by Bella Knight
Table of Contents
Book 8
Claws
Sheaths
Progress, Not Perfection
Joining
Run
Afterword
About the Author
Raw Deal
The Nighthawks Motorcycle Club
Bella Knight
Book
8
Edited by
Natasha Lind
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Contents
1. Claws
2. Sheaths
3. Progress, Not Perfection
4. Joining
5. Run
Afterword
About the Author
1
Claws
"Do not set the guilty free, or you have given them permission to prey on others once again."
Wraith hung up the phone. Saber was dead asleep in the bed, after another bout of sex. This one hadn't broken anything open, so Wraith called that a win.
She called Skuld. "Do you remember Las Malos Mujeres?"
"The Bad Women? Well, yeah. Took them down hard."
"Not fucking hard enough. Judge Jones let one of them out on bail."
"Oh, shit," said Skuld. "I'm coming over, and I'm bringing a posse."
Wraith hung up the phone, then said to Sigrun, "Guard him."
Sigrun nodded. "Can do. But he's good at guarding himself, too."
"Bring in his weapons, but let him sleep," said Wraith.
"On it," said Sigrun, heading down the hall to the bedroom, with a very determined kitten following in her wake.
Rota was there first, just as Wraith had finished dressing without tearing any stitches, and hidden all her weapons in her boots, hair, and in concealed places in her waistband. Like at her spine, and one in her pocket.
Wraith opened the door. Rota stepped in, and put Wraith's forehead to hers. "With your shield," she said.
"Or on it," said Wraith. "I'm letting our man sleep. Sigrun is bringing..."
Sigrun came out of Wraith and Saber's bedroom, guns and knives in a tray. "Rota," she said, nodding. "I've got his favorites." She moved down the hall, and opened her own bedroom door.
Skuld entered next, spiky with rage. "Why can't they bounce a seventy-one-year-old off the bench? Jerkoff Jones probably thought women can't run drug empires."
"Which one was it?" asked Rota, who was checking the windows.
"Does it matter?" said Skuld. "Sorry, love, just angry as hell. The one they call La Leoparda, Leopard Woman."
"Didn't she kill a DEA agent?" asked Rota.
"Two, actually," said Wraith. "Liena Ochoa and Divinia Ruiz. Both women found with their throats slit, their tongues cut out, their hands cut off to prevent identification."
Rota nodded. "So, she's coming after you two."
"Absolutely," said Skuld.
"How will she find you?" asked Rota. "Aren't the names and addresses of agents kept confidential?"
"I'm not an agent," said Skuld. "Not afforded the same protection. Made a temporary agent from time-to-time due to my military background and training."
"I am," said Wraith. "But Judge Jones and I have had run-ins before. He thinks men are smarter than women. He's dumb enough to give out info, have it overheard, or be hacked into. I doubt he'd deliberately give out my info, but he's very easily conned." She grinned. "If he did, I'll get him off the bench."
"Finally," said Skuld. "Silver lining."
"Should we run?" asked Rota.
"Fuck, no," said Wraith. "Bring it on."
"Guns," said Rota, holding up a Glock. "We need bigger guns. The ladies and her little purchased soldiers will be carrying Uzis and machetes."
Skuld grinned. "Wraith, aren't you married to an ATF guy?"
Wraith smiled and pulled off the couch cushions. "We got stashes, and the windows are..."
The windows started pinging. "Bulletproof glass," she said, popping open the box covered by a heavy gel cushion lid. "I've got H&K MP7s seized in a bank holdup." She passed them out, along with ammo. "Skuld?"
"They know," she said. "Texted everyone."
"Let's do this," said Wraith, as they all racked their slides. She put on her own body armor, and passed more out. They fanned out, and prepared for the assault as sirens wailed in the distance. Wraith wore her badge on her pants. "We get out of this, we go deep," she said.
"With your shield," said Skuld.
"Or on it," said Wraith.
Wraith sent text messages to any neighbors she knew for them to stay away from the house, or to hide under something heavy or get in the bathtub if they were home. She knew she'd have to go out there, but she didn't want any curious neighbors to get dead. The very clear sound of bullets hitting masonry should have been a clue, but not everyone understood that. Jackson sent her a text, a visiting DEA agent. He said he was two minutes out. Saber cursed in Thai, but was up, dressed, and loaded for war. He stayed in the back with Sigrun.
The crashing at the door wasn't Jackson. Skuld gestured, and Rota climbed on her back just inside the door, pistols pointing down. The door gave at the hinges. Two slight figures in full-on black entered. Rota shot each one in the head from above, and Wraith got the moose with the ram with three quick shots. Skuld knelt, Rota hopped off, and they grabbed the ammo and weaponry off the bodies. Someone threw in a grenade. Skuld had it out the tiny kitchen window, directly on the heads of two more black-clad figures, before it went off. Wraith threw out a flash-bang, and they were out. Skuld got it in the body armor, and Rota picked off another black-clad figure in the neck. Bloody spray jettisoned upward. Skuld grunted, and shot from the floor where she was. The sirens intensified. Dogs barked.
"Got one!" said Wraith, in Norse.
"Got her," said Sigrun, also in Norse.
Two shots sounded in the stairwell, then two more. Skuld and Wraith went out, with Rota guarding the do
or. Two black-clad figures came around the corner. Skuld went low, Rota high. They fell, legs and necks hit. Someone pounded up the stairs.
Jackson said "Here!" in Norse. He popped out of the doorway, H&K in one hand, a liberated Uzi on his back, with ammo making his pockets sag.
"Shoot them," said Skuld, also in Norse. She took the other stairwell, and Rota and Wraith both held where they were.
Jackson's phone vibrated, and he answered. "Put 'em away, SWAT is here."
Wraith, Skuld and Rota went back inside, and hid most of their arsenal back in the couch, except for the weapons they actually fired, and the confiscated ones. They put those weapons on the ground, and sat down on the floor. They awaited the calvary.
Both Wraith and Saber were interviewed by the FBI, their bosses present. Their bosses were furious with the judge. All the black-clad women had been released by the judge for being victims (not perpetrators), despite it being explained to him that the Leopard's whores were loyal to her, and despite being purchased from their parents. Their youthful faces gave Special Agent in Charge (Bryan Ulinov) fits. That was until bricks of cash and multiple passports for each woman were found in the stolen van they used to find Wraith's house.
"How the fuck did they know where you live?" asked SAC Ulinov.
"Be real interested to know," said Wraith. "Not something I give out."
Saber bitched the whole way to the farm. Wraith rode his bike up, with saddlebags full of his go-bag and weapons; Sigrun followed on Wraith's.
"You can oversee this whole house-moving shit," she said, as he sighed gustily in her ear.
"Fuck that shit," he said. "I need to be on the ground, shaking down my contacts."
She grinned into the wind; Born to be Wild was on the conduction headsets she'd bought. She could simultaneously listen to Steppenwolf and hear her loved one bitch. O joy, she thought. And what part of "You're slowing us down" doesn't he understand?
She pulled up to the paddock. A gorgeous golden girl carefully brushed a pony with nearly no pelt on it; it had been shaved close. A rescue, she thought. That must be Damia. The girl ignored the loud Harleys, something that must simply be background noise to her, by now. Sigrun parked Wraith's bike, and sat still.
"Be nice," said Wraith, turning off Steppenwolf. "That little girl over there is Damia. She has autism. She needs gentleness, kindness, patience, and tolerance."
Saber snorted, and swung himself off the bike with a groan. "All the things I suck at, then."
Wraith pulled off her helmet, and watched him stow his. She spoke in a low voice. "Get over yourself. That little girl crawled out of her shell long enough to tell her mom she wanted to live with her. That's terrifying for a child who needs structure just to get through the next fucking minute. You fucking got shot in the chest, asshole. People are after me, cartel people, the ones we go after every fucking day. But these are women who believe we stole their birthright from them, and their right to climb out from the streets that make the Alphabet Streets here look like fucking Candyland." She got in his face. "You. Will. Slow. Us. Down. Now, give back to these people who feed us intel, and who literally feed us. Put a fucking smile on your face and do something around here to help out, or, so help me, by Buddha's balls, I'll knock you into next week."
Saber looked into her ice-blue eyes and then shuddered. "I'm a fucking moron, aren't I?"
"You almost died, you asshole. Now, go in there to the main house and drop off your gear. They have you on the bottom floor. Then, go see if you can help the Owl Pack with their beading, or carding wool, or shell peas in the kitchen with Vi. I don't fucking care, but be nice. These people would die for you."
He reached up, grabbed the back of her neck, and pulled her to him. In Thai, he said, "With your shield."
"Or on it," said Wraith, in Norse. She gentled the steel of her eyes for a moment. "Don't get dead."
"Wasn't planning on it," said Saber. He looked her in the eyes, then shot a glance over to the main house.
Henry was standing in the doorway; the dog at his feet; a shotgun in his hand, with hair blowing in the wind past the collar of his battered, brown, leather jacket.
Saber gave a half-smile. "Good god," he said. "I pity the fool that tries to attack this place."
Wraith snorted. "And go against angry Paiutes? Even Las Malos Mujeres wouldn't do that."
She kissed him, then took out his go-pack, and slung the duffel over her shoulder, then the weapons, which she swung over the other shoulder, like bandoliers. Saber followed Wraith, who led them in the door, down the hall, and dropped them off in the guest suite just past the greenhouse, complete with its own small bathroom and shower. She dropped the bags on the bed, kissed her love, and strode out without a backward glance.
That's my woman, thought Saber. “If” I am smart enough to hold onto her. He reached down to unzip the bag with his clothes and toiletry kit. She'd packed an arsenal in the other bag, one he'd use to add to Henry's defensive grid. He saw the little girl in his mind's eye, carefully brushing the pony, a hand on its shortened mane. No one harms that little one while I'm here, he thought. He finished with the first bag, then started hiding the blades, guns, and ammo in various spots.
David came in, and helped him with the heavier weapons. "Fortress time," he said. "Anyone hurts a hair on those kids, they die."
"You sure about this?" asked Saber. "I may bring death to your door. Maybe I can lay low somewhere else."
"Here, you're just another long-black-haired, dark-skinned guy with a hammer or a currycomb, or shredding lettuce for chicken salad in the kitchen," said David. "Hiding in plain sight."
"Besides," said Henry, coming up behind David. "You stepped in front of a bullet for Ace. Literally. We owe you." He took a handful of grenades. "Flash-bangs or real?"
"Color-coded; red for real," said Saber. He pointed out the tiny drop of nail polish on the underside of each grenade.
"Nice," said Henry. "know right where to put these." He smiled with a touch of malice.
How the fuck did the white guys steal this country from underneath these people? Saber wondered, hiding a knife in its sheath behind the headboard.
"Let's do this, love," said David. He picked up both M7s, and they headed out.
"Hey!" said Jake, coming out into the hallway. "Share. I still know how to throw one of these babies." Jake cackled as Henry handed him a flash-bang. Carl stuck his head out. Henry sighed, and gave him another flash-bang.
Saber followed, looking for useful work. He stopped in front of Jake. "Put me to work, old man," he said. "Note that I just got shot in the chest and my ribs feel like someone's grinding them together."
"Noted," said Jake, opening the door. "Vu, show this man to a recliner."
Saber nodded, and headed for the indicated chair. Vu handed him a brown blanket and stared at him with avarice in her eyes. " Hear you speak Thai. Know any traditional Thai stories?"
Saber took the blanket. "Buddha's balls, but this is the softest blanket in the world."
Vu, Carl and Maia all laughed. Maia said, "After you tell her the stories, you get to translate them into Thai. Then she'll make you write a course in Thai. Or translate some Udemy courses."
"Not for free," said Vu. "We'll pay you. Need to open new markets."
Jake snorted, and hid a flash-bang under a table. "The Chinese and Taiwanese market will keep us in bank for years."
"Yeah, but Bao has only so many hours in the day," said Vu. "New markets are good." She handed him a tablet. "You need headphones?"
He stared at her, then pulled the induction headphones out. "Oh, Creator," said Carl. "Let's get some of those." He hid the other flash-bang deep in the right cupholder of his favorite chair, and sat down. "Hand me some of those beads, Jake." Jake handed him the tray, and Carl opened his pack of needles and selected one.
"What do I do?" asked Saber.
Vu pointed at an icon. "Open that, and start typing, or press the little mic icon and start talking."
> She smiled as Saber pulled up a screen so he could change the keyboard to Thai. Soon he was typing madly. Vu smiled, and finished editing Bao's English in their newest book.
He stopped for a moment. "I only know gutter Thai," he said as he realized.
Vu's eyes sparkled. "Even better. Teach the street kids English for free." He smiled a blinding smile, and went back to work.
Wraith investigated each damn lead. The two surviving girls weren't talking. Three were dead, and they aimed baleful stares at anyone who dared look at them, let alone tried to interrogate them. They cursed in gutter Spanish laced with Mixtec words.
"Oaxaca," said Raul Surquillo, the DEA cartel specialist. "Your Leopardess is being odd."
"How so?" asked Wraith.
"She should call herself the Panther or Jaguar. Leopards are not native to anywhere in North, Central or South America."
"And," said Wraith, "I heard Creole. She's Haitian. Probably fled to Mexico after the earthquake, and made a living in Mexico the only way she knew how."
"Or her family came for work, and she went horribly wrong," said Surquillo. "Most Haitians are extremely hard workers. Don't see them as wanting their daughters to become drug mules, whores, gangsters, or cartel hit people."
"She didn't go any of those routes," said Wraith. "She joined with other women to make her own cartel. Cocaine, primarily, but then they got cute. They found themselves some chemists and started making pills. The kind that make you happy, sad, ecstatic, paranoid, revved up; you name it. They sell to college students and party-minded adults in very discreet buys. They still run the coke, though, and are quite willing to fund Shining Path Guerrillas in Peru, to get it. The Peruvian government has been slowly choking off their supply, hence the turn to pharmaceuticals. The problem is, their chemist is a sadist. Or just stupid. People die from their first dose, not their fifth or sixth, or fiftieth."