Hellbent (Four Horsemen MC Book 5) (35 page)

A lone crow lit on the telephone wire overhead, ducking it head under a satiny wing.

Something icy and full of dread settled on his shoulders. He tried to shake it off and pulled his phone out to text Shep. He lit a cigarette, the sickening knot in his stomach tying tighter every second Shep didn't answer his text.

He's probably out riding. Trying to clear his head.

He tried to imagine what it was like for Shep who had wanted to be a Horseman, had worked his ass of to be a Horseman, to be suddenly on the outside. He could barely remember what Shep had looked like without that scrap of leather across his back.

When ten minutes passed without a text back, Pretty Boy hopped on his bike and revved the engine. He knew Shep's favorite paths for unwinding the mess in his head. He'd float through them, then check Shep's house. He cruised through long straightaways and wide, sloping curves, eyes peeled for signs of Shep or trouble but didn't see so much as a single motorcycle. He turned on to Shep's street and spotted one—hung up in the ditch, tires flat and surrounded by black peel out marks on the asphalt.

Shep's bike.

He parked his, barely remembering the kickstand before he climbed off. Circling the scene, it looked like more than one bike had been in whatever tussle this was. And the flat tires were full of bulletholes.

Shep had been riding without the protection of his cut for the first time, clearly out from under the protection of the MC. Easy prey for Raptors.

He reached for his phone to call the Horsemen, but stopped. How could he trust them now that they’d turned on Shep? Would they even help? Would Shep even want their help?

Didn't matter, he decided. If Shep needed help, he was calling the fucking cavalry.

But no one answered. They were in church still—no phones allowed, unless conducting club business.

He turned in a circle, examining the scene one more time. There wasn't enough evidence left behind for him to track whoever had wrecked Shep's bike. He needed help. Someone who knew every nasty critter to ever crawl out from under a rock in this fucking town. Someone with connections and possible extra muscle. Someone who was good at collecting other people's dirty little secrets.

He needed Byron Beauregard.

And he just so happened to have the devil's number.

When the wide double doors opened, Beauregard sat behind his desk, feet propped on the table and hands cradling his tousled blond hair.  Even in a t-shirt and jeans, he still looked impeccably groomed.

"Come on in, Noah—may I call you Noah? Just having a hard time saying 'come on in, Pretty Boy' and not feeling like I'm hitting on you. Doubt your boyfriend would approve." Beauregard smiled.

A smile should be a pleasant thing, Pretty Boy thought. Then again, sharks looked like they were smiling, too. And that's what Beauregard was, wasn't it? A shark, circling below, hidden in the depths of the sea, picking off the outliers. "You can call me whatever the fuck you want, if you got what I need."

"Aren't you wound tightly tonight?" His smile deepened. "Take a breath, I can help you."

"What's it going to cost me?" Pretty Boy asked flatly. He didn't have time to fuck around with swarmy. Shep was still alive—if the Raptors were going to kill him, they'd have taken his bike or left his body beside it.

"You personally? Nothing. Consider this freebie a gesture of good will." Beauregard swung his boots off the table and sat up. He peeled a sticky note off a little stack on his desk. "Manson has your boyfriend. This is his number, and my understanding is that he's rather eager to speak with you."

Pretty Boy took the note. "And the muscle I asked for?"

"I'm perplexed. Doesn't your plucky little biker gang have enough muscle?" He  leaned across the table, all teeth and cunning. "Don't tell me the MC had a falling out? Maybe Shep decided he didn't want my friendship and did something stupid? That why the Raptors have him right now?"

He swallowed the 'fuck you' sitting on the tip of his tongue. God, he hated this fucking guy and it galled the shit out of him that he needed the bastard right now.  "Something like that."

"That's unfortunate. Wish there was something I could do to help you out." He steepled his long fingers.

"What do you want?" He grit his teeth until his jaw ached.

"Tell me, did Shep's little spat with the good Horsemen put you on the outs?" His eyes narrowed, just slightly.

“They’re stuck with me for six months. It’s in the Charter.” He raised a brow. "You want a favor from the MC that would rather fucking string you up than pass you on the street. To save the life of a guy that just quit the club." A pain had started to throb between Pretty Boy's eyes. "That's not going to fucking happen."

"He quit? Ballsy." Beauregard didn't seem to share Pretty Boy's concern. "What, you're going to back down cuz the sell's too hard? Maybe I was wrong about adding you to my team of hustlers."

"Fuck you. If you weren't such a fucking douche, maybe this wouldn't be such a hard sell." He forced his fists to unclench.

"I personally think it's all about motivation." His eyes gleamed. "Me, I'm a motivator."

Yeah, call yourself whatever you want. I still think you're a two-bit prick in a nice suit.

"For instance, let's see if we can't find you some," the bastard continued. He hit a button on his phone and punched in some numbers. The phone answered halfway through the first ring.

"Beauregard," Manson's voice growled through the room. "I already told you, the money's—"

"Sorry to cut you off, friend. But I really don't give a fuck about what you were about to say.  Got somebody here I think you want to talk to." Beauregard stifled a yawn. Exasperation dripped from his gesture to Pretty Boy to start talking.

"Manson. Is he still alive?"

"Pretty Boy." The asshole laughed. "You lose something?"

"You son of a bitch." If his jaw clenched any harder, he'd lose a tooth. "Put him on the phone."

There was some rustling and what sounded like a bucket of water getting dumped on concrete. Manson's voice was muffled as he said, "Wake up. Your wife's on the phone, asshole."

"N-n-noa—" Shep cut off in a fit of coughing.

"Shep, listen to me. I'm coming for you."

Ice raced through his veins at the ragged rasp of Shep's breath-labored voice. "Don't you fucking dare. Don't—" He choked, a sharp cry of pain lost in the static of the phone being ripped away from him.

"You want him back in one piece?" Manson laughed. "I'll cut you a one-time deal. You for him. Or I'm going to start discounting him. One piece at a time."

He didn't even hesitate. "Done."

"You got an hour." The Raptor hung up and his phone bleeped at him. The text displayed an address he knew all too well—the warehouse where he did his underground fighting. But tonight, it would be full of fucking Raptors instead of his fawning crowd of small town fans.

He met Beauregard's eyes as he reached across the table to shake hands with the devil.

Fuck Manson. Noah was going to see his guts painting the dirt before the night was out. He guaran-DAMN-teed it.

But first, he needed backup. He may be crazy.

But ain't no one ever called him stupid

Chapter Thirty-Four

Being a Horsemen is for life—that means if you’re out, you’re dead.

~Four Horsemen Prospect Handbook

* * *

When Pretty Boy pulled up to Perdition, he knew church was over. Most of the brothers were gone—off to help the Kentucky chapter sneak Royal over the border. The few remaining brothers sat at the bar, pounding back a few, chasing some skirt, smoking. Like the whole world wasn't falling apart right now.

He spotted Voo sitting with Crash, Dash and Fetch and bee-lined for them. "Voo? I need you."

Voo's face had been a mask of anger, but his eyes softened as they landed on Pretty Boy. "What's going on?"

"Manson's got Shep." He wet his lips. "We got to get him outta there."

Voo nodded, then cocked his head and whistled so loud and shrill the entire bar silenced except for the classic rock playing in the background. "Brothers—church. Now."

Once the much-less-sober crew had reassembled in the room, Pretty Boy spilled the situation. When he finished, no one said anything. He looked around the table. "Why are you fuckers still sitting here? Let's go!"

Axel cleared his throat.

Pretty Boy read his expression like a book. "You've got to be fucking kidding me, man. He's your goddamn cousin. He's
actually
your blood."

Axel had an amazing poker face. If Pretty Boy wasn't so good at seeing the expressions people tried to hide, he might have thought Axel was calm. "I'm the Prez and my job is to look out for the MC. And getting in deeper with Beauregard? After what that motherfucker did to my mother? No fucking way."

Pretty Boy turned to Ryker. "What about you? What's your excuse?"

"Watch how you talk to me, boy."

"I ain't a prospect no more. Maybe you oughtta watch how you talk to
me.
” He dragged air in through his clenched teeth. He didn't have time to get in a pissing match with the club hothead.

Justice straightened in his chair. "Look, from a practical standpoint, we don't have the men to launch an assault on a building full of Raptors. What we got in this room is what we got. The other chapters are halfway home by now, and we're down Steele, Ransom, Jag and Cowboy."

"Beauregard will give us the extra muscle. We're wasting time," Pretty Boy urged. What the fuck was wrong with everyone?

"We don't have enough to call a vote on Beauregard. We can't tie ourselves to that asshole without everyone agreeing." Justice looked at him like he was stupid.

"So call them up and fucking vote," Pretty Boy said.

"You want us to call a vote to save a guy who just quit? We ain't even supposed to acknowledge his existence," Justice replied. "You leave the club, you're dead to us."'

Axel rubbed a hand down his face. "Justice ain't wrong. We don’t got the manpower to do it ourselves, even if we wanted to."

"Wanted to?" he gritted out, ready to put his boot up Axel's ass.

Voo knocked his fist on the table. "I don't fucking give a damn that Shep quit. Or how many guys we got to go in. What the fuck is there to think about?
It's Shep.
Let's go get him."

Duke sighed. "Axel's right. Even Shep would think that Axel's right."

"Fuck you." Voo leaned across the table. "Axel, brother. I know you're trying to be Prez right now and I know you'd rather shoot yourself in the balls than make a deal with Beauregard. But you gotta let yourself think with your heart sometimes."

No time for this shit.

"I'm out. Fuck all of you." He turned on his heel, but Justice stood, blocking the exit. "Now's not a good day to try me, man."

"We ain't voted yet. And you asked for this meeting," Justice said evenly. "Shep may have quit, but you're still bound by our rules. You don't get to decide for the club."

"Voo—proxy my vote?"

"Of course." Voo raised 'come at me, bro' eyes at Justice.

"Point of order corrected. Now, get the fuck out of my way, because if you think you're stopping me from getting to Shep, you're out of your ever-lovin' mind." He sized up Justice. Could he take him? Probably. Could he take him and still be in good enough condition to do Shep a lick of good? No fucking way. He was packing, but shooting Justice wouldn't get him out faster either.

"We don’t need you doing anything stupid." Justice remained steady, not wavering.

"You don't need anyone out doing stupid things, cuz you fuckers lost the guy who used to clean up your messes. Or did you fuckin’ forget how much he's done for all of you?" Pretty Boy looked at Ryker. "You and your old lady doing alright? How about you, Cowboy?
Duke?
Is there anyone in this room who Shep hasn't fucking bent over backwards making sure things were all good for you? Has there ever been a time—even one fucking time—that Shep didn't have your backs?"

Stony, half-angry, half-shamed stares looked back at him. "That's what I thought. You're all ready to let him shoulder your shit, but when he needs you, you fucking turned your backs. Because he likes dick and you like pussy. Hate to break it to you boys, but that makes you the cocksuckers here."

 Justice put a hand on his arm, "Look, brother—"

"Don't. Don't fucking call me brother. You guys don't know the meaning of the fucking word." He held up a hand. "Not a damn one of you worth the gas you burn."

"You quitting?" Duke smirked at him.

"No such fucking luck, asshole. I ain't makin’ nothin’ easier for you. I can't make the deal without you guys, but that don’t mean I'm not going to get Shep back. So y'all stay here with your thumbs up your asses and vote on whatever the fuck you want."

Yo stood. "You can't go in alone, it’s suicide."

"That's your guys' problem." Pretty Boy smirked and held up his wrist to flash his tattoo. "Whatever hole I'm about to jump into—you're
honor
bound to dig me out of." Then he leaned down into Axel's steely gaze. "Or don’t we factor ‘honor’ in anymore, Prez?”

He walked out and this time Justice let him. Crash, Dash and Fetch followed. As the doors slapped shut behind them, he heard Voo's and Duke's voices raise. He wished he had time to speculate on who would win.

Chapter Thirty-Five

Make an entrance. If we wanted to be subtle, we’d drive something quiet.

            ~Four Horsemen Prospect Handbook

* * *

Noah ducked down along the outside fence, angled behind the dumpster. Fetch, Crash and Dash crept up behind him. He looked them over with a feeling of grim affection. At least these guys had his back even if the rest of the Horseman had turned theirs.

"How you want to do this, bro?" Crash asked next to his ear, his vowels soft and slow, voice steady.