by Sybil Bartel
Copyright © 2020 by Sybil Bartel
Cover art by: CT Cover Creations
Cover photo by: Wander Aguiar
Cover Model: Kaz van der Waard
Edited by: Hot Tree Editing
Formatting by: Champagne Book Design
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.
Warning: This book contains offensive language, alpha males and sexual situations. Mature audiences only. 18+
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Books by Sybil Bartel
Hard Justice
Dedication
Epigraph
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
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
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Hard Sin
About the Author
Books by Sybil Bartel
The Alpha Antihero Series
HARD LIMIT
HARD JUSTICE
HARD SIN
The Uncompromising Series
TALON
NEIL
ANDRÉ
BENNETT
CALLAN
The Alpha Bodyguard Series
SCANDALOUS
MERCILESS
RECKLESS
RUTHLESS
FEARLESS
CALLOUS
RELENTLESS
SHAMELESS
The Alpha Escort Series
THRUST
ROUGH
GRIND
The Unchecked Series
IMPOSSIBLE PROMISE
IMPOSSIBLE CHOICE
IMPOSSIBLE END
The Rock Harder Series
NO APOLOGIES
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HARD JUSTICE
One second.
That was all I needed.
My gun in my hand, my finger on the trigger, I waited.
Yesterday I had been driven by revenge. Yesterday my life had been measured in a single act. Yesterday I did not have the taste of her on my lips. Today was different. I wanted more than justice. I wanted the life I had been robbed of.
Except twelve men with guns drawn were standing between me and her, and I should have been dead already. But they made a crucial mistake. They underestimated my resolve.
I pulled the trigger.
*HARD JUSTICE is the second book in the Alpha Antihero Series, and it is a continuation of Tarquin “Candle” Scott’s story.
The Alpha Antihero Series:
HARD LIMIT
HARD JUSTICE
HARD SIN
For Mom and Dad
“Candle was earth. Dark and dirty between your hands, he rubbed across your skin and left marks as his scent soaked into you like a memory. You smelled him after every rain, and you felt him every time you fell. He’d cradle you if you needed to lie down in the woods, but he’d never lift you up to touch the stars.”
—Kendall, from ANDRÉ
My woman’s small hand gripped my arm, and she froze. “Oh my fucking God.”
I shoved her around the corner of the garage as a dozen motorcycles fanned out on the dirt driveway. “Do not look back. Do not stop. Run.” I threw down the backpacks as shouting erupted from the bikers. “I will meet you at the cabin. If I am not there within seven sunsets, I am dead. Sell this and get far away from here.” I put my knife, the only thing I had of value, into her hand. “Go.”
Her small body shook. “They’ll kill you!”
I was out of time. “GO.”
I did not look back to see if she listened.
I returned to the open side door of the garage where the dead body lay with the hysterical female still crying over him. Pushing the woman aside, I reached inside the dead man’s vest, took his 9mm, and checked the magazine. Sixteen rounds. Shoving my woman’s small caliber handgun with only four rounds left into my back waistband, I stood and grabbed the hysterical female around the neck.
The first of the twelve men got off his motorcycle with his gun drawn. He glanced at the body on the ground, then glared at me. “You’re dead, motherfucker.”
Holding the female in front of me, I pressed the barrel of the 9mm against her temple. “Stand down.” If he had had any sense, he would have fired already.
“He shot Rush,” the female cried. “He killed him!”
Three more men, all armed, all aiming at me, got off their bikes.
I did not know the first thing about the men standing in front of me, but I did know the men of River Ranch. They would not have let a female human shield stand in their way. I would have been dead already.
I drew only one conclusion.
They wanted the female alive.
“Stand down,” I repeated.
“Hell fucking no,” the first man ground out. “You stand the fuck down. Let go of Stone Hawkins’s old lady.”
I knew of the term. The female belonged to someone named Stone.
“Fuck this shit.” A fourth man who had gotten off his motorcycle took a cellular phone out and held it to his ear. “I’m calling Hawkins.”
I scanned the twelve men.
Four in front on foot, all aiming weapons at me. Four in a second row still on their bikes, guns drawn. Four behind them at the ready on their motorcycles, all facing the entrance of the driveway.
The group had been trained.
I could not shoot all eight before I was either overtaken by the men on the motorcycles or shot myself. My thoughts from yesterday resurfaced. If my woman had been River Ranch, I would have fought to the death for rights to her. Apparently my sentiment was coming to fruition.
“Rush is dead, and some fuck has a gun to your old lady’s head,” the fourth man said into his phone. “No… hang on.” His angry gaze met mine. “You declaring war on us?” he demanded of me.
No other option, I revealed my intent. “War, no. Rights to this female’s daughter, yes.”
The fourth man shook his head and spoke into the phone. �
�Says he’s not declaring war. Fucker says he’s got rights to your old lady.”
“Not this female,” I clarified. “Her daughter.”
The female in my grasp thrashed at me and cried out. “He took my baby. He took Shaila!”
I tightened my hold on her but said nothing.
“You hear this shit?” The fourth man’s facial expression deepened with hatred. “Yeah. Hold on.” Sweeping a finger across his phone, still aiming at me and the female, he walked toward me without fear as he held the cellular phone out. “Stone Hawkins on speaker for you.”
“With whom am I speaking?” a commanding but not deep voice asked.
My back stiffened at the proper speak. “Tarquin Scott,” I answered as the female struggled for air under my armlock.
“And you are, son?” Stone Hawkins asked calmly.
My jaw clenched. “I am no one’s son. Is Shaila your daughter?”
Pause. “Yes.” Then, “Do I need to be concerned for her safety?”
“Were you concerned for her safety when the man you call Rush drew his weapon on her?”
Stone chuckled disconcertedly. “I’m going to assume you don’t know my daughter very well, Mr. Scott, because that question is laughable. Shaila knows how to take care of herself. She doesn’t need a lone wolf to protect her virtue. And that’s what you are, aren’t you?” he asked with artificial kindness. “A lone wolf? No club at your back? My men indicated that you aren’t wearing a cut.”
Rage fought for purchase, but I did not have time to entertain it. The longer I stood in this standoff, the worse my odds became. “I know your daughter very well.”
“Just let us shoot this motherfucker, Hawkins,” the fourth man clipped. “We’ll take him out before he even thinks about pulling the trigger.”
Ignoring the fourth man’s comment, Stone Hawkins casually asked, “Mr. Scott, are you still holding a gun to my wife’s head?”
“Yes.”
“Stone,” the female cried out. “Help me!”
Ignoring his wife, Stone Hawkins again spoke to only me. “Mr. Scott, since you already shot Rush, I’m going to assume you have some familiarity with a gun. But tell me this. Was it a lucky shot? Because Rush served.”
I did not know who he had served, nor did I care. “Luck had nothing to do with it. Ask your men to look at his right hand. My first shot was a warning for him not to draw. He did not listen.”
Giving a wide berth, the first man circled me to glance at the dead man’s hand. “He’s telling the truth, Hawkins.”
“Let me shoot the motherfucker already,” the fourth man clipped.
“Thank you for the information, Viper.” Hawkins’s voice remained calm. “Oslo, if you shoot Mr. Scott and my wife is harmed, do you know what I will do?”
The fourth man, apparently named Oslo, ground his teeth, but he did not reply. He did not have time to.
Hawkins kept speaking. “I will personally go to your house, and I will take your wife and your daughter, and I will make sure both are well used before I hand them over as the new club whores. The men will have explicit instruction to show no mercy.”
“The fuck you will,” the man named Oslo growled.
I was not educated, but in a single moment, I suddenly understood two things. The twelve men in front of me were weak. And River Stephens, the man who had raised me, the man I despised, the man who single-handedly presided over and controlled the most violent cult in the world, was a genius.
The men in front of me were weak because they were fearful for their women.
The men at River Ranch had no such affliction.
River Stephens had made sure of that. Forcing the men to mate multiple females nightly, not allowing interaction except for servicing and mating, not allowing personal connections—there were no emotional attachments. Unless a brother decided he wanted to be bonded to a female and endured a beating that was designed to take his life, he was not allowed to keep one woman or form emotional connections.
But this was not the case here.
Not for the man named Oslo. Not for Stone Hawkins.
Their weaknesses were my opening.
I made my move.
“Your daughter is no longer your concern,” I told Hawkins. “Consider yourself informed. I claim rights. She belongs to me now.” I did not hesitate. I fired three consecutive shots before returning my aim to the female’s head.
The three men in front all dropped dead from gunshot wounds to their heads. One of them got off a wild shot first that went over my shoulder. Two of the men in the second row got off their bikes while two ducked. The female started screaming, and the man holding the phone raised his aim toward my head. “You’re dead, motherfucker!”
“DO NOT FIRE,” Stone yelled though the cellular phone.
Still holding the female, I began to back up. “Hawkins, tell your men to stand down, and your wife will survive.”
“Oslo,” Stone demanded. “Who’s down?”
Chest heaving, perspiration showing, Oslo unsteadily pointed his gun at me as he glanced at the bodies. “Viper, Dell, and Patch. All dead,” he ground out.
I took in Oslo’s distress over his dead brothers. Another weakness.
“Scott,” Hawkins’s voice boomed with authority before turning suspicious. “Where did you learn to shoot?”
I was not educated by textbooks, but I knew cunning, both by definition and in recognition of its use. Stone Hawkins was no River Stephens if his men were out here without him, but make no mistake, he was of the same cloth.
I did not reveal my upbringing. “I have seventeen more rounds, you have nine more men.”
Hawkins chuckled as if his men’s lives were of no consequence. “That’s quite an ego, son.”
“I am not your son.” The female was trembling in earnest, and I did not know how much longer her legs would hold. When they gave, I was dead. “If you wish to lose more of your men and your wife, continue this conversation.”
“Maybe I’m not looking to lose more club members, but gain one,” Hawkins placated, speaking in riddle. “Sounds to me like you need a club at your back… brother.”
His last word, its tone and use, did not go unnoticed, but I did not take the bait. Using the female as cover, pretending to adjust my grip on her, I took another step back.
Oslo glanced behind him at a man in the far row who was aiming a rifle like a hunter. The man tipped his chin at Oslo.
Oslo looked back at me but spoke to Hawkins. “Boss, Rip has a clean shot.”
“If Rip had a clean shot, Rip would’ve taken the clean shot,” Hawkins clipped in irritation.
Out of the corner of my eye, I gauged the distance toward the right side of the building. Two paces.
The man named Rip belligerently spoke up. “I got the shot.”
He did not have the shot. I had my knees slightly bent. The female’s head was in front of mine. Neither my head, heart, nor femoral arteries were exposed. An arm wound would not kill me immediately. I eyed the distance to my left. Five long paces to that side of the building.
“I’ll tell you what, Scott. I’m on my way there right now. I think you and I need to have a conversation in person.” Hawkins paused.
Saying nothing, I scanned the faces of nine men unwilling to die for this Stone Hawkins.
“In fact,” Hawkins continued, “I think we should discuss how you managed to walk away from River Ranch.”
The female gasped, and her legs gave out.
I didn’t run.
I may not have been the bravest girl who ever walked the Lord’s green earth, but I wasn’t stupid, neither.
Twelve against one wasn’t no kinda odds, and I wasn’t gonna leave Tarquin all by himself to fend off those pathetic excuses for men my daddy called brothers. No way. I’d let Tarquin between my legs, and as far as I was concerned, that made him my man now as much as any piece of legal paper the state could’ve given me.
And I was gonna protect my man.
If there were two things my daddy was good at, it was thinking one step ahead and always having a backup plan.
Well, I had a backup plan too.
Five of ’em, to be exact.
A little winded, a lot sweaty, I skirted the back of the house and went to my bedroom window. Thankful I never bothered setting the latch, I pushed the old wood frame up and grasped the sill. Half hoisting, half shimmying, I scrambled my way up and in.
No grace, I landed chest first on my old bed and it creaked something fierce.
Panicked that the sound may have carried, I froze for three seconds while my heart beat louder than the dang bed. Then that stupid son of a bitch Oslo’s voice traveled across the yard as he yelled something about shooting Tarquin.
Spurred into action, I moved.
Careful of all the places I knew the floor squeaked, I grabbed my shotgun and fisted a couple handful of rounds, shoving ’em into my pockets next to the knife Tarquin gave me. Then I went for the kitchen and squatted in front of the cupboard under the sink.
Behind the bleach, right where I’d left ’em, I had my backup plan.
Five Molotov cocktails.
Amazing what you can learn on the internet.
Careful as you please, with my shotgun tucked under my arm, I picked up four of them. My arms full, I tiptoe-ran back to my bedroom and set the glass jars on the sill. “Lord, have mercy,” I whispered. “Don’t let me drop one.”
My backup plan settled on the sill, I grabbed a lighter and climbed on my bed. Putting my twelve gauge through the window first, I shoved one leg, then the other out and over, and I dropped to the ground as I heard more yelling by that imbecile Oslo. Only thing worse than a stupid Oslo was an armed Oslo. But I figured him yelling was a sign Tarquin was still okay.