Page 2 of Fire Meets Fire

“Yeah, just keep that up,” I growl, unable to keep the leer from spreading over my face.

In the harsh bright light, I see her brave expression change, and her face pales. All the confidence she had while fighting me seems to have fled. Abruptly, she stills as she becomes aware of the effect her movements have had on my groin. She swallows heavily.

Fuck. I’m no rapist.Her palpable fear at the position she’s in makes me feel guilty I got any enjoyment from feeling her curves.

“I’ll let you up, but you run? I’ll catch you and make you regret it,” I warn her. When I see the little nod of acceptance, I lift myself away, strangely regretting losing the softness of her body beneath me.

Free, she warily pulls herself up. Once she’s standing, she brushes herself off, wincing as she must catch one of the bruises I left.

Par for the course, sweetheart. You left some on me too.Reluctantly, I have to admire her and her fighting skills.

She’s about five foot ten, a good eight inches shorter than me. I’d mistaken her silhouette for that of a man as she’s got the smallest tits I’ve ever seen. Her ass is tight and high, and her waist is tiny and pulled in. My cock, which should have stood down now her proximity has gone, jerks as though telling me he likes what he sees.

I should ask what the fuck she’s doing, stealing from the club, whether she’s got a screw loose, or a death wish. But still amazed as, for a moment, it had been touch and go which one of us would win the set we’d just had, what actually comes out of my mouth is, “How the fuck did you learn to fight like that?”

CHAPTER ONE

HELO

Becoming a thief didn’t much bother me. Up against everything else I’ve done in my life, it’s just one more thing in my extensive repertoire to add to my resume. While it’s not my acquisition method of choice, I question whether it can be called stealing at all if the people you’re robbing from are criminals. After all, I’m probably only taking their ill-gotten gains, or items bought with blood money.

I’m not blind to the risks, though. I’m not pilfering from just anyone. No, I’m stealing from the Arizona chapter of the Wretched Soulz MC—the motorcycle gang with an international reputation for violence and mayhem. I have no illusions about what little mercy they’ll have if they catch me. But needs must, as they say.

Whilst I’m never one to turn down a challenge, I’m not doing it for fun. If I could see another option, I’d take it. There might be better ways of keeping a roof over my head, but in my current predicament, keeping the particular ceiling that I’ve stumbled across suits me just fine. I’ll do what I can to keep it that way.

At heart, I’m a daredevil. When the solution to my problem presented itself, I admit I didn’t try to persuade myself out of it. Keeping mind and body sharp has long been part of my training.And what better way of doing that than stealing motorcycle parts from a notorious gang? I’m not that reckless. I’m only taking items that are being discarded or are of minimal value, which shouldn’t be missed. It can’t be unusual for the small shit to go astray, and only an anal-retentive person would keep track of every nut, bolt, or screw. Surely an auto shop run by criminals can’t be that well organised? I can’t see a leather-clad gang wasting time on detailed inventories. They’ve probably got drugs or guns to run, certainly things more interesting.

Like before any mission, I analysed my chances of getting into their auto shop and out again without exposure. They might be equipped to keep the day-to-day thief out, and that’s if their reputation doesn’t deter anyone from breaking into their premises. But they haven’t come up against someone like me before, and definitely not someone of my calibre. Bikers? Huh. I could eat them for breakfast.

And if I’m wrong? Well, we’ve all got to die. Someday. I’ve risked putting my life on the line more times than I can count. Facing danger has become second nature.

Tonight, just as I have over the past couple of weeks, I first check that the shop’s dark and quiet, just as it should be this close to midnight. I move to the telegraph pole that’s conveniently close to the razor-wired topped-rear fence. It’s near enough for me to be able to use it for what I need to, but not for anyone else to suspect what I’m doing. Then, probably, there’s no one else crazy enough to break into the Wretched Soulz premises.

Like any woman who attempts to make it in a male-dominated arena knows, they have to prove themselves better than any man just to keep up. A simple stumble can lead to ridicule and derision, whereas a male companion making the same mistake would just be offered a hand to help them backon their feet. Needing to excel, to be the best, is the background that’s given me the skills for what I’m about to do next.

Using several muscle groups in my arms and legs aided by core strength, I shimmy up the pole that has no handholds, as easily as if there was a ladder attached. At the top, I balance, take a small tablet out of my bag, and send the program that will block the MC’s alarm system until I reset it. Since I was last here, they’ve made some enhancements, but I easily take them in my stride. That done, I loop a rope around the pole, running through safety checks to make sure it will hold. Once satisfied, I draw up, lean my weight back a little, then throw myself forward, leaping into the void that will hopefully allow me to land on the other side of the boundary.

I arrive exactly as I’ve perfected on my previous forays before, two legs balanced on the inside of the fence, well beneath the razor wire, allowing me to gently descend the last few feet until I’m standing on the ground. The rope I leave swinging to help me make the return journey. Later, after I’ve used it to complete the upward climb, I’ll remove the rope, check I’ve left no footprints, and thus leave no evidence that I’ve ever been here. Even if the bike gang knows they are being robbed, how will remain a mystery.

My heart rate is only a little elevated after getting over the barrier between me and the premises I’m about to rob. It takes far more than a simple breaking and entering to get adrenaline pulsing through my veins. Nevertheless, I am on high alert as I pause by my escape route, all senses examining the environment, but as expected, I hear and see nothing.

As normal, first, I start picking through the trash they’ve discarded. My client—I use the word to justify our relationship to myself—has particular requirements. His motorcycle brought back from its current crashed state and restored to factory condition. Not for him are the customisations that the WretchedSoulz are famous for doing. Their customers come in to have a “live to ride” embossed plate fixed over the air filter. Their discarded plain one is absolutely right for what I want. Grinning when I find one that just needs the dents knocked out and some polish to be good as new, I put it into my backpack.

There are slim pickings otherwise tonight though. I’d hoped to find a seal which still had some use, but unfortunately, there’s nothing. That means if I want to be able to get on with the job I’m working on, I’ll need to take one out of their storeroom. The value is only a couple of dollars, and it’s something they’ll likely have in bulk.

It’s just a minor complication. Picking the lock on the door is child’s play and in seconds, I’m pawing through boxes of spare parts, trying to find just what I’m looking for.

“Come on, come on,” I mumble to myself, impatiently trying to sort through the jumble inside, the mess confirming they’re unlikely to miss anything. While I’d like to be out of there as soon as possible, I don’t feel unduly under any time pressure. Those lazy bikers won’t be back at work until the sun’s well over the horizon, but my bed is calling, and I’d prefer to get home. “Where the fuck are you?”

However safe I feel, I remain alert. My brain might accept I’ve done this a dozen times before and can be confident I won’t be exposed, but my hearing and whatever sixth sense makes the hairs on the back of my neck stick up, never stand down. When all my synapses signal a warning, I pause what I’m doing. The soft, but unmissable sound of a gun’s safety being eased off features like a pistol shot.

In less than a second, I’ve assessed the direction the noise came from. Instead of freezing like any other person may have done, I launch myself around, my leg already in motion, to kick the gun out of whoever’s holding its hand. My own hand, fisted and ready, goes into his stomach, expecting to put him down.

I’ve got this.Automatically I’ve assessed his height and weight, knowing he’s got both those advantages, but I’ve got the skills and the training. He might now be unarmed, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t start giving a good account of himself. Impressed, I up it up a notch myself. To be honest, finding someone of a calibre equal to mine has my blood racing. I haven’t had a good work out for months, and as we continue to spar, I have to admit I’m enjoying the situation.

He’s obviously using every dirty trick in the book, but hey, I’ve read the same manual. Terrorists don’t play by Queensberry rules, and any soldier has to know how to face them.

I got this,I remind myself. I’m a combat veteran trained by my country, when what can he be but an ignorant biker equipped only with street skills? I can hear his harsh breathing while mine is still steady. I start to smile…

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