Damon:A Bad Boy MC Romance Novel(37)

"Yeah," James said, finally, swallowing hard. "They made me make the call. Said you'd only trust me"

Good boy, Kennick thought, begrudgingly admiring the way James lied without lying.

"The smack's in the glovebox. A gun, too. All yours," Kennick said. "Body's in the back."

"Check him," Roper barked to one of the men behind him. "And you check  the glovebox. See if this is some dirty gypsy trick or not."

Rough hands grabbed at Kennick's body, patting him from the shoulders  down. Kennick's heartbeat raced as the hands neared his waist, where the  gun was stored. But he'd known they would check him. They'd be stupid  not to. It was part of the plan.

Behind him, the third man opened the passenger side door, fumbled the  glovebox open. Roper kept his eyes on Kennick and his hands on his gun  while he side-stepped James, peering into the backseat where Cristov lay   –  looking very much like a dead body, a body that could be mistaken for  Damon's by an untrained eye looking through the glare of a window at  full daylight.

"Fuck," the man giving him the pat-down said. "He's holdin'."

The man ripped the gun from Kennick's waistband. At the same time, Roper  stepped back from the window, not sure of what he'd seen. And the man  in the passenger seat emerged with a gun in one hand and a heavy brick  of powder in the other.

"Shit," Kennick moaned. "Of course I'm fuckin' holding. What kind of  idiot do you think I am? Who would risk coming here without any heat?  Take it. It's yours. Just let me go back to my family, alright? You got  the dope, and you can take the body. You even got some pieces off the  deal."

"I don't know if that is the body," Roper said from the side. "Doesn't really look like him from where I'm standing."

"Get a closer look, then," Kennick said. The man holding the dope  slammed the door and walked over to the man who'd just given Kennick a  pat-down. Now, they both held two guns a piece, and stood watching over  James and Kennick, still with their hands in the air. Behind him,  Kennick heard a door open. He looked at the two men.

"If you do anything stupid, like shoot me, your President will die," he said.

"What the fuck are you … " one began to say, eyes narrowing, body tensing.

"Shit!"

Roper's scream cut through the muggy air as his body was wrenched to one  side. The two men stiffened, then moved into shooting postures, both  guns pointed at Kennick's head. Kennick used every ounce of his  willpower to stay calm and keep the men trapped in his level gaze.

"Don't. Shoot. Or. He. Dies," he said again. James suddenly crumpled  forward with a shout as Roper's whipping legs crashed through the air  and landed on the backs of his knees. The distraction made the two men  jump, lose their focus on Kennick; when they looked back, Roper was  standing beside him, his head trapped in Cristov's arm, a gun at his  temple, his eyes wild and furious.

"Take your guns, and your drugs, go back to the house, and tell everyone  in there that this is over," Kennick said, using his most authoritative  voice. The voice of a man who could lead people who hated being told  what to do. The voice of a rom baro.

"Fuck that," one of the men spat, his words far less confident than  Kennick's. He kept glancing over to Roper, who seemed to be gasping in  the tight grip of Cristov' s elbow. "Boss, we're gonna kill ‘em, right?  I'm ready to … "

"Are … you … fucking … stupid?" Roper gasped. "Do … what … he … says … "

"Boss, are you … " the other man said, already backing away, hate in his  eyes when he looked at Kennick, his hands still full of drugs and guns.         

     



 

"They'll … fucking … kill … me … " Roper said, lashing out with his legs again  but unable to find any purchase against Cristov's body. James huddled on  the ground whimpering, his hands over his head.

"Shit," the first man said, glancing at the second man as he made his  slow retreat. One last snarl thrown in Kennick's direction and he began  to follow, walking backwards, pointing both guns right at Kennick,  fingers itching to pull the trigger. Listen to your boss, Kennick  thought. Don't do anything stupid, listen to your boss …

Slowly but surely, the two men reached the doorway and slipped inside;  just at that moment, Kennick heard the most beautiful sound in the  world. Sirens. Distant, but growing closer each second.

"Wait another minute," Kennick said, taking his eyes off the house just  long enough to grab the gun that Roper had dropped when Cristov  surprised him in the backseat. He held it pointed at the doorway in case  anyone decided to try and rush them.

"Get in the car, James," Kennick said. The man was still huddled and  whimpering. "Now, James, or you'll be going through detox in prison.  Cristov, watch him, make sure he doesn't fucking make off with the  wheels."

That was enough to get James moving, and he moved pretty fast, all  things considered. He was smart enough to get into the backseat, too.

"Gonna … kill … you … all … of … you … gonna … die … gypsy … scum … gonna … rot … in … hell,"  Roper growled, now clawing at Cristov's forearm. The sirens grew closer.  Kennick heard the rapid beat of his heart, tried to judge how far away  the sirens were. He had to hope they were responding to his call, and  not some other neighborhood disturbance. Five minutes. It had been five  minutes, no more, since Cristov made the call. It felt like hours, but  it was only five minutes …

"Now," Kennick said, and Cristov released Roper, the man stumbling  forward, coughing and gagging. But there would be no bruise on his neck  when the cops arrived. Kennick pointed the gun at one of the front  windows and fired. Glass shattered. Cristov did the same, pointing  upwards at an angle to a spot just above the front door. Two more shots  each, and then they were gone, the sirens just around the corner, their  car squealing as they sped out of sight.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," Cristov said. The two guns, hot from use and from  the reaction of sun on metal, sat on his lap and he hurriedly wiped at  the handles with his shirt. They hadn't been able to wipe their prints  off the other guns, but it didn't matter. The guns had been handled by  so many people by then that prints wouldn't be easy to lift. And if they  did get the prints, and they did arrest Kennick and Cristov, and all  the pieces did fall into place and the two men had to go to jail  –  well,  at least it would have all been worth it.

The police were descending on the biker's hideaway. And the bikers now  possessed two pounds of heroin and two very illegal guns. And they had a  human slave living among them. Kennick had kept his word. He'd gotten  Jenner out. Whether Jenner went to jail or not for his involvement in  Tricia's kidnapping back in Kingdom didn't matter. Kennick had promised  to save Jenner from the Steel Dragons, and he had. The money he'd  promised could go straight into Jenner's commissary.

Whatever priors the bikers had, whatever probation or parole they might  be on, things looked bad and were only going to look worse when the feds  got involved. What was left of the Steel Dragons would soon be no more.

Now there was just James Whitley to deal with.

Cristov looked behind him; James Whitley was damn near passed out in his  seat, shaking like a leaf with his eyes rolling back into his head.

James Whitley would be a piece of cake to deal with.





43





They waited outside the dingy-looking, weathered apartment building for  three hours. Most of the people going in and out looked exactly as  broken-down as the apartments. Damon could tell the drug dealers from  the drug addicts, the fighters from the thieves, the single mothers from  the prostitutes. He didn't judge any of them. Life was harder for some  than for others. He only cared to judge one man. And when he saw that  man, coming out the front doors with a pained gait, he stiffened all  over. Tricia reached out from the backseat, one arm on his meaty bicep.

"Calm," she said, the word sounding very much like its meaning. He nodded and opened the driver's side door.

Curly didn't see Damon, but he heard his name when Damon shouted it. The  man turned slowly, clearly suffering somewhat from the fight. His eyes  widened, darkened.         

     



 

"You," Curly said, his hands fisting. "You motherfucker … "

"Get in the car," Damon said. Curly's eyebrows rose, and then his mouth  quirked upwards slightly. Damon could tell that the man thought this was  his chance to finish what he started, maybe collect on whatever he was  owed by the Steel Dragons. But when Curly saw the wad of bills in  Damon's hand, poised above the roof of the car, his expression changed.  "Whatever they were paying you, I'll double it. Get in the car."