Separated MC (The Nighthawks MC Book 10)

by Bella Knight

  April rushed into the kitchen. “Hey, Ree,” she said, in a soft voice, so as not to spook the child. “Where’s…”

  “Sleeping,” said Katya. “Sit. Eat muffin. When friend comes, feed her whatever is in refrigerator. I made two trays of muffins, banana-nut and strawberry.”

  “How did it go last night?” asked April. She caught a glimpse of Ree’s arms, and squeaked. She stalked the child, and looked at her arms and face. April’s face got still and tight. “That woman…”

  “She will never see the child again,” said Katya, her chin up. “I have evidence. She come back, is dead woman. Besides, she will go to Henry, not know she is here. Safe here.”

  “May I kill her?” hissed April.

  “No, my bloodthirsty child. My husband has many guns, and I have many heavy cooking things. Now, you should sit. Let your friend sleep, take care of baby for her.”

  “I will,” said April, fiercely. “I will.”

  Gregory called Daisy Chain while he was still in the car. “Daisy Chain, this is Gregory. Any new information on our nasties?”

  Daisy Chain chortled. “Nasties. I like it. Well, the female is holed up in a New Jersey crack house, I kid you not. She killed the wrong guy. One was a Dominican who delivered pills up and down the Jersey coast. The other was DEA. Guess which of the two she shot at?”

  “So, the DEA is involved?”

  “Got her cornered. She shot at, and tried to kill, a DEA agent, and she has… things in her apartment. Like things she thought she deleted from her laptop. Kind of included some breadcrumbs for the DEA. Sent them a little info, as a concerned citizen, via Wraith. They’ll have her within an hour, and from what I’ve researched, she’ll break. She’ll try to cut a deal, spill info about the Dominicans, but she’s toast.”

  “Good. And our bad boy?”

  “On the move. Zurich, lost him in London, got him in New York. He paid for an Uber there to the train station.”

  “Okay, unless he’s taking a subsonic flight, he’ll be a while getting here. Sure he’s not heading home?”

  “Doubtful. The destination is Phoenix.”

  “Well, shit,” said Gregory. “Thanks. You tell Wraith?”

  “Done,” said Daisy Chain. “I’ll continue to track him, but this guy’s good at misdirection and intentionally getting lost.”

  “Understood,” said Gregory.

  “Take this fucker off the map,” said Daisy Chain.

  “Understood,” said Gregory.

  Gregory picked up a posse of employees, and took them in. He took them all to the kickboxing gym. They jumped rope, beat up bags, and shadowboxed. Music blared, sweat poured off of bodies. Bannon showed up, warmed up, and Gregory and Bannon took bets on their people in the ring. Their fighters taped up, put plastic in their teeth, and soft boxing helmets on, and practiced. Even those with blades did well. They had to promise not to kick with them, because even though they were springy, they could easily break ribs with them. The soldiers stood and stared, laughing, betting on each other with online video game cards. Most of them spent their time lifting weights, running, working on bikes, or playing in online tournaments.

  One jackass came up and said, “You got people with artificial body parts. Not fair, man.”

  Bannon rounded on him. “First of all, our people fight each other. They know how to stay safe. Next, ‘not fair’ is having their limbs blown off in the service of their country. You got something else to say, asshole?”

  Renee, the famous kickboxer who owned the gym, her hair now in braids over half her head, went up to the guy and slapped him with a gloved hand. His head swung around from the blow.

  “You can’t keep your mouth shut, Martell, get the fuck out of my place.”

  He backed off, hands up. “Didn’t mean nothing by it.”

  “Brain over mouth,” said Renee. “Go shower, Martell. You’re done for the day.” Renee slipped in between Bannon and Gregory. “Heard the nasty shooter man is on the move. I’ve got fighters in significant locations, rotating throughout the day. They’re muscle, not shooters. The minute the shots fire, they’ll get civilians out of the way and run like hell. Got it?”

  Gregory nodded. Bannon nodded too, although he had no idea what Renee was talking about. He figured if he needed to know, Gregory would tell him.

  “You have us to draw on,” she said.

  “With your shield,” said Gregory.

  “Or on it,” said Renee. Gregory bowed his head to her, and she smiled at him. “You two gonna get in the ring?”

  “Why the fuck not,” said Bannon.

  They jumped some rope, kicking their feet forward, stretched, and went after small and large bags. “Ready?” asked Bannon.

  “Born ready,” said Gregory.

  They got in the ring, and began with simple sparring. “So, Renee is a member of the motorcycle club, the Valkyries,” said Bannon. He threw a punch, and Gregory ducked.

  “Got it in one,” said Gregory, kicking out at Bannon’s stomach. Bannon arched his back out of the way.

  “You’re on a dark op,” said Bannon, throwing a knee at Gregory’s side. Gregory danced out of the way.

  “Protection detail,” said Gregory, throwing a one-two combination at Bannon. Bannon backed his head up, just enough so the swings were barely taps.

  “For?” asked Bannon, dancing in for jabs of his own.

  “Woman. Was. Raped. And out of it. Came to. Doers got away. One almost down. Second on way.” Gregory and Bannon exchanged a series of quick punches.

  Bannon’s face got hard, and his eyes glinted with rage. “This walking corpse is coming here?” He landed a roundhouse that had Gregory reeling.

  “Walking corpse is also a military-trained sniper,” said Gregory, getting in a few punches of his own.

  “I want in on it,” said Bannon, kicking at Gregory’s abdomen. Gregory blocked, and kicked at Bannon’s head. Bannon ducked.

  “Plausible. Deniability,” rasped Gregory, ducking Bannon’s trademark hammer blow.

  “Fuck that,” said Bannon.

  Gregory nodded, then they took out their feelings with a rapid set of blows, blocks, kicks, spins, and ducks that made even Renee drop her jaw a little, in surprise. They turned it up, then turned it down as they exchanged bruises. The sparring came to a close when Gregory didn’t duck fast enough, and Bannon’s foot caught his left ear. He went down on one knee, gasped, and then stood. He raised up Bannon’s hand as the winner. Money changed hands, along with some cards. Gregory happened to know they were cards for free gaming time, online. They went to the showers, and went into work with new bruises.

  Daisy Chain sent a text to Gregory, “Lost him in Phoenix.”

  Gregory sent a code, “Incoming,” to Wraith, and called Renee. “Baby girl,” he said.

  She snorted. “You wish.”

  “Incoming,” he said. “Target has gone off grid.”

  “On it,” said Renee.

  He texted Bannon at the next light. “Incoming corpse,” he texted.

  “Thank the universe for Halloween,” Bannon texted back. Gregory snorted. Gregory pulled into Sonic, got drinks, and headed to Henry’s classroom to teach a little defensive Harley driving.

  Sigrun was on Anna, now Joru, as protection. Sigrun had a throwing knife in one boot, a gun in the other, a hidden pocket holster, and a wrench. Sigrun worked with Bonnie and Joru on a project, a Fat Boy with its front end a mess. They put the engine up on a mount and slowly disassembled the bike. They blared ZZ Top and watched the rich people go in and out for Henry and Gregory’s classroom building.

  Wraith was at the only place that would make a good blind. She had a sniper rifle, snacks and water, and a ton of work to do. Gregory and Bannon needed a far more intuitive approach. Doing things the military way, made sense, because it was emblazoned on the hindbrain. But, “the military way” wasn’t the only way. She assembled data, made intuitive leaps, and used Daisy Chain’s plugins to make firewalls as impossible t
o break through as possible. She also kept her eye out for assassins. Renee, Rota, and Skuld circulated on their Harleys, running through the back course, then driving away. Wraith snorted. Renee needed to lean more, and Rota was too cautious. She texted them that information, and got rude replies. She laughed.

  Lunch for her was a frozen burrito and a can of Coke, while the ladies she was protecting dined on barbecue sandwiches. She sneered her jealousy, and went back to work to make a better database and a killer security company, through information management.

  The Harley class went out back, and went through the curves. Gregory had surprises, from road work and oil slicks to a “child” darting out in front of a bike, really a cardboard popup. No one wiped out. They all met in front to slap each other’s backs and exchange stories. Gregory left to go back to work. Bonnie came over to show them their Harleys in full detail. The ladies finished disassembling the bike, parts ordered, and went home. Wraith didn’t follow; Rota would do that. She packed up and went home.

  Sigrun was there, petting the purring cat. “Ordered Thai pizza,” she said. “Figured we wouldn’t want to cook.”

  “Bless you,” said Wraith.

  They ate at the breakfast bar, then Sigrun helped Wraith through her extensive exercises. By the time they were done, Wraith was exhausted and very sore. She took some naproxen sodium, and Sigrun helped her undress and get into a scalding-hot bath. Wraith slipped down, muscles unknotting.

  “You’re too good to me,” said Wraith.

  Sigrun nodded. “Want company?”

  “Later, babe,” said Wraith. “Pain first, happiness second.”

  “Good, I’ve got a painting to finish,” she said.

  Wraith cooked herself, scrubbed up, then rinsed again. She drained the tub, got out with the bars installed for her, and dried off. She blow-dried her hair, put on lotion, and kept the cat from eating the top off her lotion. She used the belt from her robe to play with the cat.

  She left her robe on, and went to the den. She grabbed some lemonade, and vegged out in front of the television.

  Sigrun came back in, her smock splattered with green and mauve paint. “Got the desert rose,” she said. Wraith hummed the Sting song, Desert Rose as Sigrun showered.

  Sigrun came in, completely naked, her hair damp. She sat still as Wraith put her braids in, gritting her teeth and muttering under her breath. They always ended up lopsided, but Sigrun was determined for Wraith to recover.

  “Better than yesterday,” said Sigrun, looking at her reflection in the television.

  “Liar,” said Wraith.

  Sigrun laughed, climbed on the chair, and straddled her. She kissed Wraith’s hair, her neck, her throat, making Wraith gasp. Sigrun slid off Wraith’s silver silk robe, and ran her fingers down the side of her breasts as she kissed her longer, deeper. She made her way down each of Wraith’s breasts, kissed the scars from surgery, the knife wounds, and the gunshots. She separated Wraith’s legs, knelt, and gave her orgasms that made her rock and shudder, and throw her head back with pleasure-filled cries. It took her some time, but she was able to grab Sigrun’s wrist and draw her back up. They kissed for what felt like bone-melting weeks, hot and sweet. Wraith sighed.

  “I wish I could…”

  Sigrun held up Wraith’s good hand, and put it on her breast. “Shut up and fuck me,” she said.

  “Yes, Ma’am,” said Wraith.

  She laid the chair all the way back, and made love to her. She sucked her breasts, lavishing each one with time and attention, then she slid her fingers down farther, farther. She was only able to rest her bad hand on her lover’s delicious butt, but she was able to slide her fingers inside with no trouble. Sigrun gasped and moaned, and she came, again and again.

  Sigrun sat at her feet while Wraith stroked her hair. They were both gasping. “I wish,” said Wraith.

  “What?” asked Sigrun. She stretched, and her back popped. Wraith did the same thing in her chair.

  “I wish you could marry more than one person. Legally.”

  “I wish the same thing,” said Sigrun. “But, we don’t need laws to give us what we want, or to tell us what we are. Society’s barely caught up with the gay and bi thing. Hasn’t gotten its societal head around poly yet.”

  “I love you,” said Wraith. “You know this… sniper thing. One or the other of us could get killed. Dead. Out of business, permanently.”

  Sigrun snorted. “We’re Valkyries. That’s kind of our thing. And Saber’s. He’s gone so we don’t have to do what he does on the daily. Like you used to do.” Wraith sharply drew in a breath. Sigrun turned and looked up at her. “Do you miss it?”

  “Takedowns, yes,” said Wraith. “The months and years of work to get there, no. Being farmed out as a prostitute and a junkie, an arms dealer or an assassin, that sucked. Standing around in the middle of winter with next to no clothes, that sucked. Apartments with roaches sucked. Guns in my face on the daily sucked, too. Relying on ‘interagency cooperation’ with some dick-waving assholes —male and female, was the worst. Most of us, we get intel from each other, get in, get the job done, do a mountain of paperwork, get a beer, and go home. Some of them either loved to hear themselves talk, or they wanted to rise like a meteor in whatever agency they were in, get stupid, get people dead. Damn near took a supervisor out, once nearly took out one of mine. Bitch blew my cover. I took her down. She’s been gone for years now.”

  “Being someone else was… bad?” asked Sigrun.

  “One thing I learned,” said Wraith. “Being a junkie, or a whore drug-dealing assassin more times than I can count, that there’s absolutely nothing wrong with me. I don’t set out to hurt people. Say and do the stupid, sometimes, hell yeah. Get all prickly and need my ass kicked sometimes, hell to the yeah. But me? As a person? I’m in a poly relationship. Who the hell cares? My husband disappears for weeks, months at a time. Well, so did I, so I can’t go pointing fingers, and now I’m too damn busy to worry too hard about it.” She smiled. “And I have a gorgeous woman in our bed.” Sigrun tossed her head, and Wraith laughed. “We are a good family. Close. I’ve got the Valkyries, who don’t let me get away with any shit. I’ve got Ivy, Henry, Gregory, and the Nighthawks, and I can go there when I need something. The people at the bar make me fucking proud they’re my friends, the Iron Knights and Gearheads —and all of them. They don’t treat me like I’m crippled, like I’m something less than I was.”

  Sigrun turned, stood, and dragged Wraith up to her. “You are not less than. You are recovering, which is a slow, painful, ugly process, with two steps forward and six back, but you are a Valkyrie. You will win the day. Now, fucking go to bed. I’m tired, and I want to hold you.”

  Wraith kissed her, and limped off toward the bed. Sigrun turned out the light, and stood there in the dark, so Wraith couldn’t see the tears streaming down her face.

  They did the same routine for two more days, except for Gregory teaching the class. “This is fucking Groundhog Day,” said Wraith to herself, about the movie where a man repeated the same day of his life over and over. “At least Bill Murray learned to play the piano at the end.”

  She looked with her tiny binoculars for the umpteenth time. She analyzed all of Gregory’s workers, then did a search for organizations that truly needed his help. She found an entertainment lawyer in Los Angeles with a lot of clients that did Vegas shows. She found several, high-class businessmen that did a lot of work in Vegas. She found people with network and other security issues in Vegas, including not one —but two, credit reporting agencies. She put them all in the “Possible Business” file. She cleaned up errors and duplicates, and created “deep” files for things Bannon or Gregory wanted kept secret from the rest of the company.

  Lunch was a frozen chicken and rice meal that tasted like sawdust. She ground her way through the data. Some Iron Knights showed up to take the class. She was delighted. They would find out more about their bikes, and they would also be packing weapons. The Valkyries had lo
vers and even husbands among them; they knew about Joru. They went indoors for class in the heat of the day, then came back out to practice.

  Wraith saw something that shouldn’t be there. Something wrong. The class was in back, their Harleys roaring. Bonnie and her ladies were slowly reassembling the Fat Boy, part by part, with replacement parts. The angles were…

  Wraith moved forward, and got in her own blind. She looked through her scope. The ladies were moving around, circling. She turned on her mic, slid open the window, checked the wind speed.

  Where was the something-wrong? Was it a reflection? Something moving that shouldn’t be moving? She sent a text to Sigrun, on the ground. Sigrun deliberately walked in front of Joru to look at it, then the reflection came again, to the left. Something that shouldn’t be there. Wraith lined up the shot, and squeezed, just as Sigrun threw Joru on the ground and laid over her. Two shots hit, one into the Harley Fat Boy, and one into the dust just in front of where Sigrun had been. Bonnie threw her wrench in the direction of the shot.

  Staff Sargeant Tori Kym had her gun out, pointing in the direction of Bonnie’s wrench. Bonnie had another wrench in her hand. Sigrun had a gun in one hand, a knife in the other. Bikes buzzed like angry bees as the Iron Knights rode toward the sounds of a war. Wraith sighted, squeezed again. Something went pfft past her hair. Her distinctive platinum blonde hair. She grabbed a cap, put it on, sighted again. Tori and the Iron Knights put down suppressive fire as Wraith sighted again. She waited until she found the empty space inside her head, pulled, and then felt something slam into her chest. She held up her hand, grateful for her shooting glasses, as the glass shattered. She went flying back, the gun clattering down. She laid there, gasping, unable to see. Something pounded up the stairs.

  Henry came bursting into the room, gun up. He waved, and someone else was breathing on her cheek. “Wraith, baby,” said Gregory, as he grabbed her arm and dragged her from the room.

  She had time to see Henry holster the gun and pick up the sniper rifle. She cried out, wiped blood from her face with her good hand. He had her bad one. She gasped, in, out, in, out, remembering how to breathe.