My Iron Knight
Table of Contents
Books by S.J. Coles
Title Page
Legal Page
Book Description
Dedication
Trademark Acknowledgements
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
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About the Author
Pride Publishing books by S. J. Coles
Single Books
Blood Winter
Straight to the Heart
Dark Summer
Collections
My Bloody Valentine: Blood Red Roses
Sun, Sea and Small-Town Secrets
Enemy Territory
MY IRON KNIGHT
S.J. COLES
My Iron Knight
ISBN # 978-1-83943-190-6
©Copyright S.J. Coles 2022
Cover Art by Claire Siemaszkiewicz ©Copyright April 2022
Interior text design by Claire Siemaszkiewicz
Pride Publishing
This is a work of fiction. All characters, places and events are from the author’s imagination and should not be confused with fact. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, events or places is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any material form, whether by printing, photocopying, scanning or otherwise without the written permission of the publisher, Pride Publishing.
Applications should be addressed in the first instance, in writing, to Pride Publishing. Unauthorised or restricted acts in relation to this publication may result in civil proceedings and/or criminal prosecution.
The author and illustrator have asserted their respective rights under the Copyright Designs and Patents Acts 1988 (as amended) to be identified as the author of this book and illustrator of the artwork.
Published in 2022 by Pride Publishing, United Kingdom.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the authors’ rights. Purchase only authorised copies.
Pride Publishing is an imprint of Totally Entwined Group Limited.
If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book”.
Enemy Territory
Dash Cassidy loves his town even more than his bike, but his priorities have a violent shift in gear when an irresistible Russian hitman comes along.
Darius ‘Dash’ Cassidy has ended up president of the small town of Salvation’s Iron Knights motorcycle gang, almost by accident. His sister, Zara, is the more business-savvy and ambitious of the two, but their father—the infamous Butch Cassidy—was far from politically correct, so Dash was left in charge.
Up to now, Dash has been more than happy to muscle his way through life as his father did before him, even if he is starting to suspect that something might be missing.
But now there’s a new player in town. Iris Damaro has plans to make Salvation the center of her international smuggling operation. Dash isn’t going to sit still while Damaro steamrolls through his town, but when the crime boss sends her alluring Russian number two, Nikita Vasiliev, to do her negotiating, Dash realizes he may be in over his head.
Can Dash figure out where his priorities lie before his town—or his heart—is lost forever?
Dedication
For all the sexy bikers out there…
Keep up the good work.
Trademark Acknowledgements
The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:
YouTube: Google Inc.
Formica: The Diller Corporation
Kalashnikov: Izhevsk Technical Works
Harvard University: President & Fellows of Harvard College Charitable Corporation
Dumpster: Topcoat Metal Technologies Inc.
Jack Daniel’s: Jack Daniel’s Properties Inc
Zippo: Zippo Manufacturing Company
Buick: General Motors LLC
Jeep: FCA US LLC
iPad: AVC Group LLC
Chapter One
“Dash, I still think—”
“Brett…shut your hole,” Zara snapped.
Dash Cassidy was grateful to his sister for silencing her son. Dash needed to focus. The air was cool, almost sweet, with a hint of the ocean that lay cloaked in night beyond the rolling hills to the west. He closed his eyes. Now that Brett had relapsed into sulky silence, all was quiet beyond the slow click of cooling engines and squeaks of saddle leather as The Iron Knights shifted on their bikes.
“It’s late,” Reaper grunted from the dark on his left.
“It’ll be here,” Dash replied.
“I still don’t think this is such a smart move,” Brett whispered.
“Brett—”
“Damaro is moving ice through our town,” Dash cut Zara off, his voice as low as a storm out at sea, “without our go-ahead. She needs to learn what happens when you disrespect this club.”
“But, Uncle Dash—”
“Quiet.”
The low rumble of a heavy engine had reached him. Headlights came into view around the bend in the road. Dash held his breath. The rig lumbered into sight, belching exhaust. He waited until he could see the outline of the figure in the cab then revved his bike to life. The growl of a dozen more engines shattered what remained of the night’s quiet, then they were barreling for the road.
Dash reveled in the feeling of Guinevere jerking in his grip, biting through the dust and rocks, responding to his slightest touch, the night air blasting in his face. He zoomed out into the road, swerved to face the truck, pulled his gun and fired.
The windscreen webbed with cracks. The squeal of strained brakes filled the night. The other Knights burst from the dark, all screeching tires and glinting bodywork. Gunfire filled the air as the truck ground to a dust-barreling stop.
“Hold fire,” Dash yelled. The noise stopped. All was still.
“Reaper…with me.” Dash dismounted and the older biker fell into step at his shoulder. They approached the cab.
The door creaked open on protesting hinges.
“Don’t shoot,” came a plaintive voice. “I ain’t armed.”
“Out,” Dash ordered, jerking his gun away from the truck.
“Pal, I’m warning you,” the driver said in a shaking voice as he raised his hands and climbed out of the cab. “There’ll be hell to pay for this.”
“Is that a threat?”
The greasy man swallowed and backed away, his hands still in the air.
“Reaper, watch him. Everyone else—”
The glass of the driver’s window exploded, raining shards. Dash swore and flung himself to the ground just as another bullet struck the door where his head had been. The truck driver’s yell was cut off by a gurgle. He fell to the ground, his eyes wide and staring, blood bubbling from his mouth.
“Take cover,” Dash roared, crawling back to the line of bikes, shooting blindly into the dark as more bullets rained down, puncturing the truck, spattering road dust into the air. The Knights dove for cover and fired back into the dark.
“What the fuck?” Zara’s curse was almost lost in the chaos.
“Sharp shooters,” Dash said between clenched teeth, peering into the trees that lined the ridge.
>
“I told you,” Brett called as he cowered behind the truck. “I told you this was—”
“Get the sons of bitches,” Dash yelled, getting to his knees and firing at the ridge. The enemy fire did not pause, punching into metal, stone and flesh. Screams cut through the clamor and Dash’s heart began to race.
“I can’t see a goddamn thing—” growled Lance, next to him.
“Get the lights,” Dash ordered and shot out the truck’s left headlight. Zara took out the other as Dash turned off Guinevere’s headlamp. The Knights soon caught on and their lights went out one by one. Dash narrowed his eyes as they adjusted to the darkness.
Reaper yelled and spat a curse.
“He’s hit,” Zara muttered. “Christ, Dash, we need to get outta here.”
“There’s only one…”
“What?”
Dash leaned out, straining his hearing. “There’s only one shooter.”
“There can’t be—”
“Get everyone out,” Dash ordered, mounting his bike and twisting the starter. He was skidding off in a flurry of gravel before he heard his sister’s reply.
He gunned up the rise, steering with one hand, shooting with the other. Bullets whizzed past his ears. Fire grazed his arm. He kept driving, his teeth clenched and rage billowing through him like red smoke.
Another bike growled to life ahead. Its headlight flooded the night, blinding Dash. He fought to keep on track, still firing. The other rider wheeled around and took off between the trees. Dash sped after, weaving between the trunks, ducking the debris thrown up by the enemy’s wheels.
The rider was incredible, moving with the machine, leaping ditches, juddering over branches and rocks like they were nothing. Dash tried to take out his rear tire, but the second time that he nearly went over on the uneven ground, he had to thrust his gun away and use both hands and all his concentration just to keep up.
Finally, the trees thinned. The other bike screeched onto the road with the stink of burning rubber, then took off north. Dash steered after him, grinning. Now they were on his turf.
He took the curves in the road so fast that his knee almost scraped the asphalt. And yet the other guy kept inching ahead. Dash yelled a curse into the wind, took the next bend so fast he almost didn’t pull out in time, drew his gun and fired.
The other driver’s engine roared and his speed increased. He skidded right and vanished down a side road. Dash overshot, cursing. By the time he made it back to the turning point, the other bike was a distant growl on the air.
* * * *
“What the fuck was that?” Zara hurried forward the second Dash stepped through the clubhouse door.
“Everyone get out?” Dash muttered, scanning the room. The air was close, hot and thick with the smells of blood and whiskey. Reaper was propped against the bar, slugging shots as Harley knelt on the floor, stitching a gash high on the back of his leg. Samson sat in the corner, clutching a bloody rag to his head while Lance winced as he downed the last in a line of beers with a red-stained bandage around one arm. Brett, shirtless, sat with his head in his hands as the nervous-looking Kitty pressed gauze to the bullet burn on his shoulder.
“The only stiff was the driver,” Zara murmured, rubbing her dust-grimed face. “Got a prospect taking care of the disposal. Did you catch the bastard?”
Dash shook his head, moving to the bar and grabbing the bourbon. He drank straight from the bottle, sighing as its heat soaked into his chest and eased the trembling in his limbs. “Drove like a bat outta hell,” he muttered. “I don’t know no one with a machine like that.”
“It was foreign,” Zara said, leaning in to examine the bloody tear in Dash’s sleeve. “You’re hit.”
“Just a scratch.”
“Sit,” she ordered and fetched dressings and rubbing alcohol from Harley’s case. “Get your shirt off.”
“Zar—”
“Don’t be shy, little brother,” she muttered, perching on the table. “I seen it all before…and more.”
Dash sat, flinching as he shrugged off his torn leather jacket and peeled off the blood-soaked shirt underneath. His sister cleaned the wound in his tattooed bicep as he took in the sullen faces of his club.
“Did we even get the ice?”
“There weren’t none.”
“What?”
“You heard me,” Zara said, throwing the rag aside and pressing a dressing to the wound. “Damn rig was empty.”
“I told you.” Brett didn’t speak loudly, but the room fell into silence. He swallowed and met his uncle’s eyes, his thin face pale. “I told you I had a bad feeling.”
“I was so sure, Dash,” Kitty said after a heavy pause, avoiding eye contact. “Everything pointed toward there being ice on that rig. Three mil at least.”
“They tricked you,” Brett snapped. “They knew we were looking into their shit. They laid the bait, and you took it.”
“We all took it,” Dash said, swigging from his bottle. “Went right where they wanted us. The only question is…”
“If it was a trap, why are we all still breathing?” Zara’s face was tight as she wrapped the bandage around Dash’s arm.
“Speak for yourself,” Reaper growled.
“Since when do you breathe through your ass, Reap?”
“This ain’t a joke, Mom,” Brett cut in, standing. Zara scowled but Brett came forward, emotion tightening his expression. “First, they shut down the pool hall then Hank’s Market. Next, it’s the diner. And they’re already making their moves on Hope View Park…”
“Town council will never sell the park,” Dash said.
“Mayor’s got a price, just like everyone else,” Brett said. “Eventually, this Damaro will find out what that price is. Then—”
“Brett—”
“That shooter was good enough to take us all out,” Brett plowed on, talking over his mother. “But, like you said, we’re still here. It’s because tonight was just a warning.”
“Speak to me like that again, Brett,” Zara muttered, “and you’ll wish you’d had a warning.”
“But, Mom.”
“Brett’s right,” Dash said, standing and shrugging his bloody shirt back on. “Iris Damaro is a big fish, and she wants Salvation. But this is our town.” He slammed the bottle on the bar. “And we ain’t letting it go without a fight.”
“She’ll put us all in the ground,” Brett said. “One by one. Is that what you want?”
“Better to die a Knight than live a coward.”
Brett flushed again. “You think Grandpa would have wanted us to end like this, scrubbed out like bugs?”
“So what’s your solution, Brett?” Dash said, his voice level.
Brett met all the eyes on him. Then he looked back to his uncle, tilting his hairless chin. “We join her.”
Dash raised his hand to silence the indignant shouts breaking out on every side. “Join her?”
“She’s the bigger player,” Brett said. “Fuck only knows how far her connections go. We’re small fry by comparison. We have to adapt or—”
“Get out of here.”
“But—”
“Out,” Dash barked. “Out of my sight, before I let everyone here tell you just what they think of that idea.”
Brett glanced around at the scowling faces, curling his fingers into fists, then stormed from the room.
“Let him go,” Dash said as Kitty moved to stop him.
“It’s not his fault,” she murmured. “He just loves this club.”
“Loving the club involves showing respect,” Zara muttered, glaring after her son. “And that includes to his old lady.”
Kitty blushed. “I’ll try to figure what went wrong,” she said. “How they managed to feed me that false info and set that trap—”
“It wasn’t your fault,” Dash said.
“I know,” Kitty said. “But I ain’t gonna make the same mistake twice.”
Dash managed a nod then froze when someone rattled
at the clubhouse door. Everyone was on their feet in an instant, their guns drawn.
“Spread out,” Dash murmured. “Hold fire.”
“Mr. Cassidy?” The voice that came through the door was smoother than fruit liqueur. Male, but high…lilting. Foreign. The door handle rattled again. “Surely we haven’t scared you enough to have you hiding away like a frightened mouse?”
“Open the door,” Dash ordered.
Harley unbolted the door. In stepped a group of three. Two were anonymous heavies, their broad shoulders straining the fabric of their black suits, their eyes darting, expressions set. The bulges of concealed weapons were evident under their jackets. Dash recognized them, even though he’d never met them before. They were the sort of men he’d dealt with all his life. Hired muscle.
It was the figure in the middle who made him pause. He was tall, though not as tall as Dash—few people were—and slim. Slight, even. But the way he moved into the room, stepping with the liquid grace of a dancer, made Dash certain there was unknowable strength in the wiry frame. He was pale, like he’d never seen a day of sunshine his whole life and could have been anywhere between nineteen and thirty-five. His hair was midnight black, fine and long enough to be tied into a small tail at the nape of his neck, though a few artful strands fell into his eyes just so. The lines of his jaw were smooth, his lips curving, thin but beautifully shaped. Edible.
But most striking of all were the eyes that pinned Dash in place. They were the coldest blue he’d ever seen, making him think of winter skies from somewhere far away and bitter with chill.
He looked right through Dash like he was able to read every heated thought rolling through his head, and Dash felt warmth gather in his face.
It was the bike-riding sharpshooter. He was certain.
The man spent a moment longer examining him, then came forward with his hands in his pockets, showing, intentionally or unintentionally, that he wore no gun.