Saved by the Outlaw: Motorcycle Club / Hitman Romance

©
2
016 Pathforgers Publishing
.

All Rights Reserved. If you downloaded an illegal copy of this book and enjoyed it, please buy a legal copy. Either way you get to keep the eBook forever, but you’ll be encouraging me to continue writing and producing high quality fiction for you. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imaginations. Any resemblances to actual persons, living or dead, are entirely coincidental.

Cover Design by
Wicked Good Covers
. All cover art makes use of stock photography and all persons depicted are models.

This book is intended for sale to Adult Audiences only. All sexually active characters in this work are over 18. All sexual activity is between non-blood related, consenting adults. This is a work of fiction, and as such, does not encourage illegal or immoral activities that happen within.

More information is available at
Pathforgers Publishing
.

Content warnings:
violence, discussion of human trafficking, murder, mafia activity

Wordcount: 60,000 Words

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T
his copy
of Saved by the Outlaw includes an excerpt from the not-yet-released Captive to the Hitman, as well as the full length novels Sold to the Hitman & Owned by the Hitman. These are both independent stand alone novels with no cliffhangers.

I
should have worn better
shoes.

Garden State, my ass
, I think bitterly to myself as I awkwardly stumble through the warehouse in the dark. This morning when I woke up in my hotel room in Newark, I sleepily opened my shiny New Yorker suitcase to peruse my wardrobe options, all of which are also distinctly New Yorker in style. That is to say, they are much better suited to a strut down Fifth Avenue than a tromp through the muddy backroads of New Jersey.

Shoes, especially.

I am accustomed to sharp stilettos, suede ankle boots, and fire-engine-red pumps. None of which are particularly appropriate for a day of exploring the site of my father’s death. This warehouse is dark, dank, and definitely a stark departure from my usual haunts. I mean, I
am
a journalist, so you might expect me to be used to running around in unusual places, sniffing out the next big story. But because my deadbeat mom was so generous and considerate as to land me with a name like Cherry LaBeau, I’ve never exactly been on the shortlist for the Pulitzer Prize.

In fact, I’ve been lucky to score the cushy, inconsequential, lighthearted pieces they’ve handed off to me in the past. I’ve been a fashion blogger, a who’s-who editorialist, and a celebrity gossip generator for several years, and it’s paid fairly well — which is to say not much by most standards. Well enough to keep me housed, fed, and decked out in (admittedly out-of-season) designer clothes in the very expensive city of the Big Apple all this time.

It would almost be a dream job.

Except that it’s the opposite of anything I’ve ever dreamed of.

Despite the girly, tongue-in-cheek name on my birth certificate, I’d like to think there’s nothing very frivolous about me. Sure, I write the puff pieces they assign me and I wear the knock-off Carrie Bradshaw outfits they expect me to. I sign my ridiculous name with a flourish, and I dot my “i’s” with a heart. But beneath all that superficiality is a real, hard-hitting journalist, just itching to break free and finally write something of substance.

And it’s what my father would have wanted for me.

“People are going to judge you for your name, sweetheart,” he told me when I was eighteen and heading off to university to get my journalism degree. “But that just means you gotta work that much harder. Make them take you seriously. Be so good at what you do that they’re forced to say your name with respect.”

Standing in my inappropriate high-heeled boots in this dripping, musty warehouse, I have to bite my lip to keep back the tears threatening to sting in my eyes. I can’t be weak. I can’t let my emotions cripple me. I’ve got to be strong like Dad was. Especially if I’m going to find out what happened to him… and who killed him.

It’s safer to think about my shoes, something silly and non-consequential. It helps keep my mind off how much I miss my dad. The only family I have — had — left. Now it’s just me, and I swore at his funeral that I’d make him proud in the afterlife.

It’s autumn here in Bayonne, New Jersey, and even deep inside this warehouse I can feel the occasional cool draft rippling through. I shiver and wrap my black trench coat more tightly around myself. This place is near enough to the coast that I could probably just run to the beach from here if I wanted to. But not yet. As tempting as it would be to just plop down on the Jersey Shore and let the salty fresh air mix with my tears, I didn’t come here for that purpose. I have something more important to do. I’m on a mission.

So I take a deep breath and try my best to walk lightly through the warehouse. This is easier said than done because my damn high-fashion boots are about as quiet as a foghorn, and the vast emptiness of this building causes my footfalls to echo slightly. Still, I doubt anyone else would come here — not since it was designated a crime scene.

Right?

After all, as far as I know nobody even owns it anymore. It’s sat out here on a muddy dirt road, abandoned, for so long that the original owners have probably died. I don’t know what this place was even used for. Except for murdering people in secret.

There’s that God-awful sting of tears again and I angrily swallow back the lump in my throat. I’ve come too far and risked too much to let myself be done in by my own stupid emotions. I can mourn later. Now, it’s time to buckle down and get the scoop.

I take a few more cautious steps before I’m distracted by what sounds like voices.

My blood runs cold, but I assure myself it’s got to be the draft rolling down the empty aisles, playing tricks on my spooked mind. There’s nobody here, I’m sure of it. Nobody but me.

But when I take another step I hear a distinctive shout.

I freeze up immediately, my eyes going wide.
Oh no
, I think fearfully,
maybe it’s the cops coming by to check and make sure nobody’s disturbing the crime scene
. But then again, they told me the forensics team already got all the information they needed, that the clean-up crew came through and cleared it all up long before I arrived. If there’s nothing else left to investigate, why would the cops be here?

My heart sinks into my gut.

Unless they’re not cops.

Feeling nauseous but strangely exhilarated, I lean into a massive metal shelf and strain my ears, trying to be utterly still and silent. I hold my breath and close my eyes, shutting out all extraneous sensory information so I can focus in on the voices. Sure enough, I’m able to make out the distant muttering of what seems to be a group of men.

A group? My heart starts to race as a sense of genuine danger starts to dawn on me. What am I doing here? I’m not a cop! I’m not a private investigator! I don’t have a gun or any kind of weapon at all, and even if I did, I would have no clue how to use it. I’m just a desperately curious, frightened fashion writer who has dropped herself smack-dab in the middle of what could potentially be some kind of criminal lair.

Stupid, stupid, stupid!
I scold myself inwardly. What kind of idiot goes sleuthing around a murder scene unarmed and alone?

Holding my breath so tightly that my chest starts to ache, I can finally pick out a few choice words drifting over from across the massive warehouse:
Cops
.
Information
.
Suspects
.

Finally I’m forced to exhale and inhale sharply, letting the damp air fill my lungs. What on earth have I stumbled into here? What if these men are dangerous? I’m not prepared for a fight — hell, in these shoes I’m not even prepared for a quick escape. But something tells me I can’t turn back now. I’ve only been in this warehouse for five or six minutes, after an hour and a half of driving to get here. And who knows — the men talking might just reveal pertinent information about my father’s death. I can’t risk giving into my fear and bolting out of here now — not when things are just starting.

Besides, if I really want to make my late father proud, I’ve got to stop hiding behind frilly, innocuous fluff articles and blog posts, and start really getting into the nitty-gritty world of journalism. And that means embracing danger, walking bravely into the line of fire just for a shot at capturing that most elusive and beautiful prize: the truth.

Still, I can’t help but gasp in shock at the loud yell I hear next: “What do they know? What have they done?”

I cover my mouth to stifle my heavy panting. I’m so frightened by now that I’ve got goosebumps prickling up along my arms and legs, even under warm layers of clothing. It’s a man’s harsh voice I hear, almost a growl. His tone is accusatory and laced with venom. He sounds mean. Scary. Cruel.

I wait for the reply, which comes after a few tense moments.

“I don’t know! I swear! Don’t you think I’d tell you if — ”

There’s a loud cracking sound and then a man’s pained yelp. I crouch down in fear, suddenly wanting to make myself smaller, less detectable. This certainly doesn’t sound like a civil conversation. It sounds like something dark is going down.

“Get up,” orders a third man. His voice is very deep, his tone controlled. He sounds calmer, and yet more commanding. Even though he isn’t as loud as the other two, his voice carries the long distance, with an impressive resonance that sends a shiver down my spine, even with just those two words. I feel the insatiable need to see what he looks like, to put a face to the compelling voice.

Against my better judgment and every straining fiber of self-preservation in my body, I begin to creep along toward the voices. But my shoes — damn, useless pieces of crap — are too loud. I just can’t bear it. They might overhear me if I keep on this way. So, even though it pains me, I carefully slip them off my feet to carry them instead. As my toes, clad only in thin hosiery, touch the frigid, filthy floor, I grimace with disgust. Would it really have killed me to invest in a pair of sneakers before driving all the way out here? I have a lot to learn. This isn’t a Scooby Doo episode — I can’t run around in Daphne-esque heels and perfectly-styled hair if I’m going to make this work. Especially because the monsters I’m dealing with aren’t fake.

They’re murderers.

I can feel it in my soul. These guys in the warehouse have got to be related to my father’s death in some way or another. It can’t possibly be a coincidence that they’re here right now yelling about cops and stuff, when just a week ago my father’s life was snuffed out in the exact same location. I grit my teeth and force myself to ignore how gross the ground is beneath my feet as I move slowly, cautiously along toward the men.

“My associate gave you an order! Get on your feet, ya bastard!” commands the first voice I heard earlier. There’s the rustle of something like metal dragging on the concrete floor and I furrow my brows trying to figure out what the hell it might be. Then it hits me with a jolt to my heart: chains. It’s the sound of metal chains clinking and rolling across the floor.

What the hell? I crouch down even further as I continue to make my way closer. Even though everything just got a million levels more bizarre and horrifying, I feel totally drawn to the sounds of their voices. I have got to figure out what’s going on, even if doing so thrusts me directly into the lap of danger.

Besides, with my father gone, I don’t exactly have anything else to lose.

“I don’t know anythin’ about it, man!
Nichego
!” exclaims the second voice. He’s the one being interrogated, the one whose voice is wavering with fear. As I come closer, I peer around the ceiling-high metal storage shelves to see the three men only about fifty yards away from me. My jaw drops at the sight.

There’s a man with both arms chained to the floor, metal links around his wrists keeping him bound to about a ten foot reach. He’s drenched in sweat and his eyes are nearly bugging out of his head, he’s so scared. He looks like a skeevy rat of a man, with receding, blondish hair, scrawny limbs, and a long, hooked nose. He’s wearing a polo shirt and cargo pants which are much too large for him, and he’s kneeling on one knee, looking up at the two other guys with desperate, imploring eyes.

“Bullshit!” snarls the first voice, which I see now belongs to a tall, wiry, brown-haired guy in a light blue shirt and khakis. If not for the rolled-up sleeves and combative stance, he would look for all the world like a harmless Sunday school teacher or something. That image is shattered completely when he reels back and lands a solid kick to the chained guy’s calves.

The rat-like man falls on his hands and knees, buckling over in pain as he yells out, “
Klyanus
! I have nothing to say! It’s not one of ours!”

“I can’t abide a liar,” says the third man. A shiver runs down my spine as I realize he’s the one with the resonant voice. He’s even taller than the blue-shirt guy, with broad shoulders, and very dark hair. Even from here I can see the muscles tight underneath his dark jeans and black, short-sleeved shirt. There’s a thick black leather jacket crumpled behind him on the floor, as though he recently took it off. Then I notice that there’s a similar-looking jacket lying vaguely behind the blue-shirt guy, too. Weird.

“Hear that,
zasranec
? Your lies won’t be tolerated!” shouts blue-shirt. He pulls back for another kick but the cowering rat-man shrinks away instinctively.

The man in black raises a hand to stop them, his other hand rubbing at his temple.

“Maybe we’re going about this the wrong way, eh?” he begins, that deep voice filling my brain like intoxicating cigar smoke. “Perhaps you’d respond better to positive reinforcement.”

The rat-man perks up immediately, his sniveling face peeking out from behind his arms. He nods rapidly and begins to stand back up to take a few steps toward black-shirt. “
Da
,
da
,
moy drug
! What is your offer?”

Blue-shirt gestures angrily toward him, giving his associate a scathing, indignant glare. “You want to make a deal with this slug, Leon? Come on! Let’s just bash his ugly face in!”

“Quiet, Lukas!” black-shirt commands, holding up one finger to silence him. So his name had to be Leon. The name made me shiver.

Blue-shirt — Lukas — backs down, crossing his arms over his chest and rolling his eyes. Then Leon moves in on the rat-man and says, “What can you tell me about what happened here? How much do you really know?”

Fidgeting nervously and glancing back and forth between Leon and Lukas, the rat-man stammers, “I-I don’t know much, b-but I could give you some names of those who m-might have information for you.”

Leon snaps his fingers and the rat-man flinches. “Well? Spill!”

“F-first I need to know what you’re gonna give me in return.”

Lukas rounds on him furiously, snatching him up by the collar. “How about letting you leave this shithole with your miserable life? That good enough?”

Terrified, the rat-man starts to ramble very quickly. “I-I heard from my cousin Vic that his
podruga’s
sister knows a guy who got p-picked up by the
politsiya
about the LaBeau case!”

At the mention of my own last name I let out a startled gasp and drop my boots to the floor with a resounding, echoing clunk. My eyes go wide as all three men swivel around toward the sound — toward me.