Hellbent (Four Horsemen MC Book 5) (31 page)

The Raptors watching the fight grumbled, hands reaching for weapons, eyes promising retaliation.

"Tonight is not the night to fuck with me." Shep faced them, eyes daring them to do it anyway. "You may not have noticed, but you're outnumbered."

A raucous call rang up from the crowd and Coyote blared "All My Rowdy Friends" overhead. Duke jumped up next to Shep. "But if you want to try it, we're game."

The Horsemen crowded closer to the ring and the Raptors took their cue to leave. They gathered up Manson and headed out, metaphorical tails between their legs.

"Shep is a fucking badass," Pretty Boy whispered.

Axel almost spit out his beer, choking in amusement next to him. "Just noticed that, did you?"

Chapter Thirty

Stay loyal to the MC. If you commit treason, you meet the Pale Rider.

~Four Horsemen Charter

* * *

The next night, Pretty Boy and the other new members got a text that said, "Perdition. Now." When they got there, they circled around through the back, following the low rumble of voices.

Duke in a dark alley was never a welcome sight, new brother or no. He leaned against the wall next to Shep. Axel was angled beside them, just outside of the security lights behind Perdition. Pretty Boy exchanged a worried look with Fetch.

"Well, this looks seven kinds of shady," Crash said.

"I had this weird—obviously false—hope that the cryptic midnight text messages would stop once we were through Revelation." Fetch sighed.

Pretty Boy cocked his head at Shep. He hadn't seen him since they had given the prize fight money to Etta last night. She had hugged him tight, tears of gratitude welling in her eyes as she told him he had probably saved that kid's—Manson’s son—life. The look on Shep's face as he hugged her back. The VP wasn’t rich—he lived off the money remaining from his dad’s estate and kick-backs from the Horsemen businesses for his officer position—but unbeknownst to Etta, he had thrown in an extra $5K from his own personal funds. Another reminder of why Shep was too good for him. "What's up, VP?"

"We're breaking into Beauregard's tonight, using the cover of th Ie rally. Hopefully his guard will be down. Then we'll get back Eddie's gun." Shep lit a smoke.

"So we can put that fucking asshole down," Axel added.

     Pretty Boy grinned. "I'm
so
down. How can I help?"

     "You get to be the distraction." Duke smirked.

     He nearly choked. "How the fuck am I supposed to do that?"

     "By getting caught."

Mostly Pretty Boy thought of Duke as a big, mean-ass motherfucker and left it at that. His eyes drifted to the Pale Rider patch on Duke's cut. He knew better than to poke a bear twice his size.

Which is why he controlled his tone as he gritted out, "You're fucking with me, right?"

Duke and Shep exchanged a look. Shep leaned forward. "We're getting caught. And while they're occupied with our asses, Duke can come in the back and get the gun."

“We still have to find the body of the FBI agent, but the gun is the strongest connection to Eddie, so it comes first,” Duke added.

It was the last night of the rally, and everyone else was at the Crossroad Crows concert. But they were here discussing this insane-as-shit idea to get Eddie's ass out of the fryer with Beauregard.

If it had been for anyone else, he wouldn't be about to agree to this.

"You really think that's going to work?" Pretty Boy's mouth went dry.

"It's for Eddie. We're going to find out," Shep answered firmly. "You in or not?"

He swallowed, eyes locked on Shep. He couldn't let him down. No matter how fucking stupid this shit was. Or that the last time he'd let Beauregard lay hands on him, he'd ended up in a hospital. "I'm in."

He looked away from the speculative glance of Crash and Dash, feeling a blush creep us his neck like he was some damned teenager.

"Fetch, grab a cage from Seventh Circle. You got our ride out of there when we get free. Crash and Dash, you're on extraction. Duke's sole purpose is getting out of there with the gun—ours is letting him do his job. Got it?"

"Yes, Shep!" The unison shout was automatic.

"And guys? You don't have to do that anymore. You're full members now."

"Yes, Shep!"

He shook his head and stalked off.

"Dude," Crash snickered as he put a hand on his shoulder. "Not sure what was funnier, his face when we do that or yours when he said you had to get caught!"

Getting caught sucked just as much as he had imagined.  Smashing the skylight with a hammer like a nube and stomping down the hall like his feet were made of elephants was humiliating enough, without having to take a dive during the fight. Pretty Boy glared at Shep. The VP half shrugged, a smirk sliding across his face like,
the fuck you want me to do about it?

The thug holding him shoved him face-first into the floor, wrapping cold cuffs around his wrist. At least the carpet felt soft on his face. He sighed. There was a dual snap as they clicked a pair on Shep, too. "Stay. Good dog."

He looked around—they were in what looked like the main office, where the gun and safe were supposed to be. Which meant if Duke wasn’t camouflaged behind the curtains right now, they’d failed their mission.

The doors of the richly decorated office opened wide and Byron Beauregard the Bastard strolled into the room. "Ah boys, there you are! We've been expecting you since we ran into your pal Duke earlier."

Pretty Boy felt a growl building his chest. All this and they hadn't even gotten the drop on the smug asshole?

Dressed in a spectacularly tailored tux, he had slicked his blond hair straight back. His tie was undone, bleach white shirt a little ruffled. He slipped his jacket off, hanging it on a brass hook on the wall, removed his cufflinks and rolled his sleeves above his wrists. As he finished and looked at Shep, Beauregard's smile smacked of sinister. "Better call your guard dog off, Shep. That boy's trying to murder me with his eyes. He might do something stupid."

A muscle worked in Shep's jaw, and he shot a sideways glance at Pretty Boy.

No fucking way. He wants me to bow to this motherfucker?

Shep turned to look at him straight in the eyes, the message clear—
fall in line.

He gritted his teeth and relaxed his shoulders. Not like he could do a whole lot about this situation with both hands cuffed behind his back anyway.

Beauregard watched them with avid interest. When Shep looked away, satisfied that Pretty Boy was going to behave—'for now' understood—Beauregard's eyes held a malicious gleam. He strolled over to his sidebar and poured himself three fingers of bourbon from a crystal decanter, then removed a thin cigar from a polished oak box. He clipped it and shallowly dipped the end in the booze, before lighting it. He blew a few smoke rings into the air, his silhouette lit by the lamps behind him.

The last time he’d gotten this close to Beauregard, there had been a few too many fists in his face for him to give it much attention before, but now Pretty Boy could kind of see that whole 'sold-his-soul-to-the-devil' thing everyone kept talking about. Of course, seemed more likely at this moment that Beauregard was the slick-tongued demon waiting at the crossroads.

"What do you want?" Shep asked, voice low and hoarse.

"You know, Shep," Beauregard said, gesturing at him with his cigar. "I thought we'd buried hatchets, you and I. And now, here you are, breaking into my office building for something that Duke was never going to find in this safe."

Pretty Boy could see how hard Shep had just swallowed.

"Blackmailing Eddie is a sure way to bury something. Just ain't a hatchet," Shep told him.

"Mmm-hmmm." Beauregard puffed on his cigar a few more times, blowing the smoke contemplatively at the ceiling. He took a sip from his glass. "You know what the problem is with you, Shep?"

"Enlighten me."

Pretty Boy bit back a smile at Shep's tone. For all the Shep had told him to cool it a few minutes ago, his usually diplomatic demeanor was sorely failing him.

"The problem is, I can't kill you." He frowned as he flicked the ashes off the cigar into a glass tray. "You're the lynchpin of this little group. Don't even fucking matter who's Prez, if you're not on board."

Shep's chin lifted, but he remained silent.

"Look at this kid, here." Beauregard tilted his head toward Pretty Boy. "He'd tear my throat out with his bare teeth if he could. But he's not even trying. Because of
you.
That's why you're special."

"Gee, thanks," Shep said dryly.

"So, my options are bring you to heel—or get you removed from your position of favor." His smile chilled.  He took another sip of bourbon and wet his lips. "Now, I'd like to talk about that
little secret
of yours and I imagine it'd be a might more comfortable for you if my associates left the room. But I'm going to need your word that you won't do anything…
impolite
."

Shep's shoulders bunched, his jaw pulsing with anger. Pretty Boy could feel the
fuck you
rolling off the biker. But then, he slowly blew out a breath. "You have my word."

"We're just going to sit here and take it?" Pretty Boy hissed before he could help himself. Shep shot him a glare over his shoulder.

Beauregard put a finger to his lips. "Hush. The adults are talking."

"They can go. We'll
behave.
" Shep's dry was broken and hoarse.

The sharp sound stung Pretty Boy's ears. He swallowed hard and nodded once.
What could Beauregard possibly have on …?

Beauregard's thugs left the room, the door whispering shut behind them. "That's better isn't it? Only the parties involved present? Much more intimate."

That
fuck you
tic was back in Shep's jaw. "What do you want?"

"I wanted to have a little chat about your boy, here."He could feel Beauregard's gaze like a serpent sliding into his boot.
Oh. It's me. I'm what he has on Shep.

Fuck.

He tried to apologize with his eyes as the realization washed over him. This was all his fault. Again.

Beauregard picked a manila folder up off his desk. He fanned the thick pages within and clucked his tongue. "My, my, Shep. Public indecency from a man who was going to be a pastor. Whatever will the papers say?"

He snagged three thick, glossy pages and scattered them at Shep's feet. Pretty Boy leaned wide to take a look. Pictures.

Damn.

"How did you get these?" Shep growled.

Beauregard smiled wide, adjusting the lapels of his jacket. "Well, after I saw the way you two were eye-fucking each other the night his trailer exploded, I just got curious. Now, don't you worry—I took those myself. This can all stay in this room."

"You're a sick son of a bitch, you know that?" Shep shook his head.

"As a matter of fact, I do,” he said with a shrug. “But c'mon, Shep. You made it easy for me. Or did you think no one could see you smack dab in the middle of the trailer-park?" He spun one of his desk chairs in front of Shep and straddled it, hands folded neatly over the backrest. He raised a blond brow. "Middle of the night, thunderstorm or no—you get that you're not invisible, right?"

Biting his tongue made Pretty Boy's jaw ache.

Beauregard sighed. "But love makes a man a helluva mess, don’t you think?"

Love?
The word made something in Pretty Boy's chest catch. The gangster thought Shep was in love with …

Beauregard reached behind his back and pulled his Colt 45 from his waistband. He cocked it and pressed the barrel to Pretty Boy's temple, cool metal kissing his heated skin. His stomach dropped to the floor as his heart accelerated into overdrive. The bastard was just going to kill him right here on his expensive-ass rug?

Shep lurched halfway to his feet, eyes wide, mouth twisted in a snarl.

"Back off or I shoot," Beauregard growled lowly.

Shep hit his knees.

Beauregard smoothly tucked the gun back in his waistband and turned to look at Shep. "I do appreciate the illustration of my point. You see, if I killed this man, you'd never stop coming for me, would you, Shep? No, I'd be looking over my shoulder till you were dead. And that's not how I want this partnership to work out."

Shep repeated, softly, "What do you want?"

"Well, for starters, this whole breaking into my shit to get Eddie's gun back is going to stop. Then you and I can talk about you helping the rest of your club come to terms with a long-term monogamous relationship with me." Beauregard blew a smoke ring at the ceiling. He raised a hand as if anticipating protests. "Of course, I'd never ask you to put your guys in harm's way, I know that's a deal breaker. Though I would expect a heads up if harm were coming my way."

Pretty Boy stared at Shep. Shepherd—a traitor? No fucking way in hell. But then …

"Unless you think your club is okay with your, uh, 'extra-curricular' activities?" The bastard smirked. "What about your sponsor, Duke?  Think he'll burn off your tatts when they kick you out? Don't you people do that shit when you disown a brother?" His lip curled.

Shep's hands shook a little behind his back and Pretty Boy heard him swallow. The amount of hate in his face as he stared at Beauregard was breathtaking.

Undaunted, the Mafioso spread his arms wide. "You see, Shep, the only way for you to continue being a part of your little motorcycle enthusiasts club, is by getting in bed with me."

Pretty Boy nearly choked.

Beauregard laughed, the rich, whiskey sound echoing off the vaulted ceiling. "Relax, son, that was just a colorful turn of phrase. You just aren’t my type. No offense intended."

"You're expecting an answer right now?" Shep asked tightly. His raw voice seemed to loud in the quiet room.

"Shep, you can't do this," Pretty Boy whispered.

"I don't recall asking your opinion," he answered softly.