Evil’s Pact by Raven Dark

6

Outlaws and Minions

The trip takes just over an hour, but thanks to that conversation with Cap, much as I love riding, this one seems to take forever. I keep having to fight not to end up too far inside my own fucking head. Usually when it comes time for club business, shutting off my emotions is easy, but everything that’s happened since we got to White Springs keeps trying to intrude on the stoicism I depend on.

We’d left Pop’s Place as soon as Pip and Soda returned with the SUVs. Pip drove one of them, Cap the other. The rest of us ride in formation in front of the SUVs, Dragon and Dex in the lead, Soda bringing up the rear. With no way of knowing how many men Dread will bring, Dragon and Dex bring a small army. Between our two chapters, we rode out with fourteen men in all.

Hades’ Minions is a small club, and they won’t bring everyone. They won’t want to scare Raf off as a potential customer, so no matter what backup Dread shows up with, we’ll have more.

A show of force is critical here. I feel like a pansy-ass saying this, but we want to avoid a fight if we can, so we’re hoping flexing our fucking muscles will be enough.

All of us intend to watch these Minion pussies flee this little gathering with their tails between their legs, a few limbs broken, and Raf’s business still secured under our belts. We’ll walk away still the reigning kings of Nevada, the Outlaws ruling the fucking streets as the biggest goddamned gun suppliers in the state.

My mind should be on the potentially dangerous confrontation with the Minions ahead, but from the moment we set off, my fucking head’s buzzing with conversations from yesterday and today. The argument with my Wildcat following my beatdown of Primer. The one with Jules on the phone. And the fucking row with Cap. All of it drowns out the roar of motorcycle engines that fills the air.

What did you think you were doing? I hear myself demand. The accusation in my own voice burns in my gut like battery acid.

I tried to fight him! What did you expect me to do?

No one touches what’s mine. You belong to me and no one else.

I tried to fight him!

Always getting yourself in trouble, Wildcat.

Why’d you do it, Spider?Do you men lie awake thinking up the worst things you can say to us?

What did you think you were doing? I don’t want another man touching you.My voice distorts, sounding horribly like my father’s, to the point where I shake my head, trying to dispel it.

She stole those tips because she was trying to save herself the only way she knew how!In my head, Cap shouts the words. She’s more afraid of them than she is of you.

Why do you do this to me?

Because I can. Because I like hurting you.

Why’d you do it, Spider?

You’re just telling yourself she’s a danger because it’s easier than admitting that she’s gotten to you.

She’s a liar, Cap. A liar and a thief, maybe worse.

You’re just telling yourself she’s a danger because if you admit she’s innocent, that would mean you have to trust her. You’re scared, because you’re head over heels for her.

Why’d you do it, Spider?

She’s the best thing that’s ever happened to you, and if you don’t get your head out of your ass, you’ll end up alone. Like me.

What did you think you were doing? No one touches what’s mine. You belong to me and no one else.

Why’d you do it, Spider?

How could you hurt her that way?

Why do you do this to me?

Because I like hurting you.

…head over heels for her…

I tried to fight him!

You’ll end up alone. Like me.

A transport truck whizzes by us, blasting me with a wave of warm air as it passes and jarring me out of my thoughts. I inwardly shake myself.

Fuck, I need to get my head together. Not only because of the Minions, but also because the Satan’s Bastards are still gunning for us, and this flat, unpopulated stretch of desert is the perfect location for an ambush. Not to mention that damned gun drop that went south due to interference from the cops, and Briggs almost caught us with a load of hardware on our way out to White Springs.

I focus on my surroundings, letting these dangers keep my usual razor-sharp focus at the fore. Letting my distraction serve as a reminder of exactly why I have to keep that damned little thief at a distance. Letting them remind me of why Dragon’s so fucking worried about me losing my edge, and letting them serve as justification for why I blamed her for the incident with Primer.

As long as the wall of hatred between us remains intact, she can’t get close, making trusting her impossible. And as long as trusting her is impossible, she can’t fool me. She can’t make a fool of me, and thus she can’t endanger the club through me, and Dragon will have his club’s Sergeant At Arms where he needs him—with his head in the game and ready for blood.

With these thoughts, my stoic mask slams into place, all other distractions except the mission are crushed under my boot, and I become the instrument of club justice, and if need be, the bringer of death that Dragon counts on me to be.

When the mission is over, my Wildcat will pay for getting to me this way, but for now, there is only the club. Only the mission.

When we pull up to our destination, the place looks deserted. It’s a sprawling dude ranch in the middle of nowhere, with nothing around it but sand and rocks and a few cacti. I know shit about ranching, so I have no idea what most of the buildings are used for, but there’s a large barn sticking out from behind a main structure that looks like it might be an office building, and a larger, single-floor house off to the side that I gather is where the ranch hands would stay if the place was still running. There are no horses in the corral, and the house and barn are boarded up. I don’t smell the stench of animal shit I expect. No one’s worked or lived here for a long time. It really is the perfect place for a gun deal. Unfortunately, the isolation also makes it dangerous, because it’s the ideal place to bury a body.

Or lots of them.

Once I see the ranch, it’s easy for me to keep all other distractions at bay. The rush of adrenaline that always hits me whenever I enter a potentially dangerous encounter with another club rushes up, and I let it fill my blood. I look left and right at the bikes pulling up all around me. These bastard Minions won’t know what hit them.

We park in front of the office building, and Pip and Soda go with Striker and Vice to check the property out, making sure there are no surprises waiting for us. When they report that everything checks out, we stow our bikes in the barn, leaving only the two SUVs out in front of the office building, where Raf has told us he usually parks his vehicles on drop-offs. When the Minions pull in, they’ll think Raf’s showed up with only his usual guard, having no idea there is an army of pissed off Outlaws lying in wait.

All of us wait inside the office building. Most of the guys are holed up in back rooms, away from the windows, out of sight, but Scar and I watch the front, keeping eyes and ears open for any sign of Minion bikes. Pip takes the back door of the office building, and Soda takes the only other door, at the side. Dragon and Dex, along with four other guys, are in the conference room, where Raf always conducts business with Scar.

Ten minutes pass in silence before I finally speak.

“Thanks for backing me up on this plan, man.” I tell Scar, standing beside him at the front window.

“No problem. We’d better be right about this little tea party approach though, or it’s our asses in a sling.” Scar squints at the empty driveway that leads off the property, watchful.

Scar’s got his arms crossed, and they’re even bigger than mine. He’s a couple inches taller than me, and it strikes me how deep the scar on his cheek runs, puckering the skin. He’s never told anyone how he got it, but it must have been one hell of a gash.

“If the Minions decide not to play nice, Dread won’t hesitate to wipe all of us out just to send a message,” Scar says quietly.

“I’ve never had any dealing with him. I don’t even know what this asshole looks like. Have you had any run-ins with him?”

He gives a single nod.

“Is he a loose cannon?”

“He can be unpredictable. He’s a take no prisoners type if you piss him off.”

Well, that explains why Vice and Goliath were so against negotiating. It also explains his road name. No one likes a confrontation with someone who could turn psycho at any moment.

“That’s good to know,” I deadpan. I catch myself fingering the piece at my hip and cross my own arms.

“You’re not going to get twitchy on us now, are you?” Striker says behind me.

I jerk my head around to him. “Fuck off, Strike,” I mutter. “Back to your place.” It pisses me off that he saw me doing that. His thinking I’m losing my nerve is almost worse than Dragon thinking it.

“They’re late,” he says.

He sounds on edge, and I know why.

“I know. Get lost.”

He snorts and disappears into a back room with most of the others. I resist the urge to check my watch. He’s right, they are late, and that usually means they’re trying to catch us off guard.

Which means they might be onto us.

Another ten minutes pass.

The Bluetooth in my ear buzzes, and I click it on. “What?”

“Spider, you see any sign of them?” Rat’s voice comes through.

“No. I would have told you if I had, asshole.”

“Come on,” he mumbles. “Where the hell are those fucks?”

“They’ll be here. Chill the fuck out.”

“I bet they’re watching this place. Waiting to see some sign that they’re being double-crossed,” Reaper growls, sounding like he’s close to Rat.

Fuck, I hope not. We don’t need to end up with two wars on our hands.

“If you’re wrong about this, Spider—” Rat starts.

I disconnect the call.

As soon as I do, I hear the faint sound of motorcycles rumbling in the distance.

Scar looks at me, silently asking if I hear them. I nod, waiting until I see the row of bikes cresting a hill a half a mile from the ranch. Then I turn the Bluetooth back on, this time starting a three-way between Rat and the others in the back room, and Dragon in the conference room.

“They’re here,” I growl.

Dragon acknowledges, and I do a headcount of our guests. Six bikes, and then a last one comes over the hill, making seven. They’re sorely outgunned, but I know better than to think that means we’re out of danger. There are a dozen tricks Dread could have up his bastard sleeve that could turn the tide his way. Including the sudden appearance of a dozen men, if he’s onto us.

The bikes draw close enough that I make out the red bandana covering the lower half of the lead rider’s face. I step back, checking to see that everyone is in position, see everyone within my line of sight pull their guns, then draw my own. I cup it between my fists, pointed down, wait for Scar to back up behind a partition, and then move in front of him, out of sight, but where I can see the front door.

Outside, the sound of the bikes rises to a roar, then they cut off a few at a time. Men’s voices drift from the front yard.

“Hell of a way to do business, showing up this late, Prez,” someone says.

“Tough shit,” another man’s deep, gravelly voice answers. “Shit happens. Raf will understand.”

Footsteps clomp up the stairs.

I crouch in front of Scar so that he can easily lean over and see the doorway.

“Raf’s only the start,” the same gravelly voice says as the front door opens. “Other buyers will come around if he keeps spreading those rumors like he is now.”

The triumph in the voice makes my teeth grind. He’s talking about the takeover of our clientele. Fuck, now I wish the hell I hadn’t talked the others into a fucking negotiation.

The speaker ambles into the room, scanning the place, taking his bandana down to reveal a black beard streaked with grey. He puts his sunglasses onto the top of his head as his crew follows him and spreads out into the room.

“Raf said he would be in the back conference room,” another guy with a pockmarked face says. He tosses a cig on the floor and crushes it out under his boot.

“Good. Let’s get this done,” the first voice growls. “I left a wet pussy in my bed I’d like to get back to.”

I feel Scar lean over me for a second. Looking at the entrance. When I glance back at him, he nods.

“Dread,” he mouths.

“Half the Outlaws’ buyers will be running for the hills if he keeps spreading the word about the cops,” Dread says, and I hear his footsteps heading for the conference room.

Shit. I almost hope these guys give us a reason to kill them. No one messes with Outlaw business.

“It’s showtime,” I whisper to my Bluetooth, listening for the signal from Dragon, which he’ll give when Dread is inside the room.

Dread and his boys continue to chatter, apparently not suspecting a thing. Stupid fucks.

The door to the conference room opens.

“Hello, Dread.” Dragon’s voice, and it’s filled with menace from inside the room.

“Welcome to the party, boys,” Dex adds.

“Fuck!” Dread shouts.

“Go,” I order.

I stalk into the front room and down the hall with Scar at my side. Footsteps behind us tell me the others are backing us up, closing on the narrow hall and bottlenecking the Minions in with only one way to go—into the room where Dragon and Dex and some of the other guys are waiting.

One of Dread’s crew turns and starts back into the hall. I put my gun in his face. His long, scraggly beard, as greasy as his slicked-back hair, twitches. His thin face blanches, his beady eyes going huge.

“Greaseball, grow a pair.” One of the guys behind him grabs his shoulder as if to keep him from bolting, but most of them look like they’d run if they didn’t know what it would cost them.

“In,” I order. “All of you. Now.”

Greaseball and the other Minions back into the room, some of them with their hands up.

Dread moves to the end of the table and slams his hands on it. “What the hell are you Outlaw fuckholes doing here?”

“Over there, assholes,” I say, jerking my gun over to the side of the room.

The rest of the Outlaws file in behind me and spread out into the room. Pip brings up the rear, closing the doors. There’s a second door off to the left of the room, and Diesel and Vice are in front of it, blocking the way.

Dread looks around the room. We all have guns drawn on him and his men. His fists clench, and his lips peel back in a snarl.

“You fucking bastards,” the man with the pockmarked face spits. Fuck, he’s a giant, a half a foot taller than me and twice as wide in the shoulders.

“Thunder, stand hell down,” Dread snaps. “Where the fuck is Rafael?” he adds to Dragon and Dex.

“‘Fraid he couldn’t make it,” Dragon says with a smirk. Since Diamondback is the mother chapter, he is the first to speak.

“That traitorous fucking bastard.” Dread smashes his fist on the table. “He set us up.”

I can’t help a smile. This was too easy.

Sitting at the other end of the table besides Dex, Dragon motions with his hand. “Let’s not make this messier than necessary, boys. You’re already a small enough club. What do you have, fifteen patches? It would be a shame if we had to make your club any smaller.”

“We’re fucked,” a skinny man near the back mutters. He looks so young and nervous that he could only be a prospect.

A few of the Minions look ready to draw their guns.

“Make smart choices,” I growl. I move to the middle of the room so that Dread is on one side, Dragon and Dex on the other. I gesture at the Minions’ hands with my gun. “Go ahead. Give us a reason.”

A dozen eyes flick to me. Shoulders fall, hands drop, and a few of the Minions mutter curses.

“What are you gonna do, kill us all?” Dread snarls at the other end of the table.

“If you make it necessary.” Dragon’s smile is chilling. “But that’s such an inconvenience. So much cleanup involved.”

Our guys chuckle.

Dread’s shoulders fall, though his teeth are clenched. “What the fuck do you want?”

I flick my eyes at our leaders and both prezs meet my gaze for a fraction of a second. He’s playing dumb.

“You know what this is about,” Dragon says, and his voice turns to that deathly coldness I know so well. He stands up and leans on the table with his palms, his eyes boring into Dread’s. “You’re poaching on our territory. These are Outlaw streets. No one sells on our turf. Stay the fuck out of our business, or you’ll pay a high price.”

“Not gonna happen,” Dread says. “See, word is your club’s got heat on it from the cops after one of your deals. Your buyers are getting twitchy. There’s a new guy in town looking to get his hands on a fuck ton of firepower, and we’re not letting that business go to anyone else.”

I keep my expression neutral, but the words set off alarm bells in my head. What was it Lenny said? There’s some bigwig looking for a lot of firepower.

“Who is this fuck?” Dragon demands.

Dread shrugs. “He calls himself Adamson. He’s been creating a lot of chatter about the cops being up your asses.”

A growl scrapes at my throat. Adamson. Again. Son of a bitch. Who the fuck is this guy? My fist tightens around my pistol. Dragon’s eyes flick to mine as if he sees it. I relax my grip, and he focuses on Dread again.

“There is no fucking heat on us,” he says. “You’re lucky we’re letting you walk away with your fucking lives. Keep your fingers out of our pie, or we’ll cut them off and bury you with them shoved down your bitch throats.”

“You can’t do that.” Dread’s mouth twitches. “You can’t risk that kind of heat right now unless you want every cop in Vegas breathing down your necks. But who knows? Maybe you guys’d like to end up taking it up the ass in D Block.”

Dex pulls his gun and points it right at Dread’s forehead. “Shut your hole or I’ll splatter your fucking brain matter all over the wall!” Dex roars, and several of the Minions jolt. Dex rarely loses his temper.

The tension goes out of Dread. Dex lowers his gun.

“You fucking Outlaws think you’re king shit, don’t you?” Thunder snaps.

I look across the table at him, taking in the pockmarks on his cheeks. “Are we gonna have a problem here, crater-face?”

“Fuck you, Spider. I’d have thought you’d be better at keeping the boys in blue in line and out of your club’s business.”

Beside me, Striker starts toward him. “Come here and say that you—”

I grab his shoulder, yanking him back and putting him behind me. Then I prowl to the table, eyes on Thunder’s ugly mug. “Are you a fucking moron or something? Is this too complicated a concept for you guys to understand?” I turn to Striker. “Do you believe these guys are this stupid?”

Thunder’s jaw muscles twitch. Next second, he’s vaulting across the table in one move. He lands in front of me, forcing me to stagger back. Fuck, he really is enormous. A fist twice the size of mine flies at my face.

I weave out of the way, but I’m a hair too slow. His fist slams into my lower ribs. Pain knifes through my solar plexus, and my eyes blur. I compensate by going down on one knee and force my arms up despite the pain, blocking his second punch, flinging off his massive arm.

“Thunder, back the fuck off!” Dread shouts.

The giant ignores him, swinging again. “You’re a pathetic excuse for a Sergeant At Arms,” he sneers. “Letting the cops get so much on you.”

Rage sears my blood. I weave out of the way of his strikes, then leap up and throw my foot into his groin hard. He doubles over, and I slam my pistol hard into the side of his head. He flies backward and crashes into the table.

By the time I’ve stepped up to him, he’s yanked a knife out of his boot. I don’t get my gun into his face before he whips around and slices at me.

The blade gets me across the bicep. The fierce sting makes me hiss, but I shut it down. When he swings at my face, I catch his fist and the next instant, his knife is in my hand.

Thunder looks at his hand and then at mine, as if he’s trying to figure out how his blade got out of his grip and into mine.

“Shit…” he breathes.

Shutting off the throb in my ribs, I offer him a menacing grin. Then I fling a glance at Dragon.

Prez gives me the nod I need, then adds one for the rest of his crew. “Let them have it, boys.”

Pandemonium breaks out.

Thunder and I circle each other while the rest of the Outlaws let loose on the Minions. Striker knocks one of them down and starts wailing on him. Pip’s bashing the scrawny Minions’ prospect’s head against the floor. Reaper slams Greaseball into a wall and gut punches him.

Dread screams and bones crunch as if Dragon just hit him.

I throw a jump kick into Thunder’s chest, sending him backward several steps. One of the other Minions comes at me from the side as if trying to catch me off guard while I’m focused on Thunder. I spin around and catch him with a fist to the face. He goes sprawling. Rat comes out of nowhere and slams a chair into his face and he stays down.

“You said you were letting us walk!” the Minions’ prospect screeches.

“We are,” Dragon growls. He’s wailing on Dread, who’s on the floor trying to fend off his blows. “This is just a little reminder to make sure the message sinks in.”

I punch another Minion in the face and round on an advancing Thunder. His fist flies at me. I block the punch and kick him backward again. Fists continue to fly, bones crack and men groan in pain all around me. My focus is all on Thunder. I shove him across the room and up against the wall, then put his own blade to his throat.

“Now who’s the shitty-ass Sergeant?” I grit out. “I’m not the pussy with my own fucking blade at my throat.”

He tenses as if he’s going to put up a fight, and I press the blade hard enough to his throat that blood trickles down his neck. “Don’t think I won’t slit you open right here,” I snarl.

Thunder lifts his palms, his head back, chest heaving. “All right,” he croaks.

I throw a fist into his stomach for good measure and he doubles over, coughing.

“All right, boys, that ought to do it,” Dragon says. I glance sidelong at him in time to see him standing over Dread, fists tight, face furious. Dread is lying on the ground at his feet with a gushing nose and a swelling eye.

The fighting stops at once, the Outlaws backing away from the Minions, moving toward the middle of the room.

Dread heaves to his feet, wiping his bleeding nose.

“Let this be a fucking lesson to you,” Dragon says, and he gives Dread a couple of taps on the cheek. “Got the message, asshole? Next time, you and your crew don’t walk away.”

Our guys head for the doors, leaving the Minions bruised and cursing. Instead of giving Thunder back his weapon, I hold it up.

“Sweet knife. Thanks.” I pocket it.

Thunder’s jaw jumps, but he doesn’t move, apparently deciding it’s not worth risking his life for his knife. “Fucking asshole, you’re dead,” he mutters under his breath.

Rat is the last to step out, and he stops at the door, giving a glaring Dread a wave. “By- bye, Gru. You and your little Minions crawl back to that hole you call a clubhouse.”

Dex barks a laugh. Pip closes the door on them.

“What the fuck was that?” I whisper to Rat on the way to the front entrance. “Who the fuck is Gru?”

Rat grins. “Wow. You’re such an old fart, man. Emma’s usually the one that misses pop culture shit.” He looks at Dex who chuckles. “Those assholes need a new name. Every time someone calls them Minions, I think of those little yellow squashy guys.”

We leave the ranch office with minimal damage. Rat has a split lip, Pip’s eye is swelling, Dragon’s working his shoulder, and Striker’s wiggling a back tooth, spitting blood. Reaper’s holding his nose, which is gushing blood almost as bad as Dread’s was. Nearly all of us have bruised knuckles, including me. Cap’s limp is bad, and I have a feeling someone got him in the ribs, by the way he’s rubbing them.

My arm feels like it’s on fire. Warm blood trickles, soaking my arm and running onto my hand.

“Fuck, Spider.” Falling back to me, Dragon lifts my arm with a look of concern. “You took a hell of a slice back there. Better have that looked at.”

“It’s no big deal. I’ll live.” My arm’s not falling off, so I force myself not to look at it, focusing on Cap as he limps out of the front door toward the steps.

Seeing him in pain leeches all the anger with him out of me. Following Dragon and Dex, I put Cap’s arm around me and help him down the steps. “Let’s go, old man.” I squeeze his shoulder.

“Arm,” he grunts. “You need Stitch.”

“Don’t be such a fucking woman. It’ll be fine.” I help him into one of the SUVs, clap him on the shoulder, and shut the door for him.

I’m halfway to my bike in the barn when Dragon throws me a towel from my saddlebag.

“Mop the fuck up before you bleed all over this place.”

I swing onto my bike and take my first look at the wound on my arm. There’s a gash across my upper arm, a long one that’s going to leave a hell of a scar. Fuck. It’ll run right through the nice tat of skulls I’ve got there. My ribs are throbbing, but I don’t think they’re broken.

“Pip, get me a fucking tampon,” Reaper says, holding his streaming nose.

Pip reaches into his saddlebag and tosses a tampon to him. Reaper rips it open with his teeth and shoves the cork up his nostril.

I stifle a laugh, looking at him with the string hanging down.

Dragon mounts up and looks over his shoulder at the back of the lineup where the prospects are putting their helmets on. “Pip, Soda, you’ll have to come back with a few others to clean this place up. Raf’s not going to be happy with the mess we’ve made.”

“No thanks to you,” Striker adds, coming to my side as I mop up the blood on my arm.

“Sue me,” I grunt, tearing a clean strip off the towel for a tourniquet.

“This Adamson fuck just keeps coming up,” Dragon says to me, watching me tear another strip.

“Here,” Striker says, gesturing for the strips. I clench my teeth at the pain when he ties the strip of cloth around my arm tight to staunch the blood.

“I know,” I growl in response to Dragon. “I’ll take care of him.”

No idea how that fucker keeps getting up in our business or why, but I’ll find out, and when I do, I’ll rip out his entrails and leave them for the buzzards to eat.

“Find him fast,” Dragon says. “And when you do, bring him to me. I want to see you take his fucking head off and nail it to the clubhouse wall for target practice.”

“It’ll be done, Prez.” I give Striker a nod of thanks for tying off my arm.

While Dragon says something to Dex, I lean toward Striker.

“What do you think?” he whispers to me. “What’s this asswipe Adamson got against us?”

“I have no fucking clue what his game is.” I start up my bike, letting the rumble of the engine soothe my anger over that bastard.

Everything keeps circling back to him, and whoever he is, he’s got a hell of a hard on for the Outlaws. The more often he crops up, the less whatever he’s up to makes sense, but as of now, I am certain of one thing.

Whatever he has against us, Emma has nothing to do with it. If he’s looking for so much firepower that the Minions were stupid enough to fuck with our business, it can’t have anything to do with her. She knows nothing of guns or gun dealing. How she’s connected to him, I haven’t a fucking clue; there’s obviously a lot of fucking pieces to the puzzle I’m still missing.

As we head back toward White Springs, another thought starts to creep in regarding my Wildcat. For the first time since I found her picture in Adamson’s house, much as I hate to admit it, I’m starting to think she doesn’t know how she’s connected to him either.

Which means she might be a thief, but when it comes to him, she was telling me the truth.

And that means it’s distinctly possible that everything else, including what she told me about the Colony, was also true.

Which would mean Cap was right. She’s innocent.

Fuck, what am I supposed to do with that?