by Kit Rocha
Table of Contents
Welcome to The Sectors
Deacon
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Gideon
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Gabe
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Maricela
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Ivan
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Maricela
Before You Leave the Sectors
About the Author
Acknowledgements
Copyright Information
Welcome to The Sectors
You're holding the second book in Gideon's Riders, a new series from Kit Rocha set in the same post-apocalyptic world as their first bestselling series. The war between Eden and the Sectors (covered in the Beyond series) is over, but victory brings its own challenges…like deciding what their new society should become.
Enter: Gideon Rios, grandson of a prophet and leader of Sector One, and his fanatically devoted personal army—a highly trained group of warrior bikers known as Gideon's Riders. Sector One might believe in love, but someone has to fight and bleed to protect those who want to live in peace.
Dozens of Riders died in the war, battling for the right to build a freer world. Those who remain face the hardest choice of all: whether they're willing to keep dying for love, or if they want to start living for it.
Gideon's Riders
Book One, Book Two, Book Three
to the people who went before us
and took the hardest punches
so we'll never have to
Deacon
Ana has trained most of her life to achieve one goal: to prove that anything men can do, she can do better. Now she’s Sector One’s first female Rider, and being the best is the only way to ensure she won’t be its last. Distractions aren’t allowed--especially not her painful attraction to the reserved but demanding leader whose stern, grumpy demeanor has already gotten into her head.
Deacon has spent the last twenty years trying to atone for his past, but the blood he spilled as a mercenary and assassin will never wash away entirely. If his Riders knew the extent of his sins, he’d lose their trust and respect. It’s easier to keep them all at arm’s length, especially Ana. But his newest recruit’s stubbornness is starting to crack his defenses.
And their sparring matches are driving him wild.
The passion sparking between them can’t be denied, but neither can the vengeance barreling toward Deacon. When his old squad comes back to punish him for his betrayal, Ana and the Riders are squarely in the line of fire. The only way to save his people may be to make the ultimate sacrifice.
But first, he has to convince Ana not to follow him straight into hell.
Chapter One
Six weeks of extra practice had honed Ana’s skills. An hour of warm-up had loosened her muscles and primed her body. Adrenaline surged as she balanced on the balls of her feet, watching Deacon for the first hint of movement. A twitch of muscle. A shift in expression.
Any indication he was going to attack.
Anticipation crawled up her spine, twisting as the seconds dragged on. Deacon was a blank-faced wall of muscle two feet in front of her, his seemingly unprepared stance a trap that had ensnared plenty of new recruits. If Ana took a swing at him, he’d move, and with more speed than a man his size had any right to possess.
She’d ended up flat on her back more than once after falling for that trap, her pride stinging as she endured the knowing laughs of her fellow Riders. It didn’t matter that they’d all ended up in the same position--they were men. They were allowed to get their asses kicked.
Ana couldn’t afford to fail as often as they did.
Deacon stretched his neck slowly, first to one side and then the other--and waited.
He was testing her patience--or was it her courage? Maybe that was his goal--to see if she’d put pride and aversion to humiliation before her training.
Either way, she’d lose. With Deacon, she always seemed to. Might as well get it over with.
She shifted her balance just enough to suggest an attack was coming, a feint most of the other Riders would have bought--and had, at some point. But she knew as soon as she launched her real attack that Deacon hadn’t.
He moved, a blur of tattooed skin and flexing muscles, and the fight was over before it even started. Her back hit the thick mats so hard it drove the air from her lungs, but even that discomfort was mild compared to the burn of frustrated embarrassment.
She’d let him get in her head. Again.
Deacon leaned over, bracing one hand on his knee and holding the other out to her. “That was good.”
Yeah, so good she’d ended up flat on the floor with the wind knocked out of her.
She bit back the need to slap his hand away and snap at him not to patronize her. The only thing worse than failing as a girl was looking like a bad sport about it. She let him haul her to her feet before calmly--oh, so very calmly--saying, “Not good enough. I want to go again.”
“No.”
Ana flexed her fingers. Spreading them wide and focusing on the gentle pull of muscles kept her from balling them into fists. “I need the practice.” Obviously.
“You’ve been practicing plenty. You’re up here with Ashwin nearly every day.” Deacon went still, then inclined his head. “Consider this a different sort of lesson.”
She couldn’t stop her embarrassed flush. “What lesson is that?”
He said it like it was a universal truth, with a tiny shrug and a crinkle between his eyebrows. “Not every fight can be won.”
Each Rider faced that truth--if not before they joined, then during initiation, when they stood in front of their own portrait on the memorial wall in the temple. An outline that would be painted in upon their death, just like the others that surrounded it, all the dozens of portraits of Riders who had already died.
Maybe that was the lesson she’d embrace. Riders spent their lives too easily. There was nothing smart about throwing yourself against a brick wall until it broke you. Smart was retreating until you could find another way around the damn wall.
Ana forced herself to relax and nod. “All right.”
Deacon’s expression didn’t change. “No argument?”
Another trap. Strange how she could see it, recognize the wisdom of silent obedience--and still not manage to hold her tongue. “Nope. Sometimes you just can’t win a fight...yet.”
“Yet,” he echoed, crossing his arms over his massive chest. “Explain.”
She shrugged. “I didn’t lose. I withdrew. Fight’s not over until you’re dead. Sometimes something’s important enough to die for. But sometimes you need to pull back and regroup.”
He shook his head, reached for a clean, folded towel, and held it out to her. “Now you’re deliberately twisting what I said. Not every fight can be won, Ana. When you’re my age, you’ll see the truth of it.”
When you’re my age. Like he was some ancient, tottering grandfather and not a man who’d barely broken a sweat tossing her around. She took the towel and wiped her forehead, wishing he was ancient.
If his wise
and ancient years would slow him down, just a little, maybe she could dump him on his ass for once.
The flush of embarrassment was gone, drowned by a fresh wave of anger. Anger at him, sure--Deacon was a patronizing son of a bitch who couldn’t stop treating her like a little girl playing dress-up. But that was nothing compared to her anger at herself.
Deacon was the brick wall she couldn’t stop throwing herself against, no matter how emotionally bruised it left her. She knew better by now. She was never going to win his approval.
And fuck him for making her want it.
“You’re learning a lot from Ashwin. Maybe we should make those informal training sessions formal. Get everyone in the room.”
The compliment was meant more for Ashwin than for Ana, but at least it didn’t sound patronizing. She let it smooth the edges off her anger as she started to pace in a loose circle to keep her muscles from tightening up. “Everyone could benefit from his lessons. Hunter’s already working with him. So is Gabe, but only with blades, I think.”
“Don’t forget Reyes.” The words were flat, almost sardonic, but Deacon’s eyes twinkled.
Ana had gotten this far for one reason--anger never overtook her sense of humor for long. She huffed out a laugh and stretched her left arm until the pull turned into a satisfying burn. “Yeah, I don’t know if we can call flirting with Kora until Ashwin is ready to pick a fight with him a comprehensive training plan. I mean, sure, the rest of us like watching them go at it...but structure is good, too.”
“Careful, or I’ll put you in charge of organizing it.”
“You just want me to have to put up with all the bitching about extra training.”
“When have you known me to give a shit if they complain?” Deacon draped his towel around his neck and eyed her appraisingly. “No. You need a project.”
Ana tamped down the first rush of excitement and stretched her other arm. Deacon could think she’d be good at it--or he could want to give her a job that kept her busy at the compound and off the front lines of every fight. “I have a project,” she reminded him finally. “My dad’s information network.”
“You need a project that’s yours,” he corrected. “But the information is too important to set aside, and his contacts trust you. You’ll have to do both.”
“I can handle it.” The words were reflex. “I’ll talk to Ashwin and see what the options are. I’m sure he can teach us a lot more than just brawling.”
“He’s Makhai,” Deacon said simply.
A year ago, Ana had barely understood what that meant. The Base’s most elite soldiers were more myth than reality to the people who’d grown up in the sectors. She’d listened to stories about grim, terrifying men with psychic powers who could make you disappear from your own bed behind a locked door while your family slept nearby, oblivious.
Ashwin didn’t have psychic powers, just highly enhanced genes and the kind of brutal training Ana couldn’t wrap her head around. Her father had never gone easy on her, for sure--she’d been practicing marksmanship by shooting bottles and discarded pottery to earn spending money from the time her hands were big enough to hold a gun.
But after she finished, her father would join her as they sorted through the broken shards for pieces the mosaic artists could use in their work. He’d crouch next to her, picking through the pieces of glass so she wouldn’t cut her fingers, and tell her stories about her namesake, Santa Adriana, daughter of the Prophet, who had personally attended Ana’s birth to bless her first breath.
He’d tell her stories of the world beyond Sector One, beyond any of the sectors. He’d tell her stories of the world before the Flares, and how quickly it had all changed when the lights went out.
“You’ve always gotta be ready, babygirl.” Every time he put her in the dirt during training, he’d haul her back to her feet with those words. William Jordan hadn’t been ready for the world to end when he was twelve years old. He’d fought through those dark years to survive, fought until the fighting made him hard. But when he’d pushed Ana, she could always feel the love behind his toughness.
Ana didn’t think Ashwin’s training had involved a lot of love, tough or otherwise.
Maybe that made her excitement over what he could teach her a little morbid, but Ashwin didn’t mind. If anything, he seemed to relish the chance to pass on his hard-won skills. So she would accept Deacon’s project, and poke and prod her fellow Riders until they were all benefiting from Ashwin’s tutelage.
If Deacon thought that would distract her from the front lines, he’d be sincerely disappointed.
Chapter Two
Sector Three had flourished since the end of the war. Everywhere Deacon looked, repairs and construction dotted the once-ravaged streets, turning the desolate landscape into something vibrant and alive. It was good to see something new arising from the ashes of destruction.
Not that the war had torn the sector apart--that was a pre-existing condition. Though nearly two decades had passed, he could still remember the day those first bombs fell, the final move in a deadly power play between the Council in Eden and the collective in charge of the electronics factories in Three. The collective had pushed back against production quotas that meant horrific conditions for its workers, banking on the fact that the city needed the technology they produced too much to risk losing it. And the city had responded by blowing every single factory in Three right off the fucking map.
The message couldn’t have been clearer if they’d carved it into people’s hearts--you are all expendable.
In the years that followed, Sector Three was a wasteland, a slum within the slums, the kind of place where a person could get knifed in the street in broad daylight and folks would barely notice. They had their own problems to worry about. More than once, Deacon had stood at Gideon’s side as the man agonized over whether the time had come to overstep his authority and take over Three, just to stop the suffering.
Then Wilson Trent, the self-proclaimed leader of Sector Three, had decided to be the one to overstep. Despite the fact that he couldn’t even handle his own business, he made an ill-fated play for Sector Four, so all Gideon had to do was sit back and let Dallas O’Kane take care of the situation.
And he had. He’d taken Sector Three for his own and started rebuilding. When the conflict between the sectors and the city had boiled over into war, they’d all been stronger for it.
“It could have been faulty wiring.” Lucio ran a hand over his short hair and tilted his head at an exposed power box as they passed by a building. The metal frame was crumpled on one side, and it hung askew on the chipped brick. “Maybe someone fell asleep with a lit cigarette. Or left something flammable too close to a heater.”
“In this heat?” Deacon snorted. “I don’t think so.”
Lucio relented. “Just speculation. Possibilities. We can’t know until we get there.”
“It’s bad.” Deacon spoke without thinking, then shrugged at Lucio’s sharp look. “It must be, for Six to call us.” She might be an O’Kane, more than willing to reach out to the gang’s contacts for assistance, but she was also a proud woman, the leader of a sector in her own right.
She wouldn’t ask for help if she didn’t need it. Which meant the situation wasn’t just bad--it was potentially deadly.
They cleared the end of a narrow alley, and Lucio cursed under his breath. “There it is.”
The smoke from the fire had cleared, but the scents of charred wood and burned plastic still hung thick and choking in the air. It was a squat building surrounded by others like it. They were untouched, but the top floor of this particular building had been reduced to a smoldering shell.
A grim-faced brunette leaned out of what was left of a window. “Hey, Deacon,” she called. “Watch your step on the way up. Bren says the stairs are solid, but shit’s still hot.”
“Thanks, Six.” He pushed through the front door and almost recoiled. The smell was exponentially worse inside, acrid enough to burn his eyes as
well as his nose as he made his way up the stairs.
“You smell that?” Lucio asked as they reached the burned-out hull of the top floor.
“All I smell is charcoal.”
“Right,” he answered absently, then wandered into the ruined apartment, straight past Bren and Six without another word.
Six watched him pass, shrugged, and turned to Deacon. “Thanks for coming over.”
“No problem. We’re here as long as you need us.” He nodded to the man standing stoically at her side. “Bren.”
Bren nodded back, a quick jerk of his head. His expression was even more severe than usual, and the hair rose on the back of Deacon’s neck.
“The fire was easy enough to put out,” Six continued. “But I need to know what happened. If it was a freak accident or...”
“You suspect it wasn’t?”
She hesitated. “I don’t wanna sway you one way or another. You should just look.”
The next room over was worse, like opening a giant wood-burning stove and walking right into the middle of it. There was an old iron bedstead in the center, reduced to not much more than a charred lump of mattress and springs poking up everywhere.
Except for the dead man on it.
Lucio looked up from where he knelt beside the ruined bed. “He definitely wasn’t bound.”
No, the man’s stiff arms were still raised in the air, clenched into fists, the eerie picture of someone ready to fight. “Struggle?”
Lucio followed Deacon’s gaze. “No, that’s the fire. Pugilistic attitude. The heat coagulates proteins in the muscles, makes them contract like that. It happens even to the dead.”
“Was he?” Bren asked shortly. “Dead?”
“When the fire started? I hope so.” Lucio went back to peering under the iron frame. “Because it started right here on the bed.”
Six exhaled roughly. “How can you tell?”
“Fire burns upwards. So we have that.” Lucio gestured to the ceiling. It had burned clear through so that blue sky peeked through the roof in a spot above their heads. “But under the bed...” He rose and heaved the frame aside with a grunt.