Wild Rider (Bad Boy Bikers Book 2) (15 page)

The Wrecking Crew all arrived at the same time, riding their bikes in. They wore their colors on their backs, intricate ink on their arms shining in the sun. Helen rode with Beretta, clinging tighter than ever. She was off work that day.

Goddamn, he loved her hands on him. It wouldn't last, and he tried to take every last moment into the core of his memory.

“You just follow my lead,” said Ace. “Remember, we’re here to parlay. Not to fight. We’re guests.”

They all nodded. Ace took a long look at Beretta and then Tank.

If there was one thing Beretta and Tank agreed on, it was that the Furnace were a bunch of shits.

Beretta nodded, shrugging. Ace turned to Tank, even more critical.

“What?” Tank smiled. “I’ll behave. You’re the boss, boss.”

Ace didn’t look like he trusted him entirely, but Beretta knew he didn’t have much of a choice. In any case, Beretta had no desire to start shit with The Furnace in their own bar. He could be a hothead sometimes, sure, but he wasn’t about to take on a veritable army of outlaws in their home base.

He didn't know if he could say the same about Tank, but that was on Tank. If there was a fight and any of his brothers were involved, no matter how wrong they were, Beretta would join them. That's just how it was.

Beretta didn't know how far he trusted Ace or Tank, but that didn't mean he wouldn't fight for them. He wanted back in the good graces of the Wrecking Crew—and that meant all of them. Even if he wanted to, he couldn't pick and choose favorites among them. It was one for all or none at all.

This was a lesson, though, that he had a hard time internalizing—especially with how often he butted heads with Ace. Even with their recent successes, if you wanted to call them that, it didn't feel like Ace trusted Beretta or wanted him around very much.

Locke stayed outside to look after their bikes. It was just good form to have a man looking after property on enemy territory.

The inside of the bar was lit up with red lights over the bar. Darkness and smoke, lots of heavy male voices, and the deep stench of sweat, beer, and tobacco filled the air. They wandered through, operating as a unit, making eye contact with the men who tried to stare them down.

There were a lot of men inside—at least twenty—and there seemed to be more down below the bar. They could hear voices rising up from somewhere underground, the deep bass of cheers and the heavy vibrations of clapping and stomping.

A lot of eyes drew onto Helen in her tight top and shorts. Beretta, possessive, drew her closer to him. He regretted for a moment not making her work that day—but then dismissed the notion. If he couldn't take care of his old lady in a biker bar, he didn't deserve to have her.

“Gentlemen!”

Ivan walked toward them from the crowd, holding a cigar in one hand and a beer in the other. “Good to see you. I hear you have business with me. You want a drink? It’s on me. Beretta, you want a drink?”

Without a doubt, Ivan knew Beretta didn’t drink. It had been a topic of discussion for them in the past. Beretta just smiled coldly and shook his head.

“Ah, I’ll get you eventually. You boys get in okay? Jimmy outside didn't trouble you much?”

Ace shook his head. “Not much.”

“That goddamn Rattler is out of his mind,” said Ivan. “He's been chopping up every bike that ain't Copperheads all over the city ever since you boys tried to hit him. Oughta make you put an insurance policy together.”

It was hard to tell how serious Ivan was. Ace just frowned at him, waiting for the punchline.

“Maybe not,” said Ivan, smiling. “Anyway, come on, follow me.”

He led them through to the back of the bar and opened a heavy wooden door, weighed down with steel plates around its edges. Above the door was a sign, hand-painted in big blocky letters that dripped down like blood:

The Pit

Tank hesitated as Ivan led them through the door.

Beretta put a hand on his shoulder. “Any time you want to step out, step out. I'll deal with it if Ace doesn't like it.”

Tank nodded appreciatively. They kept moving in, walking down a thick series of steps. The staircase spiraled down slow. As they walked down, the noise grew louder and louder.

“You boys been in Stockland a little while now, but you ain’t seen our Pit Fights yet,” said Ivan. “I’m a bit insulted. I’ve been told Tank there is something of a virtuoso in the Pit.”

Beretta looked at Tank, who was growing madder by the second. He had cottoned on to what was happening. Ivan wanted Tank to fight.

Everybody involved in the Pit Fights wanted Tank to fight. He had a reputation that stretched all over the Southwest. There was a Pit in every biker town—something they did for fun, to gamble money and watch a little bloodshed. Once upon a time, he’d been a champion, if you wanted to call it that. Tank never saw himself as one, he had told Beretta, because how could you be a champion when you weren't free?

Other men who fought in the Pit Fights usually did it of their own free will. Tank had been a special case—owing so much to the Furnace in Marlowe. But he'd repaid that debt as far as Beretta was concerned, and if the Furnace tried to recollect on it, then they'd have to answer to Tank and Beretta and the rest of the Wrecking Crew. 

Beretta, who had only seen a couple of Pit Fights, knew why Tank didn't want to go back. You didn’t have to see a lot of those fights to know what they took from a man. They were dark, brutal, and dehumanizing.

At the bottom of the stairs, they entered through a stone archway. Through there was a large crowd of men circling a steel cage with a dirt floor—The Pit. It was located at the bottom of a steep depression in the ground, so that the crowd watched above it from an angle. There was a chalkboard in the corner with two men writing on it and putting down odds. Men held cash high in the air, placing their bets.

The two men in the Pit clashed with each other, trading heavy, hard blows to the body and face. The crowd was like a living being, cheering and gasping as one. There were other women down there, but not many. Beretta drew Helen closer, his hand on her ass. She gasped slightly but pushed into him, and he could tell he was exciting her. Owning her in public. He owned that ass and he didn't give a fuck who knew.

Ivan watched the fight, cheering and slapping Ace on the back.

“This is nice and all,” Ace said when there was a lull in the fighting, speaking loudly so he could be heard. “But, we have something we want to talk to you about.”

“I know,” said Ivan. “I know. But we have to settle business of our own, first.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means,” said Ivan, “that Tank fights in the Pit, and then I hear out your proposal.”

Ace frowned. “You want him to fight before you even hear what we want?”

“Yes.”

“I mean...shit, man.” Ace shook his head. “That's not real friendly, is it?”

“Look.” Ivan put an arm around Ace's shoulder, guiding him close. Ace hated this. “The French used to have dignitaries wait around weeks and fund parts of their government before they would hear their proposals. So you’re going to have your man fight for me. I’m a connoisseur of the fights. I want to see him in action. You see my man down there?”

They looked down into the Pit. One of the fighters was a tall Hispanic man with a heavy beard. He was built for battle—and had just won his fight with a series of swift, ferocious upper cuts to his opponent. Scars criss-crossed his shoulders and torso, but his face remained clear. His knuckles were wrapped, but bloody; he’d been fighting for a while already that night.

His latest victim was getting dragged out of the Pit, the people carrying him slapping his face to try and wake him up. It wasn't working.

“That’s Prowler,” said Ivan. “My man. Made me a lot of money over the years. I want to see how he does in one-on-one with one of the best, you dig? So either Tank fights him, or you guys take a hike. No harm done, but no deals heard.”

Prowler, in the cage, saw Tank above him in the crowd. He thumped his chest at the man, smiling for the crowd. The crowd caught on, heads-turned and all looking at Tank. Bets started to get placed at the bookie on whether Tank would fight or not, money changing hands quickly.

Ace looked over at Tank. “It’s up to you, man.”

Tank frowned deeply. “We need them, right?”

“Yeah, but—”

“All he has to do is fight,” Ivan interrupted. “He doesn’t even have to win.”

“I’ll fight,” said Tank, his voice tired. “And I’ll win. Just hold on.”

The crowd parted before him and he stepped down into the Pit. He looked ready to get it over with; no hesitation, but not an ounce of desire either. No sooner had the door closed behind him in the cage did Prowler jam his fists together and charge.

The rule of the Pit was that once a man was in it, the fight was on. There was no bell ringing. No waiting. No announcing. Just one fight after another. So, the advantage was always to whoever was in the Pit first.

Prowler approached Tank head-on, landing several hard jabs to his skull and then to his midsection. He clapped him with one kick and then another, thick legs powering into Tank’s midsection.

He tried to kick again. Tank slapped the leg aside and walloped Prowler with a heavy right.

Prowler dropped like a loose stack of bricks. The air flushed out the area, all men quiet. Men with cash in their hands, mid-process in making bets, stared with their mouths open.

Then a great stomping clap went up from the crowd, cheering Tank for the monumental knock out. No one had seen it coming—not one that quick—and they loved it. Beretta thought that was a lucky break. It could have just as easily been the kind of thing that turned a crowd ugly.

Through the roar and clamor of the crowd, Beretta could see Tank leaning over Prowler and handing out some advice. He couldn't hear him, of course, but it was clear it was meant in a friendly way. He patted Prowler on the shoulder and mimed his punch again.

Prowler scowled at him, taking another clumsy swing at Tank from the ground. Tank dodged easy, of course, and grabbed Prowler's hand, pulling him up off the ground. He clapped him on the back, presenting him to the crowd, and then left the cage. The men surrounding the cage gave Tank twice as much room as they had offered before when he was coming down, a berth of about five feet.

Prowler again tried to go after Tank, but tripped on his own feet, having to use the cage to hold himself up.

Ivan was crestfallen, but laughing. Ace turned to him with a wide grin.

“How about that deal?”

––––––––

H
elen had never been to this side of Stockland save for the short flirtations with alcoholism she’d had shortly after moving to the city, still broken up about leaving Beretta like she had. During that time, she’d hit up the liquor stores frequently. Texas’s liquor laws were arcane and absolute, and varied from county to county.

In one city, you could buy wine and beer every day, but no liquor. In another, you could buy anything you liked, but liquor stopped selling at 9 pm. In another, you could buy wine and beer on Sundays only after noon and before six.

Stockland’s own county had its peculiarities. The strip was set up the way that it was because it was within the only municipality around Stockland lawfully allowed to sell liquor. It used to not be included within the city at all until a few years back when a re-zoning had pulled it within the city limits proper. The residents there only allowed the re-zoning on the condition that the businesses there were still allowed to operate as they had before.

Now, this area was the one place in Stockland where everyone went to if they wanted to indulge in sin. The Copperheads had a damn near stranglehold on every part of Stockland, but around the strip, the Furnace was in firm control.

Ivan sat them down upstairs in the back of the
Hell's Belle
, away from any noise. Helen did not get a seat at the table—she was “just property,” after all—but she was close enough to it to hear everything that was discussed. Her thoughts drifted from time to time—Beretta's hand on her ass, gripping her there like a handle, holding her tight against his body and driving her wild—but mostly, she listened.

“So what’s this deal, then?” Ivan asked.

“We’ve got a lot of money available for you,” said Ace. “A hell of a payday. Fifty thousand dollars.”

Ivan whistled. “You got it with you? You boys been bankrolled that much?”

Ace shook his head. “No.”

“You got any upfront? Half is the norm.”

“We ain’t got that either. We’re asking you to trust us.”

Ivan rolled his eyes a little at that. “All right,” he said. “What’s the rest? What do you need from us?”

“Explosives.” Beretta leaned forward. “A lot of them. C4 if you got it. Maybe some heavy weapons if you have your hands on any.”

Ivan looked at Beretta, mouth cocked open as if he was joking. Then Ivan noticed that he wasn’t.

“Christ, are you serious?” Ivan laughed. “That’s a whole lot of trust. What do you want all that for?”

“We can’t really tell you,” said Ace. “It’s sensitive. We don’t want anyone knowing what we’re doing. Hell, we barely want to know what we’re doing. It’s one of those.”

“One of those,” echoed Ivan, tonguing at his lip. “I see. Well. You boys are in quite a spot, huh?”

Ivan sat back in his chair, thinking for a moment. He took a long drink from his beer and snapped his fingers at the scantily-clad waitress, pulling over another bottle. He waved it in front of Beretta’s face for a moment, mock-offering him another drink.

Helen watched this exchange with some growing anger. It was one thing to drink in front of someone who was trying to be sober. It was another to mock them for hoping to improve their lives. As a nurse, she dealt with people every day who needed recovery.

Often the people who fell the hardest were the ones who had built up some sobriety time under their belts. When they slipped after six months or a year or five years, they were filled with hopelessness, that they had taken their best shot and failed permanently. It wasn't true, of course, but the addict's mind had a hell of a way of working on the addict.