Savage and Racy: A Motorcycle Club Romance (Bad Boys MC Trilogy Book 3)

by Violet Blaze

  “We're at the corner of Purdue and South Broadway, by the auto body shop.” It's Smoky, his voice low and even, calm even in the heat of battle. “The two sedans are missing though. Glacier's on them, but there's no way we can get around these sons of bitches in time to go after them.”

  “Keep casualties to a minimum, but don't let any of these fuckers walk of there. Give me twenty minutes and then leave, no matter what, you hear me?”

  “We hear you.” It's Dober this time.

  I hook my radio back to my belt and pause, dialing Lyric up on my mobile and smiling tightly when she answers on the first ring.

  “Call Agent Shelley and tell her the shipment is at the corner of Purdue and South Broadway in Eureka. It looks like there's been some kind of altercation, but we don't know what happened here.”

  “Be careful, Royal,” she warns, her voice steady but wanting, echoing the sentiment curled up inside my chest. “Don't do anything stupid or I'll have to kick your bloody arse.” I laugh, despite the situation and shake my head.

  “Pint-Size, I'm going to fucking destroy you in the bedroom later.”

  “Good. I'm going to need it after all of this crap. I've never seen so many reporters in my life.” She pauses. “They're asking me about the club.”

  I feel this moment stretch thin and brittle between us and I know this is my chance, right here, to establish the rules for the rest of our relationship.

  As in, there are none. Not between Pint-Size and me. I won't stand for it.

  “I trust you, love. Say what you need to say and I'll stand by you. I love you, Lyric Rentz, and I have to go.”

  “Love you,” she chirps, managing to sneak it in just before I hang up and slide my phone in my pocket. Within seconds, I'm back on my bike and taking off down the road. The moving truck's completely blocking the exit towards the highway, but I hit the edge of a dirt turnout and let my bike get some air, right over the small gate that blocks off the parking lot to the auto body shop.

  Vaguely, I recognize the sounds and sights of a gun war, but then I'm hitting the parking lot and stealing a hard right, taking off through the exit and around the corner.

  The two sedans are nowhere to be seen, but a crackle sounds through my helmet seconds before I commit and decide to head north on the 101 again.

  “King Salmon Avenue,” Glacier barks and then he's gone again.

  I take a hard left, wheels spinning on the wet pavement as I change course and come up quickly on Glacier's bike, sitting in the middle of the road.

  When I park and climb off, I see the two sedans pulled over and idling with their back tires popped. I leave my bike where it is and move to the side of the road, burying myself in the foliage as I make my way forward and find my brother slumped in the grass and bleeding from his right thigh. Viscous red soaks his jeans and pools on the ground beneath him.

  “What the fuck happened?” I whisper as he lifts his blue eyes up to mine and grits his teeth, using his head to gesture at the road behind him.

  “They got out and started running,” he says with a deep breath, moving like he's going to stand up and start chasing after them. I put a hand on his shoulder and shove him back down. The look he gives me is bloody terrifying.

  “Where?” I ask as Glacier grits his teeth at me.

  “They took off through the trees toward the PG&E plant,” he grinds out.

  “Call somebody and tell them to send me backup. And get them to come out here and grab these cars,” I say as I rise up into a crouch. “Then make sure they head south on the 101 for a while until this shit blows over.”

  I take off across the wet road before he gets a chance to respond, tearing the doors of the sedans open and checking inside.

  There's nobody there.

  With my one and only registered and one hundred percent legal fucking semi in my hands, I follow Glacier's instructions and move into the small copse of trees and straight out the other side, making sure to stay low and move quiet. It's not difficult with the weather and the roar of the water off Buhne Spit Shoal.

  When I emerge from the other side, I can just make out the backs of six men crossing an open field toward a small cluster of houses on the other side. I have no goddamn clue what they're doing, probably planning to hot-wire a car or some other shit, but there's no way in hell I'm letting them leave.

  The men slow their run and holster their weapons, emerging onto the street and checking the doors of several cars before they finally pause at a large SUV and look around. The tallest man in the bunch, one of two that are wearing suits, pulls his weapon back out and shoots the driver's side window.

  Now's my chance.

  But bloody hell … six fucking guys?

  I must be goddamn insane.

  I sneak around behind them, using a partially toppled fence for cover as I get low and move as close as I can, lining up a head shot on one of the men in suits. My assumption—and fuck me to hell if I'm wrong about this—but my guess is that those two assholes are the drivers of the sedans. Still cartel members, I'm sure. Still wankers, to be certain. But we don't need them, and I can only handle so many captives at one time by myself.

  Long, low breath.

  I wait for the first suited guy to unlock the SUV's doors and duck into the front seat.

  My finger rests inside the trigger guard, gaze narrowed in and focused. It's always better to take an extra few seconds before grabbing the shot, just to make sure you'll actually hit what you're aiming for.

  When the man starts to bend down to reach the wires under the steering wheel, I fire once and nail him though the side of the head, his body slumping forward as the other men pull their weapons back out and scramble to find their mystery shooter.

  Suit Guy Number Two is next, lining up in my sights as he swings his gaze toward the weathered gray fence and my careful hiding place beneath the shadows of the drooping wood. He sees me a split second before I take my next shot and hit him in the front of his throat; he stumbles and collapses to his knees on the sidewalk as I swing my weapon to a man in jeans and a t-shirt. He looks inconspicuous, but there's something about the cut of his clothing, the way he carries himself. I want this one for Glacier's collection.

  I hit him in the thigh, nailing him in the same place they shot my brother, the man's screams echoing around the quiet neighborhood as he falls against the SUV and scrambles into the driver's seat.

  Shots explode in my general direction, but clearly the sons of bitches don't know my exact location because nothing connects. God bless the homeowner who decided not to fix their fucking fence.

  My next guy's already in view, my finger pressing down on the trigger of the Ruger SR1911 in my hand when I feel a sharp pain in my arm, knocking my shot clear of its target.

  Gritting my teeth, I manage to spin and fall flat to my belly at the same moment, avoiding a second kick from a seventh man I hadn't seen with the others. As soon as his foot clears my head, I'm pushing myself out from under the fence and tackling him in the legs of his black cargo pants.

  He hits the ground with a shout as I sit up and straddle him, turning over my left shoulder and lifting the Ruger for a quick shot. I manage to clip one of the remaining men in the chest—no doubt connecting with his body armor instead of flesh and bone.

  With a swing of my right hand, I bash the man on the ground in the side of his face, catching a glimpse at him as I do.

  Holy bleeding hell.

  The man underneath me is none other than Miguel Saldaña himself.

  A grin splits my lips.

  Bingo. Just the man I was looking for.

  I roll off of him as two well-placed bullets whiz past and bury themselves in the ground above Mr. Saldaña's head of dark hair.

  I finish my roll in a crouch, my semi up and firing twice before I can think too hard about it.

  One bullet enters the man with the body armor while the other grazes the gun hand of one of the remaining men. I know then that I best wipe the grin off
my face because I'm in deep shit. The one uninjured man on the far right takes a shot and hits me directly in the chest, right in the Alpha Wolves logo on my t-shirt.

  My body armor takes the brunt of that bullet, but the force knocks me back on my ass, the air exploding from my lungs in a rush as I struggle to sit up before Mr. Saldaña kicks me in the bollocks. Yeah, straight player he is not. That's his first move, to kick me right in the balls.

  One swift kick from my boot lands in his stomach and he stumbles back, raising his gun to fire on me.

  A crossbow bolt buries itself in his arm as I roll out of the way of his next shot, listening to him roar in pain as I scramble to my feet, panting and gasping for breath. I can see Glacier out of the corner of my eye, a colorful collage against the yellow-brown grass and clusters of blackberry bushes that separate the field from the neighborhood.

  Standing where I am, I've got Mr. Saldaña as a blockade against his boys. Anyway, looks like they're more focused on my brother, aiming their guns in his direction as I leave my own in my left hand and use my right to disarm Miguel. I use the same trick I pulled on Lyric that night I went to her room with her brother's blood all over my body.

  Lyric.

  Her name rings in my head and fuels me on. Even if I didn't give a fuck about my own life, or the club, I'd live through this just to see her heart-shaped face again, just to kiss those full ripe lips of hers.

  Holy hell.

  I've never wanted a future so goddamn badly.

  Miguel takes a swing at me as soon as his gun falls from his fingers.

  If I were going to kill the guy, I'd be done with him already. But a man with his knowledge could be invaluable to us. Putting him under Glacier's knife is essential.

  Even with a crossbow bolt in his arm though, Miguel's got fight in him, throwing punches left and right as I stumble back, my chest tight and painful, my lungs refusing to pull in enough air.

  I duck down low to the right and fire off a shot at one of the men aiming for Glacier, hitting him in the face and gritting my teeth against the awful sight of it all. It's not like I enjoy this kind of thing—not like my brother does—but I'll do whatever it takes to keep this city in the hands of the Wolves.

  And this time, it's not for the club or the boys or our businesses.

  This city where Lyric's decided to stay, I'll make it safe if it kills me. I want my wife to be able to walk the streets without having to look over her shoulder. And I want to have fucking babies with her in my goddamn house by the sea.

  So, let's just say a drug cartel is the last fuckin' thing I'm going to tolerate. These assholes might've been able to pull one over on a mayor, a police chief, the FBI, whoever the hell else, but they've never fought a one-percenter club. Outlaws versus outlaws.

  My elbow hits Miguel in the nose and I swing my Ruger in a sharp arc, clocking him upside the head, expecting the man to go down. But no, he springs back up at me, his fist hitting me square in the jaw as he fights like a trapped animal.

  But eh, a wolf protecting his mate?

  No chance, motherfucker.

  I move back and find my feet again, sucking in a deep breath seconds before a stray shot hits me in my right arm, hot fire burning straight through the wolf portrait tattoo on my bicep.

  “Fuck.” The word hisses out between my lips, my fingers involuntarily releasing the gun. It hits the ground and I go with it, dropping my body to the wet grass as the rain spatters my face and drags my dark hair into my eyes. Hot, sticky blood drips down my arm as I struggle to grab the Ruger one-handed and lift it up, firing a single round into Miguel's shoulder.

  His eyes go wide, but he keeps coming, kicking me in the chest where the bullet hit me before. Suddenly, it's ten times harder to breathe and my body's doubling over of its own accord. I unfurl just before Miguel gets in a strong right hook and throw my body against his.

  We hit the ground with a grunt, and I have to bite down hard on my lip when Miguel shoves his thumb into the GSW on my bicep. The hot, copper taste of blood fills my mouth as the two of us struggle one-handed for control of the Ruger.

  My muscles strain as I use brute force to push Miguel's arm into the ground, releasing him suddenly and aiming the muzzle of the gun at the black swirls of tattoos inked into his bicep. I take one of my last three shots and hit him at such close range that blood sprays my face, washed quickly away by the pouring rain.

  I rise to my feet and step back, leaving my target writhing on the ground as I take aim at the other four men and find most of them already down and out for the count. I'm about to fire off a round at the last one standing when a cluster of leather vests moves into view near the SUV, Dober getting off the shot I was about to take.

  The man crumples to the grass and I lower my gun, listening through the raging growl of the storm for the sound of sirens.

  None.

  “You alright, Pres?” Smoky asks, jogging over to me, his ginger hair bright against the gray backdrop of the sky.

  I look up at him, blood oozing from the wound in my arm, my face throbbing, a metallic taste filling my mouth. I can't breathe, and I'm half certain that Miguel fractured my fucking jaw.

  I glance briefly in Glacier's direction and feel a sense of relief wash over me when I see that the crazy psychopath is still alive.

  I turn my attention back to Smoky and let my bloody lips curl into a sardonic half-smile before looking down at Miguel's thrashing form between our boots.

  “Yeah,” I say as I look at the leader of the Saldaña Cartel laid helpless at my feet. It's over. This fucking disease that started with Rebecca White, spread to her husband, to Mia, tried to take over Trinidad from the shadows. It's done.

  It's done and I got married to the woman of my dreams this morning.

  “Yeah,” I repeat as I breathe out a sigh of relief. “I'm alright. In fact, I'm great. Bloody fucking perfect.”

  Waiting for Royal at the hospital is … painful.

  I pace outside my father's hospital room, raking my fingers through my hair as my mother and sister weep on a bench, alternating between blowing their noses into one of mom's embroidered handkerchiefs and staring at my bloody, torn wedding dress. One of the nursing staff offered me some scrubs to wear, but I waved her away. I don't care about clothing right now; I don't care about anything but Royal McBride.

  And before you start thinking I'm a heartless daughter, Dad is okay. His throat, while slit, wasn't deep. Glacier's shot took out the man with the knife in time to prevent any mortal damage. Of course, that doesn't take into account the dozens of broken bones in both of his hands, his face, his ribs. Before he ever made it to the wharf, Philip Rentz had the ever living hell beat out of him.

  My hands clench into fists by my sides as Agent Shelley appears in a clean lavender pantsuit, walking across the shiny linoleum floors in her black heels.

  She pauses in front of me and smiles tightly, her mauve lipstick applied with a careful perfection that belies the hectic whirlwind of today's events.

  “We found what we were looking for,” she says with a small sigh, giving me a slow head to toe once-over. “Thanks to your husband, of course. Drugs, weapons … six missing girls.”

  “Your sister?” I ask and her face tightens. No, then. I feel my heart ache for Heather Shelley, but if there's anybody that can help her now, it's the club with Royal McBride at the helm. “I'm sorry,” I start, but she waves me off.

  “When your … husband arrives, give your statements and go home. You two have made a serious mess today.” Her tight smile gets a little more real as it swings up and over my shoulder. I glance back and catch sight of Sully, a pair of coffee cups in his hands—and not the white foam ones from the hospital cafeteria, but real good stuff from a local shop. He gives one to me and one to Agent Shelley. “Thank you,” she says curtly, but her eyes cut across his figure with a certain gleam that makes my nose wrinkle. Sully and Shelley? Think of all the hilarious couple names that could be made from that combo. “I
was just telling your sister to give her statements and go home to get some rest. Will you be staying with your father?”

  “I will,” Sully says carefully, giving Agent Shelley a scrutinizing sort of a look, like he could be interested in returning her careful flirting in the future, just not right now. “Will you be in town for long?”

  “Oh Lord,” she says with a long exhale, giving me another look. “I've got a mountain of paperwork that'll keep me in Trinidad for weeks. We should have coffee sometime.” Agent Shelley pauses suddenly and smiles with tight lips. I don't have to glance over my shoulder to know who's coming this time. The sound of Royal's boots on the linoleum floor are too sharp, too distinct.

  My throat gets tight and my heart starts to pound in my chest as I shove the coffee cup back into my brother's hand.

  I spin in place and fix Royal with a look that I hope's only half dopey and lovestruck. The other half I try to reserve for some kind of glare.

  “You didn't think to call me?” I ask with a defiant raising of my chin. My hands are trembling and there's the slightest sting of tears at the edges of my eyes, but I'm too relieved to let them fall. He's safe. He's okay. Everything's going to be alright.

  Royal smirks at me, his dark hair wet and plastered to his head, his right arm held strangely loose by his side, fingers curled into an awkward fist. But hell if he doesn't have the most frustratingly beautiful swagger known to mankind.

  “Mobile's dead, love,” he says in a low growl, getting up close and putting his mouth to my neck, kissing his way up to my ear as I shiver and curl my hands into his leather vest. “Don't fret, but I got shot in the right arm and bruised something fierce in the chest. Careful when you touch me. Your FBI friend is watching.”

  Shot?! My husband got shot?!

  I exhale and lift my shaking palms up to press them against the stubbled sides of his jaw.

  Royal stares down at me with his dark brown eyes, his face tender and loving and fierce all at the same time. I could gaze at this man everyday for the rest of eternity and never get tired of seeing the way he looks at me, like I'm something precious, something worth fighting for. If I wasn't certain before about my decision to marry him, I am now. Deciding to stay in Trinidad is the best decision I ever made. But almost leaving was the most valuable experience I've ever had.