ZZ snorted. “He’ll get ’em when I’m ready to fuckin’ give ’em.”
The Russian mafia might think they owned his ass, but the reality of it was that ZZ had ensured the loyalty of the men who worked under him. If the Russians ever decided to turn on him, make a play against him, ZZ had plans in place to start a war that would crumble the golden ground those fuckers thought they walked upon.
As Tommy reluctantly nodded, ZZ started walking again, cursing quietly over the summer heat, still suffocating even in the dead of night. But wearing short sleeves wasn’t an option for him. His club colors, evidence of his former loyalties, were still tattooed all over his body, something he kept as a reminder of why he’d ended up in the fucking ditch he had.
Still cursing, he reached into his pocket and pulled a rubber band from his jeans. After tying back his long brown hair into a knot, he wiped the sweat from his forehead, cracked his neck a few times, and walked away.
Making a sharp right in the direction of the parking lot, ZZ headed for his truck. He was eager to get home—get drunk, get high, jack himself off—even if home was a piece of shit. It was off the grid, out of the way, and that was all he cared about.
He’d just reached the parking lot when the rumble of a motorcycle gave him pause. Self-preservation, ever present in his every move, slammed into overdrive and he sidestepped to slip behind a nearby vehicle. Crouching, he pulled his piece from the back of his jeans and waited.
Who the fuck was here this late? He planned his shipments to the last second, ensuring that everyone here was on his team, their silence bought and paid for. To his knowledge, no other shipment was on the schedule for tonight, and this unexpected arrival put a damper on his good mood.
As he waited, not just one or two but five bikes came to a slow stop in the center of the parking lot. Raising himself just enough to see better, ZZ looked over the trunk of the vehicle he was crouched behind, and his breath caught in his throat.
Five leather cuts were illuminated by the moonlight, highlighting the Grim Reaper on the back, the Hell’s Horsemen rocker above it and the Miles City patch beneath it.
No fucking way. They couldn’t know he was here, and after all this time, why would they bother to look for him? He’d been so sure that once Deuce had come to an unhappy truce with the Russians, his former club president would stop sending runners after him. And he had. For years now, ZZ hadn’t heard as much as a whisper of the Horsemen sniffing around his business.
But as the bikes lined up and the men riding them cut their engines, toed their kickstands, and dismounted, ZZ couldn’t help but wonder if that had been the plan all along. Let enough time pass, let him believe he was safe, and then pounce when he least expected it.
Too bad for them. He always expected the unexpected.
“You’re stupid as fuck, Dev,” one of the men called out in a deep voice ZZ didn’t recognize. “Prez finds out you brought along your bitch, he’s gonna put you in the damn ground.”
“Shut up, asshole,” a feminine voice called out.
ZZ’s eyes zeroed in on the slim figure that moved to stand beside the circle of men. Dressed in head-to-toe leather, showcasing a body built for sin, she reached up with small, feminine hands to remove her full-face helmet.
His heart stopped. It couldn’t be… but it was. The blonde hair, the killer body, the grin punctuated with dimples glinting under the parking lot lights. Danny looked just like he remembered her, as if she hadn’t aged a day since he’d last seen her.
“She stays in the parking lot,” another voice called out.
This one ZZ recognized as his former brother Bucket, but the years hadn’t been kind to him. He looked worse than ever, grimy as fuck, and older than ZZ knew he was.
“What’s the big fuckin’ deal?” another man said, this one much younger than Bucket. Coming to stand beside Danny, he swung his arm around her shoulders and pulled her against him.
ZZ blinked with a strong sense of déjà vu. It had been a while since he’d seen any of his former crew, but if he didn’t know any better, he’d have said that man was Cox. Only he wasn’t. Cox had been covered in tattoos, and this guy didn’t have any visible ink.
“It’s a fuckin’ cash drop-off,” the young man said. “Wham, bam, we’re back on the road.”
Bucket shook his head. “She stays in the parking lot.” This time his voice brooked no argument, and the younger man’s arm fell away from Danny.
“Yeah, man,” he muttered. “She stays in the parking lot. Fine.”
“Fuckers,” Danny bit out. “You’re all a bunch of no fuckin’ fun.”
ZZ’s head spun. Wasn’t Danny married to Ripper? Didn’t she have a kid with him? And here she was with another brother?
In a heartbeat, his confusion and surprise transformed to anger. The Hell’s fucking Horsemen were here in his fucking territory, and doing business, no less.
But even worse, Danielle West was here. The reason his life had gone from damn near perfect to shit staining a motherfucking gutter was here. And she was just as beautiful as ever, living a carefree fucking life doing whatever the fuck she pleased.
His anger spiking, ZZ felt a cold tremor slither along his spine as his hands began to shake. And suddenly, he wanted more than he’d ever wanted anything to wrap his hands around her perfect fucking neck and squeeze the life out of her.
As the group turned away, headed in the direction of the docks, ZZ could no longer be bothered with their reasons for being here. He was solely focused on Danny, who was headed back to the line of bikes.
Huffing loudly, she slammed her helmet onto the seat of the Harley she’d ridden in on. Turned away from him, she dug into her back pocket and pulled out a brightly lit phone.
ZZ scuttled back into the shadows as the men passed by him. His breathing shallow and his heart racing, he counted under his breath as he waited, something he often did when preparing himself for the unknown.
Once he could no longer hear the booted footsteps echo through the night, he shot up from his hiding place, and with careful, silent steps maneuvered through the vehicles in the lot. As he approached Danny, who was still facing away from him, entirely unaware of his presence, he raised his arm, lifting his gun.
But he wasn’t going to shoot her. No, he was going to make her pay for what she’d done to him.
“Danny,” he growled. The muscles in his face twitched violently. Rage long suppressed had been released, coursing angrily through his veins at a super speed he had absolutely no control over.