Bloodmare (Chrome Horsemen MC, #1) (4 page)

She rubbed the side of her ass, missing its firm sexy cuteness already. "This is fucking insane," she hissed.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Cole found that he honestly wasn't shocked by her sudden, relaxed display of affection at the café. Part of him felt it was natural. That part of him even felt it was expected.
That part of him
was the thing Cole was shocked at. Where the fuck did
he
come from?

He suddenly submersed into a vision of being ten years married to Nicole and they were out taking advantage of a rare day for a ride. Their destination didn't matter to either of them, not in the slightest. Just riding was enough. They had everything else. Just sometimes, having it all was a little much and they needed to get away for a while. Just the two of them, together, to refocus, to tell each other, even though they knew, that this was still what they wanted. Everything was still exactly what they wanted.

Put into that scenario, Cole mused, her actions were perfectly within the bounds of expectation, including the "Shoo..." and the cute little hand gesture at the end. The only trouble, of course, was that this scenario was eight miles deep in bullshit and he had no idea where it was coming from.

In that daydream moment of illusion he was briefly but deeply immersed in, Nicole was older, her hips were wider, though her ass was still firm and her breasts were matured. Her hair was short, cut up off her neckline. He had studied her body so deeply that he knew every curve, every warm seducing inch, and remained bewitched.

Most of the flaws on her skin, which she frequently seemed to worry over in the mirror, he knew intimately. He accepted them, knowing they had no chance of blemishing her allure. In fact, some of those blemishes across her skin he was particularly fond of, frequently kissing their marks and blessing the day they were created.

"You have to be fucking joking," he snarled into the wind, slamming the vision's replay into mental dust. "Kids? Can you be any more fucking pathetic? Shit!"

The marina area was coming up fast. He checked the time on his watch, saw it was five minutes after three and drifted the Lowrider into the parking lot. He spotted the pier number he was looking for moments later.

As he set the bike on its stand, he forbade his mind to even recognize the existence of a blonde woman in the area, let alone return his thoughts to Nicole. Thus decreed, he got off his bike.

Hiding his actions by using the parked cars on either side and in front of him as blinds, he took his 9mm from his left saddle bag and put it into the small of his back, securing the clip of the holster. He checked his draw, felt it was adequate, and then resettled the gun.

With the hat tip due to caution observed, he took a breath and relaxed. He reached into the right saddlebag, and removed the large package. He put the package under his left arm and scanned the parking lot, then the marina, spending more time in areas where he felt they would hide in order to observe him.

"Whoever they are, they’re good," Cole murmured to himself, not spotting a single watcher.

Their skill level increased his nervousness. If something went down, he may not be good enough to escape, gun or no.
That's why I'm being paid the big bucks.
he thought with half-felt humor. He walked to the pier and then down its length where three yachts were lashed and secured. His black steel-toed boots tread down the black traction covered pathway making slight gritty sounds. The yacht on the left, the one moored by itself, was where he was supposed to go.

When he reached the back side of the yacht, a man wearing a loose fitting, light colored beige suit and three days growth of black beard on his face stepped out of a full-sized sliding glass door, brushing aside a very light, white cotton curtain.

This man made eye contact with him and then nodded. After, he stepped back inside, leaving the door as it was.

Cole gathered that meaning of the man’s actions indicated he should follow, but Big Jim said nothing about boarding the yacht during his rundown of procedure this morning. Jim said the men in the yacht would meet him on the dock. Cole hesitated, the hairs on the back of his neck bristled.

He checked around once more, noting to himself the uselessness of that gesture and then stepped solidly onto the patio area of the ship. Once there, within the momentary cover of the door’s white curtain, he adjusted his gun once more and walked in through the glass door with the package in his left hand.

There were three men inside this room. The room was much larger than Cole expected. There was even a dining table down the center that was designed to seat a party of eight.

One of the men was close to the sliding glass door and to his right. This man wore a light green suit similar in style and cut to the first man's. The other new man was almost directly in front of Cole, also wearing a similar suit, though his was light blue.

The one who stepped outside was to Cole’s right, but back into the room with the man in blue. They looked and felt European. They had not spoken yet, so he couldn't verify that, but the feeling was strong. They also felt military. The spacing between these three was wide and also felt planned.

"You have not opened the package? It remains inviolate?" The man asking the question was the one in the middle, between his friends, the one who motioned him inside. His Slavic accent was heavy. Cole believed it felt Prague-ish, but he didn't possess any experience beyond watching action movies to make a better guess.

"Yes, and here," he said, offering the package with his left hand.

"No, curiosity? No interest?" the same man asked.

"No. I couldn’t care less," he said honestly.

Cole caught movement to his right as the middle man began to say, "I wish I could believe..."

All three of the men felt and acted military or ex-military. Whatever they were, Cole had no trouble believing they were well trained in combat and maneuvers. He thanked whatever god was watching over him that they lacked some ability to think in all three dimensions.

Cole was standing in a kill box.

The distance between the three men was so Cole couldn’t get an easy shot at all three of them. It also protected themselves from each other’s line of fire. The setup was for a man who would either come farther into the room or attempt to run out of the room, or, of course, stand there in shock long enough to be executed.

Instead of going for the man drawing to his right or attempting to outdraw and get one of the men in front, Cole fell backwards, through the white curtain and opened door, rolling as he hit the ground. As his roll reached mid-point, he heard the first gunshot explode inside while he began to draw his 9mm and used his abs and momentum to increase his speed. When his gun came free into his right hand, he was well out past the sliding glass door and laying prone on the deck with his weapon in a two-handed grip.

A second shot rang out from the same source as before, which sounded and felt fired by the man in the green suit.

The package was inside. They had their delivery. Why kill him? What was so important?

Since the value of his life was now deemed less than the contents of the package, his curiosity was piqued.

CHAPTER NINE

Cole was not military nor ex-military, but he did grown up in Chicago in neighborhoods where is
wasn't
safe to play in the street, where people
didn't
sit on their porches at sunset or any other time, where it
did
matter to every child above the age of five what colors he was wearing and on what street he intended to wear them, where gunfights were heard as a matter of course and knife fights were waiting for you after school, instead of something as domestic and suburban as bullies. Cole grew up in a world where just about every violent situation he encountered resulted in him being alone while pitted against three or more assailants.

At age nineteen, he joined the Chrome Horsemen, which he felt was a solid and respected club of men who were tough as they come and just as mean if pushed. Some of those men didn't need to be pushed all that hard either. A good strong exhale might be enough.

Cole became an enforcer, then an outrider, and then, five years later, he was placed on the security list. No, he wasn't ex-military and he wasn't trained, but he did have over twenty years of practical experience with close quarters combat against brutal and overwhelming odds. He also had a sharp mind and a vividly clear recall memory.

He mentally pictured the men inside as they were when he did his backward somersault performance out of the kill box they had waiting for him. He visualized where each man was and where he was moving his center of gravity – which direction was the man moving toward? At the speed of thought, he encouraged his mind to logically progress the movements. If the man on the right, in the green suit, was stepping forward, which he was, visualize him doing so and visualize where he was now if he didn’t change direction.

In a blur of mental speed, less than a half second, he used these estimations to adjust his aim and then fired blind three times into the stationary glass side of the doorway. Then he rolled to his left, came back to a prone position, and fired three more times into the open area of the door, burning black holes through the white curtain.

Both attacks were answered with gunfire and shocked screams of pain. Again he rolled, back to his original position, and waited a breath, feeling and listening to the movement inside the room.

Cole was sure he wounded two of the men, the one to the left, directly in front of him when he walked through the door and the gunman to the right in the green suit. The first barrage of bullets might, have caught number three, the talker, but Cole counted him as uninjured, armed, and highly pissed off.

A body sagged into the stationary glass side of the door. The silhouette displayed through the shear curtain portrayed a bent man who was succumbing to his wounds. Cole aimed at the man's head, hesitated, following his instinct and visualization of the room inside, adjusted his aim, and fired five rounds, adjusting his aim to the right as he fired, spreading his attack horizontally across the room inside.

Two rounds blew through the glass and rocketed past, far above his head. A third and fourth were fired, as well, but didn't sunder the glass. Either they went up through the ceiling, down into the hull, or into the back of the room.

Without hesitation, Cole adjusted his aim again to the man sliding down the curtain, smearing it with blood and shot him in the head, blowing his body back off the curtain and glass. He didn't want the dying man to clutch that shear fabric shield currently hiding him and yank it down.

When the dead man was sent off the door by Cole's last shot, a curse came from inside the room followed by two knee-jerk shots that didn't ripple the curtain or make new holes in the glass.

Cole rolled to the left, got up to a crouched position and stalked with a grace belying his size toward the edge of the boat, and the dock it was moored to.

Snipers
.

Cole thought about that. If there were eyes on him, which Jim stressed there would be, he would have to assume snipers. Well, he would have to assume there were snipers if he wished to live long enough to tell himself later that he was overly paranoid.

The gunfight threw enough explosions and lead through the air that someone must have dialed the cops by now.

Question: do I want the package?

Cole was sure that whoever was left alive in the room behind the curtain was wounded enough that they couldn't follow him while he went over the side of the yacht and then jumped onto the boat across the way in an effort to test the sniper theory. He was sure that was a safe route to take at this moment.

He would never know what was in that package if he did that, though.

It couldn't be drugs. It wasn't big enough to warrant this attack on him and drugs wouldn't warrant the attack anyway. Chemicals? Bio-tech secrets? Military level explosive components?

Two thoughts then stripped all desire to see what was inside. The first, it would likely to be something he had no resources for selling and, thus, useless to him. The second, it was highly probable he wouldn't recognize what the item was when he saw it. A jar of blue goo, for example, could be a lot of fucking things.
Fuck that package and fuck the assholes inside.

He went over the side of the yacht, faked a step forward, performed a fast retreat back against the boat he just left, and then ran low and fast across the dock to dive over the side of the yacht across from him.

Now, he was hidden from view of the shore by the other yacht, the one in front of the one he was on, and safe from anyone deciding to fire some more shots out the back of Prague boy’s yacht he just left. This was a good spot to wonder if it was going to be a lifesaving thing to wait for the cops. He wouldn’t be in too much trouble and he had no tricks to pull against snipers.

His phone rang.
Seriously? Now?

CHAPTER TEN

Covered as he was, he shrugged, kept scanning the areas he could see, and answered the connection.

"Cole? This is Jim. Package delivered?"

"Yep Jim, it's delivered, only they decided to kill me anyway, so I had to put some holes in them. One of them is well and truly dead; the other two are certainly wounded, likely critical."

"God fucking damn fucking Prague son of a bitch mother fucking assholes!" Jim thundered.

"I feel the same. I don't think there are snipers; at least no one has taken a shot at me. Did you ever see more than three of them at any time, Jim?" Cole asked.

Jim paused and then said, "No. Three or two. Never fresh faces."

"I'm going to have to chance it, then. This place will have locals rushing up on it soon and I have a date to return to," Cole said into the phone.

"Fuck a duck, Cole. I swear to God, I thought this was easy money," Jim said with worried apology weighing down his voice.

"If it were anyone else saying that, Jim, I might have some doubts, but I don't doubt you for a moment. Even right now. I'll call you from down the road."