Wild Ride (Let it Ride Book 2)

by Cynthia Rayne

  “Just a kiss?”

  “Yeah. Make it a good one, because the memory has to last the rest of our lives.”

  Steele bent down to taste her lips, but she placed a hand on his chest. “After this, we're old friends and partners. Nothing more.”

  “Understood.”

  Steele snatched her up into his embrace, big screen-style—literally sweeping her off her feet. He tipped her backward, cradling her head, and really kissed her. He poured all of his longing into it, along with the pain and frustration. He pressed himself against Ash, savoring her scent, her taste, greedily taking all she would give him.

  When they were both breathless and gasping, he released her and set Ash on her own two feet once more.

  She pressed a hand to her swollen lips and shuffled to the door.

  “Steele?”

  “Yeah?”

  “About Afghanistan….”

  He stiffened.

  “No, hear me out. What you did was stupid and selfish. You didn’t think about the possible consequences.”

  Steele hung his head. “I know.”

  “But it ain’t unforgivable. I should’ve done this a long time ago, but I couldn’t let it go.”

  Afraid to hope, Steele looked up.

  The kindness in her eyes nearly brought him to his knees. Ash hadn’t given him such a tender look in years. “You didn't know what was gonna happen. How could you? You certainly weren’t the one who killed…well…uh, what I’m trying to say is, I forgive you.” She gave him a wobbly smile.

  “What did you just say?”

  He couldn’t have heard her right.

  “I forgive you.”

  Ash stepped out his door and into his past, where she would remain—a memory, the one who got away.

  Steele collapsed onto the bed and wept.

  Chapter Eighteen

  “We don’t have much time, so let’s get started.”

  Hours later, Ash listened as Vick launched into her spiel about the GPS system.

  At sundown, Ash met up with Justice, Ace, and Steele at Dixon’s place in Crimson Creek. Ace had texted her with the information earlier in the day. He’d even offered a ride in his van, but she’d decided avoiding the Horsemen as much as possible was a wise idea.

  Steele and his two brothers stood on one side of the room while Ten and Beauregard took the other, which left Ash smack dab in the middle. The vibe in the room was awkward, to say the least. The mafia boys and the bikers got on as well as cats and dogs. The tension between her and Steele only ramped it up a notch. Steele refused to look at her while Ace kept giving her the enquiring eyebrow.

  She kept telling herself she was doing the right thing. She didn’t have a future with Steele, and she had to move on. So she’d spent the day by herself, packing her shit and preparing to leave Hell for good.

  Meanwhile, Ash struggled to pay attention to Vick. Her time with Steele was winding down, and in a few hours, she’d be walking out of his life. The urge to stare at him was overwhelming, but she kept it together. She felt edgy, uneasy—and she feared it was only going to get worse.

  Instead of being emo about this operation, she should be excited—Ash had a shot at dealing a blow to the Tres Erre. When she handed over her prisoners, she’d get a big check and then move on to her next assignment. With any luck, the next one wouldn’t come with a side of emotional baggage.

  “Okay, I’ve got an app you’ll have to download on your smartphones so you can track the credit card skimmers.” Vick texted it to all of them.

  Ash downloaded hers, and three beeping dots appeared on her screen, overtop of a map.

  Vick continued explaining the operation. “Justice found three skimmers, and we tagged all of them. Anyone not seeing three units?”

  No one spoke up.

  “Dix and I talked it over, and we think three teams would be best—one for each skimmer. There’s no guarantee the Raptors will be heading to the same location. If the Raptors are smart, they’ll split up and take convoluted routes back to their hideout—or hideouts.”

  Ace cackled. “Since when are those boys smart?”

  “Since the day after never, but we should be prepared. Every once in a while, a blind hog finds an acorn.” Beauregard glanced up from his phone. “I see you’ve labeled each tracker with numbers.” He pointed to Ash. “You’re with me, and we’ll take number one.”

  “Fuck that.” Steele stepped to the middle of the room, but he still didn’t glance in her direction. Instead, he focused on the mobster. “You’re comin’ with one of us.”

  “In case you missed it, we’ll be sittin’ in the car for hours until the Raptors decide to roll up and claim their ill-gotten gains. If I gotta be trapped all damn day, I need somethin’ pretty to look at, and sorry, son, but you ain’t my type.”

  Ace raised a hand. “For the record, I’m damn pretty.”

  Ash knew Ace was trying to diffuse the tension. Unfortunately, it wasn’t working. Steele and Beauregard continued having a stare-off, like two old dogs fighting over a bone. Dix and Vick didn’t say a word, just watched the interaction with interest. Ten didn’t get involved either.

  “It’s fine. I don’t care.” Ash placed a hand on Steele’s arm, and he flinched as if he’d been struck.

  Beauregard watched the interplay with a devilish smile. “What do we have here?”

  Steele crossed his arms over his chest. “I’m not lettin’ you run off with the Godfather.”

  “I resent that comment. I’m sexy as hell, and I don’t talk like I have marbles stuffed in my cheeks.” Beauregard rubbed his perfectly square jaw.

  Ash gritted her teeth. “Okay, I’ve had enough macho bullshit. You don’t let me do anythin’, Steele. I’m an adult, and I make my own decisions. Beauregard, we’re takin’ my car.” Her gaze flicked to the mobster. “And I’m drivin’.”

  Steele turned away from her, and she silently kicked herself for hurting him again. This was only more proof they needed to get away from each other. They’d done enough damage to last several lifetimes.

  Steele got in the mobster’s face again. “If anything happens to her, I’ll—”

  “Make threats you have no ability to back up?”

  The biker didn’t reply, but his dirty look said it all.

  “I’ll be in the car while you finish the lover’s quarrel.” Beauregard swaggered out the door.

  “I’ll take number two…and don’t that sound wrong?” Ace crossed the room to Ten, who had a disturbingly passive expression. Ash wondered if he’d ever had an emotion before. “I don’t let men on the bike, but I have an ass, grass, or gas rule for my cage.”

  “I’ve been told I’m a good lover.” Ten’s features were smooth and unruffled. There wasn’t a hint of a smirk or a leer.

  It might’ve been a joke, but Ash couldn’t tell. From the wide eyes on Ace, he couldn’t either.

  “No thanks, man, and the gas is on me.” Ace traipsed to the door. Ten followed him.

  Justice cleared his throat. “I’ll be in the pickup outside, Steele.” He left the room and Vick went with him, prattling on about the GPS.

  Ash didn’t pay much attention. She was suddenly very aware of her proximity to Steele. She shot a look over his shoulder to see Dixon on the phone, yakking at someone.

  “Be careful.” Steele grasped her arm, squeezing it. “Take it from me, you can’t trust the bastard.”

  Ash fought to keep her eyes from closing.

  “I know.” Ash had gotten Beauregard’s number the first time she clapped eyes on him.

  “Promise me somethin’?”

  “What?”

  “You won’t do anythin’ stupid.”

  Ash stared at the ground. “You know me….”

  “Yeah, that’s why I brought it up.” He clutched her shoulders. “I mean it. Watch yourself.”

  “I’ll be fine. Focus on gettin’ Coyote back.”

  “Speakin’ of,” Steele said, releasing her. He thumbed a mes
sage on his phone. “I’m sendin’ you a picture…so you know what Yo looks like.”

  Ash shook her head. “Coyote can tell me who he is when I meet him. We aren’t gonna find his body, Steele. I won’t need to identify him.”

  He pulled at his earlobe. “Just in case.”

  “Okay.”

  Then they stood, staring at one another awkwardly until Ash turned and stalked away—before she did something stupid like hug him. She jumped into the Forrester outside and took off with Beauregard in the passenger seat.

  And forced herself to not look back.

  ***

  “This is it.”

  The third GPS blip led Steele and Justice to the remains of a yuppie subdivision two counties over. Wakefield had been hit hard by the housing crises, and many of the homes had been foreclosed on. The years showed on the aging buildings and cracked streets— just the sort of place to be overlooked. A large house crouched at the end of a cul-de-sac, set back at least a mile on a large tract of land—the perfect hiding spot. The street was quiet, lined with sparse, dry trees and long fences.

  Justice tapped his phone. “We’re right on top of it, brother.”

  When Steele pulled up, he noted all the blinds and curtains were closed—another good sign. No eyes in or out.

  If Coyote were here, he’d be checking network signals or some such shit—laughing about the fucked-up irony of hiding a place like this amongst middle-class suburbia and making some sci-fi reference Steel didn’t grasp.

  After poking around, Steele found a half-dozen motorcycles concealed beneath the back deck. He couldn’t tell if the sick feeling in his gut was from wishing his friend was in the house or praying to whatever God would listen to him that he wasn’t.

  Justice took point as they rounded the house and lined up with the back door. They met each other’s eyes, guns and flashlights at the ready. They didn’t have to say it.

  For Yo.

  With Justice at his side, Steele exploded through the front door. They flipped the switch on the wall by the door, but the lights didn’t flicker on. Flashlight and gun in hand, Steele marched into the living room…and nearly slid on something wet and thick beneath his feet.

  Blood.

  He raised the flashlight to reveal pools of it on the floor. Suddenly, the metallic odor washed over him, along with other smells—urine, loose bowels, and the acrid trace of gunpowder. He made out the slumped forms of at least a dozen bodies. The murders had been recent. Because the power, along with the heat, had evidently been shut down to the foreclosed home, Steele could feel the warmth of the blood radiating off the floorboards, steaming the air.

  No, please, no.

  Once again, he was too late to save his friend. Steele’s vision blurred, and he gritted his teeth. The sour tang of vomit rose in his throat, and he swallowed it back down. He forced himself to pull it together, put away the pain to deal with later.

  The cartel had come calling.

  Steele stood on the edge of a massacre, and whatever had gone down here was over. Raptors, some of them identified by their cuts, lay slumped on the ground. Their bodies were pierced by gaping wounds. Someone had shot the place up real good—the room had been peppered with automatic fire, judging by the holes in the floor and walls. Discarded on the bloody floor, Steele found the credit card skimmer.

  Steele texted the information to Axel and then to Ash. Ash texted back, saying she and Beauregard would be there momentarily.

  “We need to see if Coyote’s here,” Steele said matter-of-factly, but he couldn’t bring himself to face Justice. He couldn’t bear seeing the sympathy he knew he’d find in his brother’s eyes.

  Steele didn’t deserve it.

  Instead, he focused on the task and ignored everything else. The blood and gore made it impossible to tell if Coyote was among the dead from a distance. He’d have to walk around and take a good long look at all their faces. In Afghanistan, he’d stored too many horrific images in his memory bank. At night, they flicked through his mind’s eye on a loop. He didn’t need to add to his collection, but he had to do this.

  Steele slowly walked around the room, starting with the perimeter and moving inward. He held his breath every time he came to a new corpse. Please don’t be Coyote. He hoped the words would somehow protect his brother.

  Many of the Raptors were on their stomachs, so Steele had to toe them over to see their faces. Steele glanced at a corpse’s arm, noting all his fingers had been removed. He nearly gagged when he turned the guy and saw the digits tucked in the guy’s gaping mouth in a grisly display. Evidence of torture marred nearly every body.

  The cartel must’ve been after information.

  Another body had long, stringy peels of skin hanging from the bare chest. Again, he swallowed the gorge rising in his throat. He wouldn’t be eating Voo’s spaghetti with homemade marina anytime soon. Steele pressed a hand to his own chest wound, remembering the grinning, bearded bastard kneeling over him, slicing at his flesh.

  Karma is a cruel bitch.

  He wasn’t squeamish, and he’d pulled the trigger before. Killing didn’t bother him, especially when he did it in service to a larger goal like taking down terrorists—but torture freaked him the fuck out. Shoot someone in the head who’d earned a real good killing. Hell yeah. Remove some dude’s molars with pliers? Fuck no.

  It took a real sadistic son of a bitch to do this kind of damage. Someone who got off on pain and suffering. Steele scrutinized the nearby faces, studying the expressions forever frozen in fear. Was he actually starting to pity the bastards?

  He shook it off.

  They’d brought this on themselves and their club. He wouldn’t go so far as to say the Raptors deserved this, but they’d willingly gotten into bed with psychopaths. Dying bloody came with the territory.

  Finally, Steele checked the remaining bodies in the center of the room. Only two left. He checked the second to the last and recognized Junior from Daisy’s description—barrel-chested with a ragged, graying beard and long rusty red hair. At least he could tell her the bastard who’d tried to rape her was dead. The devil had given Junior his due.

  Down to the last body—a man with long black hair lying face down. He didn’t wear a cut, and he had a lithe frame—a dead ringer for Coyote. He bent over and gently grasped the man’s arm, turning him over slowly.

  So slowly.

  Please don’t be Coyote.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Steele gasped as the corpse’s unfamiliar features came into view.

  Not Coyote. Thank you, God. He’s not here.

  He pressed his palms against his eyes and blew out a long breath. His knees nearly buckled. Tears ran down his cheeks, and he didn’t even bother trying to hide it.

  Maybe Coyote hadn’t been here in the first place. The Raptors probably stashed him in another house. Who the fuck knew?

  After the panic subsided, he realized Justice hadn’t said a thing in ages.

  “You okay?” Steele shined the light in Justice’s direction.

  He stood just inside the door, like his feet had rooted to the floorboard. His back was pressed against the wall, face ashen.

  Steele made his way across the room, picking through the carnage to get to him.

  “Answer me.”

  His gaze darted around the room.

  Steele recognized the wild-eyed look instantly. He’d seen it on the faces of his brothers in arms after Abe had been gutted and strung up like a six-point buck. And Steele had seen it on his own haunted face in the mirror.

  “Justice, look at me,” Steele said softly. “I need your head in the game. We haven’t finished our mission, soldier.”

  “I shouldn’t…I shouldn’t be here.”

  Justice edged toward the door but slipped in the blood and fell to his knees. He braced himself on his arms and then his bloody hands, staring at his own fingers as if they’d become foreign objects.

  “Blood’s hot,” he muttered. “Scorching me.”
>
  “Easy now. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

  “Blood don’t wash out. It soaks into your skin, sinks in there and sets up.”

  Arms raised, Steele continued his approach, trying not to spook Justice further.

  He scrambled for the door, slipping and sliding as he hauled ass. Steele couldn’t run after him without falling in the carnage himself.

  Oh, fuck.

  Steele methodically searched the house until he found Justice seated in what must’ve been a child’s bedroom, judging by the giraffe and lion painted on the walls. He sat in the corner, revolver in one hand and a finger on the trigger, holding it beneath his chin. Despite the chill in the air, sweat drenched his temples, running down the sides of his washed-out face. His eyes were closed, and he muttered to himself.

  “Justice, whatcha doin’?” No, I can’t do this. I can’t lose another brother.

  But Justice had left the fucking building. He kept moving the barrel over his skin, almost stroking his face with the weapon, as though it comforted him.

  Steele knew the attraction—peace was one bullet away.

  He crept closer, arms outstretched to indicate he hadn’t pulled his gun and wasn’t a threat.

  “Talk to me. Tell me what’s goin’ on.”

  “Get away from me.” Justice pointed the gun at him. It wobbled in his grasp, and Steele feared his brother might accidently shoot his ass. “Don’t make me.”

  “Easy there.” Steele sat down on the opposite side of the room.

  A long minute passed, and Justice didn’t say a word. Steele let the silence ride while he gathered the necessary words.

  Ages later, Justice spoke. “I shouldn’t be here.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’m dead. I already died.” Justice stared at him hard, then put the weapon down. But he hadn’t put it away, merely laid it on the ground in front of him. The piece was still within easy reach.

  “No. You’re here with me, we’re both stateside. You made it out alive. You’re home, you’re safe, and you’re alive.”

  Justice snickered, nearly choking on his own laughter, coughing and sputtering.

  “You don’t get it. I don’t exist. I’m a dead man.”