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Tears threaten, but I shake my head at them, as if telling them not to even think about showing up right now, the worst possible time.
“Do you have a description of any of the cars?”
“Nothing beyond what I’ve already told you. But I snapped a picture last night of the black car. I can send it to you.” He rattles off an email address, and I type it into the bar and hit send. “Done.”
“I’ll look into this,” he says, sounding even more exhausted than I feel. “And go home, Ms. Harmon. I’ll beef up patrol on your block tonight. Maybe we’ll learn something we don’t already know.”
“Thank you. I’m not sure what I’m going to do,” I admit in a moment of weakness.
“Stop hanging out with outlaw bikers, for starters, Ms. Harmon.”
I roll my eyes and thank him again before ending the call, my heart now banging around in my chest like a wild animal trying to break free. Doherty’s words give me pause, and now I really wish I hadn’t talked to him. The last thing I want is to get the Reckless Souls in trouble, but Ace gave me no choice. “I should have kept my mouth shut,” I tell my rearview mirror.
Probably, but Ace should’ve told me the truth.
Both things are true, and they both piss me off equally. I might have fucked up by going to the sheriff, but Ace left me no choice.
He has his entire motorcycle club to think about. I get that. I’ve worked alongside Nova long enough to know about their priorities. Tank’s in jail and thinking about his freedom, also understandable.
It’s all just sofucking understandable.
It’s time for me to do something I rarely do, something that doesn’t come naturally to me. It’s time—beyond time if you ask Josie—for me to start taking care of myself.
No matter what happens to Tank or the Reckless Souls.
CHAPTERTWENTY
Tank
I owe the Reapers big time for having my back, and today’s the day for payback. The Latin Mafia’s been a thorn in their side, messing with the Reapers’ flow of goods.
They think they’re kings of this castle, and this morning, their golden boy got a taste of concrete and dust for his trouble.
My heart’s pounding a steady rhythm, not too fast, a controlled sort of anticipation. My hands ball up, then stretch, instinctively getting ready to throw down. It’s not about looking cool—it’s about being ready for the shitstorm that’s about to hit.
Riot’s looking at me, eyebrow cocked, a smirk on his lips. “You look like you’re about to shit your pants, Tank. What up, big guy?” His voice is all taunts and teases. “Tough-as-nails Navy SEAL gettin’ nervous?”
There’s no room for bullshit. “Fuck you, man. I’m a’ight.” The Latin Mafia are nothing but a bunch of punks in my book. Annoying but not intimidating. “Just plotting the play,” I shoot back because this is more than muscle—it’s about mind games. “You ready?”
Riot’s smirk doesn’t waver as he glances over at the vultures from the Latin Mafia, huddled and waiting. “Always. We let them start the dance. My boys are tough, but it’s about being smart—take a punch, but make sure it’s the only one.”
I nod and crack my knuckles, relishing that calming sensation that works its way through my veins every time I get ready for battle. I clock the four Latin Mafia members against the wall ahead of us, another two lingering on the stairs to our left and three more strategically scattered throughout the rec area. “Got it.”
My gaze bounces around the room, watching everyone carefully to see who’s got hate and murder in their eyes. Who’s wearing a battle-ready expression, and who has no idea what’s about to go down?
Malice, the leader’s right hand man, wears a smile as he pushes off the wall. His long-legged gait is deceptively relaxed, but he clenches his jaw tight enough to shatter his teeth. I inhale in and out through my nose, while my eyes spot several other members begin to converge.
“Ready,” I whisper to Riot. “Incoming.”
The next few, hell, I don’t know—minutes or hours—pass in slow motion at first. Malice stops in front of me with a smile before pulling his arm all the way back and swinging a wild hook that lands on my left jaw. “Bitch-ass motherfucker,” he growls, smiling when I take a step back just for show.
“Speaking of bitches, you hit like a bitch.” Without telegraphing my next move, my fist comes out of nowhere to land a blow right under his chin, sending his head snapping back beautifully.
Before he can recover, I live up to my name, barreling forward like a goddamn tank, landing blow after blow until he’s flat on his back and begging for mercy. I don’t believe in fucking mercy, and I keep going until his bones crack and blood coats my fists.
Riot’s voice pulls my attention from Malice. “Tank, a little help!” and I stand, saying fare-fucking-well with a kick to his ribs before I turn and find two Latin Mafia fuckers on my guy.
“I don’t fuckin’ think so,” I growl and hop over a table of cards discarded in the poker player’s desire to get the fuck out of harm’s way.
