My Iron Knight Read online

  “Need never lies,” he said, then stepped away, drawing his gun.

  Vasiliev turned. His hair was in disarray, hanging in his face. He held his hands away from his body, his breathing hard. He didn’t try to run, didn’t lunge for the dropped knife. He just stood there, his lips parted, staring at Dash, not blinking.

  Dash fought his thoughts into order, told himself to shoot. But the heat in the blue eyes burned away his senses.

  “We can come to an arrangement, you and I,” Vasiliev said softly, running a hand up his belly, over his chest. Dash watched it, his mouth filling with saliva.

  He swallowed. “The only thing I want is you out of Salvation.”

  “That,” Vasiliev said, dropping his hand, “is the one thing I can’t do for you.”

  Dash clicked back the safety. His hand was shaking. Vasiliev’s eyes flicked to the knife on the floor.

  “Don’t even think about it.”

  “Killing me won’t stop her, Cassidy,” he said. “Nothing will stop her.”

  They stared at each other. Then, suddenly exhausted beyond all measure, Dash lowered his gun. Vasiliev retrieved his weapon from the dust.

  “Stay out of her way,” the Russian said, face serious. “And stay out of Hope View.”

  He turned, paced away, rounded the corner and was gone before Dash could regain enough control to see which way he had gone.

  Chapter Three

  Dash cranked the shower pressure to full to scour the sweat, dust and feel of Vasiliev from his skin. He thrust his head under the spray, foaming shampoo in his hair and trying to resist imagining those long-fingered hands weaving through his ebony curls as he made the infuriating, beautiful Russian scream his name. But he couldn’t steer his brain away. He wondered what that snide mouth might taste like, what that lithe, strong body might feel like against his, undone by passion, the ice-cold control stripped away.

  He shut his eyes and reached for himself. He was aching and hard again already. The vision of Vasiliev, his head flung back, pale cheeks flooded with color and begging Dash for more, was vivid enough that he could almost smell the Russian’s heated skin.

  He came in seconds, shuddering as the orgasm thrummed along his limbs. He blinked until his vision cleared, rinsed himself off and shut off the shower.

  He was calmer as he dressed, though a low anger mixed with shame still simmered under his skin.

  The Knights were all waiting in the meeting room. The air smelled of cigarettes, whiskey and sweat. Zara and Kitty were at the far end of the table, murmuring over her laptop. Everyone quieted as he came in.

  “Well?” Zara stood, folding her arms. “Did you catch the bastard?”

  “He got away.” Zara narrowed her eyes while the bikers exchanged glances. “Harl, anything in the empty store?”

  The old biker shrugged his broad shoulders. “Not much, boss. A mattress. Some trash. Nothing else.”

  “A mattress?” Zara frowned.

  “They must be keeping something there before moving it on,” Dash said, pulling out a chair at the head of the table and sitting. “Something…or someone.”

  “Ransom?” Harley mused, tapping his pack of cigarettes on the table. “Is that their game?”

  “That’s a hell of a lot of real estate for one hostage.”

  “Who cares what they’re doing?” growled Reaper. “What are we doing about it?”

  More mutterings and Dash rubbed his head. The two extremely good orgasms had more than taken care of his headache but had done nothing for his emotional exhaustion. “I’m working on it.”

  “That ain’t good enough, Cassidy,” Reaper snapped. “Butch would have had us out there already, crashing High Oaks like a storm.”

  “Butch is dead. I’m president now.”

  “So act like it, boy,” Lance, all grizzled beard and chunky gold rings, growled. “Tell us what we’re gonna do about this.”

  “I will,” Dash said, “as soon as I know what that is. Kitty, you followed the money?”

  The girl nodded, looking away from the glares sent her way. “I figured out how they tricked us,” she murmured, “how they’re laying their fake money trails. Now that I know that, I was able to find the real ones.”

  “And?”

  She paused then looked up. “They’re bringing more trucks in tonight. But they aren’t heading for town.”

  “Where are they heading?” Dash asked with a sinking feeling.

  “Hope View…”

  The room was hotter. The air thick. Kitty clicked more keys on her laptop then turned the screen to face them. “Satellite images of Ocean Bluffs.”

  Dash came round the table for a closer look. “Son of a bitch.”

  “What?” snapped Lance. “What is it?”

  “They’re already building,” Dash said, zooming into the grainy image of heavy machinery and the large square of construction.

  “Building what?” Harley said, cigarette bobbing in his mouth as he squinted at the screen.

  Dash shook his head. “Alb didn’t know. Just that it was something big.”

  “Whatever they’re bringing in tonight,” Zara said, pointing at the screen, “they’re taking it there.”

  “Not if I have anything to do with it,” Dash said, slamming the laptop shut. “We leave at sunset,” he ordered. “Tell the crew to be ready. All of them.”

  “Yes, boy,” Lance said, clapping his fist into his palm. “That’s more like it.”

  “But what about High Oaks?” Reaper asked. “What about young Brett? I thought this girl was finding a way to get him out?”

  Kitty paled and Zara, her face set, squeezed her shoulder. “I found a way to sneak one guy into the compound,” Kitty murmured, putting the laptop away. “Maybe two at a push, if you were careful. But there’s no way we could get enough of us in to take the place by surprise.”

  “So we do it the old-fashioned way,” Reaper said, cracking his knuckles. “Storm the gates.”

  “And hand our asses to them on a plate?” Dash snapped. “That’s what they’re hoping we’ll do.”

  “Zara,” Reaper scowled, holding a hand out to her, “you were with me…for calling the Phantoms.”

  “I’ve changed my mind,” Zara said with a wary glance at Dash. “Dash is right. It wouldn’t be enough.”

  “We can’t break into High Oaks,” Dash said, cutting off Reaper’s renewed protest. “But once we find out what’s in those trucks, we’ll know our enemy.” Dash met each pair of eyes around the table. “Once we know them, we’ll know how to squeeze them. Now, go. We have work to do.”

  A mix of wary looks and approving nods went around the room, then the Knights all filed out.

  “And what happens to Brett when we bust their shipment?” Zara asked as soon as they were alone.

  “They won’t hurt him,” Dash said, opening the ammo safe in the corner. “He’s too valuable.”

  “The pretty Russian tell you that?” He shot her a look. She held it for a long moment then looked away. “You better be fucking right about this, little brother,” Zara growled. “Or I swear, I’ll chop your balls off myself.”

  * * * *

  The heat of the day was finally fading by the time the Iron Knights were gathering in the shadows off Hope View Lane. The tangled dark of the trees at the park’s edge was black against the star-studded arch of the night sky overhead. Now that they’d cut their engines, Dash could hear the sea sighing to itself in the distance.

  The salt-laden breeze cooled the sweat on his forehead. He breathed it in deep and felt it and the sturdy bulk of Guinevere ground him. He held the handlebars tight, the adrenaline needling through his veins, a low, flickering flame alight in his chest.

  “Quiet.” He hushed the murmuring bikers as the low rumble of large engines whipped to him on the breeze. “Be smart,” he muttered. “Be fast. As few bullets as possible.”

  “I never signed up for that.”

  “Enough of the backchat, Reap,” Zara snapped out of the dark. “We got a job to do.”

  The original didn’t have time to reply because a couple of trucks lumbered into view. They were a lot smaller than the one from the night before. Dash waited until they were directly ahead before whistling the order to move. The bikes roared out of the darkness, metalwork flashing in the trucks’ headlights, exhaust billowing in the air, dust swirling as they skidded in tight circles, swiftly surrounding the braking vehicles. Shots split the night air, followed by the crash and belch of bursting tires. Once the trucks had ground to a halt and the Knights had them surrounded, Dash dismounted, his gun aimed at the windscreen of the truck in front. The driver sat frozen in the light from the bike headlights, his hands raised, his eyes wide.

  “Get them out,” Dash ordered and several of the Knights scrambled to pull the drivers out of their cabs and force them to their knees in the dust.

  “Watch ‘em,” Dash ordered then hurried around to the back of the truck just as Kitty snapped the padlock with a pair of bolt cutters. Samson climbed onto the bumper and opened the rolling door.

  The lights from the second truck flooded the dark interior. A cluster of forms huddled in the corner, as far away from the door as possible. Dash could just make out stained clothing and slim limbs covering bent heads.

  A man—no, a boy—stood between the door and the figures—his arms outstretched as if to shield them, his dirty face twisted with fear and fury.

  “Jesus Christ,” Zara muttered at Dash’s side as one by one the young people raised their heads to blink wide, terrified eyes at them.

  “What is this?” Harley muttered from his other side as Dash beckoned Kitty to him.

  “Get them out of there,” he said quietly, holstering his weapon. “Tell them we won’t hurt them
.”

  Kitty nodded and climbed into the truck, holding out her hands. “Hey there… Hey. Don’t be scared. It’s all gonna be all right, you hear?”

  “Dash?”

  Dash turned as Lance joined them from the other truck. “Damn thing’s full of kids.”

  “Zara, go with Lance. Get everyone out of these damn trucks,” Dash ordered. “Gently.”

  Lance shouted orders as the Knights stood around looking uncertain, and soon the hostages were being helped from the trucks.

  There were a dozen altogether—nine girls, three boys—Black, white, Asian, Hispanic. Not one was over sixteen.

  Rage boiled inside Dash as Kitty and Zara handed around water and Harley checked them over for injuries.

  “What is this, Dash?” Lance murmured, staring at the kids with a mixture of anger and confusion on his rugged face.

  “Human trafficking,” Kitty said as she rejoined them, her face tight with emotion. “I should have guessed.”

  “Trafficked for what?” Lance growled. “They’re kids, for fuck’s sake.”

  “Dash,” Harley called, beckoning.

  Dash fought back his raging temper and went to join the old medic.

  “They hurt?”

  “Don’t think so,” Harley muttered, staring at the huddle of wide-eyed kids with a slack expression. “Scared, hungry…but not hurt. But there is this…” He turned over the arm of the girl nearest him. She winced, turning her face away, but didn’t pull back. There was a tiny tattoo on her inner wrist.

  “What is that?” Zara murmured, leaning close. “A flower?”

  “An iris,” Dash said and stormed to where the drivers knelt, trembling, in the dirt.

  “If I were you,” Dash said, drawing his gun again, “I would talk…and fast.”

  “You…you may as well shoot us now,” one of them quavered in a thick European accent. “It’ll be nothing compared to what she’ll do if we talk.”

  “Your funeral,” Dash said, cocking back the safety, but Zara stopped him with a hand on his arm.

  “Dash…look.” She nodded to their hands where they were clasped in their laps. Dash frowned, knelt, took a hold of the smaller one’s wrist and turned it over.

  A blurred iris was tattooed into the skin. The man, younger than Dash had realized, met his eyes with watering ones of his own, his lips trembling. Dash scrubbed a hand over his face, holstered his gun and stood, holding his hands out to the drivers. They exchanged glances then let Dash help them to their feet.

  “Kitty. Zara. Get everyone into the truck that’ll still drive.”

  A ripple of whimpers went through the huddle of teenagers, but Dash held up a hand. “It’s okay,” he said. “I swear. We’re not gonna hurt you. Reap, drive these kids outta here. Get everyone back to the club. Get ‘em food, clothes. Everyone else, guard this truck with your lives. Understand?”

  The Knights began bustling about, helping the kids back into the truck as Reaper climbed into the cab.

  “What about these two?” Lance growled, waving his gun at the drivers.

  “I wanna take you back, too,” Dash said, and the young men’s eyes widened.

  “We won’t say anything,” the same one stammered, shaking his head. “We can’t—”

  “I’ve got connections,” Dash said. “Give us something we can use on this bitch, and I’ll get you new names, new passports, cash. You can head off to anywhere you want, get somewhere she won’t ever reach you.”

  The drivers exchanged glances. The older one opened his mouth to say something, then came a whizz and thump and blood spattered Dash’s face. The driver slid to the floor, a hole blooming blood in his chest.

  “Get down,” Dash ordered as more bullets split the air. He tugged the other driver, frozen with fear, into the dirt and covered his body with his own. Shots thumped into the ground, the truck. The driver under him screamed when one hit his leg.

  “Reap,” Dash cried over the noise, waving frantically at the cab, “get them out of here.”

  The truck engine growled and the biker began to turn it.

  “Lance, get him outta here.”

  The old biker scooped up the limp form of the older driver as Dash flung the other, who was still clutching his leg and howling, over his shoulder. They ran for the truck just as Reaper finished turning it and flung the drivers into the reaching arms of Kitty and Zara in the back. The women slammed the door just as more bullets punched holes in the metal.

  “Go,” Dash yelled over the noise, the truck engine roared and it raced into the darkness.

  The remaining Knights were firing into the trees while scrambling for their bikes. Dash got to Guinevere, swung her around and sped toward the source of the shots. Above the noise of his engine, he heard another start—a low, powerful throbbing, one he recognized.

  “Not this time,” he growled, twisting his accelerator to full.

  Guinevere howled as Dash pushed her to the very edge of her limits. He rounded a bend without braking and the black shape of the Kalashnikov and its slim rider came into sight.

  The park’s tracks were pitted and rock-strewn, bending and twisting between trees and bluffs and outcrops in a dizzying series of crossroads and hairpin bends. The black bike was a fraction too hesitant at every turn, a touch too slow when the road tilted or dipped unexpectedly. Every stall gave Dash a chance to gain, and when the driver made the mistake of slowing to pull a handgun and fire back at him, Dash took his chance.

  He swerved out the way of the shot, drew his own weapon and aimed for the tires.

  A crash, a bang, a screech of metal and the bike went over. It skidded into the trees with a shower of sparks and a roar of ungodly noise. Dash shot past, braked and wheeled Guinevere around, showering dirt. All was silent. He spotted the broken branches where the Kalashnikov had left the road and edged his bike closer, shining his headlight into the trees.

  The black bike lay, broken and smoking, at the edge of the pool of illumination. Dash cut his engine. He steered Guinevere into the cover of the trees and propped her out of sight from the road. He drew his gun and took a minute to let his eyes to adjust to the dark before creeping farther in.

  He reached the wrecked bike, his heart thudding in his chest. He prepared himself for the sight of Vasiliev’s broken body, his helmet twisted at a sickening angle, flesh scraped from his limbs. He told himself that it was what he wanted. It was what the club expected. The threat nullified. Revenge exacted.

  But there was no one there.

  He cast about in the trees, but all was silence and stillness. He moved cautiously, straining his hearing, freezing when a twig snapped somewhere off to his right. He hurried toward the sound, keeping his booted footfalls light as possible.

  The moon came out just as he reached a clear space in the trees. Nothing moved. An animal cried deep in the woods. The sea breeze rustled the leaves. He lowered his gun, scanning the moonlit scene, then, finally, spotted something shining, something round and highly polished. Vasiliev’s helmet. He approached cautiously. It was smeared with something dark, liquid…sticky.

  He bent close.

  Blood.

  He swallowed, raised his head and noticed the dark trail leading into the trees.

  He found Vasiliev slumped against a trunk a few feet from the edge of the clearing. The moonlight washed his skin deathly white and made the blood on his face look black. His eyes were closed, his long lashes casting delicate shadows over his high cheek bones. His gun was in his hand, but he didn’t move as Dash drew close.

  Dash crept forward with his gun leveled at the Russian’s face. Vasiliev still didn’t move. Dash hovered over him, his gun ready. Nothing.

  He fought an all-too-brief inner battle, lost, holstered his gun and knelt, holding the back of his hand to Vasiliev’s face. Shallow breath brushed his fingers, and he was shocked at the strength of the relief that surged through him. He shook himself and felt Vasiliev’s legs, arms, neck. His riding leathers were sticky and torn but, by some miracle, there didn’t appear to be any broken bones. A gash in his thigh oozed blood, but that and the cut in his forehead appeared to be his only injuries. Dash swiftly relieved the Russian of his gun, cell phone—broken in the crash—and three knives sheathed at his wrist, waist and ankle. Then he unzipped his own jacket and used one of the knives to slice a strip of fabric from the bottom of his shirt. He tied it hastily around Vasiliev’s thigh, eliciting a hiss of pain and some muttered Russian.