Outlaw (Satan's Saints MC) Page 2

  Another jerk forward from the van behind and I see my slim window of opportunity up ahead. A damn longshot but I have to try, now that my temples buzz and my heart is pounding out of my chest.

  Fuck the odds.

  I’m fucked I don’t take a chance. I might as well go out on my own terms. Steering out of the curve, I keep my eyes on the back van with the help of my tiny rear-view mirror. I speed up to the one in front, closing in until I’m a few feet from their back bumper. Just as I expected, the van behind me comes in for the kill. I dodge to the left and through a gap in oncoming traffic until I’m on the small strip of shoulder next to the rock face.

  The dumbass driving the van behind has no time to adjust and no space to maneuver across the highway to get to me. Even if the guy anticipates it, he can’t drift that clunker across the lane without taking out his own vehicle and a few other motorists and their vehicles in the process. He manages to swerve to the right and pounds hard on his brakes to avoid hitting his friend ahead. It’s a hoot watching them scramble and counter-steer to avoid each other.

  I kick out dust as I fly past both of them on the opposite shoulder. Now that the coast is clear, I take in a long breath. I just got within an inch of becoming roadkill. The questions echoing in my head now is, who wants to kill me, and can they give me a little credit instead of slapping together such a fucked up plan to put me down?

  Los Diablos?

  The Mongols?

  Fuck, it could be anyone.

  Maybe next time, because I sure as hell ain’t dying today.

  The adrenaline’s still pumping, it feels like I’ll be high on it for the entire rest of my ride into town when I take the overhead pass that spills into the outskirts of North Las Vegas near the motor speedway. It’s probably a good thing to be amped up too. With this meeting about to happen, I can use the extra kick. After hanging a right, I reach an incline where I can see the large, fancy residential development of seven brick-and-glass condo buildings in the distance. My stop is the third building. I’ve never been inside, but there’s a first time for everything. Crisp, early evening desert air bites into my lungs. The wind whips into my face as if to say, get it together, motherfucker. I can’t argue with it.

  This new client wants me to come alone. He’s only getting his way because he’s highly recommended. I could have brought my VP, Cole, with me if I really wanted to. It’s standard protocol for every first meeting. But taking Cole away from his old lady after their wedding less than a month ago isn’t right. I’m going it alone tonight. It isn’t the first time, and it won’t be the last.

  Pulling out my phone at the red light, I check for updates from my executive that may have come in while I was on route. Nada. Whether that makes me less antsy or more paranoid is up in the air. Still, no news is good news.

  I’m still on time, which isn’t bad, considering that van attack. With a sharp right that has the back wheel working overtime to grip pavement, I turn into the parking garage of the condo complex. I pick a spot near the elevator on the fourth floor of the parking structure and do a quick double-check of my pockets. Money, phone, keys, and a tiny slip of paper with the coded location of several wooden boxes of AK-47s. It’s all here, and my trusted sawed off is tucked in the storage compartment of my ride. Heading across the small catwalk separating the parking garage from the condo, I take the elevator down to the main floor before striding into the fancy as fuck lobby. Maybe if I sell enough guns, one day I’ll be swinging around my money bags at a place this posh.

  “Excuse me. Can I help you, sir?” The short man at the front desk smirked. He’s standing next to the bell like the one guests ring at a hotel counter in movies, and quickly sizes me up with a judgmental stare. It’s a snobby, condescending expression to tell me that I stick out like a sore thumb without using crude words. I hate the man instantly.

  “I’m here to see Mr. Giovanni,” I bark back, for no reason other than to confirm the bellman’s suspicion that yes, I’m a low-brow dangerous motherfucker.

  “I’m sorry, I wasn’t aware Mr. Giovanni was expecting visitors.” The man smoothes a hand down his suit before clicking a few buttons on the laptop in front of him. “Indeed, I don’t see anyone else on the approved visitors list for the day, sir.”

  The preppy asshole stares at me as though it’s settled.

  Fat fucking chance.

  “Get him on the phone. Tell him there’s a Mr. Corrigan here to see him. He’s expecting me, and it’s important.”

  The man’s watery brown eyes narrows, his rat nose twitching as if he smells something funny. “As you wish, sir.”

  “Good. Thank you…Godfrey,” I pour it on thick as I read the clerk’s name slowly from his nametag.

  The self-important idiot gets the picture and grimaces in response. He picks up the phone and turns his back as if pretending to examine something on the wall behind him. I jump on the opportunity. This guy may be an asshole, but he is also a gatekeeper. That means I may need him. If anything shady happens, this scrawny-necked jackass can be useful by giving me a heads-up. Luckily, I always walk around prepared. I dig into the inner pocket of my cut for a hefty wad of folded bills. As Godfrey turns around to look at me again, I cock up one eyebrow and slide a thick stack of Benjamins across the marble countertop.

  “Something for your time.”

  Godfrey’s eyes go wide when he sees the stack of bills. Money talks around here, just like everywhere else. He nods excitedly and wraps up that phone call in a hot second to give me his full attention. It probably takes him months to make that much in tips. His hand slips over the bills, and he jerks the cash off of the counter, depositing it into his vest pocket.

  “Thank you. It’s my pleasure to help, anytime at all. Would you like me to see you up to the suite, sir?”

  “Nope, I’ll figure it out.”

  “As you wish, sir. If you need anything, I’ll be right here. Don’t hesitate to ring the bell for assistance if I’m not here.”

  “Count on it, Alfred.”

  The man winces from my intentional name slip, but makes an effort not to react. He scurries away, leaving the desk and disappearing into a back room. Probably to put that cash under lock and key.

  I’m soon on my way up to the meeting in one of the building’s shiny gold elevators. They’re fast too. It only takes a few seconds to for the doors to reopen on the landing of Mr. Giovanni’s condo, which looks like it takes up the entire twenty-seventh floor. Or maybe it’s a private elevator to one section. The place is massive, with two beefy bodyguard types standing at a doorway nearby. Typical, and not unexpected for a man this important. One of them holds the front door open, ready for me to walk in. They both nod a greeting, and I follow the guy into a sitting room.

  Then I see him.

  Success, influence and business savvy in a suit. He looks it too, for his young age, with an authoritative chin and distinctive sideburns framing a dark head of hair, and intense gray eyes that look like they can read through bullshit. My future client sits on an expensive burgundy and gold fabric sofa that looks like it stepped right out of a B-rated horror movie. He doesn’t look up from his book, even after the bodyguard announces me, so I wait, widening my stance in the middle of the room, digging my hands into the front pocket of my cut, ready for anything.

  “Thank you for coming, Mr. Corrigan,” Giovanni finally announces. He places a bookmark between the pages of a well-worn book in his hand, glancing up for the first time. “I know this was last minute meeting, so I apologize for keeping you waiting. We do appreciate your business.”

  “Sure.” I hold my stance, waiting to be invited to take a seat. “No problem. You came highly recommended by our mutual friend.”

  “Ah, yes. The Padrino had quite a lot to say about you.”

  I’m not about to take that kind of easy bait. Padrino is the nickname for Romano Rizzo, the most influential mobster in the region from St. George, Utah to Las Vegas, Nevada along the I-15. He’s been the b
est sales connection for my club, but a referral from him doesn’t put Giovanni on the safe list. Not yet. All it does is get him in the door. We’re all in a probationary period, to feel each other out and build some trust. I stay alert, fingering the piece of notebook paper in my pocket, and pretending to be bored. I owe the guy common courtesy, but that’s about it. For now, I keep my lips shut and let Giovanni lead the way through what’s supposed to be a five-minute discussion.

  “You’re the strong silent type, aren’t you?”

  “I’m here for one thing, Mr. Giovanni.”

  “Oh, so right down to business, then.” The man runs his arms across his slacks and straightens the front of his freshly pressed blue button-down shirt. “I can respect that. Sunny? Bring me the case, please.”

  “Here you are, Sir.”

  One of the goons brings a briefcase into the room. It should be full of money. My anticipation builds, because this is the juncture where conditions can turn on a dime. When Mr. Giovanni gives me the go ahead, I take three smooth steps toward the ritzy coffee table that matches the sofa. Bending forward, I spring open the lid and lift up a few wads. The cash is all there. Great. We’re golden. I straighten up again, meeting Mr. Giovanni’s gaze head on and meet a stare that lasts way too long.

  That’s when shit goes sideways.

  Someone wraps a forearm around my throat and throws me up against a wall so fast I can’t catch my breath fast enough. Whoever it is, he’s a dead motherfucker.

  Chapter 3

  Sabrina

  I draw in one last frustrated breath, struggling with my necklace clasp again. Diamonds are a girl’s best friend, but right now, I’m not so sure about how I feel about the chains that bind us to our shiny, designer BFFs.

  “Priceless,” I mutter sarcastically, throwing the chain down on my vanity and replacing it with a simpler white gold necklace with a diamond infinity loop pendant—and a much easier clasp.

  At this rate, I’ll show up to the gala with one earring, one shoe, a disheveled up-do and cramped fingers, and I’ll still be late. I’m about ready to throw my hands up in supplication to the social gods when a loud, abrupt bang against my vanity wall interrupts my prayers. The necklace slips between my fingers and slithers to the floor from my surprised backward motion. Then my fingers hit a glass bottle of perfume. It tips over, leaking floral fumes all over my counter, but I freeze, eyes wide.

  Another loud thump.

  This time with a muttered swear and two angry voices talking over each other.

  What in God’s name is going on next door?

  More banging.

  A harsh order.

  The sound of something shattering.

  With the sharp tang of the fragrance stifling my nose, I jerk back into action, leaning forward to grasp the bottle and stand it up again. My stomach twists in knots and my shaky hand fumbles and the bottle falls again. The sweet pool of slowly evaporating liquid is growing larger by the second. Soon it’ll be cascading over my sterling silver tray and onto the carpet. It’s the distracting thought that tingles across my scalp to help me avoid the fearful question of what’s going on in a room nearby. That distraction doesn’t really work, though. All it does is make a bigger mess of the spill. Panic causes the back of my mouth to taste sour now, and I struggle not to break out in nervous hives. I absently grab the towel that I just used after my shower, now on the floor from my shock, and swab up the perfumed mess.

  Each second my fingers plunge into the damp towel, I hear a little more of the ruckus going on next door. I press my ear up against the wall, one hand balancing in the sweet-smelling mess.

  “I had it on good authority I wouldn’t be dealing with anything fucked up and underhanded tonight. I must have been wrong—”

  “Funny, I don’t remember anyone making that promise. The thing I do remember—”

  “Watch yourself, fucker.”

  “I’m working to make things crystal clear, and this is the best way I know how…”

  There’s an extended block of muffled conversation, then I press my ear so hard against the wall I think my eardrum can pop from the suction. It works. I can hear almost every word.

  “I merely need assurances that you will deliver.”

  “I just gave you the location of the goods.”

  “I need to see them…the same way you saw the cash in that briefcase. It’s insurance, so you don’t make off with my money. Surely you agree that’s reasonable?”

  “Depends on how you define reasonable,” the other man choked out. “Can I have some breathing room before your goon goes down and never fucking wakes up again?”

  I hear a sharp snap, and I flinch back from the wall. I don’t dare take a breath.

  “Let me call my boys. I’ll have them swing by to check—”

  My brow pinches as the voices fade too much to hear again. They probably moved from one room to the other. It’s maddening, only getting half of the conversation, but I mentally kick myself for making it my business in the first place. Whatever it is going down next door, I need to ignore it. This is the type of thing my law firm associates would advise clients to stay away from. It’s best not to be a witness. What matters to me tonight is getting myself ready for the gala and out the door.

  But as usual, I’m curious, and remain glued to the spot on the wall. Something’s going on over there. There’s a chance I might hear something that comes in handy. It’s an opportunity I can’t ignore. Releasing the towel, I press my ear to the pale lavender wall of my bedroom again.

  Nothing.

  It goes quiet on the other side of that damn wall.

  Goosebumps prickle all across my exposed arms and legs, and I realize I’m breathing deafening gasps in and out of my mouth. With a wince, I clap a hand over my red lipstick covered lips.

  They start up again, to which I breathe a small sigh of relief.

  “There. Look at the tiny screen. See the tiny people? Those are my guys at the warehouse. See the street sign? We weren’t lying about the location.”

  “What the fuck—”

  “You know, this really isn’t a great way to start off a new partnership.”

  “Really? I see it as illuminating.”

  There’s some more muttering I can’t make out.

  “Satisfied?”

  “If you want to call it that, we can. But you’ll be hearing from me if the weapons aren’t as exactly as you promised.”

  “I wouldn’t expect anything less.”

  Another beat of silence.

  The man has balls. He’s not intimidated at all. Then I hear someone open a door. I jump away from the wall and return to what I was doing before the bits and pieces of conversation made its way to me. Of course, now I can’t get it out of my head.

  Money. Weapons. Warehouse.

  I take a seat on the padded stool in front of my vanity. A weapons deal is going down on the other side of that wall. If I’ve learned anything from my family, I need to forget what I just heard. If I stay off their radar, I’ll be fine. I’m definitely not getting involved in this mess. There’s nothing to do, not even to reach out to my father. With a decided nod, I pick up the towel and throw it in the laundry hamper. Snatching up my other shoe, I slip my foot in, and find my clutch purse. I have other priorities and commitments to worry about. I pick up the fallen necklace, slide it into my clutch, and grab my wrap off the back of the chair.

  The conversation is still on instant replay in the back of my mind, but I’m determined to act like it never happened. Deniability is the best policy when so much is already at stake. I’ve been dragged down by too much in my life. I won’t flick the next domino of another unwanted chain of events and screw up my life that much more. After I grab my car keys and shut the front door, I keep my eyes on the carpet as I lock up. It takes effort not to look around, almost as much as it takes to walk down the hallway and act normal while also maintaining a speed to get me the hell out of there.

  Halfway down the corr
idor, my left heel catches on the carpet. I avoid a full stumble by bracing myself against the wallpapered wall. But my keys slip from my nervous fingers, hitting the plush floor with a reasonably quiet jangle. I scoop them up just seconds before a door creaks open in the hallway behind me. I don’t dare look back because I’m already in too deep with the man next door. Getting mixed up in any more of whatever shady dealings are going on, well it’s not a good idea.

  “Shit.” I feel a random itch running down my leg from a spot at the back of my left hip. Instinctively, I start reaching down toward my backside without looking, then I think better of scratching it. My pantyhose must have just ripped, but I don’t have time to go back and change it. Especially with whatever’s going on back there.

  After walking for what feels like an hour, I arrive at the elevator and repeatedly press the call button, my heart racing as I wait. Jesus, are those men coming closer? Fear and paranoia start to paralyze me. I don’t want to be trapped on an elevator with anyone, so I whirl around to take the stairs instead. Except, I end up colliding into a solid, broad, well-developed, muscular chest.

  My pink manicured fingers spread across the dizzying expanse of the man’s black t-shirt and leather vest.

  “Oh, Christ! I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—” I sputter, backing away.

  He catches my arm and steadies me, and the world starts to swirl. Bright sparks of light flash ahead of my eyes. “It’s okay. Take it easy.”

  His fingers burned into my forearm where he was holding me with a solid grip, but not too tightly, because I feel like my body swaying a few inches in one direction, then again in the other direction. I look up at the man, way up, past the expanse of black muscle shirt, and crane my neck to take in gorgeous cerulean blue eyes, a slight cupid-bow mouth, and thick eyebrows, which at the moment nearly reaches up to the hairline of his full head of black smoothed-back hair.