Judgment Road

by Christine Feehan

"More whiskey."

  "Are you going to get drunk? My little angel Anya is being very bad tonight."

  "Yep. You're going to get drunk sex when we get home."

  "We might not make it home." He settled her between his legs again, her back against his chest. "I've already picked out the spot where I'm going to fuck you."

  "Where?" She held up her glass.

  He poured her more whiskey. "I'm going to bend you over the picnic table. Thought about that before I took you right here."

  "There's people sitting on it," she pointed out. "Not a good plan, honey."

  She drank. He didn't. He wanted drunken sex with her, and he wanted to make certain he could keep her safe. He studied the three men sharing a bottle of tequila. "I can take them easy. They're pussies thinking they're badass."

  "I'm sure you could. But then their bodies would be laid out all around us. Might kill the mood."

  "Or you'd think I was a great conqueror and you'd be all the hotter for me."

  She reached behind her, wrapped her arm around his neck and pulled his head down to her, turning her mouth to him, kissing him, her lips soft and sweet, tasting of top-shelf whiskey, the best for his woman. He wasn't going to be able to wait until they got home.

  "Where else?"

  "Where else what?" He kissed her again.

  "If not the picnic table and you don't want to wait, where else?"

  "You got an idea?"

  She took another long sip of whiskey, allowing it to slide down her throat into her stomach, clearly admiring the wave of heat. "I've given it some thought. You like open spaces much better than indoors, which also gives me another thought."

  "Two thoughts?" His woman was already heading toward that drunk phase.

  She gave him a look of pure reprimand. "Yes. Since you like sleeping outside . . ."

  "And fucking outside."

  "That too. But we could put a bed on the deck. The side overlooking the ocean. It's way wide, big enough, and we'd have the roof overhead if it rained or misted. What do you think?"

  He thought it was a damned good idea. "I think you're fuckin' brilliant."

  Anya looked pleased. "I am, aren't I?"

  Reaper nodded. "You are. What's your idea on finding us a place to have drunken sex?" He poured another finger of whiskey into her glass.

  "Standing? Bending over? Knees? Back? Which?"

  "I want you standing but bent over. I'm going to do all sorts of dirty things to you first though. That's just a warning."

  "Drunken, dirty sex?" Anya squirmed. "Love the idea. Okay, we have to find the perfect place." She turned back to survey the yard, glass to her mouth. One hand fiddled with the ties on her camisole.

  He took over the fiddling just so he could brush his fingers over her tits. Over those nipples he loved to suck on and pull.

  "Right there, Reaper," she said, excitement in her voice. "Look, honey, the perfect place." She pointed to the small bench someone had stuck out in the middle of the flowers in the meadow. Probably Alena or Lana. The girls had worked to plant flowers and trees around to make the compound seem nicer, although they hadn't gotten to the flower beds close to the building.

  The bench was out in the open, but a good distance from the fire. The ocean was behind it. There was enough of a moon to light the surface of the water so that light reflected onto the field of flowers. It looked perfect to him. He would be able to see all that soft skin.

  "The bench it is, baby," he agreed, and watched the happy smile on her face. He loved that smile, but not nearly as much as he did drunken sex when they got around to it.

  The barbecue was in full swing. Reaper leaned against the wide porch column and watched his woman as she ran after Emily, her laughter filling the sky with warmth. He could listen to her laugh for the rest of his life. Beyond even. Each time he heard her, no matter what he was doing, he had to turn his head and look. Each time it happened, she took his breath away.

  Darby, Czar's oldest, joined the chase, a streamer of colors, pink and green and blue swaying like a snake behind her as she ran. Emily's streamer was of red and pink and a second shade of red. The little girl loved red. Anya had a trail of colors, yellow, gold and white, all colors of the sun, streaming behind her. He loved that. Loved that her colors were bright and hopeful.

  Storm came out of nowhere, lowering his shoulder and catching Darby right in her stomach, bending her over his shoulder. He stood and ran to the far end of the backyard, all the way to the fence, with Czar's daughters screaming with laughter. Just before he made it, Ice blocked him and he had to turn. He ran right into Maestro, who caught Darby and in one smooth move lifted her off Storm and onto him. He turned to run, and Anya and Emily tackled him. They all went down in a heap, a pile of bodies, laughter ringing through the yard.

  Reaper sauntered over, taking his time, making it clear he wasn't part of their ridiculous games, but that he was enjoying watching. He reached down with one hand, pulled his woman up and locked her to him, while extending an unopened beer to Maestro.

  Darby and Emily both pushed Maestro back so he was lying in the grass, the beer out of reach. "He lost us points," Darby proclaimed. "He doesn't deserve a beer."

  "No, he doesn't," Emily declared firmly, echoing her sister's sentiments.

  "Zoey," Maestro called. "Help me. They're being mean to me. I was following the rules."

  Zoey stood on the sidelines, close to Blythe, watching, a smile occasionally flickering across her face. She was in counseling at Blythe's insistence, but the trauma she'd suffered prior to being with Blythe and Czar stayed with her.

  Blythe leaned down, her arm around the child. "Are you going to help him? Whose side are you on?"

  "Maestro's," Zoey replied firmly, shocking all of them. She rarely spoke. "He said he'd follow all the rules and if he remembered, he'd get me ice cream later. He remembered."

  Rules were important to Zoey. Maestro broke the rules of the game often, and apparently, he'd bargained with Zoey, the rule keeper.

  Blythe gave an exaggerated sigh. "You're the referee." That had been Anya's suggestion, trying to bring Zoey into the fun without making it too difficult for her to participate. "I guess you'd better go help him."

  Zoey hesitated and then she put her chin up and marched over to the group on the ground. Reaper held his breath, his arm tightening around Anya, locking her to him. Zoey pushed her older sister off Maestro. Darby let her, happiness on her face and tears glittering in her eyes. Emily resisted, but in the end, Zoey was able to distract her enough that Maestro could lift the younger child off him, set her aside and let Zoey help him to his feet.

  "Yeah, that's what I'm talkin' about," Maestro proclaimed. "Come on, kid, let's go make some music together." He swept Zoey up and transported her across the yard to the small deck where the band had their instruments.

  "I love the barbecues," Anya said. "Almost as much as I love drunken sex."

  Reaper laughed. "I'm going to turn you into a bad girl yet."

  "Don't count on it. I didn't ask you, because I usually don't want to know, but is everything okay between Torpedo Ink and the Demons?"

  "Yeah, baby, it's all good."

  "I'm very glad the floor in the bar was replaced before we reopened. Saying we were doing renovations was smart. Jonas and Jackson came in the other day. They're still looking for the men they say disappeared."

  "Sounds like harassment. How many times have they been in now?"

  She shrugged. "I never handle it, that's all Preacher. They ask me a couple of questions and then they talk to him."

  "If it bothers you ever, you tell me."

  "I would. In any case, someone is always on the monitor, and most of the time you're there. You were in a meeting when they came in. That was last night."

  The club meeting where they'd taken a vote on whether or not to try to find the boy being auctioned off by some slimeball. They took jobs, but most of the time, they hunted pedophiles. Of course they voted to locate the
kid. They'd do it too. Code was already trying to find out any information on him available. Reaper wasn't about to talk to Anya about it. Not yet. She needed time before she realized they were never going to stop hunting. Never. They were predators and they needed the hunt, but more importantly, those children needed them. Someone had to find them. Someone had to help.

  "Do you think the Ghosts are looking for us?" Anya asked.

  Reaper glanced down at her. She sounded scared. He never wanted her afraid, not if he could spare her, but he was always going to tell her the truth. "We shut down their cameras. If they connect Alena and Lana, that might be a trail back to us, but no fingerprints. No faces. We have no connection to the Diamondbacks. The Diamondbacks destroyed their nightclub, burned it to the ground. They did the same with the casino. They left behind their calling card."

  "A snake." She'd heard of that before. Everyone had. "Isn't that like asking the cops to come after you?"

  "Anyone can leave a snake behind. No one saw anything. It's done, baby. I think we're clear of the Ghosts." He knew the Ghosts would come creeping back. They targeted motorcycle clubs. They knew their hit men and investigator looking for Anya had disappeared after being in the Torpedo Ink bar. The Ghosts were probably busy right now, refocusing, deciding what to do, how to handle their losses and the fact that someone had tracked them, but they'd come around again. As would the Swords, the motorcycle club whose leader Czar had brought down. They also had to worry about the Mayhems, who wouldn't take kindly to Reaper beating the shit out of their president, if they ever discovered who he was. Torpedo Ink had the Demons on their side and possibly the Diamondbacks, but they had to be careful. They were garnering too much attention too fast.

  "Hey, you two," Czar called. "Stop gazing into each other's eyes and come over and help out. Need someone to flip burgers, Reaper."

  Reaper kept Anya's front to his side as they walked over to the group of men standing around the barbecue. His brothers. They moved to the side to make room for him and his woman. He never thought he would have this kind of life, but she'd given it to him. His Anya. His everything.

  TERMS ASSOCIATED WITH BIKER CLUBS

  1%ers: This is a term often used in association with outlaw bikers, as in "99% of clubs are law abiding, but the other 1% are not." Sometimes the symbol is worn inside a diamond-shaped patch.

  3-piece patch or 3-piece: This term is used for the configuration of a club's patch: the top piece, or rocker, with club name; a center patch that is the club's logo; and a bottom patch or rocker with the club's location, such as Sea Haven.

  Biker: someone who rides a motorcycle

  Biker friendly: a business that welcomes bikers Boneyard: refers to a salvage yard

  Cage: often refers to a car, van or truck (basically any vehicle not a motorcycle) Chapter: the local unit of a larger club

  Chase vehicle: a vehicle following riders on a run just in case of a breakdown Chopper: customized bike

  Church: club meeting

  Citizen: someone not a biker

  Club: could be any group of riders banding together (most friendly) Colors: patches, logo, something worth fighting for because it represents who you are Cut: vest or denim jacket with sleeves cut off with club colors on them; almost always worn, even over leather jackets Dome: helmet

  Getting patched: Moving up from prospect to full club member (you would receive the logo patch to wear with rockers). This must be earned, and is the only way to get respect from brothers.

  Hang-around: anyone hanging around the club who might want to join Hog: nickname for motorcycle, mostly associated with Harley-Davidson Independent: a biker with no club affiliation Ink: tattoo

  Ink slinger: a tattoo artist

  Nomad: club member who travels between chapters; goes where he's needed in his club Old lady: Wife or woman who has been with a man for a long time. It is not considered disrespectful nor does it have anything to do with how old one is.

  Patch holder: member of a motorcycle club

  Patches: sewn on vests or jackets, these can be many things with meanings or just for fun, even gotten from runs made Poser: pretend biker

  Property of: a patch displayed on a jacket, vest or sometimes a tattoo, meaning the woman (usually old lady or longtime girlfriend) is with the man and his club Prospect: someone working toward becoming a fully patched club member

  KEEP READING FOR AN EXCERPT FROM THE NEXT GHOSTWALKER NOVEL BY CHRISTINE FEEHAN

  COVERT GAME

  AVAILABLE MARCH 2018 FROM BERKLEY

  Zara Hightower stepped into the town car with its tinted windows, sliding along the leather seat, positioning her briefcase at her feet on the floor. She gave the man who slid in beside her a small smile and looked out the window, ignoring the way her heart wanted to accelerate. It was always at this moment, when she was so close to her goal, that her body wanted to betray her. She never let it. Never. She was very, very good at staying in control. Breathing. Keeping her heart rate perfect, adrenaline at bay.

  The car moved forward and her head went up alertly. "Wait. I need my interpreter. She always travels with me."

  The car kept moving. The man beside her, Heng Zhang, turned his head and gave her a small, polite smile. "Miss Hightower, you do not need an interpreter. I speak English."

  "I'm aware that you do, Mr. Zhang, but I require my own interpreter. I made that very clear to Mr. Cheng when he invited me. I was given assurances when I agreed to speak with his people. I've turned down his request four times, and will do so this time as well if you don't stop this car immediately, turn it around and get her."

  She kept her voice smooth and even. She had a certain reputation to uphold. She never lost her temper. She never raised her voice. She was always polite. She cut people down sweetly, so sweetly they almost didn't realize at first that she was telling them off. She was an expert at that as well. Seeing as how she was considered one of the leading minds in the field of artificial intelligence, those around her should expect that she could hold her own with anyone, but they always took one look at her and judged on appearances. Like now. Zhang made the mistake of looking her up and down, then gave her a look that said she was nothing in his eyes before turning away from her and staring out the window.

  In her head she went through the moves that would end his life and then the driver's life. She would use one hard-edged chop to his throat, hard enough to drive through the trachea. Or she could just scratch his arm accidentally. Smile and apologize. Then when he slumped on the seat, for good measure, she could follow up by taking his gun and shooting the driver in the back of the head, shooting Zhang to be certain and then taking control of the car. One, maybe two seconds was all she'd need.

  Zara sat very still, appearing as she always did. She looked like a beautiful model with her long legs, oval face, flawless skin, large slate blue eyes and long red-gold hair that fell down her back. It was thick and unusual, sheets of it falling below her waist, an attribute that most reporters ended up commenting on when they should have been listening to what she had to say. Still, her looks enabled her to get her work done. She shouldn't complain. It was her looks that often kept her alive.

  She turned her head and looked out the window, resisting the impulse to kill Zhang with his smug, superior attitude. They probably had a camera on her. She let her mind drift, uncaring of the direction the car was taking her. She knew where Cheng's lair was. He was famous in the district, his building a fortress. The government tolerated him because he paid them well and gave them all sorts of reasons to keep him protected. Cheng bought and sold secrets and shared them often enough with the government to buy their protection.

  Once at the facility, the car pulled into the underground parking garage, went through three guard stations and pulled right up to a private elevator. Zhang got out first and went around to her door. For a split second, Zara debated whether or not to have it out with them right there in the parking lot by refusing to move from the car. She knew they would f
orce her, but she also knew they wouldn't kill her.

  Cheng needed her. He wanted the information she had. He kept doubling the price each time she refused to come to his private facility to give her talk on the VALUE system, as she called her project, and its uses in the business world. He thought he had her bought with his more than generous offer, the one that would set her up for life--or get her killed--if she accepted it.

  She slid out of the car without looking left or right, and followed Zhang into the elevator. Neither spoke as they were whisked up to the middle floor where she knew Cheng waited for her. She was stopped as she stepped off. Two guards with automatic weapons took her briefcase and pointed to a door. She stepped through it into a narrow cubicle. Immediately her entire body was scanned, looking for listening devices, weapons and cameras, anything that might harm Cheng in any way.

  Zara knew Cheng was paranoid, and deservedly so. He had his hand in every criminal activity around the globe that had to do with running guns, drugs or political secrets. He had top minds working for him developing all kinds of weapons that he sold on the black market. What he didn't develop, he stole. She knew every paper in her briefcase would be scanned and copied before it was returned to her. She'd come prepared for just such a thing. Those papers were "encrypted." No one could break the code because there wasn't one. In reality, the code was nothing but sheer gibberish, but it would give Cheng's people something to keep them busy.

  She was taken from the cubicle and marched through an open floor where there were several desks leading the way to Cheng's office. He stood in the doorway, all smiles, as if she would be pleased to meet him after he'd broken their rules.

  "Miss Hightower, how good of you to come," he greeted.

  She stopped moving a few feet from his office, forcing Zhang and the two guards to stop as well. "My interpreter?" She didn't smile. She kept her gaze fixed on Cheng without blinking, something she'd practiced for a long time. She was very good at it.

  "I'm sorry." Cheng didn't sound remorseful in the least. "You must understand I have many enemies. I don't, as a rule, allow any outsider into these facilities. There are always industrial spies. We won't need an interpreter."