Ace (Syns of Desert Angels MC Book 1)

by L. M. Reign

  A collective round of shushes were directed to him as the sound of grating metal rounds the corner. We watch the semi jolt its way along the path towards us. A cacophony of trucks following closely behind it.

  “This isn’t like last time,” Brass eyes the approaching cars warily.

  The semi follows the same path, circling around the building before jerking to a stop a few feet from us. The ugly mug of Bob from Bob’s Furniture a few towns over graces the outside of the truck. The dagos have been switching between transport vehicles, boasting a variety of business in the area to avoid suspicion.

  A jaunty man wearing a uniform matching the truck’s logo jumps down from the cab and walks towards the black truck parked behind it. Leaning in, he has a heated conversation with the passenger; gesturing wildly before addressing us.

  “Other truck,” he said haltingly, his thick accent making it difficult to understand him. “Not far behind. Switch soon, yeah?”

  Jerking my chin, I watch intently as he turns his focus to his phone. His eyes skirting around, not bothering to move more than five feet from his spot.

  These aren’t the same men we’ve dealt with the last few runs. Usually Rionni and his men are here to oversee this part of the operation.

  The sound of kicked up gravel alerts us to a truck the size of a U-Haul rounding the corner. The driver looks relieved, throwing a thumbs up in our direction.

  “Son of a bitch,” I growl.

  “Somethin’s not right,” Rig whispers behind me as we watch the second truck park beside the semi.

  Ignoring him, I move forward. “Let’s get this shit over with.”

  Four men exit each black truck, gathering around the first semi; yelling orders in Italian at the two drivers.

  “Would be nice to know what they are sayin’,” Rook grumbles.

  “We start transfer now,” the driver of Bob’s semi tells us as we approach.

  “They want to get this over with,” Dash explains.

  Rook jerks his head back. “Is there a fuckin’ language you don’t know?”

  “One or two,” Dash shrugs.

  The drivers swing the doors open, releasing a musky scent from inside. Small sounds of heavy breathing, whimpers, and sobs slowly crush my soul as the barely clothed women crowd against the back wall to avoid being captured.

  Several men move to stand guard on either side of the trucks, weapons drawn and trained on the women.

  “Smells like sex,” Brass grumbles.

  “Nah,” Rook shakes his head. “Smells like someone has a serious cooter infection.” We stare at him questioningly.

  “What the fuck, man?” Rig grimaces.

  “What? That’s what it smells like to me.”

  “I don’t want to know how you know what that smells like,” Dash coughs.

  “Incoming,” Milo nods. I straighten to my full height, watching a man bridge the distance between us.

  “You move the girls and follow other driver, yeah?” He says, reaching us. The scent of ravioli mixed with cigars is so overpowering, forcing me to step back.

  “That’s what we’re here for,” sarcasm drips through Rook’s response. I grit my teeth, ignoring the urge to turn around and deck his stupid ass.

  “Good. I’m Tony. Let’s get this over with, yeah? I want to get back to my game. No trouble,” he wags a finger at us like we’re children.

  “Where’s Rionni?” I ask him.

  “He’s... indisposed at the moment. Let’s get this done.” I resist the urge to flip him off before he ambles away. A weird feeling settling in the pit of my stomach.

  “Fuckin’ weirdo. Smells lik-”

  “If you say another damn word, Rook, I will fuckin’ end you,” Diesel threatens him.

  “Keep your mouth shut dipshit. Let’s get this over with so I can go home,” Diesel cracks his knuckles.

  “Gotta get back to your woman?” Rig goads him.

  “Fuckin’ maybe,” he responds, shoving his brother.

  Grabbing my gloves from my back pocket, I shove them on. “Let’s do this.”

  Shrieking fills the air as we watch them transfer the women from one truck to the other. They fight each and every step of the way, dropping the boxes of merch they were forced to carry. I couldn’t help but be disgusted with this. This shit was no longer about money. DAMC shouldn’t be involved in this.

  Something has to change.

  Once the last girl was transferred, the driver slammed the door shut, plunging them into darkness. The armed men started filing back into their trucks, making a swift departure while a few remained; yelling out orders in Italian.

  “Milo,” Dash says warningly as I come face-to-face with the end of Milo’s barrel. He places a finger over his lips, his eyes cold as steel.

  “Duck,” he whispers. Following his orders, I crouch as popping sounds erupt over my head.

  “Get behind the truck!” I roar, drawing my weapon and firing blindly behind me.

  Flattening my torso against the fat tire of the semi, I keep my head low; my focus on retrieving a second gun.

  “What the fuck is this!?” Diesel growls, clutching his shoulder.

  Fuckin’ bastards.

  “A little help here!” Rook’s voice penetrates the air. Chancing a look over the truck, I see him flat on his stomach behind the bikes, firing back.

  Dumbass.

  Milo and Dash are nowhere to be seen. Diesel and Brass creep down towards the back end of the truck while Rig and I remain at the front.

  Another round of hellfire comes our way, pinging and ricocheting all around us.

  “They’re everywhere!” Rig reloads, returning fire under the truck.

  An idea strikes me, and I break the metal clip holding the mirror, and angle it behind us. It’s not perfect, but it’s a view.

  Before I can mount a defense, grunts and groans fill the air, mingling with the screams and shrieks from the women in the truck. The sounds of a gritty ignition charge the air.

  Fucker’s tryin’ to escape.

  “Fuckin’ stop him!” I roar over the bullets.

  Brass takes off, drawing gunfire his way. I focus on my shots, making them count. I pick them off slowly one-by-one. We aren’t a match for their automatics, but I won’t fucking die out here.

  A loud crash pierces the air, drawing my attention to the now wrecked U-Haul. The tree shakes from the impact, sending birds scattering into the air. Smoke floats from the truck, blighting the darkening night.

  “Get out of here!” Brass yells.

  The sounds of frantic footsteps fill the air.

  “The girls! Get the fucking girls!” A deep voice booms from the other side.

  We hear them running towards the truck, opening fire as they move from cover. The firefight dies down quickly, leaving a steady stream of gasping breaths and gurgles for help.

  Firing a few extra rounds, I wait, pausing for the brave bastard in the bunch that decides to go all Braveheart with his last stand. I’m satisfied by the lack of retaliation, stepping away from the truck to the stream of bodies strewn across the lot. Both dead and alive.

  “Milo?” I call out, scanning each body. Mila would kill me if he died out here.

  “Over here,” he calls, drawing us to the center near the truck.

  “Head shots. All of them,” I order Rig and Diesel. Making damn sure these bastards won’t be getting up to follow us.

  “Don’t you fucking move,” Dash snarls.

  Looking over his shoulder, I see he has a knife at the throat of the uniformed driver while Milo restrains him; arms behind his back. He attempts to wrestle free, jerking wildly.

  Pathetic brave bastard.

  “We need to question him,” I say. “Not at the clubhouse.”

  “I know a place,” Milo jerks his head. “Load my bike up in the back of this,” he looks at the truck, “and follow me.”

  _____________________

  Mila

  The alert I received half an h
our ago pulled me from the bottle of vodka I was swimming in and led me headfirst into a frenzy. Setting up the interrogation room, I take great care to initiate protocol, receiving the hostage the second my brother arrives.

  Stepping back, I survey the room. The harsh light above the table illuminates the sparse walls. No indicators for the hostage to identify this room.

  If we let him live.

  The row of weapons gleam wickedly with malicious intents. And my inner beast purrs in delight.

  Who are they bringing back?

  Why?

  As if on cue, the buzzer alerts me to their arrival. Walking into the main room, I see the hard faces of DAMC members. Members that shouldn’t be here.

  Especially one in particular.

  I ignore them, focusing on the man whose arms are slung over my brother’s shoulder. His head lolls forward, a small groan escaping his lips. His slumped figure forces Milo and Dash to carry his weight.

  His feet drag, echoing throughout the space. Milo’s harsh eyes greet mine, giving me a curt nod as they pass. I understood his message loud and clear.

  He will die tonight.

  I follow closely, anxious to place distance between myself and him. Each step led me closer to drunken clarity where I now recognize the risk that Milo has taken by bringing them here.

  Breaching our security protocol.

  “What the fuck?” I hissed at him. “You brought them here?”

  “We couldn’t go to the clubhouse, Mi.”

  I watch in silence as they drape the limp body over the table, locking him in place with the cuffs I secured to the floor.

  He won’t be going anywhere.

  Milo grabs my arm, pulling me behind him into the adjacent room. The tiredness in his eyes weighs heavy on my shoulders.

  We need to get out of here.

  “Shit’s going on with Bodi. We can’t question him there.”

  “What exactly is going on with Bodi?” I ignore the niggling beast that’s started to rear her ugly head and ream my brother for his blatant breach of our security.

  “No fucking idea. I have a feeling he’s part of what happened tonight.”

  “What happened tonight?”

  “They shot at us.” I froze.

  His voice cloaked over my skin like a gentle caress, drawing goosebumps to the surface.

  “They shot at you?” I barely restrain my panic and I pull my brother into a hug, holding his shoulders when we separate; inspecting him for any injuries.

  He shakes his head, grabbing my hand and kissing my rose hastily. Before I can turn around and inspect Cole, I remember how we left things.

  Don’t turn around. He’s fine.

  “Not me. Dash.”

  “And Diesel,” Cole interjected.

  I dismiss the desire to check him and kiss my brother’s hand quickly, sidestepping the man consuming my thoughts as I search for my teammate.

  “You,” I point at Dash. “Med station now. Sin ordú.” That’s an order.

  “Sea, boss.” Yes, boss.

  “And you,” I point at Diesel, gesturing for him to follow us.

  I ignore the men gathered in the room, weaving my way through the halls with one focus.

  Fix them.

  “Take a seat,” I pat the exam table. They both jumped up and sat quietly, swinging their legs like little children. Snapping on some gloves, I turn to Dash.

  “Where?” He removes his shirt, peeling the blood-soaked hem carefully away from his wound. Several gashes streak across his lower abdomen and back.

  A blood curdling scream pierces the air, igniting chills up my spine. My inner beast heeds the call, begging to break free. We turn our heads in the direction it came from.

  So it begins.

  “What happened?” I draw his attention to me as I begin cleaning his wound.

  “That asshole was after Milo. I stepped in front of it.”

  I met his stare, willing him to understand how grateful I am that he’s alive, and how thankful I am that he saved my brother.

  “Thank you,” I whisper, focusing on cleaning his wounds. He lets out a low hiss when the alcohol touches his marred skin. I felt around to determine if there’s any cause to send him to the infirmary at the estate.

  “I think I’m good, Mi,” he gave me a half smile, his attention focused on the direction of the screams. I finish patching him up, sending him on his way. He bounded off the table like a giddy child, anxious to get back to the playground.

  “Your turn,” I focus on Diesel, snapping on a new pair of gloves. He just gives me a blank stare. I return the favor, not in the mood for his bullshit. “Where?”

  “Shoulder,” he grunts.

  “Well take the damn shirt off,” I scoff.

  “Woman,” he snarled.

  “Toddler.”

  We held each other’s gaze for a hot second before he surprised me by laughing, struggling to remove his shirt.

  “Now I see why he’s so twisted over you.” The worry must’ve shown on my face by the way Diesel’s softened. “Hey, he’s fine.”

  I ignore him, scanning the entry point of his wound before checking his back. “There’s an entry point but not an exit. The bullet is still inside you.”

  “Goddamnit,” he knits his brows angrily as I stand in front of him. His gaze falls to the blood on my hands.

  “Here,” I give him the bottle of vodka I was nursing earlier. “I have to dig around to find it.”

  “Do you know what you’re doin’?” He asks me as I pull out the instruments I need.

  “I’ve watched some YouTube videos,” I joke.

  “Not happenin’. I’ll call Doc,” he starts to stand. I stop him with a hand on his chest. No way will I allow another individual associated with DAMC know our location.

  “I’m joking. I know what I’m doing. Sit down or I’ll sedate you.”

  “Fine. No sedative,” he grumbles, swigging the remnants of the vodka in one go.

  I clean his wound and rub betadine around it before preparing the incision. “I can’t inject a numbing agent because we’re out. Drink up, this is going to hurt,” I issue my warning.

  His loud groans mingle with the screams in the air. A wickedly haunting and catastrophic melody.

  _____________________

  Cole

  “Why do you guys look like the Wu-Tang Clan?” Ness’ question draws my attention away from Milo and the gruesome sight of the tooth extraction he’s performing.

  Her presence is welcoming. Especially since watching Milo use a plethora of weapons has ignited my own desire for bloodlust. I shake my head and laugh.

  “We were told to wear black,” Brass answers for her, patting his lap.

  Jealousy fuels my veins as I watch her go to him willingly. I want that so goddamn bad. That faith and blind trust to come to me willingly. Instead, I know I’m going to have to drag my woman, kicking and fucking screaming.

  “He’s not talking,” Milo huffs as he enters the room. “You okay?” He questions a shirtless Dash.

  “Yeah. Nothing major. She’s fixing up Diesel now. Are you going to…?”

  They share a strange look before Milo shrugs. “She’s our only shot.”

  “I’m up,” Ness pecks Brass on the cheek.

  “What does that mean?” Brass questions once the clack of her heels becomes distant.

  “Mila and Ness have training in these interrogative measures. More than Dash and I do.”

  “Okay,” Rook starts, “I’m goin’ to ask the stupid question.”

  “Don’t let us stop you,” Brass laughs, leaning his chair against the wall.

  “Why didn’t we use them in the first place?”

  “You’ll see,” Dash points towards the two-way window.

  “My turn,” Mila’s voice crackles over the speaker, bored. Her face is stoic, giving nothing away while Ness scrunches up her nose like she smells something foul.

  I watch her with rapt attention, focusing on th
e way she takes Milo’s spot with Ness standing by the weapons.

  She removes her hoodie, her breast rising and falling with each breath in her black top. The sight causes my cock to stir and I step back, leaning against the wall next to Dash, propping a leg up to conceal myself.

  _____________________

  Mila

  Walking down the hall gave me a few seconds to prepare myself before entering that room. I could feel myself retreating far back into my mind, and my beast coming forward. The stillness began to take over, making everything really quiet. I felt myself moving into the room, looking through my demon’s eye.

  “My turn,” my inner beast purred.

  I circle the table where they’ve strapped him down. His uniform makes me chuckle as I remove my hoodie.

  He looks at me, a fearful expression overtaking his face, and I can feel it; the fear seeping from his pores. Fighting harder against the restraints, he leaves red rims around his wrists in the struggle

  “Oh fuck,” Ness grimaces. “He pissed his pants.” The air was pungent with his scent, but I was focused on one thing.

  “AIUTO!” He yells at the top of his lungs. Help.

  I crouch down to his level, feeding off the fear he’s oozing and smile.

  “Help isn’t coming.”

  _____________________

  Cole

  I have to fight real hard not to make my way to her as she inches closer to that piece of shit.

  She starts firing off questions in rapid Italian, allowing the man a few moments to respond before cutting him off.

  Gripping the man’s mouth, she forces it open and shoves the pliers inside. He starts to thrash against her hold as she picks up where Milo left off. Her tone becomes menacing in her pursuit of answers.

  “Son of a bitch,” Rig mutters.

  Tossing a bloody tooth over her shoulder, she continues to ask him questions.

  “I,” he sputters, spitting blood at her feet before giving her a bloody smile. “Give you nothing.”

  “Cut his shirt,” she barks.

  Ness walks over to the table, retrieving scissors and ripping his shirt open. Mila turns her back to us, carefully inspecting each weapon in the light before deciding on a serrated knife.