My Iron Knight Read online

  Rosie slapped a plate of pancakes and a syrup jug on the table. She set a fresh coffee in front of Dash with a hard look then hastened back behind the counter.

  “What are you doing here?” Dash asked in a low voice.

  “Quite incredible,” Vasiliev said, pouring syrup on the pancakes. “I was just about to ask you the same thing.”

  “You don’t scare me, Vasiliev.”

  “Don’t I?” He met Dash’s eyes as he lifted a forkful of pancake to his mouth. He chewed, scowled then pushed the plate away. “Bliaha. How can you have something so sweet for breakfast? May I?” Before Dash could speak, Vasiliev had sipped from Dash’s mug, his blue eyes boring into his over the rim. “Ah,” he said, lowering the cup. “Seems America does get some things right.”

  “What do you want with Rosie?” Dash said, fighting to keep his voice under control.

  “I came to see if she had had any further thoughts on our proposal,” Vasiliev said, dabbing his mouth with a napkin. “But I’m guessing her position is as yet unchanged. No matter. She has thirteen more days…just like you.”

  “What happens then?”

  “That’s our business.”

  Dash leaned forward on his elbows. “Your boss may be used to getting what she wants, but she won’t get what she wants from us.”

  “Then she’ll kill you all.”

  “I’d like to see her try.”

  “You are hardly in a position to be making threats, Cassidy. Remember your poor nephew.”

  Dash chilled. “You swore he’d be safe.”

  “He is.”

  Dash banged his fist on the table. “Do you really expect me to believe he’s having a fortnight of golf and spa treatments up there at High Oaks?”

  “So you did follow us. It appears my associates owe me some money.” He raised his voice and nodded to the men glowering at the other end of the counter. “But, again, it is no matter. I told you. The boy is safe…for now.”

  Dash clenched his fists so hard that his fingernails bit into his palms. “I will tell you now that whatever Damaro’s game is, this town won’t stand for it—not without the Knights’ say-so.”

  “You take your cut, the town looks the other way and that’s it?”

  “Salvation is our town. We watch out for it, whether they like it or not.”

  “How very Arthurian.”

  Dash whipped out his gun. There was a thud and flash of pain. His body seized. He blinked at the knife stuck in the table, pinning his jacket to the Formica. Blood from the shallow cut pooled in his sleeve.

  “Put the gun away, Mr. Cassidy.” Dash reached for the knife. Vasiliev grabbed his wrist. His skin was cool, dry and his grip strong enough to hold him but not hard enough to hurt. Their eyes locked. “Damaro will take Salvation. How dear the cost is down to you.”

  Dash yanked his arm out of the Russian’s grip, pulled out the knife and buried it into the wall next to Vasiliev’s head. He didn’t even blink. “Lay another hand on me and you’ll lose it, I swear.”

  Vasiliev smiled and leaned in to whisper into Dash’s ear, his warm breath brushing Dash’s skin. “And yet if you want to lay a hand on me, all you have to do is ask.”

  Dash’s throat closed over. His face flooded with heat. Vasiliev freed the knife from the wall, slipped it away somewhere in his tight-fitting clothing then laid a hundred-dollar bill on the table. “For the damage,” he said, nodding to Rosie. Her scowl deepened but she didn’t speak.

  Vasiliev stood. “I like you, Cassidy. You’re different to what I was expecting. More…real.” His teeth glinted as he smiled. “Don’t make me kill you.”

  Dash found the strength to stand just as the Russian reached the door.

  “That’s twice you’ve ripped my jacket, Vasiliev,” he called. “You will not survive a third time.”

  Vasiliev sent him another penetrating look. “Good day, Mr. Cassidy.”

  The bell jingled then the door shut behind them. The heavies climbed into a parked sedan. Vasiliev moved to a large bike parked next to Guinevere. It was a Kalashnikov, all sleek, hard lines and bulked out with wide off-road tires. The chassis gleamed in the sun, black as a midnight sky.

  Vasiliev straddled the bike so suggestively that Dash was certain it was for his benefit, then pulled on a visored helmet. He twisted the starter and the engine roared to life, guttural and throbbing with power. Even at this distance, Dash could see the Russian’s bicep bunch as he revved, then both vehicles were roaring out of sight.

  “No leathers,” Rosie said, glaring out of the window. “Arrogant bastard.”

  “He’ll be lucky if road rash is the worst he gets,” Dash muttered, then thrust another hundred on top of Vasiliev’s and left.

  * * * *

  “Brett’s still missing and you’re out here working on your bike?”

  Dash wiped his hands on a rag. Guinevere’s cherry-red metalwork shone in the hot sun. Her engine was exposed. Old parts scattered the floor about his boots. The smells of engine oil and brake fluid filled his lungs.

  “Next time, I’ll catch the bastard.”

  “Twenty-four hours, Dash. They’ve had Brett for almost twenty-four hours.”

  “It’s not in their interest to hurt him.”

  “It’s not in our interest to let them have the chance.”

  “The boys said they’ve got High Oaks guarded like Fort Knox. We’re not getting in there by force.”

  “So call on the Phantoms. Call in the favor.”

  “I said I’d handle it.”

  Zara had more to say, he was sure, but a beat-up station-wagon pulling into the yard silenced both of them.

  “Head back inside,” Dash murmured, throwing the rag aside as the car pulled in just inside the gates. “See if Kitty’s found anything.”

  Zara watched the paunchy, sweating man climb out of the car before she headed back into the club.

  “Alb,” Dash said, moving to meet the older man. “Risky, you coming here…”

  “Don’t know what you’re talking about, Mr. Cassidy,” the man said, dabbing sweat from his high forehead with a stained handkerchief while scanning the surroundings with darting eyes, speaking overly loud. “Just brought this old heap in to scrap.”

  Dash nodded, pacing around the car, pretending to examine it. “What’s going on?”

  Alb stepped close, lowering his voice. “Hope View.”

  Dash felt a chill, despite the heat. “What about it?”

  “I just don’t know how much longer I can hold ‘em off.”

  “Even if the fat cats are letting downtown go, how can they—”

  “No one wants to lose the park, Dash,” Alb replied, “especially not to this lot.” He was wiping his palms on his pants and squinting toward the road. “They’re bad news. We all know it.”

  “Why does she want it so bad, anyway?”

  “They’re applying for planning permission to build something—right on Ocean Bluffs.”

  “Build what?”

  “I dunno. Something big. Warehouse? Storage bunker? I don’t get to see the application papers.”

  “You gotta stop them.”

  “I’m trying. Don’t you think I’m trying?”

  “Try harder.”

  “You don’t get to bully me on this one, Dash. I met my Mary at Hope View. Our kids learned to swim there. Their kids, too. They still come back every year for the Fourth of July fireworks.” He shook his head. “Everyone has memories there, not just you.”

  Dash looked away. “How is Damaro doing all this?”

  Alb shrugged. “Bribery, blackmail, pressure from the governor… Take your pick.”

  “Who is this bitch?”

  “Someone we can only hold out against for so long. I can keep stalling the applications, losing the paperwork, but she’s got ten Harvard lawyers for our one guy from Golden Gate Law School. And we’re running out of ways to run her to ground.” He looked around the scrapyard again, though they were still very mu
ch alone. “Isn’t there something you can do?”

  Dash leaned against the station-wagon and scuffed the dust with his boot, scowling at the piles of tires and the twisted mountains of metal work stacked against the wall. His mind rioted back and forth, but he didn’t speak.

  “You’ve dealt with problems like this before,” Alb urged. “We all know it. Heck, the mayor knows it was the Knights who ran those dope smugglers out of town.”

  “They crossed a line.”

  “And Damaro hasn’t?”

  Dash turned away. “I just need time.”

  Alb surveyed him a long moment then shook his head. “Well, I hope you don’t need much. Building work starts in less than two weeks.”

  “Building work?”

  “At Ocean Bluffs.”

  Dash scowled at the floor.

  “You actually want to scrap this thing?” Dash said eventually, turning back to the car. “I’ll give you five hundred for it.”

  Alb laid his hand on the rust-pocked roof. “Me and Mary’s first car, this. But I reckon it’s had its day.”

  “Six hundred then. And you and your old lady can have a drink at the clubhouse on me.”

  Alb managed a crooked smile. “You can have the car, Dash…for free. Just…save my town, okay?”

  Dash watched Alb leave with his back stooped and head bowed and wondered just when his godfather had gotten quite so old.

  * * * *

  Dash was grateful for the shade in the alley. It was hardly cool, but the piled trash didn’t stink quite as bad as it would have otherwise. He parked Guinevere behind a dumpster and paced the length of the strip of buildings, rattling at every door handle.

  “What do you think she’s using them for?” Harley mumbled, shading his hand to peer in the rear window of what had been the Country Bunker pool hall.

  “She wants to build something big on the park,” Dash murmured, tugging at the padlock securing the rear exit. “Maybe she’s using these places to store whatever she’s moving until she has that built?”

  “Or she wants to turn Salvation into a ghost town.” Harley scowled. “No one to see what she’s bringing through and no one to stop her.”

  “We won’t let that happen.”

  “Dash…here.”

  Dash turned. The old biker was rubbing dust from the glass of what had been the delivery door of Hank’s Market. “What?”

  “There’s someone in there…”

  Dash hurried over. Through the frosted glass he could just see shapes moving through the empty aisles. He heard a muffled sob.

  “We gotta get in,” Harley muttered but Dash shushed him as a shadow grew large beyond the glass. They ducked behind some piled crates just as the door opened. Dash watched through the gap between the crates and the wall as a cluster of figures came thorough the exit and made for the alley mouth. They were bunched tightly together. He heard the scuff of dragged feet and the muffle of stifled protests.

  Harley pulled his weapon, clicking the safety.

  “Hold.”

  “Yer daddy wouldn’t have held.”

  Dash grabbed the old man’s jacket and forced him against the wall as they heard a car start. Dash craned his neck. The bulky figures of Damaro’s security slammed the trunk of another dark sedan then climbed into the back seat. Vasiliev was leaning into the driver’s window, talking to the heavyset man inside. He straightened as the car pulled out, put on his shades and scanned the alley. Dash crouched back out of sight, squeezing Harley’s wrist hard until he fell silent. Vasiliev’s footsteps faded away and Dash eased off Harley.

  “There was too many of them, Harl,” Dash said, stepping out into the alley.

  “I’d take on ten of the bastards, given the chance.”

  Dash peered around the corner. Vasiliev was on the sidewalk, looking up the main street.

  “Get into the market,” Dash whispered back at his lieutenant. “See what they’re stashing in there.”

  “What are you gonna do?”

  “Follow this bastard. See where he goes next. Harley?” The old man turned back. “Be careful.”

  Harley cocked his gun. “Ain’t I always?”

  Dash lifted a hand in salute then stepped back to the corner. Vasiliev was just disappearing down the sidewalk. Dash jumped the alley fence and moved parallel to the road, keeping to the backstreets, catching glimpses of the slim figure between the buildings as he made his way north. Dash was just edging behind the shut-up gas station when Vasiliev took a left toward the outskirts of town. Dash followed, keeping his distance.

  Vasiliev turned into the next alley and disappeared from view. Dash cursed and increased his pace. He came to the corner and peered around.

  “If you wanted a private meeting, Cassidy, all you had to do was ask.”

  Vasiliev was leaned against the wall of the shaded alley, examining his fingernails. Dash ground his teeth and moved forward, his hand on his gun.

  “Nuh-uh.” Vasiliev wagged a finger at him, moving his own hand to his belt where the hilt of a knife was just visible at his waistline. “We’ve danced this dance before, yes?”

  “What’s in the old market?” Dash demanded.

  Vasiliev came forward, a smile tilting his perfect mouth. “Surely your loyal guard dog will find out—if there’s anything still to find, that is.”

  “You son of a bitch.”

  Vasiliev mock frowned. “And here I thought you were growing fond of me.”

  A hot balloon of rage burst inside Dash. He grabbed Vasiliev by his T-shirt and slammed him against the wall. There was a hot, dusty instant of his body pressed full-length against Vasiliev’s, then a grip like iron fastened onto his wrist and shoulder and he was spinning around. The wind was knocked out of him as he was shoved into the wall.

  Dash struggled to get breath back into his lungs as he fumbled for his gun then felt the cold kiss of metal against his neck.

  “That temper is going to get you in a lot of trouble one day.”

  Dash blinked until the world came back into focus. Vasiliev’s face was close to his. The sharpness of his blade pricked the skin at his throat. His leg was between Dash’s, the powerful thigh pinning him to the wall. The Russian dug his fingers into his injured arm, making it throb. His breath swept over Dash’s lips. The scents of leather and mint filled his head.

  Dash swallowed, willing his treacherous body not to react, but Vasiliev shifted against him and his blood rushed down his body. Vasiliev paused. He tilted his hips so the strained fabric at the front of Dash’s jeans tightened even further. Dash swallowed a pained moan with a monumental effort.

  Vasiliev leaned in closer. He breathed deep then sighed against Dash’s jaw. “Would this be a good time to tell me what you would like me to do with my mouth?”

  “Get back,” Dash said, finally reaching his gun.

  The blade dug harder into his neck, stinging the skin. He froze.

  “Now, I know you don’t really mean that.”

  “If you think for one instant I’d want—” Dash gasped as the Russian grabbed the bulge in the front of his trousers.

  “Need doesn’t recognize enemies,” Vasiliev murmured into his hair, trailing his lips down Dash’s jaw, “or lines not to cross.”

  Before Dash could draw breath, Vasiliev had dropped to his knees and wrenched open his fly. His erection sprang free. Vasiliev gazed at it, his lips parted, digging his fingers into Dash’s thighs, one hand pressing the knife perilously close to his groin.

  “My, my, Mr. President. Not just well endowed in looks, I see.”

  They gazed at each other one long, hot, breathless moment, Dash’s large erection quivering between them, then Vasiliev took the head into his mouth.

  Dash crushed his eyes shut. His knees threatened to give. It was so hot, so wet. He swallowed a strangled cry as Vasiliev swirled his tongue over his cockhead. The fingers and hard metal of the knife pressing into his flesh were the only things anchoring him as Vasiliev swallowed his length, t
aking him deeper and deeper.

  Dash dug his fingernails into the wall. He fought air into his lungs as Vasiliev drew back, right to the tip, drawing his tongue over the tingling skin. Dash opened his eyes. The Russian’s were blazing into his, the ice melted by desire. He kept eye contact as he took Dash in again, fast, tilting his head so Dash’s cock slid into his throat. The tightness was excruciating, and Dash nearly came right there. Vasiliev drew back halfway—sucking, licking, making low, purring noises in his chest. The last thread of Dash’s control snapped, and he ran his hands into the silken hair, gripped hard and thrust into the Russian’s mouth, over and over, heat boiling from his belly and rushing through his limbs.

  Vasiliev tightened his grip on Dash’s thighs, opening his throat and arching his body. The last thing Dash registered was those piercing eyes fluttering closed as a low moan rippled around his cock. Then Dash was coming in blistering waves, like flames were pouring into his chest and down his legs.

  He thrust one last time, closing his eyes, holding himself deep in the delicious heat, then slumped against the wall, panting.

  “Well then”—Vasiliev’s voice was hoarse—”it appears we have found common ground.”

  Dash opened his eyes. The Russian was brushing dust from his knees, his cheeks flushed, his mouth swollen, avoiding his eyes.

  Dash grabbed the hand with the knife and twisted until Vasiliev dropped the blade. He bent Vasiliev’s arm behind his back and slammed him face-first into the wall. He heard the breath leave the slighter man’s body and thrust his larger frame against him, pinning him to the wall.

  “No one blows like that because they’re told to.”

  There was a low, breathless chuckle, despite the fact that what Dash could see of his face was completely devoid of amusement. “You’ve never met someone like me before.”

  Dash applied just enough pressure to hurt him and watched the muscles in Vasiliev’s jaw tighten. He slid his hand between Vasiliev and the wall, kneading the swollen flesh at the front of his jeans. The younger man gasped, pressing his forehead to the rough brick, clenching his eyes shut.