Hard Core: Biker MC Motorcycle Club Menage Steamy 3 Story Bundle Set (Hot Tales From a Hard Road Book 1) (23 page)

Dawn’s neat little apartment had low enough light and a decent view of the Vegas Strip in the distance. She put on some Stevie Ray Vaughan as she fixed bourbon for them both, in nice, heavy tumblers.

Jackson relaxed with her. Her easy manner and the clean, fresh scent of her cheered him some. She wasn’t too playful either and he liked that. She danced a little and her hips swayed nicely. She put her hands in her hair, but showed him that it was just for fun. Nothing serious.

By about drink number three she said, “You’re tangled, Jackson.” She took a long breath and a sip of her drink. “If you want to rub your knots up against me that’s okay,” as his mouth opened she put a finger on his lip, “but I don’t want to get snagged in a mess of threads.”

Her eyebrow raised as her lips pursed and she looked at his mouth. “I don’t want to be tied up, Jackson.” Her eyes lifted into his, “Not literally and not metaphorically.” Jackson laughed.

Her lips brushed his. “You should sleep. Sleep here.” He searched her eyes. “You can sleep with me if you want, but I mean sleep. You want anything else, ask first. Not that it’s off the cards, I just want to be sure we understand each other.”

“How do you know I’ll play by the rules?”

“Like I said, I trust you. Don’t disappoint me, Jackson.”

Jackson lay next to Dawn in her soft bed, her body warm against his. She curled up around him and her breathing soothed him. Eventually he was able to ignore the other thing and he drifted off to a deep sleep.

In the too-bright morning he made eggs for them both in her little kitchen bar. Jackson had slept better than he had in some time.

Chapter 8

There were no more than half a dozen spectators in the bright, airy courtroom. Kirwen Bishop, the DA, nodded to Jackson as he took his place on the front bench. Bishop liked the dark G-Man suits with his buzz-curt gray hair, a white shirt and a black tie. He always looked like he was dressed for a funeral. Jackson wondered if that was the idea.

It was Jackson’s first appearance with Bishop and he was surprised to see the DA handle this case in person. Bishop was a man on a mission, and he encouraged the whole DA’s office to carry out their civic duties with a crusader’s religious zeal.

He reminded Jackson of an officer in the corps who thought in terms of patriotism and what he saw as, ‘Doing right in the struggle.’ Jackson thought it led to bad judgment.

Being new at the bar, he didn’t share his views.

Jackson looked around but he didn’t see Maryette in the courtroom.

The court rose for Judge Hooper’s entry at ten o’clock precisely and he got the proceedings under way less than three minutes later.
 

Bishop’s opening remarks echoed in the high-ceilinged room. With few bodies on the hard surfaces, Bishop used the weighty tone of his voice and left long pauses so his words hung in the air.

He called the jury, “Good citizens,” and he evoked, “the scourge of violent men.” Jackson thought he was going over the line and he watched Judge Hooper. The judge’s eyes narrowed at some of Bishop’s extravagances, but he allowed them.

Jackson envied Bishop’s practiced theatrical ease, and he hadn’t prepared his opening defense to sound like a sermon with biblical resonance or appeals to primal vengeance. He gave his outline of the flaws and weaknesses in the prosecution’s case.

When he sat, he felt that he’d come prepared for a school debate and contended with a Roman senator.

After Jackson’s speech, Kirwen Bishop stood to call the investigating officer, a granite-faced young detective called Frank Gracey.

Gracey announced that the complainant, Mr. Treacher, was unwilling to testify. Unprompted, he added that Mr. Sage had outlined a solid defense. Jackson blinked but he saw no advantage in questioning Gracey. The DA glowered at the detective as he left the stand.

Bishop shuffled efficiently through his bundle and then he rose again to announce that the state would offer no other evidence at this time.

A ripple of surprise crossed Judge Hooper’s brow as he dismissed the case and banged his gavel, but he was clearly glad to see the day moving along. On the way out of the courtroom Jackson caught up with Gracey, whom he hardly knew.

“What was that about a ‘solid defense’?” he asked Gracey straight, “You had no reason to say that.”

Gracey’s voice was rich and languid, “Sport, word gets out about that, you’re about to become the go-to defender for bangers, bikers and who knows what other species of pond-life.” Jackson could read no expression on the detective’s face at all as he said, “I made it rain for you, Sport. Be glad.”

Gracey crossed the tiled courthouse lobby and waited by the door. Jackson stopped there with him. McGhee stepped out from the courthouse to greet Frank. As they walked through the door, before the sun had lit the whole of McGhee’s face, Gracey arrested him with a whole list of violent offenses, including arson and trafficking in controlled substances. A marshall appeared at McGhee’s side.

As he was led away, McGhee caught Jackson’s eye. He said, “Well, you won this time. lawyer. And I guess I’m going to be your first repeat customer.”

Frank Gracey turned back to Jackson. “Could your day get any better?”

Chapter 9

The detective and the marshal led his client to the prison wagon, and a dull gray Camaro kicked up dust as it bucked out of the court lot. Jackson made out Maryette’s profile as the car sped away.

Two matte black Harleys followed the Camaro out in a hurry. As the car hit the freeway, it accelerated hard. Jackson was already firing up his own bike when the two scooters were pulling alongside the Camaro, and Maryette gunned the engine. The three vehicles swept out on a curve and out of sight.

Jack's engine roared and he hung on as the handlebars lifted and tugged hard on his arms. He got out onto the winding freeway and, for the first half mile, he couldn't see them. Then he saw the bikes boxing the Camaro, one in front and one behind.

With the throttle wound all the way open, he was hardly gaining on them. They pulled off onto a local road, still moving fast. The wind was cold at that speed and made his suit coat flap. He wished he had his leather jacket as the group ahead wheeled off onto a dirt road.

Jack's back wheel skidded and almost broke loose as he made the turn onto the bumpy dirt track. There was no sign of them ahead. His pulse raced as he slowed to watch either side.

With a rising sense of alarm, he passed untended bushes and scrub, trees dirt, rocks and not much else. Then, off to the side he caught sight of a cabin. Out front were the bikes and the Camaro. He killed his engine, stopped and leaned the bike on its stand.

The wood cabin was small, maybe two rooms, and it was old and rickety. From the scrub surrounding it, it didn't look like it as in regular use. The ground out front was overgrown, so no vehicles parked there regularly.

Hearing his own motor tick, he crouched low as he approached. On the way he spotted an tin can and he picked it up. He watched the cabin. Nothing moved. Back by his bike, Jackson took off his suit coat and tore the arms off his shirt.

He stuffed one arm into the can and packed it with stones and dirt. Reaching in below the bike's fuel tank, he flipped off the gas tap and disconnected the fuel line. With the end of the line in the top of the can, he turned the tap back on to run gas in to soak the shirtsleeve.

Then he soaked the other sleeve and twisted it as tight as he could. He shoved the end of the sleeve in the top of the can, then folded and flattened the open mouth over the sleeve. With no tools to hand, it wasn't a perfect seal, but it was all he had time to make. He hoped it would work.

Keeping as low and as quiet as he could, Jackson circled wide around to the far side of the cabin. He kept low and made a quiet approach until he was near enough to hear the rumble of voices inside. There wasn't much sound.

Jackson dug a shallow trough in the dirt with his hands to bury the can, and packed it tight with dirt and rocks. He trailed the protruding shirtsleeve as long as it would go. It wasn’t long. He’d have to move fast.

With his brass Zippo lighter, he lit the end of the shirtsleeve, scurried around the front of the cabin and crouched by the door. Almost as soon as he was there, a loud, satisfying explosive
CRUMP
from out back was followed by the sound of showering stones.

The door flew open and a man dashed out. Wiley had on shades and he was carrying an AK47 rifle. Jackson rose as he jerked his fist in a jackhammer up into Wiley’s jaw and he snagged Wiley's leg with his own. As Wiley fell forward and splayed on the deck, Jackson snatched the AK47.

As he pressed the barrel on Wiley’s neck, he heard the slide and click of a pump-action shotgun from inside the cabin. Hendricks’ voice followed it. “Sage, if that’s you, lemme hear your voice and I won’t have to start shooting.”

“Hendricks.” He called back, “I wasn’t expecting to see you quite so soon.”

“Come on in then, and don’t have a weapon in your hand.”

“I’ve got Wiley’s AK, but I’ll hold it by the barrel.” He bent down to Wiley, still flat on the decking, keeping the barrel at his neck. “Wait up,” he called back to Hendricks. “I’ve got his Glock, too.”

From inside the cabin, Hendricks said, “Okay.”

“Oh, and his Sig Sauer. Wait, and a blade, looks like it’s for gutting a whale. Hendricks, are you expecting the cartels of Medellin? Is there something I should know?”

“You know Wiley loves his toys.”

“Okay. I don’t have anything to secure him with. I’d probably need a crane and a tree anyway. I’m going to have to bring him in and keep the AK on him. Okay?”

“Yeah, okay. Just keep it pointed down.”

Jackson told Wiley, “You know I have to do this.”

“Yeah, it’s alright. I’d do the same.”

“You got any more weapons I need to know about?”

“I ain’t going to shoot you, Sage.”

So he knew he was looking for another gun. He found a nine millimeter stuck in Wiley’s boot.

Jackson couldn’t resist a smile, “That it?”

“I got a Swiss Army knife. You want that?”

“No. You can take a radio apart or scale some fish if you want. Let’s go.”