Striker's Intensity (Route 66 Outlaws MC #7)

Chapter One

The prospect's footwork was sloppy, which meant he'd be dead in any real fight.

Striker circled him in the compound yard, the Panhandle sun hammering down on both of them, red dust kicking up with every step. The kid had size—six-one, maybe one-ninety—but he telegraphed his punches like he was sending a goddamn postcard.

"You wind up like that against Diablos, they'll gut you before your fist clears your hip." Striker caught the prospect's jab, twisted his wrist, and swept his legs out from under him. The kid hit the gravel hard. "Again."

The prospect scrambled up, face red from more than just the heat.

Around them, three other prospects watched from the fence line, learning what not to do.

Striker had been running assault drills since seven that morning, and his knuckles ached in the good way—the way that meant the rust was coming off.

His phone buzzed in his cut. Tornado's number.

"Yeah."

"Got a situation at the Amarillo fairground." Tornado's voice was flat, which meant he was already pissed about something. "Barrel racer's having trouble with some crew running a protection racket. They're on our stretch."

Striker's grin spread slow. "How much trouble?"

"The kind where you should've left five minutes ago."

He was already walking toward his bike. "On it."

The ride to the fairground took twelve minutes, and Striker spent every one of them hoping whatever crew this was would still be there when he arrived.

He'd been running drills for three weeks straight, training prospects who couldn't throw a punch to save their lives, and the itch under his skin had grown into something that needed scratching.

The Army had trained him to channel violence into something useful. The club gave him somewhere to point it.

The fairground parking lot was half-empty—a few horse trailers clustered near the stabling area, some trucks with out-of-state plates, the usual rodeo detritus. Striker killed his engine and listened.

Voices. Raised. Coming from behind a dented silver trailer with Texas plates and a competition number stenciled on the door.

He moved fast and quiet, rounding the trailer's back end just in time to see four men cornering a woman against her rig.

She wasn't cowering.

She had a lead rope in her hands, the brass snap end swinging in a slow arc that said she knew exactly how much damage it could do.

Auburn hair pulled back in a braid gone half-wild.

Jeans and boots and a tank top that showed arms built from actual work.

And eyes—dark, furious, locked on the stocky bastard at the front of the group like she was measuring where to put him in the ground.

"Last time I'm saying it." Her voice was pure Texas grit, loud enough to carry. "I don't pay protection to anyone, and I sure as hell don't pay it to men who hurt horses."

The stocky one—Jessup, Striker figured, matching the description Tornado had given him—took a step forward. "Pollard's been real patient with you, sweetheart. That patience is running out."

"Then tell Pollard to come talk to me himself instead of sending his dog."

One of the men behind Jessup lunged.

Striker hit him before he'd cleared two steps.

His right cross connected with the man's jaw and lifted him clean off his boots, the crack of bone on bone echoing across the parking lot. The second man spun toward the sound, and Striker headbutted him into the trailer wall hard enough to dent the aluminum. The man slid down and didn't get up.

Jessup whirled, reaching for something at his hip.

The woman's lead rope sang through the air. The brass snap cracked across Jessup's face with a sound like a whip, splitting his cheek open and sending blood spraying across the gravel. He stumbled backward, right into Striker's reach.

Striker grabbed him by the collar and threw him.

Jessup flew ten feet and hit the dirt rolling, loose rock tearing at his clothes and skin. The fourth man—who'd been smart enough to hang back—took one look at his fallen crew and ran for the trucks at the lot's edge.

Striker let him go. Someone needed to carry the message.

The parking lot went quiet except for the groans of the men on the ground. Striker turned to find the woman watching him with those dark eyes, the lead rope still gripped in her hand, her breathing only slightly elevated.

Not scared. Assessing.

"You're Route 66." She nodded at his cut. "Saw your boys at the Lubbock event last month."

"And you're the barrel racer who told Pollard's crew to go to hell."

"Three times now." She coiled the lead rope with practiced efficiency. "They keep coming back. I keep telling them."

Striker looked at Jessup, who was struggling to sit up, blood streaming down his face from where the brass snap had laid him open. He walked over, crouched down, and grabbed a fistful of the man's shirt.

"This fairground is Outlaw territory." He kept his voice conversational, pleasant even. "You come back here, you come back to any event on our stretch, I won't throw you across a parking lot. I'll put you in the ground and let the horses walk over what's left. You understand?"

Jessup spat blood and didn't answer.

Striker slammed his head into the gravel once, bounced it like a basketball. "I asked if you understand."

"Yeah." The word came out wet and broken. "Yeah, I understand."

"Good." Striker released him and stood, wiping his hands on his jeans. "Take your boys and get gone. You've got sixty seconds before I change my mind about the ground."

Jessup crawled to his feet and half-dragged, half-carried his semiconscious crew toward the trucks. Striker watched them go, making sure they actually left, before turning back to the woman.

She'd moved to check her horse—a compact bay with alert ears and a white blaze down its face. The animal was calm despite the commotion, which said something about both the horse and the woman who'd trained it.

"Your horse okay?"

"She's fine. She's seen worse than three idiots who don't know how to corner someone properly." The woman gave the horse a pat and turned to face Striker. "Teagan Duvall."

"Striker."

"Just Striker?"

"Just Striker."

Her lips curved—not quite a smile, something sharper. "Well, Just Striker, I appreciate the backup. But I had it handled."

"You had three men pinned between you and a horse trailer with a lead rope as your only weapon."

"And I'd cracked one of them in the face before you even threw a punch." She crossed her arms. "I grew up breaking colts and bouncing drunks out of my mother's bar. I know how to handle men who think size means they win."

Striker studied her. The set of her jaw. The way she held herself—not defensive, not aggressive, just ready. Like violence was a language she'd learned young and never forgotten.

Something stirred in his chest. Recognition, maybe. Or something more dangerous.

"Pollard's crew has been hitting competitors on the circuit," he said. "Protection money. The ones who don't pay end up with injured horses and torched trailers."

"I know. I've watched it happen at three events this season." Her expression darkened. "Nobody fights back because the last girl who did had her horse go lame overnight. Wire cuts on the legs. Could've ended the animal's career."

"And you told them to go to hell anyway."

"I've got four more qualifiers to reach nationals. I'm not pulling out of a single one, and I'm not paying a dime to men who hurt horses for money." Her chin lifted. "So if your club's got a problem with Pollard's crew, consider me cooperative. But don't mistake that for helpless."

Striker felt his grin spread—the real one, the one that made people nervous.

"Pollard's been running his racket on territory the Outlaws protect. The club's been looking for a reason to shut him down." He nodded toward her trailer. "You just gave us one."

"And what do you want in exchange?"

"Intel. You've been on the circuit, watched him work. Tell me how he operates, and the club will make sure he never touches another competitor."

Teagan considered him for a long moment. He could see the calculation behind her eyes—weighing risk against reward, trust against necessity. Finally, she uncrossed her arms.

"Tonight. After I've cooled her down and checked the stabling area." She jerked her chin toward the fairground. "Jessup's been here before. I want to make sure he didn't leave any surprises."

"I'll walk it with you."

"I didn't ask you to."

"Didn't say you did."

They stared at each other across the space between the trailer and the horse. The Panhandle wind picked up, carrying red dust and the smell of livestock and something that might have been ozone before a storm.

Teagan broke first—not backing down, just accepting the terms.

"Fine. But don't get in my way, and don't treat me like I need a bodyguard." She turned back to her horse, running her hands down its legs with the automatic attention of someone who'd done it ten thousand times. "I didn't need saving, Striker. I needed backup. There's a difference."

Striker watched her work, the late afternoon sun catching copper in her hair, her hands steady and sure on the animal she'd bet everything on.

Yeah, he thought. There definitely is.