Fire Meets Fire: Wretched Soulz MC

Chapter 1

Becoming a thief didn’t much bother me. Up against everything else I’ve done in my life, it’s just one more thing in my extensive repertoire to add to my resume. While it’s not my acquisition method of choice, I question whether it can be called stealing at all if the people you’re robbing from are criminals. After all, I’m probably only taking their ill-gotten gains, or items bought with blood money.

I’m not blind to the risks, though. I’m not pilfering from just anyone. No, I’m stealing from the Arizona chapter of the Wretched Soulz MC—the motorcycle gang with an international reputation for violence and mayhem. I have no illusions about what little mercy they’ll have if they catch me. But needs must, as they say.

Whilst I’m never one to turn down a challenge, I’m not doing it for fun. If I could see another option, I’d take it. There might be better ways of keeping a roof over my head, but in my current predicament, keeping the particular ceiling that I’ve stumbled across suits me just fine. I’ll do what I can to keep it that way.

At heart, I’m a daredevil. When the solution to my problem presented itself, I admit I didn’t try to persuade myself out of it. Keeping mind and body sharp has long been part of my training. And what better way of doing that than stealing motorcycle parts from a notorious gang? I’m not that reckless. I’m only taking items that are being discarded or are of minimal value, which shouldn’t be missed. It can’t be unusual for the small shit to go astray, and only an anal-retentive person would keep track of every nut, bolt, or screw. Surely an auto shop run by criminals can’t be that well organised? I can’t see a leather-clad gang wasting time on detailed inventories. They’ve probably got drugs or guns to run, certainly things more interesting.

Like before any mission, I analysed my chances of getting into their auto shop and out again without exposure. They might be equipped to keep the day-to-day thief out, and that’s if their reputation doesn’t deter anyone from breaking into their premises. But they haven’t come up against someone like me before, and definitely not someone of my calibre. Bikers? Huh. I could eat them for breakfast.

And if I’m wrong? Well, we’ve all got to die. Someday. I’ve risked putting my life on the line more times than I can count. Facing danger has become second nature.

Tonight, just as I have over the past couple of weeks, I first check that the shop’s dark and quiet, just as it should be this close to midnight. I move to the telegraph pole that’s conveniently close to the razor-wired topped-rear fence. It’s near enough for me to be able to use it for what I need to, but not for anyone else to suspect what I’m doing. Then, probably, there’s no one else crazy enough to break into the Wretched Soulz premises.

Like any woman who attempts to make it in a male-dominated arena knows, they have to prove themselves better than any man just to keep up. A simple stumble can lead to ridicule and derision, whereas a male companion making the same mistake would just be offered a hand to help them back on their feet. Needing to excel, to be the best, is the background that’s given me the skills for what I’m about to do next.

Using several muscle groups in my arms and legs aided by core strength, I shimmy up the pole that has no handholds, as easily as if there was a ladder attached. At the top, I balance, take a small tablet out of my bag, and send the program that will block the MC’s alarm system until I reset it. Since I was last here, they’ve made some enhancements, but I easily take them in my stride. That done, I loop a rope around the pole, running through safety checks to make sure it will hold. Once satisfied, I draw up, lean my weight back a little, then throw myself forward, leaping into the void that will hopefully allow me to land on the other side of the boundary.

I arrive exactly as I’ve perfected on my previous forays before, two legs balanced on the inside of the fence, well beneath the razor wire, allowing me to gently descend the last few feet until I’m standing on the ground. The rope I leave swinging to help me make the return journey. Later, after I’ve used it to complete the upward climb, I’ll remove the rope, check I’ve left no footprints, and thus leave no evidence that I’ve ever been here. Even if the bike gang knows they are being robbed, how will remain a mystery.

My heart rate is only a little elevated after getting over the barrier between me and the premises I’m about to rob. It takes far more than a simple breaking and entering to get adrenaline pulsing through my veins. Nevertheless, I am on high alert as I pause by my escape route, all senses examining the environment, but as expected, I hear and see nothing.

As normal, first, I start picking through the trash they’ve discarded. My client—I use the word to justify our relationship to myself—has particular requirements. His motorcycle brought back from its current crashed state and restored to factory condition. Not for him are the customisations that the Wretched Soulz are famous for doing. Their customers come in to have a “live to ride” embossed plate fixed over the air filter. Their discarded plain one is absolutely right for what I want. Grinning when I find one that just needs the dents knocked out and some polish to be good as new, I put it into my backpack.

There are slim pickings otherwise tonight though. I’d hoped to find a seal which still had some use, but unfortunately, there’s nothing. That means if I want to be able to get on with the job I’m working on, I’ll need to take one out of their storeroom. The value is only a couple of dollars, and it’s something they’ll likely have in bulk.

It’s just a minor complication. Picking the lock on the door is child’s play and in seconds, I’m pawing through boxes of spare parts, trying to find just what I’m looking for.

“Come on, come on,” I mumble to myself, impatiently trying to sort through the jumble inside, the mess confirming they’re unlikely to miss anything. While I’d like to be out of there as soon as possible, I don’t feel unduly under any time pressure. Those lazy bikers won’t be back at work until the sun’s well over the horizon, but my bed is calling, and I’d prefer to get home. “Where the fuck are you?”

However safe I feel, I remain alert. My brain might accept I’ve done this a dozen times before and can be confident I won’t be exposed, but my hearing and whatever sixth sense makes the hairs on the back of my neck stick up, never stand down. When all my synapses signal a warning, I pause what I’m doing. The soft, but unmissable sound of a gun’s safety being eased off features like a pistol shot.

In less than a second, I’ve assessed the direction the noise came from. Instead of freezing like any other person may have done, I launch myself around, my leg already in motion, to kick the gun out of whoever’s holding its hand. My own hand, fisted and ready, goes into his stomach, expecting to put him down.

I’ve got this.Automatically I’ve assessed his height and weight, knowing he’s got both those advantages, but I’ve got the skills and the training. He might now be unarmed, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t start giving a good account of himself. Impressed, I up it up a notch myself. To be honest, finding someone of a calibre equal to mine has my blood racing. I haven’t had a good work out for months, and as we continue to spar, I have to admit I’m enjoying the situation.

He’s obviously using every dirty trick in the book, but hey, I’ve read the same manual. Terrorists don’t play by Queensberry rules, and any soldier has to know how to face them.

I got this, I remind myself. I’m a combat veteran trained by my country, when what can he be but an ignorant biker equipped only with street skills? I can hear his harsh breathing while mine is still steady. I start to smile…

It’s been months since I last saw action. Maybe I’ve grown sloppy, or maybe my over-confidence made the deity look unkindly on me. But suddenly, my feet are swept right out from under me. I land hard, on the ground, my assailant throwing himself over my chest, pinning me down. Winded, I notice how much heavier he is than I am, but I’m already calculating how to get free when I see his fist coming for me.

There’s no time to evade it. I suck in air and prepare.

But the punch doesn’t land. At the last moment, he pulls back and sweeps the hood off my head, protesting loudly, “You’re a fuckin’ bitch.”

Is that an assessment of my character? If so, it’s unfair. He doesn’t know me and hasn’t enough for an informed view. If it’s a comment on my gender, then hey, that’s fair. I hope for the latter. While I’m never one to make anything of the lack of a dick, in some circumstances, it plays to my advantage as I note he seems unwilling to hit a female.

Instead of head butting his nose, which would have been my next go-to move—why continue to fight when I could take advantage of his weakness?—I emphasise my feminine voice, raising it an octave. “Get off me,” I plead, contenting myself with a few weak struggles.

He might stop at violence, but he’s not going to go easy on me. “Give it up. I caught you stealing from us.”

He’s correct. He has. I can’t give him any argument as he’s in the right, but that doesn’t mean I’m back to plan A. Although he’s secured my hands in one of his meaty fists, I brace and position myself. Unfortunately, he reads the signs and my head meets only air as he hastily rears away. My refusal to give in obviously excites him. As a smirk comes to his face, I feel something harden beneath me.

“Yeah, just keep that up.” He grinds his pelvis into me and his grin widens.

It’s then I feel the telltale signs that my body’s going to betray me. Spots start swirling in front of my eyes as my mind shoots back to a different place and time.

I’ve learned not to fight. It’s what they like. Fighting just means more pain and violation and never gets me free. There are too many of them, and I’m too weak. I haven’t had a proper meal or more than a sip of filthy water for weeks.

I can’t hear any screams coming from the other tents. Maybe their torture has stopped, or maybe they are all dead.

All I can do is lie here and take whatever they want to dish out…

“I’ll let you up, but you run? I’ll catch you and make you regret it.”

His gruff American voice pulls me back out of my nightmare before it swallows me whole, momentarily anchoring me to the present. Fighting to breathe, I take a moment to come back to my senses. I’m incapable of doing anything more than giving a nod.

Memories swirling around my traitorous brain have more power to overwhelm me than anything else. As always, my brief mental foray into the past leaves me physically weakened. Remembering when I didn’t have the capability or strength to protect myself from the worst knocks my confidence now. Almost cowed, when free, it takes time to stand. To try to disguise how much I’m shaking, I brush myself off, noticing bruises the recent fight must have left. But they’re not serious, paling into insignificance as though inflicted by an amateur.

When I feel my heart rate has slowed a little, I raise my eyes and take in my captor. His head is bald with a rounded face and tidy beard. His eyes are the brightest blue I’ve ever seen, and the crease lines around them suggest he’s nearing middle age. He’s tall, more than half a foot taller than me, which has to put him at six foot six.

He’s examining me too. His brow is creased and his eyes wide open with a look of confusion, as though he can’t understand why I’ve gone from whirling dervish to an approximation of a typical weak female. I can’t explain that all my energy has been zapped and I’m hanging on to consciousness by a thread. For now, I’m just relieved I’m still standing.

His lips eventually part and I wait for him to press his accusation of theft, when instead, he poses a different question. “How the fuck did you learn to fight like that?”

In the Army.Well, the service had honed the abilities I’d already had to gain to survive. “The better question would be who forced me to learn.”

His eyes narrow and a hardness seems to surround them, making me wonder if he’s one of those protector types. “Who?” His shrug belies my thinking, suggesting he really doesn’t really give a damn.

Keeping my brain focused on putting together words might help me stave off one of the episodes I know is approaching. It’s the only reason I answer him. After a heavy sigh, I disclose, “Maybe it was the foster dad who thought he had a right to put his hands down a ten-year-old’s panties. Maybe it was the boyfriend who thought he could sell his teenage girlfriend to his buddies. Or maybe it was the cop who thought he’d exchange the fictional speeding ticket I supposedly earned for a sexual favour.”

His expression doesn’t even flicker. “Am I supposed to be impressed? Or devastated on your behalf?” He takes a step toward me. “Maybe your sob story would have more effect if I hadn’t just caught you stealing red-handed.”

I reclaim the distance he’d just closed by taking a step back, and the way the light falls brings his face into sharp relief.

I’ve faced down enemies in foreign lands, have been captured and tortured close to the point of death. But never have I seen an expression so cold, nor has a scowl sent such shivers down my spine.

He’s a danger to me, like nobody else.

Which is crazy. I’ve gone head-to-head with worse than him.

Who the fuck is he?

I feel pins and needles in my fingers and try to curl them into my hands. Consciously, I make an effort to steady my breathing. Once again, spots start to flicker in front of my eyes.

I’m utterly helpless. There’s nothing I can do to prevent it, even if this is one of those rare times when I actually have some warning. I know the inevitable is coming and here, in front of me, stands a man who makes my inner essence scream I shouldn’t show any weakness. I use my few remaining lucid moments to stammer out, “Who are you?”

And to process his response as he replies nonchalantly. “Me? I’m your worst fuckin’ nightmare.”

My traitorous body and mind give out.