Rage (A Thunder Gypsies MC Outlaw Biker Romance) (10 page)

The last chance to break for the woods was cut off as a van swept into the turnout, its tires screeching as it came to a stop. The side door flew open and bodies poured out, all of them screaming for us to put our hands on the car’s roof.

They threw Callan to the ground. I heard his grunt of pain, but he didn’t say anything, not even when they wrenched his left hand behind his back.

“What the fuck?”

I stared at the ATF agent trying to cuff Callan.

“I’m gonna need cable ties,” he shouted. “He’s about to lose his thumb.”

Fresh bile coated my taste buds. The tears I’d been holding back started rolling down my cheeks. Through my blurred vision, I saw another vehicle pull to a stop behind the van. A woman, somewhere in her early fifties, exited from the front passenger seat. All the agents from the van stopped talking to watch her walk around Sprankle’s car.

“Both dead?” she asked the agent who had opened Sprankle’s door.

He nodded and showed her the blade Callan had used to kill the men.

She smiled, the gesture sending a chill down my spine. This woman wasn’t someone’s grandmother who spent her Sundays baking cookies, even if she did. Seeing the quiet satisfaction on her face as she looked over the dead DEA agents, I wasn’t sure whether we had escaped one set of dirty cops just to get grabbed by a bigger group of them.

The woman straightened and turned to us. Her gaze swept coldly over me before she looked at Callan. “Get him a doctor. No pain meds. I need him lucid when I talk to him.”

She stepped over Callan, then gestured for the other agents to load us into the van.

“We’ll use the local sheriff’s office,” she said, returning to her car like she was leaving last night’s garbage on the side of the road. “Have the doctor meet us there.”

**********

A little over two hours later, I was yanked from the jail cell the ATF had parked me in to a room some ten feet by ten feet. There was a cheap conference table in the middle and bolts on the floor with chains attached to them. The agent retrieving me shoved me into a plastic chair and secured one of the chains to my cuffs.

By that time, I knew the lead agent’s name was Gloria McCready and she was as cold a bitch as they came. She had stood outside my cell telling me about the drug and accessory to murder charges she was having drawn up against me.

I hadn’t yet invoked my right to an attorney, but I didn’t take the bait of her threats. She was too much like the useless counselors back in school, always trying to scold and threaten me into more regular attendance and completed homework when they didn’t have a fucking clue what the real facts were.

Same gray hair, same polyester skirt suit in dark colors with their low-heel dress shoes. Same holier-than-thou attitude.

I waited, chained in place, for about fifteen minutes before McCready entered. She carried a thick file and had some new guy in a suit trailing after her like a puppy. He waited for her to sit, but she slammed the file down and started pacing the floor.

I watched the act, wondering what came next when the door opened and they brought Callan in. His face looked better -- marginally. About half the swelling had gone down and he had stitches above his left brow and along the cheek on the same side. His left hand was bandaged, both hands secured in front of him with cable ties.

The guard placed Callan in the chair next to me with the same force he had used on me. Maybe the rough handling was because of the dead DEA agents or maybe the ATF just wanted us to know who was in charge. Like the cuffs didn’t tell us that already.

McCready’s gaze moved from me to Callan. She smiled, her eyebrows lifting with the phony gesture. “I wanted your girlfriend to be here when you sell her out.”

“You’re boring me,” Callan told her. “Get on with it.”

A small thrill ran through me at his insolence. I remembered all the times I had wanted to talk back -- to my teachers, my father, the manager at the diner I waitressed at and Freya. I had always been afraid to rock the boat. I’d witnessed from an early age what my father did to my mother when she talked back.

Callan didn’t know that kind of fear. I wasn’t sure he knew any kind of fear.

McCready looked at me, her brows crawling higher. “I’m trying to discuss whether you’re even alive next week and I’m boring him. You should choose your lovers more carefully, my dear.”

I shrugged, but my chest drew a little tighter. The dark glittering in McCready’s gaze told me she could read the tension running through my body.

Callan said nothing, just drilled a hole through the woman with his hard stare.

She blinked first. “You’re a lot like your brother, Mister Tilley. Lincoln wouldn’t listen to me either.”

He brought his hands up and placed them on the table. Next to McCready, the man scooted his chair half a foot from the table. The gesture provoked a smile in Callan. A few hours ago, he had been handcuffed and bloodied in the back seat of a Crown Victoria, the only destination given an early grave. Now the men who had put him in that vehicle were dead. The man in the suit knew that and Callan scared the shit out of him.

Not McCready. She didn’t flinch, but her gaze remained frozen on Callan’s hands even as he started talking.

“That fuck driving the car testified at Lincoln’s trial.”

McCready looked at the man next to her. He nodded. She flicked her hand at the revelation. “What’s your point?”

“He’s on Big Red’s payroll. Both of them were.”

McCready folded her arms across her chest, her expression dripping with an oily smugness that made me want to retch. “Tell me something I don’t know?”

That stopped Callan for a second. He gave a short shake of his head then laughed. “That’s good enough to get Lincoln a retrial.”

“How does that keep Miss Watkins alive when I drop her back in Thunder Valley to face charges for stealing her father’s truck?” Taking a piece of paper from the folder, McCready pushed it between us. “Or do you care more about your brother’s freedom than your own or Avery’s life?”

I glanced at the paper. It was a photocopy of a complaint with the Thunder Valley police department. My father’s drunken scrawl cut through the signature line.

She shoved more papers in front of us. First, she showed us a statement from one of the ATF agents on the scene reporting how the brick of money in my backpack had tested positive for trace narcotics, indicating that it had recently been used in the drug trade. The second was another agent report, this one detailing how he had seen me from his position in the helicopter trying to stuff Baldie’s body back into the car.

“If the Gypsies let Avery live, we’ll indict her on federal drug charges and accessory to the murder of two federal agents.” McCready took the pages back before I could finish reading. “You might get off on the murders, but you either have to claim the drug money or admit to stealing it.”

Callan’s right hand clenched into a fist. He forced it straight, breath leaving his body in a slow, long stream as he fought for control. Callan looked at the man, glaring until the guy started to wiggle uncomfortably.

“Let me guess, you’re the prosecutor this bitch is keeping on a short chain?”

The man blinked, his uncertainty in how to answer evident in the grimace he pulled. McCready laughed, but the sound was thin.

“Mr. Jennings is with the U.S. Attorneys office,” she confirmed. She leaned forward and winked at Callan. “No chain, just a shock collar and a remote.”

Jennings took her reply as his cue to start talking. He had carried a briefcase with him into the room and he popped its locks. “The federal government is willing to grant both of you immunity in exchange for your testimony and assistance in investigating the criminal organization known as the Thunder Gypsies Motorcycle Club.”

The attorney nodded in my direction. “Full immunity for Miss Watkins on the federal charges and we have assurances from the county prosecutor that there will be no charges on the vehicle theft.”

My face started to heat in anger. This was American justice? This sadistic woman with a badge and her pet attorney were the good guys? Sprankle and his partner were dead in self-defense. The Gypsies had no legal claim to the drug money and weren’t about to press charges for its theft. About the only thing they genuinely had me on was my father’s car. But none of that mattered. I wasn’t an heiress with trust money to fund my defense, and I couldn’t imagine the Gypsies letting me live long enough to go to trial if the feds returned me to Thunder Valley.

But I didn’t have information McCready wanted. The only criminals I could inform on were the dead DEA agents.

“And Lincoln?” Callan asked.

I looked at Callan, only a little surprised he hadn’t asked about his own immunity.

Jennings started to answer, but McCready interrupted. “I’m reaching out to Lincoln based on today’s developments. Right now, we only have papers for you and Miss Watkins. Lincoln will have to cut his own deal.”

I looked at Callan, his expression unreadable. Would he push McCready for more? Did he have anything to bargain with?

“What’s it going to be, Mr. Tilley?” Her mouth shaped a superior smile, as if she knew the answer before Callan did. “Your brother or your lover?”

In the Wind

Four months later, I was waitressing at a small truck stop in western Oklahoma. I had a new name and a new social security number. The salary from the truck stop and the meager tips helped pay for a one-bedroom apartment not far from work, which was lucky because there wasn’t enough money left at the end of the month to think about a car payment or even a used beater. At least not yet.

Pushing the button for the elevator in my apartment building for the third time without the call light displaying, I pressed my forehead against the brick wall and let the cold emanating from it seep into my skin. Two waitresses had called in sick, leaving me to cover more than twice my usual number of tables. Beat to hell didn’t begin to describe how I felt.

“Elevator’s out again,” I mumbled and turned toward the open staircase and the two flights of stairs I would have to climb.

Hands wrapped around my waist, halting me. “You look exhausted, baby.”

“Nancy and Chloe were out,” I said, relaxing into Callan’s chest for a moment’s respite. “Didn’t get lunch, but I’m a full hundred ahead on tips from all the extra tables I had to cover.”

I felt him bend slightly and then my feet were off the floor as he scooped me up. I buried my face against his neck. “If you just got engine grease on my uniform--”

“Small price to pay to get your sweet butt hauled up two flights, baby.”

I pushed at his chest, unsuccessfully coaxing him to put me down. I might have had a busier than usual day, but it didn’t compare to his lugging parts and semi-truck tires around in the garage affixed to the diner.

“Put me down, Drew,” I said, using the new name witness protection had given him.

He growled at the name’s use and hugged me tighter to his broad chest. “Don’t argue, baby girl. You’ll thank me later when my cock’s in you and you’re not too tired to ride it.”

My cheeks started to burn and I looked around his shoulder to make sure we were alone as he ascended the stairs. Even though I couldn’t see anyone, I still whispered my retort.

“I’m never going to be too tired to ride you.”

“That’s my girl.” He gave me a squeeze then stopped talking as he focused on the remaining steps in front of him.

Reaching our apartment, he put me down and opened the door. “After you, Mrs. Connolly.”

The name was fake, the marriage was real. We had insisted on a small ceremony before joining witness protection. It had occurred on the sixth floor of a federal building, my time as Avery Tilley lasting little more than an hour before we had new identities.

Callan shut the door and set all three locks and the chain in place. With his hands on my hips, he slow walked me toward the bathroom. “Why don’t you take a soak while I get dinner started.”

I turned to look at him over my shoulder, eyeing him with the kind of suspicion only a wife could possess. “You weren’t flirting with anyone today, were you?”

Not that he didn’t help with dinner or the rest of the apartment on a regular basis. I just wanted to tease him for being so considerate. There were days when I felt like I didn’t deserve him and other days when I knew I didn’t. I just hoped Callan didn’t figure it out.

“Never, baby.” He turned my body then pushed me gently against the wall. He raised his left hand to stroke my cheek. His thumb had healed from the surgery, but the scar would always be there -- a reminder that Callan Tilley kept his promises.

He brought his mouth to mine, my lips opening to the gentle exploration of his tongue.

“First dinner,” he teased, ending the kiss. “Then dessert. These legs are going to be wrapped around my shoulders.”

Finding the hem of my waitressing dress, he lifted it to caress my thighs. “I want you soft and pliant.”

I nodded, the space between my thighs growing moist in anticipation.

“Good,” he turned me back in the direction of the bathroom and lightly slapped my ass before walking away. “You’ve got about forty minutes before I’m ready to feed you.”