Tread: Biker Romance (Ronin MC Series Book 1)

by Morrow, Justin

  We half-assed cleaned the kitchen after dinner and lounged on the Goodwill couches watching a movie we’d seen a million times, sporadically breaking out in lines when we were not dozing. The other TV on the wall was split into sections and showed the outside perimeter. Even though we were relaxed, we were waiting. And we were always watching.

  An alarm started ringing and it was as if a live wire hit our tin can of a trailer. Recliners closed with a clatter, snores were topped off with a particular flare, and everyone reached for their pockets.

  I flipped my phone open. No calls. No texts. I scanned the group of smelly men that I called brothers and saw Royal put his phone to his ear.

  “Ronin . . . yeah, Carlos, we want a meat lovers,” he said, grabbing his junk, making us snicker silently. “Really?” He lost the friendly tone and we came to attention. “Then take the fuckin’ veggies off . . . shit. Fine.”

  Royal hung up the phone and pocketed it before rubbing his short beard. We waited. “All they had was supreme.”

  We all sighed tiredly, because a supreme meant a family—women and children. The stakes went up exponentially for us.

  “Carlos knows the coupon is invalid, right?” Who waited for a pizza place to call them? Who reminded the place making said pizza that the coupon didn’t work? We did. We were Ronin MC and our pizzas were people.

  “Load up. We’ve gotta be down at the butte in ninety. Tread, grab the extra stuff,” Harvey ordered unnecessarily, since we were all moving like the well-oiled machine we were. I grabbed two cases of water in one hand, two twenty-pound backpacks with the other and was out the door right behind the others.

  After dumping the gear in the back of the truck, I opened the driver’s side and fisted the Kevlar vest, sliding it over my head before tightening the Velcro straps. The tactical vest loaded with ammo went over the top. The sun was dipping behind the mountains and the surrounding badlands took on a red tint, the hot breath air gaining a cooler, refreshing touch. I grabbed my long rifle—a Springfield M14—checked the mag, slammed it home and charged it with a satisfying clack. My bag on the floor had my night vision goggles. I grabbed those and checked the batteries, checked the night vision, and the thermal filter. Good to go. I popped back out to see everyone gathering at the front of my truck, all of them decked out in tactical gear, camouflage, and armed to the teeth. We hadn’t needed that much firepower in a long time, but we weren’t the types to underestimate a job.

  “What route are we taking?” I asked.

  “Well, shithead, if you would wait for the brief you’d know,” Harvey snapped. “Okay, gents, we’ve got us a family of four: dad, mom, two kids, ages twelve and nine. Apparently, the dad is a real poindexter and got himself in trouble with a local gang, the IRS, and the FBI. They’re looking for him, but they don’t have details on his whereabouts. Should be nice and quiet. That being said, we’re going above ground on this one. I want to get this shit done so we can get back home tomorrow. Mac, you’re gonna be lead scout. Alt and Royal, you’ve got protection detail on the cargo. Tread, your ass is driving. Try not to take this family off a cliff, huh?”

  “That was only the one time!” I joked, although it had never happened.

  “Funny. All right, gents, load up. Radio checks right now and SP in five clicks.” Harvey spoke and everyone departed for their appropriate positions. It was game time now; all jokes were done. The professionalism we attained in the Army was still dialed in for us when it came to a job.

  “Ronin-3 this is Ronin-6, radio check, over.” Harvey was 6, the head motherfucker in charge.

  “Ronin-6 this is Ronin-3, roger over,” I replied.

  “6 out.”

  The rest of the guys gave me their checks and I sat quietly while I waited for the pizza. SP, or starting point, was in three minutes. It was almost pitch black, but the sands were still hot, which would fuck up any Predator drone’s thermal scans, if they were even watching us. No one gave a shit about this part of the boarder. Texans were all up in arms, bitching and screaming on the evening news. Same with Arizona, except they did it without showing their cocks off on national television. SP was a minute away and the fucking pizza guy was late. This wasn’t going to go over well; no one liked to miss the starting point. It made everyone antsy because shit was fucked up from the get-go.

  Harvey was the quickest to throw a fucking fit when we missed SP. “If we’re not moving out when we’re supposed to be, we’ll fuck the whole chicken out there,” he would say. I knew what he meant. I would have put it differently, but hey, sometimes there’s a chicken and sometimes Harvey wants to fuck that chicken, I guess. I smile spread over my face followed by a fist on my window.

  “What’s so fuckin’ funny, man?” Alt whispered. “You know the old man’s gonna flip when we miss SP.”

  “Nothin’, just thinking about literally fucking a chicken.” I gave him a look out of the corner of my eye.

  “Fuckin’ weirdo.” Alt banged his fist on my door panel softly as he turned to walk off and get in the back of the truck.

  A low rumble could be heard not far off in the distance. A motor, probably an LS1 5.7L with stock exhaust. As the lead mechanic and all around car enthusiast, I automatically cataloged the information in the back of my head.

  A blacked out Tahoe rounded a bend about three feet away. The truck rocked as Alt jumped in back and took a firing position at the edge of the truck. Royal jumped over the side and slowly approached the oncoming truck.

  He held up his MP5 over his head to show the passengers he meant no harm. The truck slowly came to a stop and the driver got out. Royal chatted with him and an envelope was passed. Our payment, most likely. The driver turned from the car and waved the family out. All the doors opened and a family of the whitest people I’d ever seen popped out. They looked terrified.

  I guessed they were expecting streetlights and paved roads, and maybe a McDonald’s on the way across the border. This was why I hated people. Everyone gets thrown a little out of their comfort zone and they lose their shit. They’d forget to drink water, to eat, and next thing you know, we were dropping off some dehydrated fucks across the border that would most likely die of heatstroke when the sun came up the next day.

  As they approached the truck, the father was shaking Royal’s hand frantically while the mom led the kids to the truck. After loading, Royal covered everyone with a thick canvas tarp and we were off. Mac took off on the ATV. He was going to take up the recon position about a mile ahead of us. Harvey nodded to me and off I went down the dirt road leading into the valley below. He was going to take the rear about half a mile behind me.

  “Ronin-2, this is Ronin-3, how’s the trail holdin’ up?” I radioed Mac.

  “Trail is padded and hot. That pizza is gonna get there hot and delicious,” he responded.

  “Ronin-3, out.” I finished the conversation and set down the radio. Popping open the center console I grabbed a beer and a caffeine pill and downed them quickly while turning the radio on low. It was time for some Rob Zombie. The tunes came on and I crept the dial lower to keep the noise down.

  About thirty minutes into the two hour trek, I was getting down to some Queen when the radio crackled.

  “Ronin-3, this is Ronin-2.”

  “Go ahead for 3,” I called back.

  “I’m down. Took a spill off a small dip.” With that, I perked up and tapped the window behind me. Moments later, Royal poked his head through.

  “What?” he asked as I put a finger to my lips, signaling him to shut the fuck up.

  “I think I mighta broke the ATV,” Mac continued. “Prepare to copy location.”

  Royal got out a pen and a pad.

  “VB 231-156-9981. How? Copy, over,” Mac stuttered. He must have been a little fucked up.

  After Royal nodded to me, I called an affirmation to Mac then pulled to a stop so I could plug the coordinates into our military spec GPS. The GPS chirped as it searched for the location in the badlands between our New Me
xico property and our Mexican handler buddy Carlos’s hideout. A dot appeared before my eyes about two fucking miles ahead in a depression.

  “Fuckin’ moron,” I announced.

  “I wonder how much weed he’s had.” Royal smirked.

  I put the truck back in drive and sped off in the direction of Mac’s folly.

  “Ronin-6, did you copy all that?” Royal called through the radio.

  “Yeah, I fuckin’ copy. If you’re stoned when I get there, I’ll fuckin’ kill you, Ronin-2,” Harvey growled, unsatisfied with the fuck up.

  About five minutes later, Royal called Mac to have him pop a red chem-light and throw it straight up. A faint red glow spun above the horizon and then back down, about five hundred feet ahead of us. We made our way over to dipshit Mac and sure enough, the ATV was fucked. Mac lay propped up against the heap of shit and was smoking a joint.

  “How much hooch have you smoked?” Royal charged towards him, slapping it out of his hand. He carried with him a small combat lifesaver bag that he had stolen from our old unit. He huddled over Mac and started first-aid.

  “Don’t rip my fuckin’ jeans, bro!” he protested as an audible rip pierced the night. “Fuck my life, dude! You know how hard it is to find some jeans that don’t make me look like a pussy?!”

  Harvey pulled up and climbed off his ATV. His outline in the night sky reminded me of some fucking knuckle-dragging Neanderthal. He still had an intimidating presence even at his age. He picked Mac up one handed and inhaled his scent like some crazy gorilla then punched him in the diaphragm, pushing all the air out of Mac’s lungs with a whoosh.

  “What did I say about getting fuckin’ high on the job, Mac?” He kept his voice low and menacing. “Are you trying to lose that patch, motherfucker?”

  “No, Prez, not at all. I just got bored and my night vision goggles blinked out. I wasn’t that high when I crashed. Just lit up some more when I knew I was stuck. It’s lonely out here,” Mac explained, hopefully knowing that it wasn’t going to faze Harvey at all. The older man let go of him then watched Mac fall to the ground as he screamed in pain.

  Harvey turned to me and nodded. “Patch him up, leave a fart sac, and we’ll press on. We’ll get his ass after the drop.”

  I grabbed a sleeping bag out of the cab of the truck and brought it to Mac. Royal had the leg splinted and was packing up his aid kit. I tossed the fart sac to Mac.

  “What, no morphine?” Mac asked Royal.

  “Wouldn’t do your ass any good, you’re stoned already,” Royal explained then set off for his position in the back of the truck. I followed after him and hopped in the cab. Popping a green chem-light, I beamed Mac with it as we tore by.

  “Fuckin’ idiot.”

  We continued on the trail through the valley and we could see a faint orange tint in the night sky not too far off. We were getting close. Harvey took the lead in Mac’s absence.

  “Ronin-3, this is 6, I found the customer. He’s anxious about his pizza. Bring it up. Blue chem-light marks the spot,” Harvey said without a snarl. Carlos had the ability to put the old man in a better mood. Only because Carlos tolerated Harvey’s borderline racist Mexican jokes, and made funny white boy cracks in return.

  I tapped the window and Royal popped his head through again.

  “Blue chem-light,” I informed him. He simply nodded and shut the sliding glass.

  A couple minutes later, I arrived at the blue chem-light. Harvey was smoking a stogy with Carlos. I threw the truck in park and got out. Royal was uncovering the family, who hastily disembarked.

  “Take care, folks. Don’t come back until you sort your shit out with the Feds, Michael,” Royal called to the man who still looked scared as shit. The man turned his head to look over his shoulder at Royal. He nodded short and quick like a pansy-ass. Harvey shook Carlos’s hand and we were off to go pick up Captain Numb Nuts, Mac.

  It was the time for a little fun, so I sparked a joint and held the smoke in for a good ten seconds. Letting the gray smoke bellow out of my mouth, I noted how trippy the smoke made the instrument panel on the truck look. I loved weed. About an hour down the road, we got close enough to radio Royal’s pain in the ass brother, Mac. He answered and told us he was popping another green chem-light.

  We loaded him into the bitch seat of my truck and lifted our fucked up ATV into the bed. I would be spending a good few weeks working on that bitch before it was ready to go on a run again.

  “Thanks for the extra work, asshole,” I said as I reached to the passenger side to pat his shoulder. “Glad you ain’t dead, brother.”

  “I feel it sometimes,” Mac replied.

  “Are you having those problems again, man?” I asked, referring to his issues with coming home after the war. He was in a different platoon and they got fucked up pretty good in the Ghan.

  “Sometimes . . .” he trailed off as he closed his eyes and let his head fall back to rest on the window behind him.

  I didn’t take it any further. I wouldn’t know what the fuck to say, anyway. I have those issues at times, too, but there’s nothing to do for them. Except drink, and drink we did.

  The night sky was starting to give way to a light blue as stars faded away and a pale blue light prevailed on the horizon. I threw some System of a Down on the radio and turned it up just a little louder. I could see Royal head banging in the rearview with a joint in between his fingers. He was feeling good.

  It had to be about 6 A.M. when we got back to the trailer. We rotated through the showers, took naps, and waited for everyone to clean up, pack their shit, and be ready to roll. By 8 A.M. we were in the transport van heading back to the clubhouse. Royal was playing scout on his Dyna. He scouted ahead for cops, or whomever might stand in the way of his boys and their whiskey.

  I CAME AWAKE SLOWLY. MY body protested as I moved to stretch and roll over. Scratchy sheets and the faint scent of perfume brought me the rest of the way into reality. I opened one eye and groaned. Someone forgot to shut the curtains last night and the glare was as unwelcoming as the bed.

  A clicking on the floor had me rolling towards it, and I opened my eyes. Big brown eyes greeted me with a twinkle that always made me feel at home. The vanity filled to overflowing with bottles and a silk robe hanging on the back of the door let me know immediately this wasn’t my home, though. I sat up and the events of yesterday played through my head like a horror movie. I’d always hated those.

  “What did we get ourselves into, Bella girl?” I mumbled, throwing the sheets away to get out of bed.

  After Kit left me, and Tatum took over babysitting, nothing really remarkable happened, if I was a normal, jaded American woman. For Gracie Phillips, this was akin to a crash course in sin.

  It all started when the bar opened. Men, big hairy men spilled into the quaint little saloon like it was feeding time at the trough. I was quickly glanced over and shuffled to the side as they gave their drink orders. The four girls I came in with bustled around like a well-oiled machine. While I tried to make one with the silk plant in the corner, they weren’t scared at all.

  No, in fact, they laughed, even hugged those men that visibly had guns strapped to their bodies, like they were family. Other women, that I later learned were called the Soiled Doves, heard the commotion and poured down the stairs or called from the balcony above the bar. They sat on laps, and more than once, I actually saw one of them grip a man’s head and shove his face down their shirt.

  Yes, those hours at the bar made it abundantly clear that I was not in Kansas anymore. My dog wasn’t as small as Toto, either, so maybe that was a bad analogy, but I felt a lot like Dorothy in a very real life or death Oz.

  My car was, alas, not an easy fix. Marley told me this with a graveness that had my heart sputtering in my chest. When she told me the lead mechanic would have to take a look at it, I knew it was indeed a cause for panic. No one wanted me here when the boys—who I highly suspected were not in fact boys—got home.

  I was given a room
upstairs after falling asleep in my fake hideaway with orders to lock the door.

  My eyes actually felt tired from being held open so wide the day before. I got dressed and made my way, as silently as my dog would allow, down the stairs to take her for a walk.

  I was so concerned with the handrail and my grip so as not to fall down the stairs in the silent bar that I almost tripped over the leg in my way. Bella sniffed at it and continued up the body. My eyes absurdly followed her short, fat snout to a knee, then a thigh. When she reached the inner part of the body, I covered my mouth with my hand to stifle the scream from escaping my throat and yanked her back with the other.

  The poor dog fell awkwardly onto a step above her front legs, but I’d just saved her from smelling some man’s privates. It was just limply lying on the zipper of his jeans, and I grimaced at how painful that must have been. But the man didn’t seem to be fazed. I moved my eyes to make sure he was breathing. He was.

  Then I was distracted by the rest of the room. I neglected to look over the balcony on my way down, and the view stunned me. My first insane thought was, “Was there an apocalypse?” followed swiftly by, “Did someone massacre all of these people?”

  But no, now that I listened for the—I assumed—telltale signs of the end of the world, I heard the snoring. In a symphony of shuddering nails on a chalkboard, chests rose and fell. Indeed they did. Upside down on the stairs, on pool tables, on top of the bar, with naked women everywhere, the snores were suddenly deafening.

  I gingerly skirted the man upside down on the stairs, averting my eyes and keeping a tight rein on Bella’s leash, lest she lick anyone awake on our way down. It was treacherous going, and by the time I slipped out the front doors, I felt lightheaded. I breathed in the already hot air and felt like I’d escaped for a split second.

  It only lasted a moment because my eyes fell and then scanned the street full of motorcycles lining the pavement. There was perhaps ten feet of vacant space before what seemed like one hundred big, black machines. The excess of chrome glaring in the morning sun made me squint.