Raw: A Motorcycle Club Romance (Minutemen MC)

by Evelyn Glass

  He set the rifle aside and wrapped both arms around her, pulling her impossibly close. When they finally pulled apart, they were both panting and their cheeks were flushed with more than just the desert heat.

  “Be careful,” he said again. He took the rifle and jogged away, keeping low and close to the rocky walls of the dunes.

  His heart hammered, as he made his way to his selected spot. He was ready. He had said his goodbye, and now he was ready. He couldn’t wait for the Tar Mongols to be more than just a cloud of dust on the horizon. He couldn’t wait for them to ride into his field of vision. He couldn’t wait to shoot at them. He couldn’t wait to see their faces as his bullets took them out one by one. He couldn’t wait to see the expression on Ruiz’s face when he left him for last. He couldn’t wait to taste the blood. He couldn’t wait for revenge. Finally. Finally.

  Chapter 35

  The bastards were indeed surprised. Dirk watched in satisfaction as they fell under the thunder of his rifle. He had been a sniper in Afghanistan, amongst other things. He had hated it with a vengeance, but now he was loving it. He was loving watching what he was doing to those beasts who insisted on calling themselves men.

  They were close enough now that he could see their faces. Herman Ruiz was in the front, and his puffy, ugly features were distorted in a mask of rage and disbelief. Dirk avoided him on purpose. He didn’t want to kill Ruiz like this. He wanted to do it up close and personal. He wanted to slit the man’s throat, like the bastard had slit Eleanor’s.

  His hands shook briefly as he thought of her, and he pushed her memory out of his mind with a silent apology. He needed to remain focused.

  No distractions.

  He smirked. What a joke that rule had turned out to be.

  He squeezed the trigger once again, gently. One more Tar Mongol fell. Five down, four to go. He wasn’t sure he had enough ammunitions to bring them all down, but he was pretty sure they wouldn’t risk it. Sure enough, the desert wind once again worked in his favor and carried their voices back to him from the distance.

  “Where are you going, you scum?!” Herman Ruiz yelled, as his remaining men started to turn their bikes around.

  “We have to retreat, Ruiz!” one of them yelled back. “That’s probably Dirk Coleman up there. He’ll take us all out! We need to come back with more men!”

  “Fuck that!” Ruiz roared. “If it is Coleman up there, then that’s all the more reason to flush him out!”

  Two of the men hesitated, but the third one turned his bike all the way around.

  “No,” he said. “Fuck this. I ain’t dying like this. I’ll bring the others, come back—”

  His voice died in his throat. Literally. Ruiz’s bullet reached him square in the forehead, and he toppled over, his bike crashing on top of him.

  “You ain’t going nowhere,” Ruiz growled. He spat on the body, and he turned to the two remaining men. “Anyone else want to be a coward?”

  Dirk’s jaw clenched in anger and disgust. He knew the man was a monster, but to see him gun down one of his own in cold blood still shook him up. He decided not to give the other two Mongols the chance to reply. He squeezed the trigger twice in rapid succession, and he watched as they, too, fell.

  If Ruiz was scared to find himself the only survivor of a deadly ambush, he didn’t show it. Instead, Dirk watched as the man cast a look to his left and steered the bike in that direction. He felt himself go pale as realization slammed into him.

  Camilla!

  Dirk hesitated. He didn’t want to kill Ruiz like this. It was too clean. It was too painless. It was too quick. But he couldn’t let the bastard reach Camilla; he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that she would be no match for him.

  Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

  Disappointed, furious, and frustrated, Dirk took aim and squeezed the trigger.

  And nothing happened.

  He did it again.

  And nothing happened. The rifle was empty. His ammunition had run out.

  “Fuck!” Dirk cursed loudly, knowing there was no one but the desert wind to hear him. He threw the rifle aside, and he jumped to his feet. His gaze settled briefly on his handiwork down below, and he smiled to himself. Eight down. One to go.

  ***

  Camilla wasn’t entirely surprised when the man appeared overhead above the dunes’ profile. She had watched everything from her hiding place, and she had been both fascinated and horrified with Dirk’s killing abilities. She had seen the man who was now coming after her gun down one of his own men in cold blood, and that’s when she knew who he was—Herman Ruiz. She had watched him leave the battleground and come towards her hiding spot. She didn’t know how he had known she was there, but there was no doubt that it was her that he was after.

  Camilla was ready for him—or as ready as she could be, given the fact that she knew nothing of fighting and battles, and even less of killing. She held Dirk’s .45 tight in her sweaty hand, and she prayed that her aim and her heart wouldn’t falter. She prayed she could remain lucid and focused and somehow get the upper hand on an experienced killer.

  Please, God. Get me out of here alive.

  She was surprised when the words formed in her mind, unbidden. She had not prayed in a very long time. She had stopped somewhere along the line of puberty, and she had never picked it up again. She could never tell exactly why. It just happened. She outgrew God in the same way children outgrew Santa. She wasn’t even sure she believed in God anymore, and yet here she was, in the middle of the desert with a gun in her hand, praying. If the whole situation had not looked so horribly dire, she would have laughed at the absurdity of it.

  Herman Ruiz climbed down towards her. There was no villain-like grin on his puffy face. Instead, he watched her, curiously. Camilla ran her gaze over his figure. He wasn’t very tall, but he sure made an impression. He was sturdy and stocky, with calloused hands that could kill in a millisecond and with not a care in the world about what they were doing, about the life they were ending. He had dark hair and dark, dark eyes. He had the round face of a man on the edge of being overweight, and yet Camilla had no doubt that he could be quick as a desert cougar. She swallowed hard. She searched for some kind of expression on the man’s round features, anything that would betray a flicker of human emotion—but there was nothing. Camilla had not expected to find anything, not really, but she was still disheartened.

  She took a step back and aimed with her gun. “Stand back,” she said.

  Herman Ruiz did smile then, and it was a cold smile that chilled her to the bone. “Really? That’s the best you got?”

  “No,” Camilla said. “This is the best I got.” And she squeezed the trigger.

  She watched, horrified, as Ruiz grunted and clutched at his bleeding side. She had no idea where that had come from, that readiness to shoot. Up until a few minutes ago, she couldn’t have seen herself doing it. But somehow, instinct took over.

  She didn’t have time to congratulate herself though, because the next thing she knew, there was another thundering sound, followed by a searing, unimaginable pain in her right shoulder. The gun dropped from her suddenly nerveless hand, and the impact of the bullet sent her flying. She heard more than felt the smack of her skull against the desert rocks, and that was all that she knew for a long while.

  ***

  Dirk’s blood ran hot and cold at the same time following the sounds he heard. Gunshots. Two, not that far from one another. What the fuck is going on? Who had fired the shots? Ruiz, of course. There was no way Camilla would fire on a human being. Is she dead? Had Ruiz robbed me of another woman?

  Dirk ran faster, the empty rifle held tight in his hand. He stopped long enough to take in the scene. Camilla lay sprawled on the desert soil, blood oozing from her right shoulder and seeping into the red dirt. Ruiz was going for her, and it was all too clear what his intentions were.

  Dirk let out a roar that he didn’t know was even in him. He launched forward and brought the bastard down. He hea
rd Ruiz grunt underneath his bulk, and he felt him wince, and he felt wet blood seep through the thin layer of his cotton T-shirt. It wasn’t his blood. It was Ruiz’s. As they grappled with each other, Dirk spotted the wound in Ruiz’s side, and he couldn’t help but grin in savage satisfaction. Camilla. She had fired after all. His admiration for her grew tenfold. He just hoped he’d have the chance to let her know.

  They wrestled, Dirk Coleman and Herman Ruiz. They battled each other in the desert dirt, trading punches and kicks and blows so powerful and full of rage and hatred that it was a wonder the Earth wasn’t shaking from the mere force of it all.

  Dirk slammed his elbow into Ruiz’s bleeding side, and he watched with satisfaction as all the color drained from the man’s round face and a scream tore from Ruiz’s throat. He grabbed the man’s filthy hair and slammed his head back against the desert ground.

  Dirk knew he had the upper hand. He had not expected it to be this easy, but he knew Ruiz was finished the moment he saw the man’s eyes roll briefly back in his head. Dirk’s heart thumped, his blood boiled. He had waited so long for this…

  “You’re mine, you son of a bitch,” he growled.

  He pressed his forearm down against Ruiz’s throat, and he grinned at the choking noises that followed. Ruiz flailed, his ugly eyes widening when he realized that Dirk was never going to stop. He tried to form a word with his lips. He didn’t manage to push any sound past his bloodless lips, but Dirk heard it anyway.

  Dirk spat in the dirt next to Ruiz’s head. “Please?” he repeated, and he snorted. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

  He increased the pressure. He felt the windpipe crack under his arm. Ruiz spasmed and gurgled and choked. And Dirk pressed down on his throat and finally, finally, crushed him.

  When it was done, he sat back and looked down at the pathetic body next to him. He smiled and spat on the man’s still chest. The look of terror in Ruiz’s wide, lifeless eyes would stay with him forever—as one of the best memories he ever had a chance to treasure.

  “Dirk?”

  Dirk jumped. He turned around and hurried to his feet and over to Camilla, who was pushing herself up in a sitting position, swaying precariously.

  “Easy,” he said, grabbing her by the shoulders to steady her. He gently felt around her head when he noticed the matted blood in the back of her hair. “You’ve got a good bump here.” He also took a few moments to examine the wound in her shoulder. “Bullet went right through. I guess you’ll live.”

  Camilla grunted. “I guess so.” She looked past him to Ruiz’s still form.

  “He’s dead,” Dirk offered.

  Camilla snorted. “I bet he is, what with you crushing his windpipe like that and all.”

  Dirk blinked. “You saw? How long have you been awake?”

  “Long enough.” Camilla grimaced at the new wave of dizziness that hit her, and Dirk steadied her once again.

  “You didn’t stop me,” he said. “I thought you might have.”

  “Fuck, no,” Camilla said, the hatred in her voice palpable. “I may not be a soldier, but I’m not an idiot either. He had to die.”

  Dirk’s features darkened. “Yeah, he did.” He pushed her hair back off her face with a gentle hand, and he searched her eyes carefully. “Are you all right?”

  Camilla nodded, and she hissed at the movement. “I’ll be fine. I just want to sleep for a week.”

  Dirk had to smile at that. “I bet you do.”

  Camilla licked her lips, hesitating. “Is it over now?” she asked, and she didn’t need to elaborate any further.

  Dirk nodded readily. “Yes. It’s really over now.”

  Chapter 36

  Camilla had rarely experienced pain as sharp as the one coming from the bullet wound in her shoulder. She had always wondered—admittedly in a form of morbid fascination—what a bullet wound would feel like, but she had never been in a particular hurry to find out. Now that she was experiencing it, however, she couldn’t say that she was handling it all that well. Between the bump on her head and the hole in her shoulder, she was nauseous and shaky, and all she wanted to do was to lie down and sleep for a month.

  Instead, here she was, being helped along the desert ground by Dirk, who seemed quite impressed with the way she had handled the situation. They had left Herman Ruiz’s body behind, and when Camilla had asked him if he would send someone to retrieve him later, Dirk had said no.

  “Leave him to the vultures,” he said. “Although I’m not sure even they will want anything to do with him.”

  Camilla had never been a supporter of revenge, especially when that revenge was bloody, but she had to admit there had been something very akin to justice about Dirk’s assault on Ruiz. She had not attempted to stop him, and not only because she knew there would be no stopping him. It felt right. She didn’t like to admit it, but it did. She had looked away when Dirk delivered the final blow, and she knew Ruiz’s gurgling noises in his final moments would haunt her forever, but she couldn’t help but think that this was justice. It was Dirk’s justice. It was Eleanor’s justice.

  As she stumbled along through the fired-up desert, Camilla felt oddly at peace. She couldn’t even bring herself to be particularly worked up at the fact that they were basically stranded.

  “We’re screwed, aren’t we?” she eventually said, as the made slow progress across the rocky terrain.

  Dirk looked over at her as he supported most of her weight. “What do you mean?”

  “We’re on foot, miles away from any useful place. The others, if they’re alive, have no idea where we are.”

  “Okay, first thing first, they are alive,” Dirk said, huffing in annoyance. “Give us some fucking credit. Secondly, they’ll be out looking for us.”

  Camilla watched him skeptically. “Are you sure?”

  Dirk snorted. “What, you think they’ll just leave their VP stranded in the middle of nowhere? They’ll come.” He nodded, almost to himself.

  Camilla had to wonder if he really meant it, or if he was trying to convince himself, too.

  ***

  Dirk didn’t like what was happening. They were stranded in the middle of nowhere, miles away from anything useful, as Camilla had said. And even though the bullet had gone straight through and he had managed to stop the bleeding, he knew Camilla’s wound needed proper medical attention.

  He still couldn’t believe she had shot Ruiz. He really didn’t think she would have it in her. They continued on, and he was grateful that at least they were able to retrieve his saddlebags and they had some water left. Still, even he had to admit it wasn’t looking good. He had told Camilla that Stephan and the others would come for them, but the thing was, he had no idea. As much as he didn’t like to think about it, he didn’t know if they were really okay, or if they were on the right track to find them.

  He was just about to allow himself some well-earned negativity when he spotted a new cloud of dust on the horizon. He felt Camilla stiffen at his side, and he squeezed her reassuringly.

  “Don’t worry,” he said. “This time it’s our cavalry.”

  Camilla arched a skeptical eyebrow at him, in that way of hers that made him want to kiss her senseless. “How do you know?” she asked.

  He grinned. “I just know.” He stopped and sat down on the rocky ground, bringing Camilla down with him, gently enough not to hurt her and yet firmly enough that she knew she had to follow his movements.

  “What are you doing?” she asked, curious.

  Dirk shrugged. “No sense in exhausting ourselves further. Let them do the work.”

  Camilla sighed in relief, and she leaned into him. Dirk draped an arm around her shoulders, and they waited. He watched as the dust cloud got nearer and nearer until he could make out the shapes of the bikes and their riders in the distance. He had never laid eyes on a sweeter sight.

  He watched as they drew nearer, and he squinted to make out their faces. It was the whole club who was riding towards them, and
Dirk’s heart swelled up with pride. A few faces were missing—three, to be exact. He sent up a quick prayer for Sam Harvey, Duncan Smith, and Jacob Kaine. He saw Stephan ride in front, and he was not surprised; the man was practically indestructible.

  He lifted a hand in greeting as they came to a stop a few feet away from where he and Camilla sat on the desert ground. Some of the men were bandages, and all of them had cuts and bruises visible on their faces and bare arms. They were battered, but they were alive and, for the first time in years, fully victorious.

  Stephan climbed off his bike and walked over. He looked down at them and took in the pair they made.

  “Well, you guys look positively exhausted.”

  Dirk shrugged. “We could use a bed.”