Wild Rider (Bad Boy Bikers Book 2) (20 page)

A box cutter landed in her lap.

“What's this for?” she asked.

“In case they get close,” said Beretta. “That'll rip a man to pieces.”

She stared at it for a moment before stuffing it into her jeans, hoping that she never would have to do such a thing.

Some minutes passed with Helen examining the gun, making sure she could at least get the basics of loading and reloading down. It had been a while since she'd fired her own gun at the range, but she still knew the basics of working a semi-automatic. It came back to her easier than she would have imagined. Easier than she would have liked. 

Who really wanted to know such information? Who wanted to have ease with a killing machine?

Could she really shoot someone if she had to?

Even with that doubt, she would have been lying if she said she didn't feel stark excitement at the thought of coming along. It wasn't
just
rage at Beretta—this was the life she was born to be in. On the edge of society, taking risks, living dangerously. She was built for it. She was tired of pretending that she wasn't.

And maybe Beretta would see that.

They powered onto the road, Beretta driving them toward the steelworks and the job that would save them or kill them.

––––––––

T
he more complicated a plan got, the more could go wrong. Even a child trying to steal a treat from the cookie jar knew that. Too many moving parts meant too many risks for malfunction.

Beretta had, then, in masterminding the plan, kept it all as simple as he possibly could.

First, they would use one van to hit the steelworks with as many explosives as possible. Tank would keep the Copperheads distracted, and meanwhile, the rest of them would assault from behind.

That was it—that was the meat of the whole operation. Everything else was just dressing.

The steelworks was positioned at the edge of the industrial district; behind it was only a long, flat plain full of cactus and creosote bush. There was a street in front of the steelworks that ran north and south and connected to the highway. One street connected up with this one, leading straight into the middle of the steelworks—and it was along this route where Tank had stashed himself.

“Payload is ready,” said Tank. They all wore headsets so they could communicate. “On your signal.”

Ace took a look around the van. Beretta nodded at him—they were as ready as they were going to get.

“Do it.”

When Ace gave the signal, Tank cranked on his van and sent it down the street straight into the steelworks. The steering wheel was locked and the gas was pushed down with a concrete block. Then he rushed on top of a nearby building with his brand new machine gun already sitting on the roof.

The four of them were out of sight of the front of the steelworks, and had no line of vision on the payload as it approached. But they could hear the Copperheads opening fire on it, no doubt pumping it full of holes before it even broke the fence.

But the payload kept going. And then, Tank—safe and in cover, used a remote to blow the charges.

The explosion was massive. A giant fireball exploded up and outward, sending shrapnel and molten brick everywhere. The height of the explosion, at its peak, was taller than the steelworks itself. Even in the van, even with earplugs in, the sound was deafening to Beretta. A vibrating rush of heat and sound pushed hard against the Wrecking Crew’s van, threatening to tip it over.

“That’s our signal,” said Beretta. “Let’s go.”

He started up the van and they pushed in—coming from behind the steelworks, opposite from the direction that the payload van had hit. They had to drive through the plains and powered through several cacti, but it was worth it. No one was covering the rear—every Copperhead was occupied with the explosion.

They broke through the fence in the back with the van, barbed wire on top ripping through their tires.

Shit
.

Beretta had wanted to use the van as a getaway vehicle in case anything went wrong. That was out of the question, now. They'd either have to find something in the steelworks or hump it out on foot.

Once inside the property, he drove the van up to the back door, the tires slowly sloughing off the wheels.

Moving out quick, staying in tight formation. They wore tight black ski masks and bulletproof vests. The back door was chained shut. A pair of wire cutters, courtesy of Beretta, took care of that. It was still locked, though. Locke knelt down  in front of it, working fastidiously to pick it open. It took him close to thirty seconds, but he nailed it.

Beretta was surprised. He'd sort of thought that Locke would choke.

Soon, they were inside. In all, it had taken them less than two minutes to get there. Each of them had a thick black bag draped over their shoulders, empty of everything except air. They all hoped to be able to fill them completely with cash.

The inside of the steelworks was smoky and dim. It hadn’t been used as an actual steelworks for at least a decade. Great rusted cauldrons hung over large pits where molten metal used to be poured out and crafted into ingots and plates. They walked through  a great big hanger-like area with lots of low-hanging beams and thick sand kept in large piles for putting out fires if the molten material spilled and caught fire.

He hoped, not for the first time, that Helen would make it out alive. This wasn't the place for someone like her—essentially a civilian. She didn't belong in this world. She'd never been more in danger than she was right then at that very moment, and it made his heart pound.

She didn't understand. Everything he'd done to push her away was to keep her safe. But she refused to listen. All he wanted was for her to make it out of this all right—he didn't want her death on his conscience too.

No, he reflected briefly, seeing her gorgeous form. That wasn't all he wanted. He didn't know if he would ever stop wanting to make her his. But for her sake, he had to try.

“No money here,” said Ace, turning over a small barrel.

“Yeah,” said Beretta. “Like I told you. It's in the loading bay.”

This had been one of the areas Ace picked as possible storage for the cash. It was big enough for it, certainly. But there was nothing, just as Beretta had predicted.

“Would you let it go, Beretta?” snapped Ace. “For fuck's sake. We're checking every spot.”

Beretta waved a hand, clearly still annoyed. He knew when he was right. “Lead on.”

Outside, they began to hear gunfire rattle off and the deep thump-thump-thundering of the M-60.

“I’ve got them on me now,” Tank's voice crackled through their headsets. “There’s a lot of them.”

“We’re inside,” said Beretta. “Hold tight.”

“Copy that.”

They pressed further into the steelworks, entering a long narrow hallway. Beretta checked again to make sure Helen was behind them.

Goddammit, but he was worried about her. Everything she did, everything she decided, only made him worry about her more. All he wanted was for her to be safe and secure, and the best way for that to happen was for her to get as far away from him as possible.

And why the fuck was that so hard to understand? Had he made it a mystery, somehow, of how incredibly dangerous he was to everyone?

For god's sake, she was robbing a gang full of sociopaths because of him. That proved every bad thought he'd ever had about himself.

Two men rolled out into the hallway. Not paying close enough attention. Too far away to sneak up on reliably, though, and they had guns in their hands.

Both Ace and Beretta raised their pistols and shot, dropping the two men. When they stood over the bodies, they let off another few rounds, ensuring they were dead. Couldn’t have anyone sneaking up on them from behind.

Locke checked the room the men came out of and then rushed back into the hall.

“Nothing,” he said.

They kept going, checking room by room. Most of them were just offices, filled with tables, projectors, chairs. Everything was in disarray. Broken pipes busted through the walls. Graffiti covered everything.

In most rooms were mattresses, all of them dirty, some with pictures taped to the walls nearby. It didn't seem like the sewage system worked—everything stank and there were buckets full of dark fecal matter in the corners of some rooms.

Not everyone they came across was a threat. Many were so dilapidated from drug use that it was impossible to tell their gender, shivered and huddled in corners, not aware enough of reality to cry out at the masked people with guns in their hands.

This was a place where a whole lot of people did a whole lot of meth, Beretta remembered, and not everyone was an enemy.

They kept checking the rooms, but none of them had what they required. It rankled at Beretta. They just wasted time by doing this. After clearing out another hallway—exposing themselves to another man with a gun who he and Ace had to shoot down—he spoke up.

“This is stupid,” he said. “We're making noise. They're going to be on to us, soon. We know where the money is going to be. We don't need to check every last goddamn room.”

“We don't know anything,” said Ace. “Not a damn thing. If we start making assumptions—”

“If we don't assume
something
, they'll be onto us. Tank's machine gun fire can only cover us for so long.”

“Would you two stop fucking sniping at each other?” said Locke. “For fuck's sake. We're on the same team. We just—“

“They’re getting close.” Tank’s voice crackled in their headsets. “I’m holding them back, but they’re trying to flank me. Tearing up a lot of property out here.”

Urgency filled Beretta. They had to hurry. Tank couldn't last forever. The cops would be here soon, paid for or not, and they would only make the situation worse. Not even Stockland police could ignore a giant explosion in the middle of their city forever.

“You okay?” asked Locke.

“Yeah. Just hurry.”

Beretta looked at Ace—
you see, asshole? We need to speed it up
.

Ace frowned, speaking into the headset. “Coming up on bay number one now.”

They rushed to the door, but it was locked. Kneeling down in front of it, Locke began to work away, rotating his tools this way and that. Seconds passed, and then minutes. The heavy drumming of the M-60 outside grew louder and louder.

“Have you got it or what, Locke?”

“Just...a few more minutes,” said Locke. “Seconds. A few more seconds. I think.”

More gunfire from outside. Beretta didn't like it in this hallway. They were as exposed as all the men they had snuck up on so far, and it had been far too easy to kill them. There was no place to take cover—Helen could be shot down dead in an instant.

“Getting pretty hairy here,” said Tank. “How's it going?”

Locke was sweating, clearly losing his edge. “Guys,” he said, voice shaking. “Maybe I'm not quite as good at this as I remember. Maybe we should—”

Beretta pulled Locke aside and slammed his boot into the door, breaking it in one go. There was no time to dick around like this. He and Ace rushed inside, Helen taking cover by the door.

The bay was tall and wide. Inside the concrete was covered over with thick tar in places where cracks had formed. There was a burnt-out husk of a sedan, small trails of smoke still rising from it. Some druggy experiment of Rattler's, perhaps.

There were two men on the catwalk above. Beretta fired off four shots and got the first. Ace opened up and clipped the other man's leg—he fell and dropped below and they filled him full of bullets again. Another threat down.

The outlaws moved in and began to look for the cash—but as Beretta suspected, there was nothing. Goddammit, but they were running short on time. No time, and no safety for Helen. Their good luck was bound to run out soon, and then she would be shot and it would be his fault. He could already feel it coming, like vomit in a sick throat.

The last bay was the largest and the one with the most direct route to the highway. Rattler would put the money there. Beretta knew it almost to a certainty.

“Find anything?” asked Tank.

There was nothing in this first bay at all. Totally empty—no vehicles, no equipment, and certainly no cash.

“Nothing yet,” said Beretta, coming close to swearing.

“Well.” Tank huffed. “Just hurry it up, yeah? They’re right on top of me. I got two minutes before I’m pulling back.”

Now they rushed down the hallway again. No more guards this time. Tank was doing a hell of a job catching their attention. The last loading bay was just down the hall—when they got there, Locke wasted no time, breaking the door open with his boot instead of trying to pick it.

“There's the old magic,” he said, grinning.

This one was tall and wide like the last one. Concrete floors, steel walls and catwalks above. Empty, though—no one inside. Moving fast, they looked around, looking for stacks and stacks of bags; crates, maybe. Boxes. But there wasn’t any of that. Just a big dump truck next to the loading bay door.

“Nothing
again
.” Ace kicked the wall. “What the fuck? Goddammit, Beretta. I told you we needed to check everything.”

“I’ve gotta pull out,” said Tank. His voice sounded panicked. They could hear gunfire through the radio. “If I wait any longer, they’ll be right on top of me.”

“Goddammit!” said Ace. “This whole fucking thing, a bust. And it's on
you
.” He grabbed Beretta, shoving him against the wall. “I fucking
told
you we had to check everywhere. But your stubborn fucking know-it-all ass—”

Beretta headbutted him, knocking him back. Ace's forehead cut open, a small trail of blood flowing down the side of his nose.

“Get your fucking hands off me.” He pushed Ace. “Maybe if you weren't so concerned about looking in the wrong places, we could have found what we needed—”

“Break it the fuck up!” said Locke, pushing the two of them apart. “This isn't the time or the place to—”

Gunshots filled the room—a guard they had missed. Sneaking up on them from the stairs, firing on them. Helen was directly in front of him, trying to fire the gun wildly, but she was shooting everywhere but his mass.