The All Encompassing: Shifter MC Novel (Pureblood Predator MC Book 1) (23 page)

Lonny manages to keep the Caddy on the road and away from the cops to get us to the meet, which is a fucking miracle considering how high he is. We pull into a yard the MC uses to store machinery and construction equipment. The sky’s beginning to lighten.
 

Another glorious, fun-filled day.
 

I hop out of the car, needing a walk, needing to breath and get my head together before the baddies start rolling in. Sorry pulls up on his Harley and dismounts while Lonny stays inside the Caddy. Sorry and Nash have a long conversation about Mia. I listen without really meaning to, and they know I’m listening because like me both those motherfuckers can hear anything within a four block radius. Seems they’re concerned I might not be strong enough to turn Mia away from her animal.
 

Well, fuck ‘em.
 

I call Nash over and ask him if he has something up his ass.
 

“You heard me,” he says. “Can you do it?”

There’s an odd edge in Nash’s voice that I don’t like. Not at all. I growl at him a little, just because.
 

Nash is an uptight fuck but we go way back.
 

“Yeah, yeah,” he mutters, his jowls thickening slightly.
 

Wolf against hyena. Step right up, folks.

I feel Lonny staring us down from inside the Caddy. Fucking hell. That’s the thing about being alpha. Someone steps to you—or even thinks about stepping—and you have to regulate.
 

Part of the job.
 

Then Sorry ambles over. He’s younger and broader than me, strong but slow as all fuck. He’s also the unstated peacekeeper. Now he clasps Nash on the shoulder and says, “How’s that arm?”

Nash glowers at him, then scans around the empty yard and says to me, “You smell that?”

I do. I was just keeping my mouth shut about it. There’s a weird scent in the air. Like how before a lightning storm the air smells like electricity. Like pent up energy about to burst right the fuck open. I’ve been scenting it since we Reaped that sicko Stricken and Nash got burned.
 

Nash looks at me and says, “You never seen one like that, huh?”

I don’t know if he means the Stricken that burned him, the Skin cop girl Lily, the nutball shooter at the church or the fucking thing that descended from the ceiling, and suddenly I realize I’m way behind the eight ball here, and my boys are almost nervous. And about to say so.

“Listen,” I say, “the plan is we do this business with our associates. We get Mia back. Then we visit that fucking nutball cult the Stricken bitch told us about. The Guardians of the Gate? Maybe get an answer.”

“I think we should hunt now,” Nash says. “Find another Stricken and hurt the truth out of him. Mia will be fine without us for while. Fuck, she’d be fine forever.”
 

Its not quite a direct challenge, but its close.

“I hear you,” I say quietly.
 

“Everything all right, Prez?” Nash asks. “Because I’m looking around here, at this empty lot, and we’ve got a fuck-load of crew showing up, some ours but most not, and I’m thinking that if I was gunning to take out a rival biker MC now’d be a good time to do it.”

Fuck. He’s right. We’re not warring with any of the three crews I invited, but all it would take is two of them coming together and deciding to try and split up our end of the drug trade and bam, we’re done.

I call Lonny out of the Caddy. Then to Sorry I say: “You and Lonny get the fucking artillery. Set up behind the equipment. And if anything goes down…cut ‘em in half. Nash—you’re with me.”

Nash nods while Sorry and Lon run into the rows of excavators and bobcats and dump trucks lined up behind us. Two of the nearest machines have blacked out windows, and behind those windows are loaded M2 machine guns. The kind they mount on tanks.
 

“We need you here, Prez,” Nash says when they’re gone.

“I’m here.”

“You sure? Cuz you seem miles away.”

I’m about to lay into him when I hear Harley’s throttling in the distance, then our boys begin arriving in numbers. There’s handshakes and bullshit about the shoot-up last night. They’re pissed and wondering what the fuck is going on.
 

I line my crew up around me as five blacked out Lincoln navigators pull up, thumping bass. Mr. Fredrick Jones, AKA Friday, hops out of the back seat of the middle Navigator, followed quickly by his crew. Friday’s not your average street gangbanger. He comes from an established family and has close ties to Seattle’s political and business elite. He’s wearing a black Armani suit that hugs his tall, heavy frame, but I know beneath the fancy threads he’s laced with heavy gangland tattoos.
 

“Going to the ballet?” I ask as we approach one another.
 

“Better than this mud pit,” Friday answers, scanning around, on alert. “What the fuck’s up? Heard about that nasty last night.” Friday shakes his head. “Crazy times, bro. Crazy times.”
 

He’s playing nice, but I know Friday’s as curious about what’s going as my crew.

“Won’t take long,” I tell him. “Just want you and the rest of our associates to know no one’s got nothing to worry about. The Pureblood Predators are whole and strong as ever.”

“Sure. Yeah,” Friday says, sending me a shifty-looking glance that has me licking my lips, glad Nash spoke up about beading the artillery.

It’s not long before the Sin boys show up. Their leader, Tao, isn’t with them, but his right hand, Harry Lee, is, along with a large number of his crew. There must be at least twenty dudes piling out of SUV’s and crew-cab trucks.
 

I give Lee a hard handshake after he strolls over to me and Friday. Tao not showing is a diss, I’m sure of it. A bitchy little back-handed diss. I have half a mind to call Tao right fucking now to ask why he isn’t here, but phoning after him like forlorn lover looks weaker than just playing cool at him not showing.
 

“We’ve got a legit gangster convention here this morning,” Friday says, eyeing me. “A wet dream for the po-po.”

“You got nothing to worry about,” I say.

“Y’know, that’s the second time you’ve said that,” Friday says. “Beginning to wonder who you’re trying to convince.”

Friday and Lee share a glance that I don’t like one fucking bit. I take a second to sight into the future. Fifteen seconds out and nothings going down, but the Collazo Cartel still hasn’t arrived.

We stand around a few minutes, waiting for Collazo. Nobody’s happy to be here. Then Friday checks his watch, mutters something about spics always being late, and says he has somewhere to be.

“We’re heading out now, brother,” Friday says softly. “Show us what you got. Maybe you should be heading out too.”

I give him a long look, wondering if there’s a warning or a veiled threat in there. Nash is pacing around, looking wound up tighter than a virgin on her special night. I shrug, walk to the Caddy, pop the hood, and motion two of Seattle’s most notorious gangsters over for a peek.

Lee gets there first. His breath whistles through his teeth as he sees the two mutilated bodies of the shooters, but he doesn’t say a word.

Friday takes a look. “Shit, Aaron,” he says. “What’d you do? Put them through a meat grinder?”

“Sort of,” I say, smiling in way I know is fucking creepy. “I took one of ‘em down in the bar. My crew ran the other one down. Then we gave ‘em to the Rotty’s.”

“Rottweilers?” Friday says. “No shit. How long it take?”

I let the rest of the Predators MC get a glimpse, then slam the trunk closed. “Ten minutes. Sorry won the bet.” I wince, wishing I hadn’t mentioned my little brother’s name.

“Yeah I was wondering about your bro,” Friday says. “And Mia? Where’s that sexy piece of ass? Only reason I bothered to drive out to this shithole is to take a shot at her.”

I clap Friday on the back. “You keep trying, my man. Keep trying. One day she just might break.”

“Good you took care of that shit,” Friday says. “Fuckers have no respect.”

“Who were they?” Lee asks.

“Tweakers,” I say, shrugging. “Got thrown out of the bar a few weeks back. Feeling all jilted and shit.”

Friday laughs, but Harry Lee, the humorless motherfucker, just stares at me like doesn’t believe a word of it. “Heard they shot you,” he says quietly. “Heard you took more than one bullet.”

“How’d you hear that?” I ask.

Harry says nothing.

I open my arms wide and say, “Still whole. That’s what matters, right?”

“For certain,” Friday says, stepping between me and Harry. Then: “Alright, outlaw MC. We’re out. I have a long day of business luncheons to attend to.”

“Don’t forget the ‘hood when your face’s buried in caviar,” I say. It’s a joke, but it kind of isn’t: Friday and me are tight. He holds the largest chunk of street turf in Seattle. But recently there’s been rumors he’s slipping, getting soft, losing a block here and there to the Collazo Cartel or other upstart banger crews. Some of his soldiers have opted out. Good, dependable soldiers, and Friday’s done little to make sure leaving his crew has consequences.
 

“Only thing my face is buried in is straight-up white girl pussy. Speaking of which, tell Mia her man Friday missed her company.”

We shake hands and Friday loads his crew up and drives toward the gate. My guys relax a bit. There’s the sound of beer cans popping and Zippo's lighting. I turn to Lee and say, “So. You wanna mingle some more, or are we done here?”

Lee checks his watch. “We’re waiting for Carlos Collazo.”

Huh.
 

I study Lee’s features, but the little prick is an unreadable as an iceberg. Could be sitting at home watching American Idol reruns for all the emotion on his face. I use my wolf to sight into the future…and this is odd…because I can’t see anything.
 

Not a fucking thing. It’s just blackness.

My throat tightens. The wolf paces in its cage, snarling.
 

Must be the exhaustion.

I watch as Friday’s convoy turns around a huge cinder block and steel warehouse beside the exit gate. The it’s boom-boom-boom off in the distance and I gotta say, the cliche about Asians being fast is true: Harry-Fucking-Lee has a six-inch blade headed for my throat faster than you can say backstabbing, greedy motherfucker.

The blade comes arcing in, glinting in the low morning light. It’s a killing blow for sure; Lee isn’t looking to just cut me, he’s looking to open my throat wide open.
 

Sucker.

Bastard’s overestimated himself. Thought surprising me would seal the deal. But no matter how fast the fucking Karate Kid is I’m faster. I have so much time to step back and avoid the blade that Lee’s arm might as well be moving through mud.
 

The knife whistles inches from my neck.
 

I’m aware of the distant frantic pop of fully automatic machine gun fire as I bring my clawed hand up to Lee’s belly. Fucking Skin. My hand pierces straight into his soft abdomen. I grip something stringy as he drops the blade and his eyes widen in shock.
 

Then I flick my wrist and gut him where he stands.
 

More popping, close now, and all of sudden I’m standing in the center of a fucking war zone. Story of my life. The Sin crew’s raising hell, laying into my guys with a wall of heavy firepower. The human MC’s are getting shot to shit, screaming and thrashing and running as they die. Not that I give a fuck, except its going to be real bad for business. Then another round of gunfire from behind me, a booming fucking thunder of ordinance as Sorry and Lonny unleash the M2’s, punching holes straight through the vehicles the Sin crew is taking cover behind.
 

Dirt explodes at my feet and bullets wing through the air around me, so close it’s a fucking wonder I haven’t been hit. I have no time to check on Nash; I grab Lee around the waist and run backward toward the Caddy, letting him take several rounds in the back. He’s still alive, so I catch his eyes as we move and open my mouth, revealing my incisors, and howl right in his fucking face.

Have a taste of the real me, motherfucker.
 

Lee goes limp in my arms, not dead but nearly so. The Caddy’s shot up real good. I drop the dying traitor and dig under Lonny’s seat. My animal’s fucking clawing at me. My fangs drop and my claws lengthen. I want nothing more than to free him, unleash the wolf on these bastards. But as it is I’m left fighting two battles: one outside and one in. I find a handgun, a ridiculous six-shooter that’s more for show than a gangland war, aim, and start shooting at the Sin crew.
 

The M2’s behind me are taking care of business right fucking quick, eating into the motherfucking traitors, but when I cast a look to my right I see more than half the Pureblood Predator MC on the ground. A few have run off through the machinery. Bitches. A few more are on their feet behind their bikes, returning fire.
 

Then I see Nash, that crazy fuck, worming his way
under
one of the Sin Crew’s trucks.
 

I empty my gun at the guys behind that truck, hoping to distract them. It works. I hear an insane-sounding barking laugh then tortured screaming as Nash hops up on the other side of the truck and starts opening Skins.

Then a hear a sharp metallic click at my feet that turns my blood cold. Harry Lee’s holding a grenade in one bloodstained hand and the pin in the other.
 

Fucker’s three quarters dead and he still might kill me.

I leap over the hood of the Caddy, straight into the oncoming bullets. There’s a whoosh of air sucking in, then a blast of heat and flame and shrapnel that sends me flying twenty feet through the air. I land hard, hear a crack in my shoulder and wait for the pain, but my animal is screeching too wildly for me to feel a fucking thing. I roll, slide over the hood of one of the Sin crew’s trucks and right into two assholes trying to shield themselves from the heat of the grenade explosion.

One gets his neck snapped. I drop the other with an elbow, then stomp him dead. I’m howling now, my neck swollen tight against my collar. My vision blurs to a pounding red haze as I launch at another few Chinamen, and when I finally stop to catch a breath the Sin Crew is dead.