” he says with a chuckle.

  Tarantula grins at him. “Nah. I didn’t even know they could turn that white.”

  “Was it worth it, Grease?” I spit. “Was the money worth betrayin’ your brothers-in-arms? Was it worth betrayin’ your family?”

  Grease’s face changes again. It darkens with anger, his expression turning from terrified to one of pure disgust.

  “Brothers-in-arms? You’re an idiot,” he growls. “You think this fuckin’ club is goin’ to be there for you when you need ’em?”

  “Yeah. I do,” I reply.

  “Then you’re stupider than you look,” Grease snarls. “This club ain’t nothin’.”