Road Warriors (Motorcycle Club Romance Collection) (Bad Boy Collections Book 4)

by Faye, Amy

  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 with 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
<
br />   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.

  Logan took a long minute looking at his brother. Worry was easy to read in his face, but it was his own problem. Nobody else was going to try to save him from it.

  Hawkins finished his drink. It was only his first, I thought. He had been nursing it. Not like me or Ryan.

  "Boss, I—"

  His eyes shifted over to me, looking for a message or something. I didn't give him anything.

  "Go on, Spider. Get out of here."

  Every time I saw him, every time my eyes slipped away, Beauchamp seemed to age. Like the death of his members was sapping his own life.

  I reached over and filled his glass. Ryan took a drink from it like he hadn't even noticed that it had ever been getting low.

  Hawkins looked at me again, and again I acted like I didn't see it. He scurried off, not wanting to get himself embroiled back in something when he had the chance to leave. Even if it meant he hadn't delivered the resignation he'd hoped for.

  "Ryan, I'm—"

  "He was doing what I told him to do."

  "It's not your fault, Ryan."

  "Yeah," he breathed. He didn't look like he believed it. "I guess not."

  "You didn't know, did you?"

  "I should've known. Should've seen it coming. Shouldn't have let myself get caught."

  "It's not something that you can control."

  "That's easy for you to say." He seemed like he had something else to say, something more, but then he stopped himself. Put his hands back on the glass in front of him, feeling the cold beer.

  He took a drink and that was the end of whatever his thought was going to be.

  "You can't save them all, Wes."

  "That's rich, coming from a cop."

  "You just—man, you look like hell."

  "Well, that's fine."

  I don't know when I started leaning in on him, but I noticed the smell, warm and heady and pleasant, of his scent. A cologne that I didn't recognize.

  It went to my head, more intoxicating than the beer that half-filled both the glasses left on the bar. I pushed myself back upright, but the scent was in my head, now, and I could smell it from all the way over here.

  The scent set my skin on edge, stood my hair on end. I wanted it to stop, but more than that, I just wanted it to keep going.

  "Ryan," I said softly.

  He looked at me, and before I could stop myself I pressed my lips into his.

  Chapter Eighteen

  RYAN

  I don't register what's happening right away. I think it's the alcohol, or perhaps the events of the day, that are getting to me. Something, though, meant that when Maguire kissed me, I didn't see it coming.

  Her lips are soft. Nothing like me. Her body feels good pressed against me. It's soft, like her lips. Like a woman's body should be.

  Maguire loses her balance, leaning off her stool, and falls into me a little. This time I'm paying attention. I catch her in my arms, prop her up a little, and take another kiss as my reward. The first one was so unlike her—idle, searching, even calm.

  The second one doesn't have nearly so much of her control over it. She doesn't get to dictate how much fire is in it, but I can feel the passion she's giving back as my arms wrap around her, and this is the Maguire I know. Hot enough to burn you.

  I feel the way that her body molds to mine, even through the clothes, the way that her skin sings where I find little patches showing, where her shirt lifts up a little because her arms are wrapped around my neck.

  The energy in the little bar is electric, pulling me in closer to her. I shouldn't be doing this, I know. It's a mistake for us both. But I don't care any more about what we should do. I never cared, not with a woman this good.

  I can feel the way that her heart beats. The way we're pressed together, her heartbeat feels almost as strong as my own, like it's right inside me. My teeth pull at her lips, her tongue probing and dancing with mine, an explosion of kisses and lips and teeth and mouths.

  She pulls away first, her breaths coming hard. I can see in her eyes that she's not sure whether or not she should be doing this.

  I know the answer, know that there's no way in hell we should be doing any of it, and I know there's no way either of us are going to stop. I lean into her, but she's going to have to cross that last gap between us if she wants it.

  She's going to have to learn to surrender, but first she needs to want it, and she has to show she wants it. No excuses in the morning.

  She doesn't take more than a moment to decide, pressing herself back against me, taking the offered kiss from my lips with a hunger that surprises even me.

  I enjoy the kiss a moment more, but I'm not satisfied stopping here, and if we're going to move to the next level, it will be on my terms.

  I pull away, and she starts to catch her breath, as if I were doing it to give her space. I put my hand on her chest, pressing her back against the bar. She's pliant, now. Nothing like the first time that we were alone in this bar.

  She leans back and I get to enjoy the first sight of her looking almost pliable, almost convinced to give up control. I can
see in the way that she acts that this isn't anything more than a game to her, not yet.

  She'll learn, but I don't expect a miracle. Baby steps.

  "Take off your shirt," I purr. As I say it, I wonder if she'll do it. The risk of her changing her mind is all too real. Then her hands start to move.

  She works the buttons down. The first few come away fast. She's taking it off like she was going to get into the shower. But then she seems to catch herself, seems to remember that I'm looking. I say nothing.

  She slows down, looking up at me through those thick eyelashes, and she undoes the next one. Now I get my first sight of those delightful breasts. The next one shows me a bit more, the first hints of her bra.

  She undoes another. I have to take controlled breaths to stop it hitching in my throat. She looks magnificent, too good. A large part of me wants to rip the cloth out of her hands, to take what I want.

  I know that part of her wants that, too. I can see the desire in her eyes. I don't do it, though. I stop myself. Hold myself still and force myself to watch with my eyes—not with my hands.

  She undoes another button. The only button left holds her shirt together in the way that a mean look might have. She gives me another one of those looks, through her eyelashes. The way she's acting, I expect a blush on her face, but I don't see one.

  She undoes the last button and I have to force myself to go slow. My hands reach out and push the shirt back and off her shoulders. It slips back against the bar, held up by her back.

  I pull her forward, my hands feeling like they're going to burn on her hot skin. The shirt falls harmlessly to the floor. I pull her head in for a kiss. This time I don't take long before my mouth starts to roam.

  I kiss the line of her jaw, then dip a little lower, pressing soft kisses against the sensitive skin of her throat. I can feel the catch in her breath. I enjoy the way that her breaths are coming rough and ragged.

  She lets out a sigh as I reach around and pull apart the catch on her bra, the straps now hanging loose on her shoulders, but when I pull away her hand comes up, the first clear sign of hesitation on her part.