New York Times bestselling author Christine Feehan has had over thirty novels published and has thrilled legions of fans with her seductive Dark Carpathian tales. She has received numerous honours throughout her career, including being a nominee for the Romance Writers of America RITA and receiving a Career Achievement Award from Romantic Times, and has been published in multiple languages.
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Praise for Christine Feehan:
‘After Bram Stoker, Anne Rice and Joss Whedon, Feehan is the person most credited with popularizing the neck gripper’
Time magazine
‘The queen of paranormal romance’
USA Today
‘Feehan has a knack for bringing vampiric Carpathians to vivid, virile life in her Dark Carpathian novels’
Publishers Weekly
‘The amazingly prolific author’s ability to create captivating and adrenaline-raising worlds is unsurpassed’
Romantic Times
By Christine Feehan
Torpedo Ink series:
Judgment Road
Vengeance Road
Vendetta Road
Desolation Road
Shadow series:
Shadow Rider
Shadow Reaper
Shadow Keeper
Shadow Warrior
Shadow Flight
‘Dark’ Carpathian series:
Dark Prince
Dark Desire
Dark Gold
Dark Magic
Dark Challenge
Dark Fire
Dark Legend
Dark Guardian
Dark Symphony
Dark Melody
Dark Destiny
Dark Secret
Dark Demon
Dark Celebration
Dark Possession
Dark Curse
Dark Slayer
Dark Peril
Dark Predator
Dark Storm
Dark Lycan
Dark Wolf
Dark Blood
Dark Ghost
Dark Promises
Dark Carousel
Dark Legacy
Dark Sentinel
Dark Illusion
Dark Song
Dark Nights
Darkest at Dawn (omnibus)
Sea Haven series:
Water Bound
Spirit Bound
Air Bound
Earth Bound
Fire Bound
Bound Together
GhostWalker series:
Shadow Game
Mind Game
Night Game
Conspiracy Game
Deadly Game
Predatory Game
Murder Game
Street Game
Ruthless Game
Samurai Game
Viper Game
Spider Game
Power Game
Covert Game
Toxic Game
Lethal Game
Drake Sisters series:
Oceans of Fire
Dangerous Tides
Safe Harbour
Turbulent Sea
Hidden Currents
Magic Before Christmas
Leopard People series:
Fever
Fever
Burning Wild
Wild Fire
Savage Nature
Leopard’s Prey
Cat’s Lair
Wild Cat
Leopard’s Fury
Leopard’s Blood
Leopard’s Run
Leopard’s Wrath
The Scarletti Curse
Lair of the Lion
PIATKUS
First published in the US in 2021 by Jove, Berkley,
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
First published in Great Britain in 2021 by Piatkus
Copyright © 2021 by Christine Feehan
Excerpt from Lightning Game copyright © 2021 by Christine Feehan
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN: 978-0-349-42678-5
Piatkus
An imprint of
Little, Brown Book Group
Carmelite House
50 Victoria Embankment
London EC4Y 0DZ
An Hachette UK Company
www.hachette.co.uk
www.littlebrown.co.uk
CONTENTS
FOR MY READERS
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
TORPEDO INK MEMBERS
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TERMS ASSOCIATED WITH BIKER CLUBS
RESOURCES
For Khloe Wren—
thanks for being such an inspiration in the trenches.
Special thanks to Adaiah La Vonda for naming Hannah’s shop the Floating Hat and inspiring me to write the scene with Hannah and the mischievous little boys!
FOR MY READERS
Be sure to go to christinefeehan.com/members/ to sign up for my private book announcement list and download the free ebook of Dark Desserts. Join my community and get firsthand news, enter the book discussions, ask your questions and chat with me. Please feel free to email me at [email protected]. I would love to hear from you.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
As in any book, there are others to thank. Brian for competing with me during power hours for top word count, when I wanted to move fast on this one because I kept insisting on writing it over and over. Domini for always editing, no matter how many times I ask you to go over the same book before we send it for additional editing. Sheila for your help with all the notes. Denise for always finding ways to keep us going no matter how difficult the circumstances.
Special thanks to Susan Cordeiro, who first suggested using 287 for the name of the restaurant, “for all the children who were taken into the school . . . to show none of them were forgotten.” I loved this suggestion so much!
Special thanks to Amy Sutcliffe Pierce, who first suggested Crow, but in Russian. She said to name it ворона to honor their crow tattoos and colors. I decided to go with the English version, but I loved the suggestion of using it in Russian.
I decided to combine both of these suggestions together for Crow 287. To me this sounded simple but meaningful and very much like Alena.
TORPEDO INK MEMBERS
Viktor Prakenskii aka Czar—President
Lyov Russak aka Steele—Vice President
Savva Pajari aka Reaper—Sergeant at Arms
Savin Pajari aka Savage—Sergeant at Arms
Isaak Koval aka Ice—Secretary
Dmitry Koval aka Storm
Alena Koval aka Torch
Luca Litvin aka Code—Treasurer
Maksimos Korsak aka Ink
Kasimir Popov aka Preacher
Lana Popov aka Widow
Nikolaos Bolotan aka Mechanic
Pytor Bolotan aka Transporter
Andrii Federoff aka Maestro
Gedeon Lazaroff aka Player
Kir Vasiliev aka Master
Lazar Alexeev aka Keys
Aleksei Solokov aka Absinthe
NEWER PATCHED MEMBERS
Gavriil Prakenskii
Casimir Prakenskii
PROSPECTS
Fatei
Glitch
Hyde
ONE
Fog churned over the ocean, the wind blowing the roiling mass over the highway, turning the silvery night a dark, angry gray. Wisps curled around the truck as Gedeon “Player” Lazaroff maneuvered one of the severely tight curves on Highway 1 along the Northern California coast. He was familiar with the highway, but most of the time he rode his Harley and had his brothers riding with him. In some ways he was thankful they weren’t with him, but he would have welcomed the comfort of their company.
The dark gray mist thickened so it seemed an impenetrable wall, and he slowed down, although he was so close to home his inclination was to step on the gas to get there faster. He was nearly desperate to make it back to the Torpedo Ink clubhouse and the solace of the room he used there. He owned a house and normally would have gone there, but at this point, he didn’t have the time. The clubhouse was much closer, and the longer he was out in public, even in the seclusion of the truck, the more dangerous it was. He knew that, and he had vowed never to take chances with anyone’s life again.
The cell played Master’s short tune announcing a call, and Player hesitated, swearing under his breath. Sweat beaded on his forehead and trickled down his face. He wiped at it with his palm before hitting the Bluetooth. Cell phone service was spotty at best on Highway 1, and he hoped it wouldn’t work. Naturally, he wasn’t that lucky.
“Yeah?” He was abrupt. Off-putting. Hoping Master would get the hint.
“You okay? Where are you?”
“About four miles from home.” Deliberately, he hadn’t distinguished between the clubhouse and his residence.
There was a small silence. Four miles from home meant Player had been pushing hard. Far too hard. Risking trouble. Already, they’d broken the rules by separating. Torpedo Ink members stayed close. When running a mission, they paired up, eyes on each other at all times. They’d gotten into unforeseen trouble, and Player needed to get home fast. Master wasn’t able to drive as fast. He carried an unexpected passenger with him, and Player couldn’t risk being in close proximity with her, not in his present state of mind, although he’d only told Master he was feeling very sick and needed to get home.
Master had to drive the passenger’s vehicle home anyway, so it had all worked out for the best. They’d reported to Czar and let him know Player was coming in early without Master, and Master was bringing in “baggage.”
“Tell me,” Master insisted.
“Fog rolled in.”
“Pull over. I’ll send someone to you.”
“I’m close. I can make it. Just one of my damn headaches.” Player poured confidence into his voice, ignoring the way the road seemed to be coming alive with the fog wrapping it in loops and whorls like smoke from a pipe. “Less than four miles now.” He shook his head trying to clear it. All that did was rattle his already hurting brain. He clenched his teeth against the pain.
“You sure? Go to the clubhouse—it’s closer.”
“Yeah. Good idea. I can make it.” He could. There was no one with him. He was good. Just make it into the yard. Park the truck. Get to his room and lie down. His head was pounding. It felt like his brain was coming apart. He had made it home a day early, so that was a good thing. “I can make it, no problem,” he reiterated, trying to sound unaffected.
Blue and red cut through the gray veil of fog in the rearview mirror, and he cursed silently as he looked down at the speedometer. Shit. Speeding. He could have sworn he’d slowed down. Hadn’t he? He couldn’t remember now. He was sweating bullets.
“Gotta go, Master, you’re breaking up anyway.” He needed to concentrate. He dropped the connection before Master could protest.
They had run what was supposed to be an easy assignment, trailing a couple of Ghosts that Code, their computer genius, had uncovered. Find out where the two were going, which motorcycle clubs they were targeting next. Easy, right? Torpedo Ink wanted to know who they were.
The Ghosts turned out to be businessmen who had been preying on weaker members of the various outlaw motorcycle clubs, specifically those members who gambled, getting them in deep and then making certain that they gave up information on the clubs running drugs or guns or trafficking in return for getting out of debt. The Ghosts wanted cuts into those particular businesses.
When a club reacted negatively, they had the president’s old lady kidnapped, raped and tortured until the club complied or she was returned dead and another woman was taken. The Ghosts had a particularly vicious group of hit men doing their dirty work for them.
Player’s club, Torpedo Ink, had rescued two women belonging to separate MCs from the hit men the Ghosts kept on retainer. In both cases, Torpedo Ink had been hired secretly so no one associated them with the rescues. The larger clubs didn’t want it known that they had gone outside their club looking for help. Torpedo Ink didn’t want it known that they had helped. They were a small club, and they wanted to stay under the radar—from law enforcement, other clubs and definitely the Ghosts.
The very fact that the Ghosts kept themselves out of the line of fire by hiring hit men to do their dirty work for them was why they called themselves Ghosts. They believed no one could ever trace them. They didn’t know about men like Code, who were that good with computers and could track just about anyone.
Player took his foot off the gas and eased the truck to the side of the road, watching the deputy pull in behind him. He was two lousy miles from the Caspar turnoff and the clubhouse. Two miles. In his present state, it was dangerous to have any interaction with any other human being. That had been the reason he’d separated himself from Master. Being safe. Making certain everyone was safe. Now this, all because he hadn’t been paying attention. He knew better.
He hit the back of his head against the seat twice in recrimination and fished his license out of his wallet. Transporter and Mechanic, fellow members of the Torpedo Ink club, always kept the vehicles in the best of shape, the paperwork up to date and in the glove compartments. He had no doubt everything was in order, but he was so tired he wasn’t certain if the truck was clean of any weapons. He just couldn’t remember if he’d given everything to Master or if he’d kept guns with him.
He was exhausted, seventy-two hours without sleep and he’d used his psychic gift for far too long, something he knew better than to do. It not only drained him and took a huge toll physically and mentally on him, but if he used it for too long, it began to spill over into his reality. That was the main reason he had pushed so hard to make it back to his room at the clubhouse. He needed to be where he was surrounded by familiar things and he could replenish his strength and allow his fractured brain time to recover.
He’d always kept that side effect from his fellow Torpedo Ink members. They thought he would get a migraine and Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland characters would appear. It would be funny, and they would all get a laugh. They had no idea how truly serious and fucked up that reality could get, or how it could really morph into something far, far more dangerous.
He buzzed down his window and shut off the truck as the deputy walked up to his vehicle. He recognized him right away. Jackson Deveau was a good cop, but one difficult, if not impossible, to misdirect. Just his luck. Player’s head was pounding so bad his stomach began to twist into knots. He glanced around the tr
uck, hoping like hell everything was in place and there were no weapons in sight. He had a carry permit, but it was best to not make any waves— especially with Jackson.
“Player,” Jackson greeted as he took the license, his dark eyes moving over Player’s face, seeing too much like he always did. “You all right?”
It was never good to try to deceive Jackson if you didn’t have to. The members of Torpedo Ink suspected he was a human lie detector. He just seemed too good at figuring everything out.
“Feel like shit. Was trying to get home and didn’t realize I was speeding until I saw your lights. Sorry, man.” He resisted rubbing his pounding temples. “Do you need the registration and insurance? The truck is registered to Torpedo Ink, and the insurance is up to date. Czar’s going to kick my ass for this.”
Jackson handed him back his license. “I have to see the papers, Player.”
Player reached over and opened the glove compartment, noting that Jackson’s gaze followed the movement, one hand out of sight, probably near his weapon. Jackson didn’t take chances, not even with the people he knew and actually liked. It was always difficult to tell with Jackson whether or not Torpedo Ink was included with those he liked. The cop’s expression gave very little away.
Player handed over the registration and insurance and gave in to rubbing his temples. He didn’t want to look too long at Jackson or the fog that was drifting in off the ocean. He’d been creating illusions longer than he should have been, and now those edges were blurring with reality. More than once, when he was tired, his mind played tricks on him and he couldn’t separate reality from the worlds he created. People had gotten hurt. Several had died. He didn’t take chances. He worked on that all the time, and he knew when he needed to shut it down, which was more than twenty- four hours ago.
“Thought you always ran with a partner.” Jackson said it casually as he carefully inspected the paperwork.
Player cursed silently. His heart was beating too fast. Behind the deputy, a large caterpillar floated in the air, smoking a giant blue-green hookah. Big rings of smoke curled around the truck. Around Jackson. Player began to count in his head. Numbers. Repeating them over and over. The caterpillar began to puff in time to his counting, the smoke coming out in the shapes of his numbers at first, then morphing into letters of the alphabet.
Reckless Road Page 1