Reckless: Backsteel Bandits MC

by Olivia Stephens

  In the heat of the car, he stroked her back gently. She mewled and shifted against him. The pleasant glow of a job well done filled the car.

  So far, the day had gone completely in their favor.

  CHAPTER TWENTY NINE

  Back at the motel room, after a well-needed shower, Miranda and Tyler continued their investigation. He paced the length of their room, occasionally glancing through the blinds while she sat at the small table. It was unlikely anyone would come looking for them. Even if they had, the motel had their name as Mr. and Mrs. Johnson, a couple of newlyweds enjoying a trek across the country. Short of eyewitnesses, Miranda and Tyler seemed to be in the clear.

  Well, unless that bank manager wised up, though, luckily, Miranda had already handled that suspicion with some cockamamie 'family emergency' excuse. He didn't know what she planned to do if they ran into Mr. Cross during their stay in San Marta.

  When Miranda sighed and leaned back, Tyler turned to her. “What did you find?”

  She rubbed the bridge of her nose, reigning in her fluttering thoughts. For the last hour, she had tugged apart the information they had. Her mind had strung the facts out in her mind, knotting pieces together until her thoughts were a tangled mess. So many strings of thoughts puttered about her synapses. She motioned to her printouts, when her thoughts were reasonably organized. “This woman, Francesca Munoz, deposits a hefty check about three days after Peter withdraws a lot of money.” She moved over to her laptop, where Pete's account glowed across the screen. “I've pored over Peter's files so much, I nearly have them memorized.”

  Tyler seated himself next to her, leaning heavily on the table as he stared at her computer screen. “So, you think this woman, this Francesca Munoz, has something to do with Peter?”

  “Maybe,” Miranda sighed, resisting the urge to rub at her eyes. She had no clue. The seedy, underground dealings with the less-than-reputable were lost on her. Trudging on, she clamped to the only other information she had gathered. Pointing to the papers, she tapped her finger on a specific name. “There's a secondary on her account, Paul Larson. Sound familiar?”

  Tyler searched through his mental files. Plenty of Pauls brightened in his mind. A couple of Larsons dotted his thoughts, as well. However, he came up short. “No, it doesn't.”

  “Well, I noticed something on the computer back at the bank,” Miranda procured the sticky note she had hastily scribbled on. “There was one e-mail that had no subject and had been read. I only got the sender's e-mail address, but I ran it through some reverse search engines.”

  “And?” Tyler eyed the fluorescent yellow square of paper. Miranda's crisp scrawl stained the paper. The handle was the only important part and it was the most vague: PL2015.

  Miranda continued, smoothing the adhesive of the note on the table. “I found some usernames linked to this e-mail address.”

  Tyler's eyebrows furrowed. Usernames were good, right? They could be traced back to people. However, if someone was able to continuously create e-mail addresses and online identities, they could hide behind countless layers of redundancy. Tyler's hope briefly deflated at the prospect.

  “Most of the usernames are on gambling sites, so I think Pete is laundering it through online casinos.” Miranda paused, waiting for this information to sink into her companion's mind. It was a stretch, but brick-and-mortar casinos were involved with laundering, weren't they? Why not utilize the anonymity of the Internet? Plus, it meant that Pete could have lackeys operating under the same name while he created alibis for himself. “Maybe this Munoz lady is helping him out by playing the casinos.”

  “But why?” Tyler cocked his head to the side.

  Miranda shrugged, uncertain about her own personal theories. “The Internet can keep you anonymous, you could have multiple people operating under one name. There's tons of reasons.”

  Tyler fell silent, letting the knowledge digest in his head. Pete was scraping money off the top from the Backsteel Bandits. From there, he was using pseudonyms to launder the money, digitally. Where did this Francesca fit in, though? Was she helping him? If so, why? Or was the name just another alias for Pete or his wife? There was too much that was unknown. Pete could have wallowed into countless crimes.

  Instead, he hinged on the one lead they had. “Did you find an address for Munoz?”

  “Yeah,” Miranda glanced down at the papers. Munoz's address had been updated just two weeks ago. “5234 Terrace Drive.”

  “All right,” Tyler hefted himself up. He groaned and stretched, his muscles achy from tension and stress. He strode across the room, but paused at the door. The laptop clicked quietly shut behind him. It almost sounded like Miranda dreaded to shut it. Glancing over his shoulder, he watched her slowly stand. Something held her back.

  Was she scared, now, after their chaotic stint at the bank? Tyler's heart softened. She wasn't in the motorcycle club. She wasn't used to breaking rules to get her problems solved. Perhaps, a break was called for. Even his own body seemed to react in content to the very thought. “Well, I think we've done enough for this evening.”

  “You sure?” She eyed him, curiously. The strain of her muscles whined at her to sit back down. Her limbs felt heavy and her eyelids wanted nothing more than to flutter shut. But, didn't they have a job to do? Then again, maybe waiting until tomorrow would be best. Through the slats in the blinds, she caught the reddish light of a setting sun. It'd be dark soon. “I suppose we could stay here, order in, and figure out what we're going to say to her first.”

  Tyler's muscles cheered and a smile flicked across his face. Instead of opening the door, he flicked the lock shut. A night in after a busy, successful day out. It was almost domestic, if they didn't take into account what their day had been like.

  * * *

  In the late morning the next day, Miranda and Tyler took off for 5234 Terrace Drive. She felt her stomach coil in anticipation. Though she wore a hat and sunglasses, the worry that someone would recognize her from the bank still clasped at her thoughts. The tingle in her tummy intensified as Tyler pulled to a stop.

  Her eyes focused on the street. It was a middle-class neighborhood, with neat green lawns and painstakingly tended to flower gardens.

  “I'll park around back in the alley.”

  She nodded, her heart thrumming in her chest. They had agreed Tyler should remain unseen unless necessary. Two people knocking on Francesca's door and interrogating her about Pete Delaney may be construed as threatening. Miranda, being a woman, would be far less threatening alone.

  That thought didn't stop her fingers from shaking as she opened her door. Tyler's hand on her elbow caused her to pause. She snapped her attention to his face, cocking an eyebrow. “You sure you can handle this, Mir?”

  She smiled with far more bravado than she felt, “Yeah, I'll be fine.”

  Before Tyler could press her further, she eased herself out of the car. Her heart throbbed with fear the second he pulled away from the curb, but she ignored it. She would just walk up to the house and knock. She replayed the instructions in her head like a mantra.

  The targeted destination was a cream white, single story home with golden yellow trim. Brilliant red and pink flowers filled the flowerbeds in front of her house and ringed around the yard's sole tree. The lawn was immaculately kept. Miranda made her way up the clean walk, up the front stairs and onto the porch. Anxiety clamped around her guts. As her knuckles rapped against the yellow door, a thought struck her.

  Hopefully, Francesca was home.

  * * *

  It took Tyler ten minutes to maneuver to the alley behind Francesca's house. It took him five more minutes to locate the house. When he did, he parked the car and glanced up and down the alley. Weekday morning, school in session, adults at work. No one populated the small stretch of hidden road.

  Acting confident, he strolled into Francesca's backyard. Thankfully, a tall privacy fence circled the perimeter of her property. He'd be able to peek into the house and check on Mira
nda's progress. Without an ounce of shame, he sidled up to the house and peered into the first window.

  It took four tries, but he eventually located Miranda through a partially opened window. She stood in a dining area, hands moving and lips flying with chatter. The woman she spoke to was stunning. Tall and curvy, with tawny-golden skin and thick black hair that spilled down her back. A beauty mark dotted her upper lip on the left side. Across her chest, a tattooed rosary decorated her ample bosom. The woman – presumably Francesca Munoz – wore an off-the-shoulder red dress that hugged her curves so tightly that Tyler almost thought she'd pop.

  Feeling like a peeping tom, he glanced around. The house behind him seemed devoid of life, the occupants at work and school. No other house was in such a good position to see him. He returned his gaze to the window, trying to ease his nerves. Still, anything could go wrong if Francesca held ties to Pete Delaney. The fact Miranda was inside, instead of himself, ground against Tyler's thoughts.

  He'd just have to wait and hope nothing went wrong. He crouched lower, listening to the conversation inside.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  The inside of Miss Munoz's house was dripping with rich reds and purples and it was filled with smoky incense. Religious figurines dotted around the house and it seemed like a thousand photos littered the walls. The sticks of furniture were all overstuffed and expensive-looking. Miranda teetered between feeling right at home and painfully out of place.

  “So, what does Delaney want?” Even when she spoke, her words had a gorgeous lilt to them. Her lips pursed as she regarded Miranda with a wrinkled nose. “First time he's sent a puta.”

  “I'm not a whore.” She resisted the urge to snarl. This woman was involved with a less-than-delightful man. She had plenty of things to be bitter and rude about. Well, probably plenty of things. Miranda still hadn't scratched off the thought that Francesca was fully as bad as Pete.

  “Whatever. What's he want?” The woman sniffed and repositioned a candlestick on her dining room table. Now, she reused to look at Miranda. “I already paid rent and his cut of the girls' pay is in the bank.”

  Miranda's mind snipped at the last sentence. Rent and girls' pay? A few conclusions pounced on her thoughts. Vaguely, she wondered if Francesca's hostility was thanks to the presumed connection with Pete. She shook her head, feeling the air needed to be cleared. “I think you've misunderstood. I'm not here for Pete.”

  For a split second, Francesca's hazel brown eyes widened. Redness tinged just beneath her cheeks and her lips thinned. She had said too much, she realized. Miranda tensed, waiting for her reaction. However, the woman wasn't explosive. Instead, her voice became scarily quiet as she demanded, “Who are you?”

  Miranda's mouth opened to reply, but something out the window caught her eye. Without thinking, her gaze flicked to the window, spotting Tyler just beyond. Her mouth snapped shut, instantly. What the hell was he doing? Didn't he trust her to take care of this alone?

  Francesca noticed where she looked, though. Her attention snapped to the window, the heat draining from her face.

  “What the fuck is this?” The woman grabbed her purse, which lay across the dining room table. Her hand delved into the folds, withdrawing a small handgun. Miranda's heart thudded against her rib cage.

  Miranda raised her hands, taking a step closer to Francesca. “Hey, hey, no, we're not here to–”

  The thunder of the gun rang through the air. A small hole appeared in the ceiling above Francesca's head. Miranda stopped still as plaster pattered down onto the other woman's head. Her body wouldn't move, from fear or survival instincts.

  In the tense silence, the window flew open. Tyler scrambled into the room and charged the woman with the gun.

  Miranda screamed, “Tyler!”

  “Tyler?” Francesca sharply inhaled, her features paling. Her gun lowered, just slightly. “Tyler Ferguson?”

  “Yeah,” Tyler grunted, his eyes swinging from Francesca to Miranda. His muscles tensed, prepared to pounce or dodge should Francesca's gun go off. They still weren't sure where her loyalty leaned.

  Silence filled the air as the woman tried to make sense of the ghost in her house. She paled considerably, her hand rushing to form the cross above her breast, before her limp grasp on her gun tightened. Francesca whipped it back up, leveling the barrel at Tyler's face. “But you're supposed to be dead!”

  He stared at the gun, his gaze hardening. “Guess I didn't get the memo.”

  “Get out, now,” gasped Francesca, swinging the barrel of the gun toward the front door. She quickly flicked it back to Tyler, before swinging it toward Miranda. The tip of the barrel trembled as her fingers fidgeted against the grip. “I don't need Pete finding you here and punishing me.”

  Miranda raised her hands, attempting to brush the agitation out of the room. She took a step forward, her voice soft and level, “Can we just–”

  The thunder of the gun cut Miranda off. Francesca shrieked, “Out!”

  Tyler and Miranda rushed back through the house and out the front door. Francesca charged in their wake. As soon as their feet crossed the threshold, she slammed the door shut. The click and clank of locks and deadbolts clattered after their exit.

  The two didn't dally. They started off down the block, Tyler leading Miranda. She mindlessly followed him as her brain churned and whirled. Doubt of Francesca's partnership with Pete took root in her head. From the sounds of it, Francesca was a victim in her own right. Her fingers clenched into fists as she and Tyler ducked between two houses.

  They ended up on a small paved road – an alleyway – behind the line of homes. He led her to the sedan, parked a few yards away from Francesca's backyard. Neither exchanged a word as they both climbed into the car and settled. Miranda glared out her window, watching the house dwindle in the distance as Tyler drove them away.

  * * *

  The tension in the air clung to Miranda and Tyler like cobwebs. Their drive back to the motel was lengthy and silent, weighed down by worry and frustration. As soon as they pulled into the motel's parking lot, both jumped out of the vehicle. She startled, hearing him slam the door so hard the car groaned on its wheels. Before she could ask Tyler what his problem was, he stormed from the car to the motel room, only pausing to unlock the door.

  She jogged after him, her brow pinched with confusion. What in the world did he have to be angry about? The moment she closed the door behind her, Tyler turned sharply on his heel. Even across the room, his eyes blazed with concern and annoyance. “We shouldn't have gone there. Now she's going to blow our cover before it's time to leave.”

  “I don't think she will,” she replied softly, trying to swallow down her nervousness. She took a step closer, the pressure between her and Tyler becoming electric. The queasy worry that swam through her guts was clamped down on.

  “What are you talking about?” Tyler's hand shot to his head, his fingers digging into his hair. Did Miranda not see it? Francesca was in cahoots with Pete. The woman would sooner dish them up on a silver platter than help them. He couldn't let that happen to Miranda. “She'll cover her ass like any other self-serving bitch.”

  Miranda narrowed her gaze at him, her nose wrinkling with distaste. Her lips thinned to a disagreeable, firm line.

  Her disapproving chill punctured the heat in Tyler's thoughts. He pinned her with a curious, and annoyed, glare. “What?”

  “You're wrong,” she nearly growled the words out. Her heart thrummed in her chest and her nails bit into her palms. White-hot, intense anger – coupled with a sharp and sullen pain – whipped through her thoughts.

  “I know this business better than you, Mir.” Tyler nearly spat the words out as bile climbed up into his throat. Memories danced across his mind's eye. Blood, guts, screaming, begging. Another chill settled into his bones, one made of disappointment and shame in himself. He shook the pity party from his head and grunted, “No, trust me. She's going to turn us in.”

  Through her pursed lips, Miranda
asserted, “I still think you're wrong.”

  “Oh? Why's that?” Tyler tried to bite down on the sarcastic tinge in his voice, but it was a futile effort.

  Why was he wrong? Miranda's thoughts tilted and twirled. Francesca let them run, though Pete would undoubtedly be enraged about that course of action. If she were genuinely working with him, wouldn't she secure his enemy? “If that was the case, she wouldn't have chased us out. She would've called Pete ASAP and gotten someone on our tail.”

  “How do you know she hasn't?” He challenged her, crossing his arms across his chest. His jaw tensed as a scowl sliced across his lips.

  “I have a feeling, after all the trouble you put him through, Pete wouldn't dick around. Now would he?” Miranda narrowed her eyes. Her hands went to her hips and her lips pursed.

  His eyes widened, briefly. Not over Miranda's presumption, though. Her language, her body posture, her expression. She was hardening to the circumstances. His heart shuddered at the thought. She didn't deserve this. They needed to get out of town. Maybe he could call her family and arrange a coup to return her to Legacy. “We should head out, now, regardless.”