Promised Ride

This is a work of fiction. Any names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons--living or dead--is entirely coincidental.

Promised Ride copyright @ 2014 by Joanna Wilson. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embedded in critical articles or reviews.

Promised Ride

“So this is the longest second,” thought Christie Monroe as she watched the cylinder slowly start to turn on the Smith & Wesson 442 that was pointed at her face. The club preferred revolvers for kill guns because they didn’t leave brass lying around and wouldn’t drop a spent cartridge on the road if you had to use it from your bike.

She had heard other agents joke about “the longest second” at ATF headquarters. “It’s the longest second of your life,” one agent had explained to her over a cup of coffee, “because it’s usually the last second of your life, and your body wants to stretch it out and make it last,” Another agent, who had been shot in the line of duty, swore that with his mind driven into overdrive by the fear of the moment, he had been able to watch the bullet spin from the end of the barrel and cross the room to impact squarely in the middle of his vest. “Damn good thing he was wearing kevlar,” he had snorted.

Christie wasn’t wearing a vest, so head or chest, it didn’t matter. The .38 would blow a fatal hole through her body. The high-speed bullet would turn her brain or her heart or her lungs to jelly. And at such a short range as this, the shooter couldn’t possibly miss a critical target area.

She had always thought that the office legend about time slowing down when you knew you were about to die was a myth, but now, as she waited for what seemed like minutes for the pressure on the trigger to complete the rotation that would align the cartridge with the barrel, she realized that it was true.
Too bad I’ll never be able to tell them they were right,
she thought as she waited for the muzzle flash that would signal her death.

Then she heard a deep, slow, drawn out “NO!” Evidently sound was also distorted by the way that time was stretched out. Christie could see the finger on the trigger slowly relax and the cylinder very, very slowly shift back into its original position.

Then time returned to normal and the voice continued clearly, “Not here! Not now! Let’s take her back to the club.”

She recognized that voice... and she recognized the man who was speaking. It was Zed Barlow. Zed had recently taken over leadership of the notorious Ryswell Brothers Motorcycle Club after their previous president died in a shootout with a rival gang.

Zed had changed a lot in the six years they had been apart. Even in the dim light of the setting sun, she could see that he was now leaner... harder... but then he would have to be to lead the Ryswell Brothers.

The man with the revolver protested, saying, “But she’s a cop! She’s ATF. We should fuckin’ drop her right here and leave her for them bastards to find! Maybe next time they won’t send someone out so fast to sneak up on one of our transactions.”

“I don’t think they sent her,” Zed said calmly as he walked up to stand in front of her. “I think she came out here on her own, hoping to show the rest of them what she could do all by herself... to prove that she was the best.”

He looked her in the eyes and said, “Didn’t you, Christie?”

“You know this bitch!?” sputtered the would-be shooter.

“I
knew
her,” Zed responded flatly. “I knew her a long, long time ago.”

He looked into her eyes. Was it hatred she saw? Or was the fire that she could see burning deep within his soul a reflection of the same fire that he had once shown her, and she for him?

No!
Christie said to herself as she felt her body begin to respond to Zed’s closeness. Then she said aloud, “That was a long time ago, Zed. You’ve changed a lot in six years.”

“You haven’t,” he responded curtly. “You still want to prove yourself. You still want to show everyone that you’re better than them. That’s why you left. That’s why you became a cop... to prove that you were better than me... better than us.” His hand made a sweeping motion to indicate the members of the club who were gathered around her.

Christie could feel the anger and hurt and bitterness that boiled out of Zed with each word. Memories flooded over her. She remembered that last night... the lovemaking... the argument... the yelling... the crying. After they had made love for that final time, she had told him that she was leaving the Ryswell Brothers... and him. She was going to better herself before she was dragged down into the Ryswell cesspool with him. She was going to become a police officer. No, better than that, she was going to become a federal agent.

That night, she begged Zed to leave with her, but he refused. “I will always love you,” she said as she clung tightly to him that night. “I will never forget you,” she promised him. Through tears, she begged him one final time to abandon becoming further involved with the Ryswells and to leave with her.

When he still would not leave the club he had so recently joined, she emphatically repeated her promises one final time. “I promise that I will always love you and will never forget you. I promise I will come back to you someday.” Then, just before she left, she said, “Promise me, Zed...”

She never completed the sentence. Like so many things in their relationship, it remained unfinished between them. She’d stared silently into his eyes, which were filled with pain. Then she’d turned and walked out the door.

That was six years ago. Now it was he who stood before her, staring silently into her eyes.

“Strip!” he said gruffly.

“What?” she exclaimed, her eyes widening.

Turning to the man who still had the revolver pointed at her, he ordered, “If she is wearing a wire, or if she is not naked in sixty seconds, shoot her!”

Christie could not believe the hatred she could now hear in Zed’s voice.

He turned to face her once again and said, “Gun first. Pull the clip and empty the chamber, then set it on the rock in front of you.”

Christie reached around to the small of her back and removed the Glock 22 from her holster. She carefully released the clip and let it drop to the ground, then jacked the shell out of the chamber. Leaving the single shell and the clip on the ground, she set the weapon on a large rock alongside the path on which she stood.

“Now the holster”

She undid her pistol belt and set it with the weapon.

“Phone,” instructed Zed. “And remove the battery.”

Soon her phone and its battery were lying on the rock alongside her empty Glock.

“Now strip!’

She fumbled with the buttons to her blouse. “If you need help...” Zed said ominously, and she hurried to remove it. “Just set it there with the gun,” he ordered.

Christie reached down and untied her shoes and stepped out of them. She could feel herself turning red as she slid her jeans down her legs. She set them on the rock with her blouse and stood in her bra and panties before the men who surrounded her.

She was a beautiful woman. Christie had always had a nice body, and the physical training and exercise required by her job had toned that body to perfection. She was proud of her appearance, and under different circumstances, would probably have flexed her stomach muscles to show off her womanly six-pack abs.

“Strip means naked,” said Zed. “You have fifteen seconds left.”

Turning an even deeper shade of red, she quickly unclasped her bra and set it on the rock. Her panties followed shortly thereafter. Standing now totally naked within the circle of men she attempted a smile and tried to say cheerfully, “See, no wire. I’m not wearing anything.”

“Put the body finder with the gun,” Zed said softly.

Christie’s smile disappeared and she tried to feign a lack of understanding. “I don’t know what you mean,” she replied.

He said slowly, “Do you want me... or perhaps David here, to take it out of you?”

Her shoulders drooped in defeat. She squatted slightly and reached between her legs as though she was removing a tampon, but what she took from inside her body was a light green cylindrical object that was rounded at both ends. The official name for the device was a “Personally Concealable Tracking Beacon.” Before putting the batteries in place, you set a delay of up to a week before the beacon activated. Then you inserted the tube into an appropriate body cavity.

The PCTB had been developed by the CIA during the cold war to track agents who might be abducted during an operation. ATF agents used it when they were going short-term into a dangerous undercover operation. The reality, however, was that if things went that badly south, you probably weren’t going to survive and the only use for the beacon was to find the body. Thus, the more common name of “body finder.”

“Take out the battery and put it on the rock with the rest.”

Christie did as Zed had commanded. Gripping the green device in both hands, she twisted it and unscrewed the two halves. After the battery dropped to the ground, she placed the two pieces of plastic on the rock.

Then Zed said in a much softer voice, “Get dressed. You’re riding with me.”

***

As the motorcycles roared off into the night, Christie clung tightly to Zed’s back. Partly she clung to Zed to protect herself from the cold wind which whipped around him. She had left her jacket behind when she crept down into what she had thought was the perfect hiding place and was not otherwise dressed to ride on such a cool evening. Partly she clung to Zed to hold tight to the only person who could keep the other Ryswell Brothers members from killing her... for now. But mostly Christie clung tightly to Zed because, after all this time, it was a chance to be close, even for these few moments, to the only man whom she had ever really loved.

She could feel the warmth of Zed’s body even through the leather jacket. The front of his jacket was partially open and she slid her hands inside to grip his firmly muscled abdomen. She found herself wondering if he still looked as good naked as he once had. She knew that she did, but in the years they had been apart, she had been required by her position as a federal agent to exercise regularly and her body was, if anything, better toned now that it was six years ago.

She pressed in with her fingertips and Zed involuntarily tightened his stomach muscles in response. It was like pressing against a solid rock covered with a thin padding of warm leather. She inhaled deeply as she remembered them lying together naked in Zed’s bed. She had hoped that those feelings would have cooled slightly in the six years that they had been apart. She had promised him that she would always love him and would never forget him, but her mind had hoped that her heart would forget.

It had not. She felt that old familiar heat rising within her as she pushed her face against Zed’s shoulder. Her fingertips were now tracing the ridges that defined the muscles on Zed’s abdomen. The rigidity of his abs was no longer an involuntary response to her squeezing him. He was consciously holding his muscles tight as she caressed him through his thin shirt.

She smiled as she remembered how easily Zed could become turned on when she used to stroke his stomach early in the morning. He would pretend to be asleep as her light caresses awoke his manhood. Then, when his staff was fully awake, he would open his eyes and begin to return her caressing touch. She would already be highly excited from caressing him, and Zed’s light stroking of her back or breasts or between her legs would rapidly take to her to the edge. He would keep her here there in the heightened state of arousal for what seemed like forever, then he would enter her and together they would plunge over the edge into that deep well of passionate bliss.

She pushed herself more firmly into Zed’s back. As she did so she felt her body involuntarily begin to grind slightly against the seat. Zed could sense the movement. He could also feel that her arms had moved lower on his chest so that her hands were now resting on the zipper of his jeans. He gave a bitter laugh and asked, “Wishing you were riding the other way?”

Christie could feel additional heat as her face reddened in shame. She was not ashamed of that night when they had ridden through the mountains with her “facing the other way.” She was ashamed that she, a trained federal agent, would be thinking of such a thing at a time like this.