Biker's Betrayal (Biker Erotic Romance)

This is a work of fiction. Any names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons--living or dead--is entirely coincidental.

Biker's Betrayal @ 2014 by Emily Stone. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embedded in critical articles or reviews.

Biker's Betrayal

Even before the sirens began wailing
, Sandy knew she’d been overzealous with the gas pedal. Swearing under her breath, she pulled over and waited patiently for the cops to come over and question her, praying for them to just give her a speeding ticket and send her on her way. The officer approached the window and Sandy obligingly rolled it down, looking up with a pleasant smile.

“Is there a problem, Officer?” she asked, innocently.

“Turn off the engine and put the keys on the dashboard,” the officer ordered her gruffly, “then show me your license and registration.”

Sandy quietly did as she was told, not wanting to antagonize the officer. She handed the officer her ID and sat waiting while he read it.

“So, where are you heading, Ms Harper?”

“I’m driving up from Vegas to see my boyfriend,” Sandy replied, giving an answer that was at least half-true.

“You must be in a hurry to be going ten mph over the speed limit,” the officer noted, handing Sandy back her ID.

“We’re in the middle of the desert, Officer,” Sandy pointed out, a tinge of annoyance creeping into her voice, “and yours is the first car I’ve seen for miles. Do you seriously care if I was going a little faster than the law says I can?”

“Even so, do you mind if I look in your trunk quickly?” the officer asked.

“Why do you want to?” Sandy flinched, suppressing her nervousness.

“I’m just curious.” the officer shrugged, “I mean, I can’t force you if you don’t want me to look, but then I’d have to ask ‘why not?’”

“Fine,” said Sandy, trying to sound like she had nothing to hide, “take a look.”

The officer went round to the back of the car and started fiddling with the trunk. Sandy seized her chance and snatched the keys off the dashboard, turning it in the ignition. However, at the crucial moment, the engine stalled. She frantically turned the key in the ignition, but to no avail, and slapped the wheel in fury.

The officer couldn’t fail to notice Sandy’s failed attempt to escape, and when he popped the trunk and saw what was inside it became obvious why.

***

Sandy was read her rights and placed under arrest before being driven to the nearest police station. She scowled for her mug shot and kept up a tough appearance for the security camera as she was left to wait in the interrogation room, but inside, she was panicking.

Half a million dollars worth of guns and ammunition had been seized from her car trunk, and it was only a matter of time before they found out who she was working for. The best she could hope for was a plea bargain, which would involve betraying her fellow Seraphim to the cops to shave at most a decade off her probable sentence. Either way, she was a dead woman.

Sandy turned to look at her reflection in the two-way mirror. Her hair wasn’t sandy at all; she’d dyed her hair red a long time ago, shortly before adding a nose piercing and the Speeding Seraphim tattoo on her lower back. She was pretty damn hot. Once she went to prison, however, that wouldn’t last. The women’s sections of the state prison system were brutal; if the stories were true, she wouldn’t last longer than a month in there. Sandy hung her head in hopelessness. She could either sell out her fellow bikers in the Speeding Seraphim, or she could consign herself to a quarter of a century in a desert hellhole.

***

The jet-black hummer pulled up outside the police station. Out of the vehicle stepped a man and a woman wearing ATF jackets and shades to keep the glaring desert sun at bay. A local police officer came rushing out to meet them.

“I’m Officer Vasquez, we’ve been expecting you.” The officer offered his hand.

“I’m Agent McMahon and this is Agent Philips,” the male agent replied gruffly, ignoring the attempted handshake. “Why are we here?”

“A few hours ago, we arrested a Caucasian female in her late twenties for going ten miles over the speed limit,” Vasquez replied, leading the agents inside.

“And?” said Agent Philips skeptically.

“She was sporting a Speeding Seraphim tattoo on her lower back, and tried to speed away when an officer went to check the trunk of her car.”

“A biker chick driving a car?” said Agent McMahon as they were led to the back of the station. “That’s got to be at least a 15 year sentence.”

“Especially given what she was smuggling,” Vasquez answered, doing his best to ignore McMahon’s haughty sarcasm as he led them to the forensic labs.

Half a dozen officers were cataloguing the weapons and boxes of ammunition they had seized from Sandy’s car, and the ATF agents removed their shades in surprise, their disdainful skepticism evaporating instantly.

“A dozen disassembled M16s, a dozen Glocks, a pair of sawn-off shotguns, a thousand rounds of ammunition for all three, and a pair of hand grenades,” said Vasquez.

“This is the biggest seizure we’ve had in months,” said Agent Philips.

“Call the team here,” McMahon ordered, “and tell them to bring a firearms forensic kit.”

Agent Philips nodded and went outside to make the call.

“I need to speak with the woman who was transporting all this.”

“Sure,” Officer Vasquez led Agent McMahon to the interview room, “we were letting her stew first before questioning her; thought you might like to do that yourself.”

“What do you know about her?”

“Her name’s Sandy Harper, she lives in the next county, and her driver’s license is actually a motorcycle license. But she’s got no prior convictions, and this is the first time she’s ever been arrested.”

McMahon only half heard the rest of Vasquez’s words; he had stopped in his tracks on hearing her name.

“Is something wrong, Agent?”

“That name’s familiar,” McMahon said truthfully, “in fact she’s been under suspicion for a while, but there’s no problem.” His second statement was a lie.

“Well, here she is.” Vasquez led McMahon into the viewing room.

McMahon remained outwardly implacable and austere, but inside he had lurched back into the past. The woman sitting at the table on the other side of the two-way mirror was slim and attractive, with dyed red hair cut short just above the shoulders. She had on a woman’s biker jacket, a pair of skin-tight jeans, and flat-bottomed heels . She was hanging her head slightly, possibly contemplating the life sentence she had incurred. In spite of her change in style, she was undoubtedly the same girl he’d grown up with.

“The team is on their way,” announced Agent Philips, returning from making the call, “they should be here in about an hour.”

“Officer Vasquez, would you mind giving us a minute alone?” McMahon requested. Vasquez nodded and left the room.

“What’s the problem?” Philips asked.

“I know her,” McMahon said grimly. Philips silently mouthed an awkward ‘oh’, not sure what to say in response.

“How long ago and how well did you two know each other?” she eventually asked.

“We grew up in the same town,” replied McMahon, staring at Sandy through the glass like a memory in physical form, “and we were very close indeed, before I left for college. This is the first time I’ve seen her in ten years.”

“You know she’s probably working for the Speeding Seraphim now, right?” Philips asked, sounding concerned.

“Why else would she be driving a car full of illegal weapons?” McMahon answered, missing his partner’s implicit meaning.

“I’m just saying, it can’t be easy seeing an old friend on the other side,” Philips persisted.

“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?” McMahon demanded defensively.

“It means that we can’t afford for your shared history to compromise—”

“I’ve spent an entire year running this operation with no success!” McMahon snapped angrily, “These gangs hide behind reams of legal bullshit, and all the while the guns they trade all over the state are claiming more lives every week. So I don’t need a reminder on the importance of not compromising our only lead, thank you!”

“Calm the fuck down, Brad,” Philips shot back, keeping her tone level but hard, “I just don’t want it getting too personal.”

“It won’t,” McMahon said through gritted teeth. An awkward pause followed.

“Were you going to question her, or should I?” Philips asked, breaking the silence.

“I’ll talk to her,” said McMahon, heading into the interrogation room.

***

Sandy heard the door open and looked up from her despondence to see a well-built man in an ATF jacket enter the room. He was at least six feet tall, and crossed the room with a stern, businesslike air about him before sitting down opposite her and giving her a hard stare. He was clean-shaven, with wavy brown hair, blue eyes, and an almost perfectly square jaw. Sandy completely forgot her predicament as she stared back at him in astonishment.

“Brad?” she asked, scarcely believing it was him.

“That’s Agent McMahon to you, Miss Harper.”

“Don’t you ‘Miss Harper’ me,” Sandy shot back. “You know my name, so use it.”

“Why were you driving a car with a motorcycle license?” Brad asked her.

“I’ve been fine these last ten years, thanks for asking,” Sandy replied with a note of sarcasm in her voice, “how about you, Agent?”

“Maybe I should rephrase that,” continued Brad, appearing totally unmoved. “Why were you transporting 500K worth of military-grade weaponry in your car?”

“The car’s a rental,” Sandy said innocently. “Maybe the last person to drive it was a gun runner and left his stash in the trunk by accident.”

“Or maybe you’re the one who runs guns for the Speeding Seraphim.”

“The who?” Sandy asked with an innocent smile.

“A biker gang who smuggle weapons for various gangs all over the state, and sometimes across state lines,” Brad accused , “of which you are a member. That’s who.”

“And what’s your proof for that?”

“The tattoo on your lower back.”

“Oh, you mean this?” Sandy got up and turned around, lifting up her shirt to reveal a tattoo of the Speeding Seraphim insignia; a naked woman with angelic wings spread wide, curled up in a model’s pose with her hands covering her modesty. The words ‘Speeding Seraphim’ were emblazoned on a banner underneath the angel.

“Nice,” said Brad, barely flinching and not sounding at all impressed. Sandy lowered her shirt and sat back down.

“That’s not the only tattoo I’ve got, you know,” Sandy said with a flirty smile, leaning forwards and reaching for her jacket zipper.

“That’s enough,” said Brad sharply. Sandy sat back again, looking disappointed.

“This is the bottom line: you enter a plea bargain where you tell us everything you know about Speeding Seraphim gun running operations in exchange for a significantly reduced sentence, maybe even amnesty.”

“And if I refuse?”

“Then I’ll personally lock you up in one of the famously hospitable federal prisons and throw away the key,” Brad answered coldly.

“You’d do that to your ex-girlfriend?” Sandy asked incredulously. “What the fuck happened to you, Brad?”

“I became responsible for stopping the flow of arms into this state, and got tired of people dying because of the guns your gang of thugs smuggles in.”

“You and your Fed buddies have killed plenty of us,” Sandy shot back. “The only difference between you and us is that ATF jacket, you fucking hypocrite.”