Lead (The Brazen Bulls MC, #8)

by Susan Fanetti

  When Kari threw her bouquet, it hit Sage in the head and dropped to the floor. She’d never lifted her hands. One of Kari’s friends dived for it, and Sage reared back like the flowers might be poisonous. No, his little lady wasn’t into weddings.

  Maybe just an appointment at the courthouse, then. A quick one—the courthouse made the back of Becker’s neck itch.

  “I like her.” Fitz was at his side. He’d shed his suit coat and tie, undone the top three buttons of his dress shirt and cuffed the sleeves, pulled the elastic from his hair—and looked much more like Fitz.

  After months of recovery, the kid was almost back to normal. He was thinner, and not yet as strong as he’d been, but he looked good. He had yet to get back on his bike, and with the station still down, there was no work he could do off it, but the club was keeping his family going. Someday, he’d be back in the saddle. And someday, the insurance would pay out. Meanwhile, the expanded Russian work was setting everybody’s books to rights.

  “Well, that’s good, seein’ as you just married her.”

  “Not Kari. Sage. I like Sage.”

  “I know, kid. It was a joke.”

  “Right, sorry.” He tapped his head. “Still a little slow about stuff like that. Anyway, I like her. I think she’s good for you.”

  His eyes on Sage, watching her on the edges of the cluster of women, standing with Cecily, both of them part of the activity but not quite in it, Becker chuckled. “Yeah, she is.”

  “You told me once you thought you were meant to be hard.”

  That pulled his attention to Fitz. “I did?”

  “Yeah. Last Christmas. I think. It’s a little blurry, but I remember it. We were talking about all the women and children, how they give us a reason to be soft sometimes.”

  “That’s Rad who says that.”

  “I know. You said maybe you weren’t supposed to be soft.”

  Fitz remembered that conversation better than Becker did, but he knew it was real. He’d believed there was no time in his life for a relationship, no give in his soul for this kind of love, no safe place in his world for a family. And then Sage Cleary had slipped her little self in through his cracks.

  As he watched, the girl in question tipped her head back and laughed at something Cecily had said.

  He smiled at his girl. “Guess I was wrong.”

  “Guess you were.”

  ~oOo~

  “I got a bad feeling here.” Simon sat back on his saddle and squinted at the sagging chain link fence before them.

  Becker nodded; the Tezcat Kings had called a new drop point at the last minute, with the Bulls already on the road, hauling a load of Abrego meth westward. The original location had been compromised. How, Becker didn’t know—it hadn’t been information to share on a cellphone.

  This location hadn’t been scouted—not by the Bulls, at any rate—and it was shit. Far too close to the interstate, with only a thin band of trees obstructing the view. It was night, but the moon was high, and there was no cover. Any Fed in the sky with infrared would get a bright shiny view of this highly illegal trafficking transaction.

  But the Kings were good friends—new friends, but solid. Miguel Hernandez, their president, was a straight shooter. They’d pulled through the Panhandle bullshit last year with them. Almost one year ago to the day. Fuck, Becker was going to start keeping the club home in October, before a trend of fuckery got started.

  Rad dismounted and climbed up the rise to the south. “Yeah, this is no-go, Prez. We’re way exposed here, and if we go through that gate we’re bottlenecked with our asses out. I don’t like it.”

  And the Kings weren’t here yet. Protocol was for the receiver to arrive first, so the product wasn’t sitting in place, waiting to be discovered. “Okay. Eyes and ears sharp. I’ll call Miguel, see what’s up.”

  Becker dismounted and walked a bit away, so he could get a full view of the scene. He could see the fucking traffic from here. What was Miguel thinking?

  Or was it a setup? Should he pack up the Bulls and get gone?

  And do what with the million dollars of meth in the truck? Not deliver it? His relationship with Irina was better, in that she’d accepted that he was the club president now, but he doubted he had much leash. If her product didn’t get delivered, it would be his ass on her plate.

  Before his call connected, Rad called, “We got company!” and the night shook with the sound of Harley engines. A cluster of headlamps came around the rise Rad was standing on. All the Bulls pulled their weapons, but Becker saw almost at once that it was the Kings.

  Walking to Miguel’s bike, he let the muzzle of his Sig drop but didn’t holster it.

  “Becker. Good to see you.” Miguel gave the gun a sidelong look as he dismounted. “There a problem?”

  “Only the problem you brought. This location sucks, bro. What gives?’ He holstered the gun now, and exchanged an embrace with his Kings counterpart.

  “Sorry, man. We got some local trouble, but we’re cool to take the product here.” He turned and gestured toward his men, and one of them went to the gate and unlocked it. To Becker, Miguel said, “There’s two bay doors off the back of that old warehouse. We can pull both trucks in and do our business under cover. It’s the best I can do, short notice.”

  Becker looked around at all the points from which they were exposed to view. “We won’t get our feet tangled in your local trouble?”

  Miguel hesitated just long enough for Becker to understand that his seeming confidence was bravado. There was real exposure here, but the Kings were in the same boat as the Bulls—they had to make this drop happen.

  “We should both keep extra guards on lookout,” Miguel conceded.

  Becker sighed. He was fucking tired. “Is it law or rival?” The nature of the trouble would shape their defense. If it was law, they had to abort and find a better solution. If it was rival, they could risk the fight.

  “Rival. We got another crew claiming this turf. We just rumbled with them today, here, or I’d’ve told you to ride farther west, onto our turf.”

  The Kings were an Arizona MC, but a couple of their better drop locations were inside the New Mexico border—closer to Oklahoma and on heretofore unclaimed turf.

  “Who?”

  “New charter of the Dirty Rats.”

  “Fuck me.” Becker laughed. The Rats had charters all over the country, but they’d stayed clear of the southwest since a member of their Lubbock charter had killed Irina Volkov’s son, and she’d responded by turning their whole compound into a hole in the ground and killing every last one of them.

  “I’m not giving an inch to those feral bastards. Let’s get this drop done.”

  ~oOo~

  Miguel put three of his men on watch, and Becker put Rad, Gunner, and Wally at guard as well. The rest of the men got the trucks inside the building and got to work, moving even more quickly than their usual no-nonsense pace.

  The load was almost entirely transferred when the commotion started—another roar of Harley engines, and gunfire before the clatter of engine noise had died out. Becker had shoved Boom Boom at the small of his back, and he yanked that monster forward and ran out the overhead door to the corner of the building.

  The moonlight was enough for him to see all he needed to; one Rat was directing the attack, calling out positions, waving his arms from the skimpy protection of a rusty electric box. Becker aimed his Desert Eagle and fired. The Rat leader dropped; he didn’t need to get close to know he’d hit exactly what he’d aimed at: the guy’s ear.

  His shot, and their fallen leader, drew the attention of the Rats; by the sound and look of them, Becker had taken down their president. They came straight for him, for the warehouse, and the cargo, eight men firing old M16s, with no concern for their own exposure—because at least five other Rats had the Bulls and Kings guards busy. Becker ducked back into the doorway a bit. A bullet hit the metal track of the door, right at his face, and shrapnel cut into his cheek—his che
ek and not his eye, thank God.

  “GUNNER!”

  “YEAH!” Gunner answered from across the wide bay doors.

  “GET YOUR TOY!”

  “ON IT!”

  Becker turned his attention to the oncoming Rats. He saw one of them pull his gun back and knew it had jammed. M16s were notorious for jamming up, especially of that ancient vintage. He aimed for the distracted Rat and fired. One more down.

  Because he never missed.

  Gunner ran up to his side, hoisting a modded AK to his shoulder. “They get much closer, this’ll take us out, too.”

  “Then shoot, brother.” He turned and called to his people, “COVER! NOW!”

  Grinning maniacally, Gunner aimed—he was nearly as good a shot as Becker—and fired the GP-25 mod, launching a grenade at the Rats, which had dwindled to four.

  And then, in an impressive explosion of light and fire and body parts, to none.

  “We gotta get outta here!” Miguel yelled. “That’s gonna draw heat!”

  There were still a few Rats left. “Go!” Becker shouted. “Get the cargo out!” They had to clear a path to the gate. “We’ll cover you!”

  Giggling like a kid at Christmas, Gunner reloaded the launcher. “I can take the others out.”

  Becker couldn’t help but laugh. “Hold up, lunatic. Let’s see if we need it.” They ran to the corner of the building again and saw one final Rat, using a small pile of downed bikes as cover, making his last stand.

  “I got this.” He aimed Boom Boom and put a 50-caliber bullet in the asshole’s temple.

  The Kings’ loaded truck ground gravel through the gate, and the rest of the Kings followed, turning over their engines as they mounted.

  “We whole?” Becker yelled, running up into the rubble and gore.

  “Yeah, Prez,” Rad called. “Accounted for. We gotta ride, and now. Gun’s fireworks is gonna have every badge in New Mexico up our ass.” He got close enough to Becker to see his face, and he frowned. “You hit?”

  He wiped the blood from his cheek. “Shrapnel. I’m alright.”

  Looking around him, Becker worked out how to get home clear from this mess. Though they were near the highway, they weren’t anywhere close to a population, which meant they had time before law could get to them.

  “Cargo’s clear. I got an idea. Everybody grab a body, pull it into the warehouse. Gun, keep hold of the launcher. Did you see what I saw inside the garage door?”

  Gunner grinned, understanding at once. “That is FUCKING AWESOME!”

  Even Rad smiled at Gunner’s enthusiasm. “Let’s go. Move it!”

  They all dragged bodies into the warehouse as fast as they could, piling them up in a mound about five feet inside the door. Then they backed off, to their bikes. At a safe distance, Becker nodded at Gunner, who aimed the launcher again and fired.

  The explosion was spectacular. There had been a natural gas box inside the warehouse, not far from the overhead doors. It looked like Gunner had made a perfect hit.

  “Let’s bolt. On the road, NOW. PROSPECT, let’s go!”

  Terry was behind the wheel. He roared onto the gravel road, grinding rocks under his tires. The Bulls mounted and bolted, leaving the carnage behind.

  One more Dirty Rats charter down. Becker wondered what Irina would think about that.

  ~oOo~

  The next afternoon, as Becker parked his Softail on his driveway and cut the engine, the thump of a heavy bassline rattled the living room windows. His smile reminded him that his cheek had benefitted from Rad’s mediocre suturing skills the night before.

  But that whole mess in New Mexico had turned out alright, all in all. The Kings had lost a guy and had two others hurt, but the gash in Becker’s cheek and a gouge out of Gunner’s right arm—which even Gunner hadn’t noticed until they were clear of the scene—were the only Bulls injuries.

  And the Russians were pleased. So much so that, after he’d reported to Alexei that the drop had happened and that they’d repelled—more likely destroyed—the Dirty Rats charter, Madame Irina herself had called him. To thank him for saving the drop.

  He’d been on the edge of telling her that they’d all saved the drop, all the Bulls and all the Kings, but he’d closed his mouth. She wanted a strong leader, and she saw that in only one way: someone who ran their crew like she ran hers—alone at the top. Becker would never allow himself to believe that he was like her in that way, but he saw the value in letting her think he was.

  So he’d taken the credit, and her thanks. And now he had her trust.

  He was the president of the Brazen Bulls MC.

  Lemmy greeted him at the door. The music—one of the weird old English punk bands Sage liked—blared from the speakers so that each thump of bass or drum made his organs shimmy, but the pup didn’t seem to mind it. Becker crouched low and let Lemmy climb up for kisses.

  He’d had a dog when he was very young, while his father was alive—a sweet yellow Labrador. Lemmy looked a bit like him, except for the wiry, fuzzy texture of his coat. That dog had been his best friend. Buck had been hit by a truck and killed a few months before Becker’s father had also died. After that, during the years of his stepfathers, his mother had never allowed him to have another pet.

  As a man, Becker knew the sense, and the kindness, in her refusal: men like Kent and Clyde, with no compunction about hurting women and children, could do far worse to an animal. Lemmy himself was a case in point. But as a boy, he’d been lonely as fuck.

  Sage had a knack for bringing into his life the things he’d lost or lacked as a boy. Because she’d lost or lacked the same things herself. The years separating their ages didn’t matter, because the truths between their lives were so close.

  She was singing along—well, yelling along. Her singing voice wasn’t great, and she compensated by growling the words as loudly as she could. Following that happy racket, he crossed the living room and went through the dining room. Lemmy padded after him, so close he bumped into Becker’s leg with every step.

  He stopped in the kitchen doorway and enjoyed the view. Wearing what seemed to be nothing but one of his t-shirts—probably one he’d worn since laundry day; when he was on the road, she liked to keep his scent close—her gleaming dark hair piled messily on top of her head, his sweet girl bopped wildly around the kitchen, yelling lyrics over the din of the music, holding up a dough-covered wooden spoon like a microphone.

  She was baking cookies. Snickerdoodles, by the smell of the kitchen. His favorites.

  Never in a hundred years would Becker have thought that by falling in love with that pierced, tatted, bullheaded little imp, he’d get an old-fashioned homemaker for an old lady. But she loved to cook and clean, decorate and garden. And she was baking his bun in her oven, too.

  The baby was due at the end of April; she wasn’t even three months along yet, but already the bun was a visible bump. As she danced around, still not seeing him, his t-shirt pulled every now and then and showed that swell. His kid. Goddamn.

  Becker’s cock had gone solid at the first sight of her; now it was a lead beam in his Levi’s. Every run amped up his sex drive toward compulsion territory, but after a firefight, the need and energy snarled in his gut like a starved animal. Today, after the powerful charge of finally understanding, after eight months of self-doubt and insecurity, that he was the fucking president of the Brazen Bulls, that he was up to that responsibility, that he knew what to do and how to do it—shit, he was on fire.

  And then to see her, so goddamn cute—and happy. She was strong and well, rebounded from the pains and losses of her summer. She was strong. He was strong. Together, they were a force. Their kid would be a wonder.

  The music stopped, either between songs or at the end of the CD. He stepped into the room. “Hey, shortcake.”

  She spun, surprised but not startled; she’d known to expect him soon. “Hey, babycakes.” The smile that had broken across her face darkened to a frown when she saw his cheek. “You’re
hurt.”

  He caught her hand before she could fuss with the stitches, and he held on. “Not bad. You should see the other guy.” With his free hand, he took her spoon-mic from her hand and dropped it into the mixing bowl. Then he picked her up. Yep—nothing at all but his t-shirt on. “Missed you.”

  She grinned and hooked her legs around his hips, clamping herself tightly around him. “I can see that you did. I missed you, too.” Her ass flexed in his hands as she ground herself on the fly of his jeans.

  “Goddamn, shortcake,” he groaned and latched onto her mouth. Sage clung to him and opened herself, inviting him to take everything. He took it all.

  Fueled by a thumping bassline of lust and love and need, Becker surged forward until they crashed into the wall. The force of the impact broke their ferocious, feeding kiss, and air pushed out from Sage’s chest.

  “Cookies in the oven,” she gasped.

  “Let ‘em burn.” He took her mouth again, found her tongue, fed his need.

  Wanting his hand on her pretty little tits, he shoved one up under the t-shirt she wore, but it was huge on her, and the extra fabric tangled up in his way. He didn’t want to let go of her mouth, but she laughed against his lips and pulled back, just enough to pull the shirt off and toss it away.

  Fuck, he loved the feel of her small body, its shapely curves, the way his hands fit just right no matter where he touched. Her whole tit fit in the curl of his palm and fingers, the barbell pressing into his skin, her nipple scrolling into a tight little knot so that the metal beads stood out at the sides. He had to taste. Fuck, right now, he had to have her in his mouth.