Savage’s Salvation (Hurricane Heat MC #3)

Chapter 1

SAVAGE

I fucking hate surprises. And when I roll up to the abandoned warehouse with Shadow and Phantom, the last thing I want to be is surprised. But here we fucking go.

We idle our bikes a safe distance down a sun-faded and cracked asphalt drive.

“Hold up.” I raise a hand and look over the rims of my sunglasses.

The Florida sun is blasting my eyes, but I can still make out the shape of a man a thousand feet away who is not the contact we’re here to do business with.

Even at this distance, I can see long, scraggly gray hair peeking out of a filthy, salt-stained cowboy hat.

I lift my chin to Phantom, President of Hurricane Heat, whose bike idles a few feet away from mine.

“I know Anthony,” I say. “And that ain’t him. ”

Just like my legal given name ain’t Savage, I’m sure the guy who’s been on the other end of the secure chats I’ve had over the last three months isn’t really “Anthony” either.

I don’t give a shit if he calls himself Santa Fucking Claus.

As long as he shows up and does the deal like we’ve been planning, we’re good.

But my contact isn’t here, and that means we are far from good right now.

Phantom can’t see my eyes behind my shades, but I’m glaring and reaching a hand to tap the reassuring shape of the gun I have secured at my waist. We’re here to buy more weapons, but I suddenly wish I’d packed much more firepower.

Phantom pinches the bridge of his nose with two fingers, curses, pulls his phone out of his back pocket, and taps out a furious text.

Then, we wait.

The heat of the summer afternoon is oppressive, and I’m already way past irritable.

The sun beats hard on the back of my neck, and I grab a red paisley bandana from my back pocket to mop up the thick, salty droplets before they soak their way down my back.

The three of us are dressed in our leathers, the vests identifying us as the executive branch of the Heat.

Phantom is the president, Shadow is the VP, and I’m the sergeant-at-arms. Having the three of us here is a show of force, but also a sign of good faith.

If all three of us go down in a bad deal, the stability of the entire club would topple. Not that my brothers wouldn’t pick up the pieces fast. I know they would. We’ve lost members and had to regroup from more shit than I care to remember in the twelve years I’ve been part of this club.

What pisses me off and sets my blood boiling hotter than my neck under this damned sun is the fact that these assholes aren’t showing us the respect we’re showing them.

I squint and make out a pickup truck parked alongside three bikes near the entrance to the warehouse.

The truck’s a real piece of shit. Rusted, faded orange that once was red back when anybody gave a shit about the thing.

Anyone or anything could be planted in that truck.

Even though I’m more than a decade out of the service, my training and instincts kick in.

This has ambush written all over it, and I’m not putting my brothers in the line of fire, no matter how big this deal is.

“Fuck this,” I say, revving my engine. “I say we roll.”

Phantom holds up a finger. “Let me deal with this.”

He gets off his bike, and both Shadow and I hover our hands over our weapons. We’ve got Viper in a truck idling half a mile away, but if anything goes down, it’ll be just the three of us to who knows how many there are of them.

“Let me go talk to them,” I say. “I’ll find out where the prick is.”

Phantom doesn’t have to say a word. He just shakes his head, and I stand down.

Mad Dog is the president of the Hellfires.

If he’s out front, then Phantom’s got to meet him with equal respect.

I’m tense as a dog about to enter a fight as I watch Phantom walk the long, weathered driveway, stick out his hand, and talk with the Hellfires crew.

I don’t let my eyes leave Phantom, my fingers itching to pull out my gun, but every once in a while, I track movement in the pickup truck that sets my palms itching.

I don’t like this one bit, and my blood pressure is rising faster than the temperature of the asphalt.

When Phantom turns his back to the Hellfires crew and makes a leisurely walk back toward us, I squint through my sunglasses and watch for the slightest movement from the direction of the warehouse.

I need one wrong move—one ass-scratch that makes me feel off—and I’ll start shooting. Anything to protect my brothers.

But Phantom seems unbothered as he walks up to Shadow and me.

“What the fuck?” I demand. “Where’s my guy?”

“Anthony’s got bigger problems than this.” Phantom sighs. “He’s dead.”

My jaw nearly drops open. “Dead? What the fuck? I just talked to him last week.”

Phantom shrugs. “Happened three days ago, if Mad Dog ain’t lyin’.”

“And if he is?” Shadow’s gray T-shirt is soaked with sweat. He shifts uncomfortably on his bike and shakes his head. “You trust this guy?”

“No. I don’t.” Phantom holds up his phone. He shoots off a text. “I told Mad Dog, under the circumstances, we’re gonna take a minute to discuss the change in personnel.”

Shadow chuckles at Phantom’s use of the word personnel, but I can’t crack a grin. This was my deal. My contact. And like I said, I don’t like surprises.

We sweat like pigs and wipe our faces while we wait for Phantom to get the text back he’s waiting for. It comes within about two minutes, which seem to stretch on like two hours. He finally gets an answer, reads the text, and raises a brow.

“My contact in the sheriff’s office confirmed it. Accident up on Route 90. It’s still under investigation, so nothing’s been released to the public. But the guy you know as Anthony is dead.”

I drop more f-bombs than sweat droplets. “Why the fuck didn’t somebody contact me?”

But I know the answer to that. It’s a stupid question that I spit out because I’m fucking pissed off.

Most of us use secure apps on our phones, apps that don’t back up messages or photos to any kind of cloud storage.

If Anthony had his device on him when he went down, the device is probably gone.

And with it, all the messages we’d sent.

The only way the Hellfires would know how to contact me is by showing up to do the deal.

And this is a big deal.

Viper’s in a truck with a bag of cash about a half mile away, waiting for our signal.

The Hellfires are the only club in Florida that can get what we need at a cost that won’t make our asses bleed.

I can see why, with that kind of cash on the line, nobody risked scaring us off by getting in touch.

Showing up today was about the only option they had under the circumstances.

Still, I don’t like it. I don’t like how it looks, feels, or smells.

“We in or we out?” The question comes from Shadow. He’s looking from my face to Phantom’s, no doubt trying to figure out whether my skeptical side or Phantom’s practical side is going to win out.

“We need that product,” Phantom says. “And they have it on lock. If we walk now…” He shakes his head.

I clench my hands into fists. If I second-guess Phantom’s call, I’m second-guessing the man himself. I trust my brothers with my life. I don’t like any of this, but if Phantom’s in, I’m not going to insult him by backing out.

“New plan,” I say. “I want to run surveillance.” I want eyes on everything that happens. Every movement these assholes make. I trust my hand, my weapon, and my finger on the trigger to protect my brothers.

“Done.” Phantom nods at Shadow, and they walk together toward the front of the warehouse.

I follow behind, scanning the perimeter. I swallow against the dryness in my throat, wishing like hell I had time to drink the water I stowed on my bike. But as soon as we reach the warehouse door, I forget the sticky heat and laser-focus on the man with the teeth and the filthy cowboy hat.

“You Savage?” He’s looking at me, his arms tanned as leather and covered in prison-style faded tattoos.

I nod but don’t say anything else.

“I’m your new contact now.” The name on his patch reads Mad Dog, and he sure as hell looks like one.

Thick, scraggly whiskers graze the collar of his white wifebeater tank.

His nasty gray curls are tied back in a low ponytail under the cowboy hat.

He extends a hand to me, and I just look at it while he introduces himself. “Mad Dog.”

I nod again, not happy about this little meet-cute, but I extend my hand. “Sorry to hear about Anthony.”

Mad Dog snarls, but he doesn’t say any actual words. Then he turns to Phantom and motions him inside.

Savage and I trade looks.

This is the part I hate most. We’re not going to do this kind of a deal out in the open, so the level of trust that’s required at this stage in the negotiation makes the ulcer I’ve been fighting for the better part of my life turn my gut into a volcano.

My stomach twists as I watch my brothers follow Mad Dog and two of his flunkies inside a warehouse where anything—and anyone—could be waiting.

Cops. Feds. More assholes looking to shake us down and take us out.

I hold the air in my lungs until my chest burns and I’m literally pouring sweat, pacing outside the front of the building. I fire off a text to Viper to let him know Shadow and Phantom are inside, and then I set my sights on the faded pickup.

I’ve seen movement through the grime-coated windows but haven’t heard any sound.

If things go to plan, the conversation inside that warehouse should last ten minutes, tops.

Then Viper will roll in around the back with the cash, we’ll load the truck with guns, and we’ll get the fuck out of the Hellfires territory.

This isn’t the first deal we’ve done with them, but the location and the players always change.

The Hellfires ain’t like the Heat.