Spyder: An Alpha Male MC Biker Romance (Dark Pharaohs Motorcycle Club Romance Book 3)

by Ivy Black

  “Boogie’s and Disco’s,” he replies. “They were on a run and got tagged by some of Zavala’s crew.”

  “How bad is it?”

  “Not as bad as it could’ve been,” he tells me. “They’re both damn lucky to be alive if you ask me.”

  The twenty-pound stone in my gut seems to double in weight and my head is spinning as I ponder all of the implications. Something about seeing the crimson stains on the rag in Domino’s hand somehow makes it all the more real for me. Not that it wasn’t before. I accepted the fact that we’re going to war. But there’s a difference between accepting it in your head and seeing a visual confirmation like the rag he’s holding. I move past Domino and head for the door, but his voice stops me.

  “They said nobody goes in just yet,” he says.

  I shrug and go inside anyway. When the door slams shut behind me, Prophet and Cosmo look up, both of their faces darkening. I know I shouldn’t have come in. I’m sure I’ll catch hell for it. But I needed to see for myself firsthand. It’s not that I need to see the blood and gore. I’m not like that. I just feel like I need to see what I’m getting myself into. Like I need to see what could be in store for me when we go to war with Zavala. It’s like I need to mentally prepare myself for what might be coming down the pike.

  “I said the clubhouse is sealed,” Prophet barks.

  “Yeah, I know. But I figured you might need a hand,” I say.

  I cross the clubhouse and stand next to the chair Boogie’s sitting in. He’s a big, burly guy, as wide as he is tall, and has a beard that rivals the ones the guys in ZZ Top wear. His face is pale and drawn, and he’s biting down on a leather strap while our club Veep, Doc, is fishing in his arm with what looks like an oversized pair of tweezers. As he shifts the instrument, a strangled cry issues from Boogie’s mouth.

  “Easy, man,” Doc says. “Almost there. Just hang in there.”

  Doc was a field surgeon back when he served. And since we can’t exactly take our guys to a hospital when they take a bullet because of state reporting laws, it’s his responsibility to pull it out. Even though he’s the Veep, he actually patches up all our hurts if need be.

  Boogie’s gripping the leather strap hard enough with his teeth, I’m surprised he hasn’t bitten it in two. But as Doc moves the instrument in the hole in his arm, Boogie cries out and starts to thrash around in the chair, the pain obviously excruciating.

  “Grab him, kid,” Cosmo says. “Hold him down.”

  I do as he says, grab hold of Boogie’s shoulder with one hand, and place my other on his chest, keeping him pinned to the chair. Doc goes back in, and after a bit of manipulation, is able to extract the bullet. He drops it into a metal tin with a hard clank then turns and sets about cleaning and bandaging the wound. Boogie’s face is stricken, and his breathing is labored as he slumps forward in the chair, rivulets of sweat rolling down his face.

  “Fucker was lodged in his bicep. Hard to get to without a proper operating theater,” Doc says.

  Prophet shrugs. “I remember you always doin’ just fine in a tent with nothin’ but lanterns to work by and bombs goin’ off all around us.”

  Doc smiles. “That’s because I’m damn good at what I do. I’m just sayin’, it’d be easier with the proper equipment and maybe a dedicated space instead of tryin’ to patch our guys up in the bar here. Especially if I’m going to keep on bein’ the ‘club doctor’ on call.”

  Prophet chuckles. “We have enough space to build you a small building on this lot. I’ll see that the boys get something set up for you.”

  “That’d be good, prez.”

  I’ve always been tempted to ask Doc why he chose to give up a career in medicine to run with the Pharaohs. I imagine it has something to do with the brotherhood of the club because he could be making a lot of money and be legit doing it. Operating in a filthy clubhouse, risking his life to run weed and guns, and getting mixed up in a war with one of the most notoriously violent cartels in the world doesn’t seem like a smart decision to me.

  But then, I’m not Doc and have no idea what he went through. So, even though I want to know his story, I’ve always held my tongue. It’s not my business. Like Milo said out there, if he wanted me to know, he’d tell me.

  Disco is slumped over in another chair, a bright white bandage with a crimson stain in the center on his shoulder and a butterfly bandage on his cheek. It’s not as bad as I feared it would be, but Domino was right. They are lucky to be alive. Cartel sicarios don’t usually leave people still breathing when they’re done. That Boogie and Disco both only have relatively minor injuries is something of a miracle.

  “Thanks for helping out,” Cosmo says.

  I nod. “Just glad the guys are going to be all right.”

  “You and me both, kid. Don’t think Prophet would’ve handled losing them all that well,” he replies.

  “What the hell happened?”

  Cosmo leads me off to the bar and fetches a couple of beers, pops the tops, and slides one down to me. He takes a long swallow and I look back at Prophet, who’s leaning close to the two wounded men, speaking to them in low tones.

  “Boogie and Disco were on a run up north, just outside of Sacramento,” he tells me. “Zavala’s men must’ve been tailing them because when those two got onto a wide-open stretch of highway and had nobody around them, this black SUV pulls up and lights them up. They laid down their bikes and returned fire. Drove ’em off.”

  “They kill any of the sicarios?”

  “They think they tagged a couple, but no telling if they killed ’em or not. They loaded up and got out of there,” he tells me.

  “Spyder.”

  Prophet’s voice carries through the room and cuts into my thoughts. I look over at him, fully expecting him to tear into me for coming in when I was told to stay out. I’m mentally bracing myself for it when I walk over to where he’s sitting and stand before him. Prophet’s looking better the last couple of days. His color’s coming back, and he seems to be moving around with less stiffness, which is good. And his snarling demeanor is most definitely coming back along with it.

  “Got word from Tarantula today,” he says. “There’s a shipment coming up through the Central Valley. It’s product he’s supposedly going to use to start his operations up here in Blue Rock.”

  “We can’t let that happen,” I tell him.

  “Damn straight. That’s why I want you and Domino to head out there. Scout the area. I want to know what he’s bringing and how much, also who he’s bringing and how many,” Prophet says.

  “I’m on it.”

  He nods, his face grim. “Be careful, kid,” he says. “I don’t want you to end up like Boogie and Disco here.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  I turn and head out of the clubhouse, trepidation swirling inside of me. Things are starting to heat up. And I’m worried, to say the least.

  Chapter Eleven

  Spyder

  The one time I could have used an overcast night, it is, of course, clear as a bell. And to top it off, the moon is a big, fat half-wedge shape hanging in the sky, casting the world all around us in a bright as hell, silvery light. Might as well have fluorescent lights hanging over our damn heads.

  It took us a while to find the place since Tarantula’s instructions weren’t overly specific, but I suppose I can’t fault him for it. Much. And moving around in the dark scrubland out here, in this place that time and progress both seemed to have forgotten isn’t very easy. But after we got out here, Domino and I both agreed that we needed to lie low and wait until nightfall to move. The last thing we want is to attract any unwanted attention since this is a recon mission.

  “They sure picked a good spot. It’s out in the middle of fucking nowhere,” Domino mutters.

  “Tell me about it. But it’s smart. No cops out here and it’s pretty simple to spot anybody rollin’ up on you.”

  “Yeah, Zavala’s a MENSA guy, for sure.”

  I chuckle. “He didn’t
get to where he is by being a dumbass.”

  “That’s true. I kinda wish he was a moron, though. It’d make this shit a lot easier for us.”

  “You ain’t lyin’.”

  We’re lying on a rise, looking through our night-vision goggles into a small but wide depression in the land, and in the center of it is a large warehouse. It looks like some sort of prefab construction, and there are some cargo containers stacked up on one side of it. A fence was built around the warehouse, extending the perimeter of the place a good fifty or sixty feet on all sides.

  This place is well off the grid, and you’d need to be looking for it specifically to know it’s here. The powerful hum of generators drifts up to us from below, and through the green-tinted light in my goggles, I can see groups of armed men milling around, talking to each other, their laughter even louder than the generators. The flare of the end of their cigarettes as they take a drag is a beacon in the darkness.

  “Man, back in the shit, if I saw the cherry on a smoke light up like that, I’d be able to blow a man’s head off even without the scope,” Domino says.

  “You ever do it? Blow a dude’s head off in the dark?”

  His chuckle is low and malevolent. “A few times.”

  Domino was a sniper back in the service and a damn good one, apparently. I know it was he who took the first shot who ignited this current war we’re embroiled in. But he did it to help save Monk’s girl. If Zavala hadn’t taken Kasey, none of this would be happening right now. But he did, so now we’re all dealing with the fallout of the shitstorm that’s been unleashed.

  “How are things going with Bellamy?” he asks, totally out of the blue.

  “What? What makes you think anything’s going on?”

  He chuckles. “Blue Rock ain’t that big of a place, man. Word gets around the grapevine pretty quick.”

  “I’m serious, there’s nothing going on at the moment.”

  He arches an eyebrow at me. “As they say, don’t bullshit a bullshitter.”

  I laugh. “I ran into her on the street. Totally random. We talked. And that was pretty much it.”

  “You talked. And that was it?”

  “Yeah. Pretty much,” I reply.

  He looks over at me, a skeptical expression on his face. But then a grin slowly stretches across his lips.

  “Pretty much, huh?” he asks.

  “I asked her out. No big deal.”

  “You asked her out? I didn’t know you grew a pair of balls. I’d say that’s a pretty big deal,” he says.

  I laugh. “Fuck you.”

  “I’m serious. How many years did you spend mooning over this girl? The fact that you nutted up and asked her out… I’m impressed.”

  “It’s just getting reacquainted over a drink. It’s not a big deal,” I say.

  “So you say. I’m just glad you finally did it. Didn’t think you had it in you.”

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

  “Hey, I’ve got all the confidence in the world in you, man. Except when it comes to Bellamy Young. She’s your Achilles’ heel. Always has been,” he says.

  I’m suddenly glad for the dark, so he can’t see my face turning red. I clear my throat and turn back to the compound below us.

  “Can we, you know, focus on the task at hand here?” I say.

  “Sure, we can. But isn’t it more fun to talk about Bellamy?”

  “Not with you, it’s not,” I say with a laugh.

  I look down at the depression below us, focusing on the activity. There are six men unloading one of the cargo containers. Plain brown boxes, it looks like. I don’t have to be a genius to know what’s in those boxes. Heroin. Cocaine. Probably really quality stuff brought up from Mexico. That’s how these guys work. Flood the streets with the quality shit, get everybody hooked and wanting their stuff, then gradually replace it with the stuff that’s been stepped on and is a bit more cost-effective. That’s just the way their business works.

  “We need to get an idea how many guys Zavala’s got here,” I say.

  “Right. Follow me.”

  We slip down the backside of the rise we’re positioned on, using it as a natural screen, as we circle around to the rear of the compound they’ve built. As we settle down on the rise, I whistle low.

  “Could be a few dozen guys in there,” I say.

  “Zavala’s not fuckin’ around. He’s planning on a total takeover.”

  Behind the warehouse are half a dozen prefab buildings that look like barracks. There are at least ten men I can see sitting around a bonfire in front of the buildings, and I hear the music from their radios in the air around us. Some of the guys are singing along, and there’s a lot of laughter.

  “It’s a regular fiesta down there,” I say.

  “Hey, when you’re stranded in the middle of nowhere, might as well party it up.”

  “Yeah, I guess so. But this is gonna get really messy.”

  “With that many guys? Count on it.”

  “Come on,” I say. “We should back out and give Prophet the heads up.”

  “Yeah. Agreed.”

  ***

  “Dozens?”

  I nod soberly. “Yeah. I mean, we only saw maybe two dozen guys out front while we were there,” I say. “But the dorms they built out there can hold even more than that.”

  Prophet leans back in his chair and sighs heavily. The worry lines on his face seem deeper than ever, and his entire body is tight with tension. I can’t say I blame him. The odds we’re up against are looking longer and longer.

  I walk to the bar and grab some beers from the refrigerator, pop the tops then bring them all back to the table and pass them out. I take my seat across from Prophet, with Domino to my right. We drink in silence for a few minutes as Prophet processes everything we reported. It’s clearly a lot worse than he thought it was going to be, and like us, he knows this is going to get messy.

  But I know the problem he’s grappling with, more than any other, is how we’re going to keep this war from spilling over into the streets of Blue Rock. With that many guys lining up out there, Zavala’s putting together an army. And there’s only one thing you plan on doing with an army… invade and occupy. He was apparently dead serious about taking over the town and making it his own.

  “I figured it was going to be bad,” Prophet starts. “But I didn’t expect it to be this bad. If he’s bringing in dozens of his soldiers, he’s going to take the town. Unless we can find a way to keep him out of Blue Rock, a lot of innocent people are going to get caught up in this shit and get killed. Zavala doesn’t care about collateral damage.”

  “We could talk to Sheriff Singer,” I offer. “Give him the heads up and—”

  “Not yet. Singer’s already trippin’ out on shit. The last thing I want to do is give him any more reason to worry.”

  “Yeah, he’s wound pretty tight. I can see him calling the feds if we drop this in his lap. And I think that’s the last thing any of us want,” Domino says.

  I nod, seeing all the reasons my suggestion was a bad idea, and one I should have known better than to raise. Just because we’ve got a truce with Singer right now, it’s an uneasy one at best. He wouldn’t hesitate to throw any of us in jail if we ever crossed that line.

  “But we’ll give Singer a heads up if it looks the shitstorm breaking over town looks inevitable,” Prophet says, as if reading my thoughts. “We also don’t want to move too quickly or we’re going to expose Tarantula and Bala. I don’t want to get those guys killed because they helped us.”

  “Right. So, what do we do then?” Domino asks.

  Prophet sighs again. “Nothing right now. I need to talk it over with Leadership. We’ll put together a plan. Go home and get some rest. You guys did good work tonight. I appreciate it.”

  Domino and I drain the last of our beers and get to our feet. I grab both bottles and walk them over to the trash can then look back at Prophet. He’s still leaning back in his chair, his arms folded
over his chest, one hand stroking his chin. He looks lost in thought, and the set of his jaw belies his tension.

  But underneath all of that, I can see his anger. His rage. It’s boiling just below the surface and he looks ready to explode with it. I can only imagine that he’s thinking back to the day he was shot. I know that would most definitely keep me on edge.

  Domino taps me on the shoulder. “Let’s go, bro.”

  We head out and make sure to shut the door to the clubhouse behind us. There are a couple of guys sitting on the picnic tables, sharing a joint, ostensibly just hanging out. But there’s been an unspoken arrangement between us all… Prophet is never left alone. There’s always somebody around watching his back.

  I climb onto my bike and am strapping on my helmet when I look over at Domino. I can see he’s as concerned about what’s going down as I am. He doesn’t have a great poker face. But as always, he keeps himself sorted and in control.

  “You should go have that drink with Bellamy,” he says. “Sooner, rather than later, if I were you.”

  I laugh grimly. “Why’s that?”

  “Because the way things are headed, you might not get a chance to have a second one with her.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Bellamy

  The last echoes of the students’ voices fade away as I sit behind my desk, looking over some papers. It’s my third day of classes and so far, everything’s been great. The students are mostly well-behaved, and we really seem to be clicking. I know there will be tough days ahead, and times I’m going to want to throttle some of these kids, but I’m enjoying myself with them. I always do.

  I love teaching. Knew from a relatively early age that teaching is what I wanted to do with my life. And yeah, there’s a lot of bureaucratic crap you have to deal with as a teacher, but if you can make that connection with the kids, really get in sync with them, the job is really rewarding. There is no better feeling than being in tune with your class and seeing that they’re really learning. That they’re really getting it.