Riot (Rebel Riders MC Book 2)

by Zahra Girard

  Chapter Twelve

  Riot

  “Took you long enough, brother. We were about to start the party without you.”

  Duke grins at me from his bike. I know he’s serious. Any chance at action, he’s usually the first into the fray. He’d charge in there by himself if Creole wasn’t here to keep him in check. It’s one of the reasons Hawk passed over him for the enforcer position — Duke would enjoy his job a little too much.

  I hop off my bike and stretch, pacing up and down the sidewalk a little to work some blood back into my legs and loosen the cramp that’s currently numbing the whole left side of my ass. I’ve just ridden hours up from Crescent Falls to this rundown neighborhood on the south side of Oakland. It’s dark, well after sundown, and Creole and Duke both look like they’ve been here for more than a little while. Duke’s on his bike, drinking a coffee and Creole’s lounging in the driver’s seat of a box van that he’s rented just for the occasion.

  “So, what’s the story?” I say to Creole.

  “About a block from here is the start of 45th Street Kings territory. It ain’t that big, but, I’ve done some asking around in this part of town and the word is they fight like hell to hold onto their territory and none of the neighboring gangs want to fuck with them. They all give them a bit of a berth, on account of the 45th Street Kings not really caring if they live or die, as long as they manage to fuck up whoever they’re beefing with.”

  “They sound like some fine people,” I say.

  “It’s going to be a nice firefight when we get down to it, and about fucking time we show these assholes just who they’re fuckin’ with,” Duke says. “Creole, give him the rest of the scoop.”

  I look over at Creole, wondering what the hell it is that has Duke so excited, because if it’s something that has Duke worked up, it’s probably not good news.

  Creole shrugs. “The guy I talked to said that about a month ago, the 45th Street Kings started bragging about some big job they were going to take on. No details, but it was supposed to help push them to the big time. And that they’d just come into a big sum of cash. Enough to get their hands on some real weapons, more than just the play guns that a lot of these street gangs have.”

  “Who did you get all this info from? I was only gone for a few hours, man,” I say.

  “It doesn’t matter. This guy and I had a little conversation, I got what I wanted, and now he won’t be talking to anyone else.”

  “Shit, Creole, sometimes you scare the bejeezus out of me,” I say.

  Creole just shrugs. “We’ve got a job to do and half-measures don’t cut it. Now, our destination is a house just inside 45th Street Kings territory. It belongs to a young woman named Chantelle. Her boyfriend, Trey, is sort of a street lieutenant in the gang. Trey’s a tall, gangly son of a bitch, with a sleeve tattoo of dollar signs all up his right arm. He’s not the brightest bulb, and the word is he spends most of his free time over at Chantelle’s, probably cause he enjoys her company and he uses her place as a stash house for the dealing he does.”

  “He must really trust his bitch if he’s using her place as a stash house,” Duke mutters.

  “More like she’s too scared of him to do anything. Trey isn’t exactly an upstanding man from what I hear, and my source told me you can usually pick Chantelle out of a crowd by the black eye she’s sporting,” Creole says. “Riot, you ready? We need to take this Trey alive, and we need to do it quick and quiet before the rest of the neighborhood knows what’s happening.”

  “You’re not saying what I think you’re saying?” Duke says. “Quiet? Come on, Creole. What, you want to just knock on their door and ask nicely?”

  “Of course not, Duke. They killed some of our own and we can’t let that slide. Just be a little circumspect, yeah? Use just a single bullet when you can get away with it, instead of emptying the full chamber.”

  “Oh, right. So you want this to be boring.”

  “Sometimes skill’s more fun than being loud and flashy. Let’s do this properly, get in and get out before the bastards know we’ve hit them,” Creole says.

  I get back on my bike, Duke starts his, and Creole fires up the van. We speed down the street until we get to our target’s house. It’s a rundown single-story dump, with peeling paint, a couple broken windows, and an attached garage with a garage door on it that looks like it’s about ready to fall off its hinges. Apparently, it’s not glamorous being a king on 45th Street.

  There’s a lowrider truck and a lowered Asian import street racer in the driveway. The truck’s got a cheap-looking flames paint job and the racing car’s got a massive dent in the rear fender. It ain’t much to look at, but, unless Chantelle is the street-racing type, it means we’re going to have more to deal with than just Trey when we get inside.

  Creole pulls in quick behind the lowrider truck, blocking it in with the van, while Duke and I both hop off our bikes. Guns out, Duke and I race towards the door. This is a quick hit, in and out before anyone else in the neighborhood knows what’s going on.

  “Knock knock, bitches” Duke yells, and with one massive kick, he sends the door flying open inward. He’s got his gun out and finger hovering just over the trigger.

  I’ve got my gun out, too, but my fingers held just to the side, resting on the cylinder of my gun. Trigger discipline’s one of the first things my dad taught me once I showed an interest in guns. You don’t put your finger on the trigger until you’re ready to shoot a hole in something.

  Duke and I stalk through a hallway that leads into a living room that smells like rank, low-quality weed and the acrid burn of crack cocaine. The room is nearly pitch dark and it takes a second for our eyes to adjust.

  There’s a falling-apart couch in the center of the room, and three guys are lounging on it, passing a pipe back and forth. There’s a coffee table in front of them, with a scale on it, baggies, several piles of cash, crack, weed, and more than a couple guns. Two hallways lead off from the living room, one towards what’s probably the sole bedroom in this place, and the other, closer, hallway leads to the kitchen.

  “Shit!” One of the guys on the couch screams, and he snatches one of the guns off the table quicker than I can blink and starts firing at us.

  Bullets spray, just hitting the area where Duke and I were standing. Duke leaps to the side through an entryway into the kitchen and a woman lets out a scream. I retreat back a few steps into the entry hallway I just came from, just out of range of the men on the couch.

  More shouts come from the living room, where the other two gang members are getting their guns up and ready.

  Bullets hit the wall just a few steps from where I’m holed up. Then a few more and then a big burst of bullets that can only come from an automatic weapon. Likely a MAC-10.

  Shit. So much for quick and quiet.

  I look around for Creole. Where the hell is he? He was right behind Duke and I as we were heading for the door, then he just disappeared.

  There’s more shouting from further in the house and the woman in the kitchen screams again. I hear two quick pops that sound like Duke returning fire. I edge further down the hallway, closer to the living room. I’ve got to get a look at what’s going on.

  The three gangbangers have Duke and I pinned. Two of them are firing heavy into the kitchen, where Duke’s got a woman with him — probably Chantelle — and, the second I poke my head out, the third — Trey, judging by the fucking awful ink I see on his arm — lets loose a hail of bullets that has me diving back for cover.

  “Where the fuck is Creole?” I yell out.

  “Ain’t no fucking gumbo here, bitch. Go to Louisiana for that shit,” Trey yells in reply.

  “I will shoot your fucking woman right now unless you come with us, Trey,” Duke yells.

  “Go ahead,” Trey answers. “I ain’t giving my life up for a bitch. Pussy’s replaceable.”

  Suddenly, there’s a single crack of a gun and one of the gangbangers lets out a scream of pain and Trey shouts
in anger and surprise.

  Another crack and more surprised shouting.

  That’s gotta be Creole.

  Now’s the time to make my move. I head to the living room, gun up, and open fire the second I come around the corner, hitting one of the other gangbangers in the chest. Both of Trey’s gangbanger friends are now face-down on the floor. Creole’s standing on the other side of the room, with a smug smile on his face and his gun pointed right at Trey’s chest.

  “It’s surprising that people in this neighborhood wouldn’t lock their windows. It ain’t safe out there,” Creole says. “Are you trying to get yourself killed, Trey?”

  “Get the fuck out of here,” Trey says, trying to sound cocky and looking like he’s about to shit himself.

  “Put your gun down, Trey. You gotta recognize this is over, yeah?” Creole says, keeping his gun on the man and talking with a voice that’s unnervingly calm.

  And then Trey makes a run for it, sprinting straight for the living room window and jumping right through it. Glass shatters and Trey hits the ground running.

  Fuck.

  If he gets too far, he’ll have the whole neighborhood on us.

  “No, you don’t,” I yell and I take off after him.

  Trey’s fast, but he didn’t have a father who made him run every morning. I pound the pavement and catch him in a blink. I tackle him hard to the pavement of the sidewalk right outside his girlfriend’s home.

  He hits the ground heavy and I put my knee right on his chest, holding him down.

  Then I unleash on him, punching him heavy and hard enough to make his head bounce off the concrete.

  “That’s for beating your woman, you son of a bitch,” I say, spitting in his face. Then I hit him once more. “And that’s for being willing to let her get shot. What kind of fucking limp-dicked coward are you?”

  “Easy, Riot,” Creole says, catching up to us and putting a hand on my shoulder. “Let’s get him in the truck and get the hell out of here. We can teach him his lesson later.”

  “I ain’t saying shit, so you bitches might as well kill me right now,” Trey says, spitting a gob of blood out towards my feet.

  I move out of the way as Creole and Duke both reach down and pull Trey to his feet.

  Creole gives Trey a steely look. “Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure of that. Before I’m done with you, you’ll be begging to sing me any song I want.”

  *****

  “I’m not telling you bitches shit,” Trey says, glaring at the three of us defiantly. Which is hard to do when you’re tied to a chair in woodshed.

  We’re back in Crescent Falls, in a little-used utility shed in the furthest reaches of the property we’ve converted into our grow op. It’s the dead of night and there’s nothing around for miles except for thick forest.

  “You sound pretty confident for a man who’s about to be put through hell,” Duke says, just before he lays into Trey with a hard right.

  “Suck my dick,” Trey retorts, after spitting a wad of blood at Duke.

  Creole and I hang back and let Duke have his fun beating the prisoner with his fists. Minutes tick by, the two of us sit silently while Duke works the prisoner over. Duke’s always been the aggressive type and I know Creole’s just giving him this opportunity to unwind and work out a little pent-up aggression.

  Eventually, when Trey looks like he’s about to be knocked out from the beating, Creole steps forward and puts a hand on Duke’s shoulder.

  “My turn,” he says.

  Duke nods and comes back to sit next to me.

  Creole crouches down and gets to eye level with Trey. The young man’s eyes are rolling in their sockets and his face looks like a steak that’s been brutalized by a tenderizer. One eye’s nearly swollen shut, his lip is split open, and blood runs in a heavy river from his broken nose.

  “You with me, Trey?”

  “You guys really suck, you know that?”

  Creole nods. “I’m happy you’re still conscious, Trey. I want to talk to you about a few things. Man to man. And, speaking man to man, you’re in a bad spot.”

  “I might be, but I’m still going fuck your mama when I’m done here.”

  Creole moves like a snake. He seizes hold of Trey’s bound left hand and, with a flash of steel, rips out one of his fingernails with the blade of his knife.

  Trey howls and the chair rocks with his struggling.

  Creole tosses the bloody fingernail aside and gets eye to eye with Trey. His voice is cold with menace.

  “I don’t have the time to do this artistically, Trey. A lot of the beauty of torture comes from anticipating what’s going to happen. Of knowing and imagining exactly what kind of pain is going to rip through your body and soul. But we’re on a schedule here, so I’m going to tell you, man to man, that every time you decide to act cute, I’m going to cut something off and shove it down your throat. Piece by piece, you’re going to eat yourself. Do you understand?”

  Trey takes a deep breath. Then spits again. Right into Creole’s face.

  Quick, brutal, he seizes Trey by the jaw and pries his mouth open. With the handle of his knife, he bashes several teeth free and then forces Trey to swallow them.

  “Think carefully, Trey. Now, tell me why your gang decided to hit our port operation.”

  It’s nearly a minute before Trey recovers his ability to speak. His mouth is a mess of blood.

  “It’s just a job, you bitch. Part of the game. How else are you supposed to make it in this life unless you’re prepared to fuck someone else up? Just like I’m going to fuck your mother up after I get out of here.”

  Something about that word ‘job’ sticks with me. There’s more to this story. But my thoughts are interrupted as Creole’s knife flashes and he teaches Trey another lesson in humility. We need his information, we need Creole to do is work, but I sure as hell don’t need to listen to any more of this horror show. This isn’t my kind of work.

  I turn my back and head outside, followed by Trey’s screams. However much Trey decides to cooperate, there’s still one other source of information about the attack on our club. And, when we’re done here, I intend to pump her for information.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Emma

  The first night at Riot’s parent’s place goes better than I would’ve expected. For the most part, both Sophia and James leave me on my own to settle in. I spend a lot of the time unpacking and then trying to do work on my laptop, as well as figure out just how the hell I’m going to explain to Gaby in HR that I’m going to be away from the office for the foreseeable future.

  It’s while I’m trying to figure out what to tell her that Sophia comes by my room to bring me a bottle of wine, and gives me the idea to call Thrash’s old lady, Alice, and ask for her help.

  It turns out to be a great idea. Alice is an even better HR wizard than her LinkedIn profile suggests and she ends up basically writing a whole email for me that sounds the perfect balance of personal and professional.

  Alice is probably the most giving person I’ve met, excluding my friend Hannah.

  Just as soon as I get the email finished and Sophia leaves — leaving the bottle of wine for me — James comes up to my room, bringing with him a plate that’s loaded with a big ol’ baked potato, a mouthwatering perfectly-seared and juicy-looking steak, and asparagus that looks like it’s been charred on the grill.

  “Sophia and I take turns making dinner. And for Riot, when he comes over every other Sunday night for dinner,” he explains as he sets the plate down on the nightstand. “And tonight is my turn. I can’t make much, but I grill a mean steak. I’m glad we thought to pick up extra at the butcher’s.”

  “Thank you, but you didn’t have to do that,” I say.

  I almost feel guilty with everything they’re doing for me. James and his wife have both been so kind even though I’ve known them for only a couple of hours.

  “Look, Emma, while you’re under our roof, we’re going to treat you just like we would
any other friend of the family. So eat up, and don’t hesitate to ask us if you need anything.”

  “I mean, look, I’m grateful, but I won’t need much, I’m used to doing everything on my own, and I don’t want to inconvenience you or Sofia.”

  “It’s no trouble, and don’t you dare hesitate or think you’re making things awkward or inconvenient. Truth be told, I’m proud as hell of Riot for bringing you around.”

  I start for a second, thinking he’s under the impression that Riot and I are dating. “Proud? He and I aren’t… we’re not together, you know.”

  “Shit, no, Emma, I didn’t mean to imply that. I’m proud of my son for stepping in and doing the right thing. For helping you, for doing what he can to keep you safe. It takes a real man to stand up for something like that,” he says. Then he clears his throat and heads back out the door. “Enjoy the steak. We’ll leave a spare key for you out for you on the coffee table in the living room. Feel free to come and go as you please.”

  With that, he shuts the bedroom door and I’m left sitting there, in shock. A spare key? A key to their home after knowing me for a few hours? I’ve never known anyone to do that, even back in my old life with my ex, Dillon, and his MC, the Demon Dogs. I knew the MC and their families could be close, but this is something else.

  Or maybe I’ve just never really known an MC like this. Maybe my feelings about bikers are colored by my own prejudices and the years I spent basically being Dillon’s captive.

  I shake my head.

  I hardly know Riot. And now I’m opening myself up to the idea of trusting him and thinking that he’s a good man, just because he’s presented this one side of himself for the couple days I’ve known him.

  No.

  No way.

  I’m not falling into that trap.

  I reach over to the nightstand and pick up the plate.

  And take a bite.