Out for the Count

by Michele Mannon

  Which is exactly the same thing Pres did, putting the van full of heroin into gear and driving off into the field.

  Not a cop in sight.

  Bracken did what he had to do—he chased the motherfucker down. A van loaded with heroin wasn’t exactly a Lamborghini but the bastard must have seen Bracken coming, because Pres floored it. Not fast enough, thank fuck for the rock-littered field and Bracken’s fast footwork.

  After catching up with the van on foot, he pulled himself up by the door handle onto the door’s bed, worked his arm through the open window, and popped two caps into Pres’s leg. Except the van hit a rock, sending Bracken flying. Landing hurt like a bitch. But watching the van drive away had hurt more.

  The police arrived late to the fucking date and to a field riddled with bodies and no van. Not a single thing Bracken could have done about the bloodshed without police backup. Hell, he’d blow his cover—and chasing down the freakin’ van for no apparent reason was pushing it. A few hours later and not far from the MC clubhouse, the team found the van, nearly empty except for Pres’s dead body in the back. Whoever this kingpin was, he was smart. He’d gotten his shipment, and silenced his only contact with the organization.

  Bracken grimaced. A miserable year knocking skulls with the Mayhem and he’d walked away empty handed. No leads yet. His meeting with Truman might just be worth the quaking hands.

  Yeah, the game was still on. Just the rounds had changed.

  The purr of a Harley off in the distance signaled Truman’s arrival. Bracken positioned himself at the door and waited. Truman made a series of knocks, signaling he was alone and well, before Bracken let him inside.

  “Hola, Juan,” Truman greeted him in a horribly Anglicized accent, a routine they’d fallen into a year ago, with him poking fun of Bracken’s Spanish, and Bracken letting it slide. Truman pulled him into a tight bear hug.

  Good. A friendly brother meant more opportunities for sharing the shit.

  They’d been prospects together and in a short time, had been voted into the MC together. Bracken had spent nine months riding around with the maniac, teaching him how to work with engines, showing him how to handle a Harley, helping him learn some practical skills needed to survive life with the Mayhem. In turn, he’d earned Truman’s trust and established a contact who seemed to have connections to every fucking criminal in Nevada and beyond. A killer. A rumored mass murderer.

  “What’s up, dickhead?” he greeted Truman, as was their custom.

  Truman broke his hold and grinning like a lunatic, replied, “All kinds of surprises.” He gestured enthusiastically to the V.P. badge on his cut. “I made Vice President.”

  Of course he had. Hard to find competition when you slit the throats of anyone in your way.

  “That dipshit Jimbo is now President. The dude’s like putty in my hands.”

  “Good for you. You were always an ambitious prick.” Bracken walked over to the bureau and grabbed the coffee pot. “Coffee or something stronger? Tequila?”

  “Naw, coffee will do.” Bracken poured him a cup, all the while noting the change in his brother’s habits. Thinking how different he was away from club bullshit. Coffee, when liquor was a biker’s staple for breakfast, lunch and dinner. Coffee was what cops had.

  “That was some shit that went down, Juan.”

  “Yeah, I’d had better days.”

  “Why’d you take off after Pres like that?”

  Fuck. Observant prick. Too bad the guy was a criminal and not a cop. He’d make a far better partner than Numbnuts. Truman was smarter than Bracken had given him credit for.

  “I thought the fucker set me up. Waited until my back was turned while loading the van to give the order to open fire. No way was I letting that go unanswered.” He caught Truman’s nod. Nothing bonded bikers together better than a bloodbath, right?

  “I didn’t know Pres had brains enough to pull something like that, did you? Hell, he must have had it all planned out, orchestrating a shootout with the Pitbull crew while he drove off with the drugs.”

  “Not smart enough, considering he’s dead. Any idea who offed him?” There it was, the question of all fucking questions. Who was this motherfucking kingpin?

  “Someone with Russian connections.” Truman took another sip of his coffee, watching Bracken like he was waiting for him to react.

  React? Inside, his goddamned brain was exploding. Drugs? Russians? Coincidence? No fucking way. Pre had always referred to the buyer as the “pussy foreigner,” who was too afraid to get his hands dirty and do a man’s work. Like theft. Killing. General mayhem. Bracken would bet his Harley the kingpin who’d gotten away with the heroin was the same asshat working behind the scenes of this methamphetamine buy.

  He had to make sure. “Why do you think he’s Russian, and not Italian or goddamned Colombian?”

  “The fucker called me at the club.”

  What. The. Hell. “You have a knack for making friends.” Bracken almost burst a blood vessel trying to keep his tone neutral. “So you stayed behind in Vegas to meet up with the guy?”

  “That’s what I’m hoping,” Truman smirked. “I don’t like doing business over the phone.”

  Bracken casually polished off the rest of his coffee. “So Jimbo is leading the crew back to Nevada.”

  “Yep. A mule job perfectly fitted for that ass. After what happened to Pres, I think Jimbo is happy I’m the contact. To his credit, Pres had balls.”

  “In Vegas?” Or another city. Like fucking Reno.

  “Not sure. Pres was right about this guy not wanting to get his hands dirty. My orders are to pick up the shipment in the vans we hollowed out and protect the shipment while the crew transports it back from Kansas. Waiting for a call about where to deliver it. Timing wise, it’s got to arrive by August first.”

  Shit. Bracken had two choices: Tell Truman he’d come back, be a brother he could count on to watch his back. Or kill Juan off as intended, and rely on the information Stefan already had on the location of the delivery. Get himself situated good and tight inside the Warehouse.

  Truman sipped his coffee. “You look like shit.”

  Bracken gave him a lopsided smile. “Fuck you.”

  “That was a pretty nasty crack you took to the noggin. But smart move heading out of Vegas to recover. Cops everywhere, questioning everyone. Good thing you grabbed some time then. The club was in chaos after what happened to Pres.”

  “Worked out for you, though.”

  “Sure did.” He grinned broadly. “Listen, before you ask to come back inside,” he paused and watched Bracken give an award-worthy performance of acting fucking surprised his brother had read him so well, “I have a favor to ask. The reason for my agreeing to meet you. Stay away from the club. I need a brother I can trust out on the streets, someone who’ll let me know if he hears more about this foreigner. Cover my back in that way.”

  “You bet. The doctors have got me on Coumadin. A blood thinner. Got something wrong with the old ticker...blood clot, or some shit.”

  “That so?”

  “Yeah,” Bracken lied. “Too many steroids as a kid, so the doctor tells me. But I’ll do what I can. I owe you, man.” He took a deep breath. Despite all the wrongs, Truman deserved a few kind words. “Thanks for shoving me away like that. You saved my life.”

  Bracken studied the guy. Complete poker face—hard to tell what he was thinking. Still, he tested the waters by adding, “Something tells me Jimbo won’t be president for long. Especially with this amount of money about to exchange hands.”

  Truman shot him a crooked grin.

  Bracken had been riding alongside the devil for months. He’d bet his Harley Truman was angling for the position himself. The devil you know, or so the expression goes.

  “Just be in contact on August first. I don’t want
you to miss out on what happens next.” He pulled Bracken into another bear hug. “Take care of yourself, Juan. You never know when your time is up. Who your friends are. Who your enemies are.”

  “What, are you a goddamn poet now?” he replied, knowing only too well the truth behind Truman’s words.

  Knowing too that Juan’s time was about to be up. Rumors would soon circulate that he’d bitten the big one. Bracken was betting this time around, I.A. wouldn’t be spilling tears over a few dead drug dealers, if it came to that. His department would be too busy designing another goddamned plaque for his wall. He’d clear his name. He’d finish what he’d started. He’d protect innocent people from addiction, violence and crime that’d result in the meth hitting the streets, putting the entire West Coast at risk.

  He had to get in quick and tight with the Russians flooding the Warehouse. And if that meant sucking it up and working with Numbnuts, if it meant getting into Huntley’s pants, if it meant selling the feeble remaining scraps of his fucking soul in order to make this bust, then so be it.

  * * *

  Huntley secured the ring of keys to the Warehouse in the side pocket of her gym bag. “Lose the keys, lose your job” was the condition her boss Hank had given her when she’d convinced him to let her use the Hall facilities to train. She’d closed the Warehouse a few times before, so this was nothing new. It helped that Hank was feeling a bit guilty for passing her over for Hillary on the Hall bartending gig, especially considering Hillary couldn’t bartend her way out of open bar night at a retirement home. You’d have thought managing an underground fight club would have hardened Hank up. But when it came to women, he was a pushover.

  A fact Huntley was taking full advantage of tonight.

  “Ready, honey?” her new trainer, Jeffrey, asked.

  Huntley’s eyes narrowed on him, hoping he’d get the I’m-gonna-kick-your-ass-honey message. But aside from the fact that Jeffrey was more inclined to pinch her ass than punch her in the face, she liked his carefree manner.

  Nights like tonight, after the bars closed down and the fighters went home, they had the entire facility to themselves for training. Tonight was round four with Jeffrey. Everything was moving along, slowly but in the right direction. Her footwork was improving, her skills on the mat more exact and fluid. But that was the problem. Jeffrey seemed to favor grappling, specifically showing her how he forced an opponent to tap out during last year’s Tetnus championship by holding her in a lethal rear naked choke.

  Turning her back, she subtly adjusted her new thickly padded sports bra, making sure her bosom was safely secured beneath the material. An expensive investment, and she’d bought three of them, this one a lovely shade of blue. Given Jeffrey’s obsession with helping her perfect this standard MMA move—and how his forearms rolled and rubbed against her chest while he claimed to be demonstrating the hold from his position behind her, over and over again—her thin, lightweight, bras had been reassigned to the back of her dresser drawer.

  Jeffrey was, by all standards, hot. Tall, blond, with full lips and twinkling brown eyes, he was a fireman by day, and a maniac in the gym at night. Evidently, he lived and breathed MMA, making sure he was in top form not just for an upcoming bout, but all year round. Jeffrey was beyond disciplined, and his rigid diet and training schedule would hopefully keep her own fighting preparations in check. No more tequila shots, no more polluting her body. We’ll always have Reno...and the hot, oh-so-naughty memory of what had transpired with Bracken. Holy hallelujah. How could a few heated kisses still cause her body to tingle in memory?

  She caught Jeffrey flexing his pecs, proudly showing off the taut muscles in his chest. With a weak smile of acknowledgement, she kicked off her sneakers and headed into the cage, not even remotely attracted to him though it was unclear why.

  Maybe locking lips with Jeffrey would reinspire her wild child? Hell, why not? It might help release the stress creeping up on her from the events of the past three weeks. Past year. Past years.

  With a shake of her head, she began her warm-up routine. First things first, business before pleasure. Her sole focus had to be on preparing for Vegas.

  Jeffrey entered the ring, barefoot and bare-chested, and not even one tiny tingle ran across her body. Better this way, she reminded herself.

  “Listen, Jeffrey,” she began, needing to set clear goals for tonight’s training session. “You seem eager to instruct me on mat work. But my boxing skills are way off—that’s what I need you to help me figure out. So, no take downs tonight. Let’s keep things on our feet and focus on my upper body.”

  Jeffrey’s eyes lowered to her chest and immediately filled with lust. Holy shit. She glanced at her gym bag, thinking of the University of Nevada sweatshirt inside.

  With her hands on her hips, she confronted the unspoken beast in the room. “I hired you to train me to punch. That’s it. Period. Think you can handle that, and only that?”

  Jeffrey shrugged. “Sure. Let’s go at it then.” Tapping his chest, he told her, “Hit me right here.”

  With a tight fist, she did as directed, and her fist left a reddened imprint. Jeffrey didn’t budge, his arms at his sides and his legs spread in a fighter’s stance.

  She pulled back her arm and put more of her weight into the next one, but this time, Jeffrey moved, catching her beneath the armpits and flipping her down onto her back on the mat. Before she could tell him to fuck off, his full weight was on top of her. She caught the flash of his grin before he leaned down and pressed his lips against hers.

  Balling her fist, she punched him in the cheek.

  “You know you want me, Huntley.”

  “I want you to train me, you jerk. Get. Off. Me.”

  He frowned, looking almost hurt. “You’ve been giving me the green light for days. What’s up with you tonight?”

  Sweet Mother Mary. What? She pushed against his chest, and Jeffrey rolled off of her. Clambering up onto her knees, she demanded, “What are you talking about? I’m paying you to teach me how to box. Not perfect my rear naked choke or grappling technique. You read the situation wrong. No way have I been even remotely flirting with you.”

  “What about that wink?”

  “I had dust in my eye from the chalk on my hands. I told you that.”

  “You keep panting, like you’re hot for me.”

  Really? “Frustrated sighs, that’s what you’ve been hearing.”

  Jeffrey stood up and straightened, looking like he’d lost his best friend. Probably wasn’t used to rejection—not with his stellar looks.

  He really wasn’t such a bad guy. Why don’t you give him a chance?

  “Okay, we’ll keep it strictly professional,” he commented half-heartedly, leaving her with the distinct impression that this would be his last night training her.

  Damn it. She couldn’t afford to lose him, not after having just found him. Not with McBadass out of the picture. Not with her sucky punch and the extensive training required to win.

  One kiss. What would it hurt?

  Kissing a hottie like Jeffrey was hardly repulsive. Who knew, maybe her wild child just needed a reboot?

  Without a word, she stepped closer, until only a hair’s breadth separated them. Jeffrey’s eyes flashed.

  “You’re so big and strong. But what I most admire about you is your discipline.” She stood up on her toes and wrapped her arms around his shoulders. “I’m going to kiss you, okay? But then, it’s back to business. I’ve got a fight to win.”

  Jeffrey grinned like a kid at a candy close-out.

  Tilting her head, she angled in and placed her lips against his. When his mouth opened, she pressed her own firmly shut, willing herself to like it.

  Nada. Zip. Zilch. No tingling sensation. No urge to open up and accept what he was offering. She was far removed from the act, watching herself fro
m off in a distant place. Unaffected and uninspired. Just like with Robert.

  Not that Jeffrey noticed, with the way his tongue probed her lips, warm and very wet.

  Mentally, she counted off. How long would this take for him to feel somewhat satisfied, and for business to resume as planned?

  Eight. Nine. Ten.

  If her rejection a few seconds ago had him looking to bail on her, now she’d be lucky if he even finished tonight’s training. Maybe she could pull a subtle sweep and knock him down, ending this one-sided lip lock?

  He tightened his fingers on her arms and tried to tug her in closer. She tensed, and felt his lips pause beneath her own, a sign he finally figured out how uninspired his kiss had left her.

  She racked her brain for a way out. A lame excuse or plea for understanding. Some kind of miracle.

  Suddenly, the entire Hall was illuminated, the glare from the recessed lighting shining down from the drop ceiling as if a divine entity had answered her call.

  “Jesus Christ,” a voice echoed from somewhere outside the cage.

  Huntley snatched her head away from Jeffrey, her gaze falling on the figure standing cross-armed in the double door. Her miracle in black leather and boots.

  Be careful what you wish for, she admonished herself.

  His hair was unruly, his beard unkempt, his overall appearance disheveled. Looking like a feral animal, looking like someone the devil had dragged in. And sporting a fierce glower that would make the most sinful of devils pray for mercy.

  “If this doesn’t beat all,” came the menacing voice from a few feet away, not a least bit sorry. “Either get on with it, get going, or let me finish the job for you.”

  Chapter Seven

  “Who the hell is that?” Jeffrey demanded.

  Huntley couldn’t answer, her thoughts an Indy 500 of emotion—shock, excitement, anger. Logic was hoisted into the back seat.

  Bracken.

  Her eyes raked up his body, starting with his muddied boots and wrinkled black jeans. At least his dark leather jacket seemed untouched by whatever havoc had preyed upon him since their hook up. His long hair fell around his face, wild and unkempt like he’d neglected to brush it. She couldn’t help but notice how much bushier his beard had gotten. Fuller. Darker. More...untamed, like the man himself.