BILLIONAIRE BIKERS: 3 MC Romance Books (34 page)

              Yeah. Not a good place, that warehouse. I don't know who would be in more danger showing their face around there: a Baron, or a pretty young cop with a chip on her shoulder.

              Better to lead her on a wild goose chase.

              I tear on ahead of Lane through the pouring-down rain, putting on occasional bursts whenever she gets too close. I let her believe she stands a chance of outpacing me, of cutting me off and finally apprehending the lone biker who has haunted her career since its inception. The backroad is empty, so I weave between lanes, enjoying myself probably more than I should as I skirt the yellow line. She never moves to follow me in the dance—never one to break a rule—but she lays on the horn more than once to try and get me to desist. Her unmarked car doesn't have a com system; otherwise, past experience tells me she would be yelling at me.

              Our chase continues as the clouds rumble and converge overhead. I wonder if I can lead her as far as the coast. Maybe even to the ends of the earth. I feel certain she would follow me. At least there I could keep her away from the Devil’s Bastards.

              But I make a mistake, thinking I can keep Elizabeth Lane from doing anything she has a mind to do. I notice her car slow in its pursuit, almost as if the woman behind the wheel is hesitating. I dial the helmet back up and listen in.

              What I get is Rodney shouting loud enough to burst an eardrum.
"Lane! Get your ass back on track and get to that warehouse!"
he bellows.
"You want to keep your badge, you better pull your head out of your ass and start acting like a God damn fucking cop!"

             
It might just be a burst of rolling static, but it sounds like Lane emits a growl of frustration.
No, no. Come on, baby,
I plead silently, because of course
I
don't have a say in this exchange. My gaze shoots to the side mirror, and I watch as the unmarked car behind me breaks away suddenly and takes off down a diverging road to the left.

             
"Shit!"
I exclaim. She's headed right for the warehouse, and God knows what kind of trouble awaits her there. Call me crazy, but a burning container doesn't sound random or even remotely subtle. It sounds like a trap.

              But a trap for who? Discounting myself and the rest of the RBMC, there is no one who knows this warehouse is still in operation, much less that it's now the territory of the Devil’s Bastards. As much as I might like to state the contrary, the police aren't stupid—they have their special moments, sure, but there's no way the brainy guys chattering away inside my helmet fail to comprehend what they might be sending one of their own into. The Devil’s Bastards are spreading like a plague around here, crawling their way into every bar and installation they find along the way. I've tried to tell Bentley they're becoming a major problem in my territory, but I'm not sure he's gets just how bad they’re becoming, and that we'll soon have to contend with if things keep going like this.

              But what good is all my information and emphasis on action if I can't protect one of our country's finest?

             
I don't break away from my intended course to follow her. Instead, I veer and jump the Hawk over the embankment separating the road from the untamed Northwestern wilderness. The trees are unusually sparse around here, and I know first-hand that the Nighthawk I customized is more than capable of maintaining speed off-road when I need to take a quick shortcut through the woods…
quick
being the keyword here. Prolonged off-roading would probably destroy my prized puppy and my will to ride along with it.

              I weave between the trees like I'm driving through the competitive obstacle courses I used to do as a kid, vaulting over roots and hard-packed mounds of soil; the rain that has managed to drain through the canopy above causes the dirt to churn to mud beneath my tires, but thankfully it's still early in the storm, and the weather doesn't make my progress any worse than it already was on the road. If anything, the presence of trees all around me shields me better from the rain, and gives me an advantage. If there's anyone waiting at the Jefferson warehouse, my chosen backway in is guaranteed to ensure I'm unexpected.

              I hit the perimeter of the rusted chain link fence soon enough and pull my bike up short. I scrutinize the surrounding area through the black visor of my helmet and notice a camera hanging from a nearby telephone pole. I turn my head, and can clearly see several more roosting in the trees surrounding me.

              This security setup is a new installation since the last time I was here a few months ago. I assume it came about after the siege Nancy and I laid to this place in our combined effort to get Lesher back.

I can't believe the Bastards didn't just abandon the place altogether, to be honest. They must really be feeling confident of holding onto this building, or else their resources aren't as plentiful as I thought, and they had no choice but to continue operating here despite common sense telling them to relocate. Somehow, I don't think it's the latter.

I shut my headlight down and drive slowly around the fence, making no noise save for the occasional suction of mud grasping at my tires. I remain under the cover of the tree line as I near the front entry point to the compound. I see only one pair of lights flashing red and blue, and it's radiating from inside the lone parked vehicle. No silhouette of an occupant inside.

Damn it, Lane.
I don't know how many times I need to think it before that woman's impulsive nature stands a chance of changing. If the firetrucks are as delayed by the weather as I expect they are, then she's completely on her own here.

              I rumble up beside her car, park, and dismount. I like the idea of leaving my Hawk as close to her own mode of conveyance as I was personally close to her at the bar earlier this evening. I shut the engine off and leave it, unworried about the rain, as I start for the fence.

              The lock sits busted on the ground, and I easily slip through the gap in the front gate. Either Lane took out some of her (no doubt sexual) frustration on the padlock, or someone else, possibly the arsonist, busted it open to grant access to themselves and anyone else who might happen along.

              Why the cameras, then, unless they are just for show? This situation strikes me as having been generated for one of two reasons: one, it's, again, a trap; or two, it's an attack on the Bastards by a heretofore unknown adversary, which means that despite having my ear to the ground, I've missed the appearance of a new gang or MC in the territory.

              Not fucking likely.

              I find the burning container easily enough, mainly because it's a
burning container.
The warehouse is without outdoor light installations, so I follow the monstrous flickering orange light until I find its source. The container burns, and Lane stands with her back to me in front of the blaze, gun drawn from whatever pocket dimension she keeps it in when she' wearing
that
dress.

              The smoke is heavy in the air, and carries with it an indefinable, acrid stench that makes me wish I had my guy in Silicon Valley install a ventilator in my helmet. I nearly gag on it, but manage to keep my breathing as regulated as I can.
In, out.
Why am I reminded of the smell of cannabis? This stuff definitely isn't as skunky as the weed I'm used to smelling hanging like a cloud off the kids in Portland. This smells almost…clinical.
Unnatural
is the only word I can think of to describe it, outside of
evil.

              A new synthetic drug? It's more than possible, but I didn't think the DBMC wasted their time with anything resembling marijuana. So what is it, and what the hell is it doing in my part of the globe?

              The police officer whirls suddenly, although I have no idea what noise I made to betray my presence. She's that good. She widens her stance and wraps a second outside hand around the hammer of her gun.

              "Don't move!" she orders. "Come out where I can see you with your hands up!"

              I lift my hands, not in surrender, but to visibly prove I have no weapon…that she can detect from that distance, anyway.

It's me, your boyfriend. Houdini,
I'm tempted to say.

What a badass introductory line that would be, but it's not as if I could ever say it without giving away the fact that I've been eavesdropping on squad car transmissions.

I take another step, and can tell she recognizes me; her stance wavers, but her voice remains strong.

"Take the helmet off, Houdini," she instructs me. "Slowly."

I lift my hand to the inside lining of the helmet, seemingly acquiescent to her command. Instead of taking it off, however, I hit a concealed switch. Time to take another facet of my million-dollar tech for a test run.

"Sorry, officer."
The helmet distorts my voice until it's unrecognizable as being human; my words growl concisely and robotically, although I'm happy to find that not all of my amused inflection is lost. Might have gotten shot if it had been.
"Can't do that."

"What the hell is this?" Lane lowers her gun momentarily. I'm standing far enough away from her that she doesn't perceive me as a threat, if she ever really perceived me that way to begin with. "Are you wearing some kind of Darth Vader mask now?"

"You like the old look better?"
I flirt.

"Your best look is going to be handcuffed in the back of my car," she retorts.

             
"Your own best look is more immediately apparent,"
I say. I make a quick show of bobbing my head up and down to take in the picturesque sex kitten before me.
"New uniform? Or do they make you wear it special?"

             
"Cut the crap, Houdini," she says. Despite the coldness of her tone, I sense hesitancy when she takes a step forward. "Did you do this?"

It wasn't the follow-up question I was expecting to be asked.

"Do what? Dress you up with no place to go? 'fraid I can't take credit for that."
I shrug. It's on the tip of my tongue to comment on my availability to
undress
her, but it might be too much of a 'Wolfish' comment to relay so soon after making her acquaintance in plainclothes.

"Did
you
set this fire?" Lane gestures over her shoulder. "Are you involved in this? In any way?"

"This an interrogation now?"
I ask her.
"Because I'm not saying anything without a lawyer."

"This isn't a joking matter!" she exclaims. She emits that familiar groan of frustration then and runs her hand through her tangled, free-hanging blond hair. "I can't protect if you if I don't know what side you're on!"

Wait, what?
She's
trying to protect
me?
How does that even begin to work? Clearly I'm the one who is protecting her!

And from the looks of things, Lane is about to need a whole lot of my protection.

Something catches my attention just over her shoulder. I jerk my head up, and the movement must be more obvious with the helmet, because the ever-perceptive Lane whirls as well. How time flies when you're standing in front of a raging fire getting to know one another.

There's no time to shout, only move—and I do, sprinting the last steps imposed between us and diving at her. Her slight frame caves beneath me, and I think I hear her utter an oath as I carry us both to the ground. At the last second my gloved hand shoots out to cup the back of her skull and act as a barrier between it and the concrete, but there's nothing I can do about my heavier weight following her through space. When we both go down, we go down hard, and I hear a gasp beneath me as all the air escapes her lungs.

Probably for the best. I don't exactly feel like getting cursed out when I'm saving an officer's life,
especially
when my split-second maneuver might have easily gotten me shot if she wasn't already distracted.

Behind us, the burning container reaches its flashpoint and erupts, rocketing at least a foot off the ground before slamming back down with reverberations that shake the entire compound. I feel Lane tense beneath me in response, and I press her into the ground, shielding every inch of her with my body. Clad all in road-ready leather, I'm practically armored against anything that might come near me…except a bullet, of course.

Sparks rain down around us. The moment I perceive the immediate danger is over, I knock the gun from her hand and roll off her. She's still completely out of breath; I hear a choked protest, but it isn't enough to stop me or cause me to take pity on her. I seize the standard issue handgun from where it has spiraled away from her, haul back, and hurl it with all my might. It flies high enough to hit a star before falling back down to earth with the rain—right into the fire.

"You unbelievable
asshole!"
Looks like Lane's got her breath back. I turn without a response and grab hold of her arm the moment she raises it to stop me. Did she really already forget who was acting as her human shield moments ago?