Page 72 of Claimed By the Biker Brothers

“Knox, you’re better acquainted with Easton,” Jagger says. “Lead the way.”

I agree with a swift nod, so we follow him across the tracks, constantly looking around. There’s barely a soul out here with the exception of the yard workers—and the handful of them are focused on loading and unloading two different trains all the way over to the south side of the structure.

As we approach, I can feel my stomach tightening. The hairs on the back of my neck prick up.

“I’m hearing voices,” I whisper.

Knox nods. “I’m counting four. Two dealers, two buyers, most likely.”

I inch closer and look over his shoulder so I can have eyes on them too. “I can tell who’s a Hughes goon from a mile away,” I mutter.

“Red plaid and green sweater?” Knox asks.

The fella in red plaid is tall and skinny, a semiautomatic is hanging from his waist. It takes a certain type of audacity to flaunt that kind of weapon out in the open. The guy in the green sweater is stocky and sharp-looking, likely the brains of this particular operation.

“The buyers don’t look local,” I say.

It’s two gentlemen in dark jeans and black coats. Their black hair is slicked back and they have dark skin. “I’ll bet Christmas dinner they’re cartel-affiliated,” Jagger says, “if not straight-up lieutenants. Can you see the neck tats?”

“Prison ink, for sure,” I reply.

The clicking sound of a safety switched off makes me turn my head just in time to see a third offender, another Hughes goon, sneaking out of the very car we’ve been hiding behind. This one’s sporting a jean jacket and a terrible haircut.

“Who the fuck are you?” he asks.

The blood freezes in my veins as I slowly turn around and put my hands up. Knox and Jagger do the same, though Knox still has one eye on the drug deal taking place about thirty yards away.

“I’ll tell you who I am if you put that gun down,” I tell Bad Hair. “We’re not here to cause any trouble.”

“Not good enough,” he says, then pauses for a split second, a glimmer of recognition lighting up his face. “Holy shit, you’re Riders.”

“Was it my handsome face that gave it away or the club patches?” I reply.

“Can’t let you leave,” Bad Hair scoffs. “Marlo wants your heads on a spike, and I want that Christmas bonus.”

Knox intervenes with great caution. “Now hold on. You don’t want to do anything stupid. People know we’re here. We’ve got a DEA agent tailing us as we speak, likely on his way into the yard. I doubt Marlo will be happy if the DEA stumbles upon your operation while you’re busy playing Rambo.”

“Shut the fuck up!” He says, and I know he’s about to fire his weapon.

But I draw mine first.

No hesitation. It’s him or me.

POP-POP.

Point blank, I give him two to the chest. Bad Hair gives me a shocked look as he falls from the car flat on his face into the cold red dirt.

“Shit, we’re made,” Jagger warns.

I can hear them coming. There are four pairs of boots scuffling across the tracks, voices shouting, some in English, some in Spanish. All four are headed our way, and the Hughes boys are about to find one of their own dead.

“Gotta make a run for it,” Knox hisses and bolts first.

Jagger and I follow him, light on our feet as we dash behind the back of the train car, jumping from one track to another in-between other old wagons to put as much distance between us and them as possible.

Bullets fly past our heads.

I duck, then stop for a moment and point my weapon back at our pursuers.

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