Nitro: MC Biker Romance (Dark Pharaohs Motorcycle Club Romance Book 4)

by Ivy Black

The powerful roar of engines draws my attention, and I look up to see the red and white SUVs bouncing down the road, coming toward us.

  “Shit,” I mutter.

  Blood flowing down his arm, staining the sleeve of his jacket crimson, Spyder gets to his feet and yanks his sidearm. He squeezes off shots, emptying his magazine. I’m standing beside him and do the same. The SUVs stop and the doors open, allowing men in tactical gear—vests, helmets, and balaclavas—to come flowing out like a deadly river. It reminds me of the way the ATF stormed our compound.

  “My ammo’s in the van,” I say, dropping my empty magazine to the ground with a hollow clatter.

  “Yeah, mine too,” Spyder grouses.

  The men from the SUVs, eight of them in all, are arrayed in a half circle about forty yards from us. Perhaps intuiting that we’re out of ammo, one man gets to his feet. He’s got a balaclava over his head, allowing only his eyes to be seen but isn’t wearing a helmet. Though I’m tempted to get to the van to grab our spare magazines, I know I’d be cut down before I reached it.

  “We don’t want you. We don’t care about you,” the man in the balaclava calls out. “All we want is your van. Step away from it and allow us to take it, and you’ll walk away. Do anything to interfere and we’ll kill you where you stand.”

  I look over at Spyder, part of me tempted to fight it out. But the rational, logical part of my brain is telling me to walk away. Live to fight another day. Spyder appears to be thinking along the same lines because he gives me a small nod.

  “No sense in gettin’ killed for this, man,” he says. “We’ll find out who’s behind this and then we’ll get our payback. But we got to be alive to do that.”

  “We’re going to die either way,” I say. “When Prophet finds out what happened out here, he’s likely going to kill us anyway.”

  Spyder chuckles. “That’s a good point.”

  “Last chance,” the black-clad man calls out. “Step away from the van now, or we will light your asses up. Decide. Now.”

  “Come on,” Spyder says.

  We set our empty weapons down on the ground and raise our hands, backing away from the van slowly. Two men in their firing line stand and rush over. One jumps behind the wheel as the other circles back to the passenger seat and jumps in, slamming the door after him.

  As the van roars off, Spyder and I stand there watching it go, a gnawing feeling in the pit of my stomach. The SUVs follow the van back down the dirt road then turn onto the main road that will take them back to the highway.

  “We probably should have let them kill us,” I mutter. “Probably be less painful than what Prophet’s going to do to us.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Nitro

  “What in the bloody blue fuck happened out there?” Prophet screams.

  Spyder and I are sitting alone in the clubhouse with Prophet, who’s pacing back and forth. His hands are balled into fists, and his face is etched with a dark rage. Can’t say I blame him. We lost another shipment, which is putting a sizeable ding in the MC’s coffers. I’m pissed at myself for losing the shipment.

  Grease and Blake rolled in about fifteen minutes after the bandits drove off with our shipment and picked us up. Doc patched Spyder up quickly—thankfully, it was just a graze. Once he was fixed up, Prophet dragged us into the clubhouse, ordered everybody out, and has spent the last twenty minutes pacing and shouting some variation of “What the fuck happened?”

  Unfortunately, the answer hasn’t changed from the first time he asked it to now. And it’s not going to change no matter how many times he asks us. The bottom line is we got ambushed and our shipment got jacked. Again. Prophet stops pacing and leans against the bar, crossing his arms over his chest. He looks at us with an expression of disappointment on his face. I can’t help but feel like a kid who let his father down and sink further back into my chair.

  “Tell me again,” he orders, his voice tight.

  I cut a glance at Spyder and he gives me a slight shrug. He told the story last time which means it’s my turn in the barrel.

  “The pickup went fine. No glitches,” I said. “We got on the road and used alternate route three—”

  “Who knew you chose that route?” he interrupted.

  “Just Spyder, me, Blake, and Grease,” I say. “And everybody who worked out the routes and put the maps together.”

  “Were you followed from the pickup location?

  I shake my head. “I don’t believe so. Blake didn’t report any tails. At least, not until the jackers blew by them and climbed up our ass.”

  “So there could have been somebody tailing the follow car?”

  “It’s possible.”

  I didn’t want to say it at first, just because it seemed like a sore spot for Prophet last time, but it’s very possible that one of Cort’s guys followed us from the pickup. I know there are still holes in that theory, and Cort is on my back burner, but in the face of another jacking, I have to expand my pool of suspects. And right now, Cort is the only common denominator between the first jacking and now, this one.

  “Anyway, in an effort to evade the ambush, Spyder got off the road. We opted to make a stand, but we were outgunned and outnumbered. Spyder took a bullet,” I report. “They could have killed us where we stood, but all they wanted was the van—which, in my mind, rules out Zavala’s sicarios.”

  “Fuck!” Prophet shouts.

  He grabs an empty bottle off the bar and hurls it across the clubhouse. It hits the wall and explodes, spraying small shards of glass everywhere. I frown and look down at my hands, giving Prophet the time he needs to throttle it back down. I really do understand his frustration. I’m frustrated as hell too. I want to know who’s behind this every bit as much as he does.

  I mean fuck, they’ve shot two of our guys and beaten a third. They’ve stolen two of our shipments, which is costing us money. Plus, they’re putting our business relationships in jeopardy. If we can’t deliver the goods, they’ll start going elsewhere for their product. And if that happens—well, I guess we’re all going to have to start looking for day jobs.

  Prophet takes a deep breath and lets it out, closing his eyes as he turns his face up to the ceiling. He takes several more breaths and starts to settle himself down. He turns and looks at us, his expression less angry but not exactly friendly either.

  “Can we have the room please, Spyder?” he asks.

  Spyder shoots me a quick worried glance, but I shake my head. Prophet isn’t going to kill me. He would have killed us both already if that had been his plan. I’m already pretty sure I know what this is about. But just like the story of our being ambushed, he’s not going to like this either.

  The chair scrapes across the floor as Spyder gets to his feet. He gives me a pat on the back as he nods to Prophet and heads out the door, closing it behind him. Prophet goes behind the bar, grabs a couple of beers, pops the tops then walks over to the table, and takes the seat across from me. He slides me one of the beers before taking a long swallow from his own bottle.

  “This is one fucked-up situation,” he says.

  I nod as I pick up my bottle and take a drink. “It really is.”

  “Listen, I’m sorry. I know this isn’t your fault,” he says. “I don’t mean to take it out on you.”

  “No worries.”

  “I’m just pissed off at this whole situation. But I’m glad you and Spyder are all right,” he said. “I’d rather lose a shipment than lose either of you guys. We can replace the guns and the weed.”

  I take a swallow of my beer and nod. “I just wish we could’ve stopped it.”

  “I’m glad you didn’t push it. Spyder had already taken a bullet,” he says. “I don’t want to think about what would’ve happened if you pressed your luck.”

  I know what would’ve happened. We were staring down the barrel of a bunch of automatic weapons. We would’ve been cut to pieces and left to die on the pavement out there in
the middle of nowhere. But I’m glad it didn’t come to that too.

  “So where are we with your investigation?” he asks.

  “Still in the beginning stages. Still trying to put together a suspect list,” I reply. “Like I said before, we can rule out Zavala’s guys. Spyder and I would be dead right now if it were. Guarantee it.”

  “So what does that leave us?”

  “Well, I know you don’t want to hear it, but Cort’s the common denominator here, boss,” I say.

  “Doesn’t matter if I don’t want to hear it. Do what you have to do and follow the evidence... wherever it may lead,” he says. “And I do mean wherever.”

  I nod and take another swallow of my beer. “There’s trouble with that theory though too, I admit. There could be fatal flaws in the argument. I won’t know until I dig a little deeper,” I tell him. “My gut tells me it’s not Cort, but I can’t rule him out entirely just yet.”

  Prophet nods. “So what else are you thinking?”

  I shake my head. “It could be an independent crew. Maybe somebody’s been watching us.”

  “If it’s a crew of indie jackers, they could be tough to track.”

  “Agreed. These guys are professionals, whoever they are,” I tell him. “They’re organized and efficient. And they don’t kill when they don’t have to. If I had to guess, I’d say we’ve got some ex-military in the mix here.”

  “But that leaves the question—where are they getting their intel?” Prophet asks. “How do they know all of the wheres and whens to hit us?”

  “That’s a tough question and one it’s killing me to think of. I don’t think there’s any question now that we’ve got a mole in the club. The circle who was in the know about our routes today was small,” I tell him.

  “Cosmo, Doc, and me. We also pulled in Thumper and Noodles,” he says. “Plus all of you guys.”

  “We also can’t rule out that somebody mentioned it to somebody else. We’d be fools if we didn’t consider the possibility that we had a leak in the planning,” I tell him. “It might not even have been a malicious leak. It could’ve just been something said in passing to the wrong person.”

  “Which could also be the reason they let you walk away,” Prophet notes. “Maybe this traitor wants the product but doesn’t actually want to see us dead, so he won’t green-light any of us.”

  “Makes sense and is something to factor in, for sure.”

  Prophet sighs then drains the last of his beer. I can see the pain in his eyes at having to consider one of our brothers-in-arms has turned traitor on us. It’s unfathomable to think of, but the evidence keeps piling up pointing us in that direction. The theory of Occam’s razor basically tells us that the simplest answer is usually the correct one, so as shitty as it is to think about, it’s probably the right theory to pursue.

  But that’s the rub—just for the sole reason that I can’t fathom one of the guys turning on the rest of us. We would never do it in a time of war. At least, I like to think we wouldn’t. The guys in this MC were all good soldiers. They’re all good men. Honorable men who served with distinction. Maybe I’m naïve, but I never would have thought that these were the kind of guys who would turn on one another. Not in a million years. But it’s obvious somebody did. And that feels like a kick in the balls.

  “The thing that is really grating on me is that whoever’s feeding these assholes information is doing it for money,” I growl. “For something as simple and temporary as fucking money. If somebody were really hurting that bad, I’m sure we could have worked something out. We take care of our own.”

  “Yeah, I thought so too,” Prophet says.

  I drain the last of my beer and slam my bottle down on the table. This whole situation makes me fucking sick. As I sit there, running through everything that’s been happening, I only get more pissed off. But then, something occurs to me. Something I hadn’t thought of before. I sit up as the memory crystallizes and comes into focus in my mind.

  “What is it?” Prophet asks.

  “It’s far-fetched,” I admit. “Could be absolutely nothing.”

  He shrugs. “At this point, I’ll listen to far-fetched. I’ll listen to anything if it gets us closer to finding out who’s stabbing us in the fucking back.”

  “Tell me something, do you have somebody in the DOJ who can get you information?” I ask.

  “The Department of Justice? Yeah, this is getting pretty far-fetched.” He chuckles. “But yeah, I’ve got some contacts. Why do you ask?”

  “Can you pump those contacts to get the file on that prick Rollins?”

  He cocks his head as he looks at me. “The ATF agent?”

  I nod. “Yeah. Him.”

  “Sure, I guess,” he says. “Mind telling me why?”

  “It’s just—like I said, it could be nothing—but watching those assholes fan out of the SUVs today... It reminded me of watching Rollins and his shock troops getting out of their rides when they raided the compound,” I say.

  Prophet purses his lips and rubs at the stubble on his chin, making a dry, scratchy sound. He’s pondering it as he nods.

  “It’s definitely out there, no question,” he says. “But I guess it’s a legit theory. As legit as anything else we’ve got right now.”

  “Like I said, far-fetched but I’m wondering if our mole is feeding intel to Rollins, or somebody in his unit, they jack us then sell the cargo and pocket the cash. It would be a lot of tax-free dollars and greed is a powerful motive,” I say. “It’s out there, but right now, I need to cast as wide a net as possible. Winnowing out the ridiculous theories and being able to set them aside will hopefully lead me to the truth.”

  “It does seem coincidental that Agent Rollins showed up right around the time we started getting jacked,” Prophet says.

  “At the very least, it’s worth looking into.”

  “Agreed. I’ll dig up whatever I can find on Rollins then.”

  “Appreciate that, Prez.”

  Prophet gets to his feet and turns to go but turns back to me, a stern expression on his face.

  “Find me that fucking mole,” he says. “And when you do, we’re going to put him in the ground.”

  “Copy that,” I reply.

  Prophet walks out of the clubhouse, leaving me alone with my thoughts, my beer, and my doubts. Find him the mole. Yeah, no pressure.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Hadley

  “What are you working on?”

  Milo looks up from his laptop and gives me a smile. He reaches out, takes my hand, and pulls me onto his lap. This is the first chance we’ve had to speak since we slept together last night. I’d expected things to be awkward. Hell, I’m feeling pretty awkward right now. But there’s something about sitting there, looking down into his eyes that just feels natural. It feels right somehow.

  He slides his hand around to the back of my neck and gently pulls me down into a kiss that sets me on fire inside. His tongue languidly swirls around mine, and I lean into him, letting the passion flow between us. My eye still closed, I slowly pull back, my entire body tingling with the memory of his kiss.

  “That was nice,” I murmur.

  “It was.”

  He places a gentle and chaste peck on my cheek. “How was your day?”

  “Not bad,” I reply. “Busy, but not bad.”

  Milo nuzzles my neck and plants a line of kisses down to my collarbone. It sends a wave of delicious shivers down my spine, and I cringe when I hear myself giggling. Milo sits back and looks at me in silence for a minute.

  “It’s really nice to have you here,” he says.

  “I’m enjoying being here. But I was thinking today that it’s probably time for me to go back to my place,” I reply. “I mean, I can’t hide out here forever?”

  “Why not?”

  His comment takes me aback, and I look at him as a strange smile flickers across his lips. I can’t deny that things have been good
. It’s felt really nice to spend time with Milo again, but I haven’t given thought to this being anything more than a fling. Two people who are still obviously mutually attracted to one another, who were horny as hell, and fell back into doing something they were always really good at.

  The idea that this little interlude has been a segue to us getting back together hasn’t really crossed my mind—which is odd in and of itself. I’m notorious for overthinking everything and reading between every line. That I haven’t seriously sat back and analyzed every single facet of whatever’s going on between us is strange and definitely not my usual MO.

  “What do you mean?” I ask.

  He shrugs. “Why not hide out here for a while?”

  “Because this is your place,” I tell him. “And I’ve got my own place.”

  “Yeah, a place where some crazy stalker guy might be hiding in your closet right now, as we speak.”

  I laugh and slap his arm playfully. “Stop it.”

  “He could be under your bed,” Milo said. “Just waiting for you to go to sleep so he can slip out and—”

  “Stop! You’re horrible,” I say, my laughter a high-pitched squeal. “You’re going to make me never want to go back home again.”

  Milo just shrugs as my laughter fills the room. I haven’t thought much beyond the moment with Milo and have just been enjoying myself without picking everything apart. I think part of it is there’s no pressure between Milo and me. I don’t have to worry about our relationship. I’m not thinking about what this means or what that means, I’m just spending time with him.

  Of course, I’m realistic enough to know this could all just be the honeymoon phase of things. We’re so caught up in the nostalgia and all the old feelings we had for one another that we conveniently forget the issues. It’s a reality check that makes my smile slip a bit.

  I slide off his lap and take a seat across from him. Milo nods, his smile also fading as he probably comes to the same conclusion I did. He’s a smart and perceptive man like that.

  “Yeah, I get it. It’s just—I’ve really enjoyed being around you again, Had. It’s been nice,” he tells me. “And I’m not talking about the sex. Or at least, not only about the sex.”