Who loves bikers? Meet Drake and Delta, the Bonnie and Clyde of biker romance. Read on for a glimpse of ex-Marine Drake in action. AND GUESS WHAT? I’m giving away a huge prize! A photo of Jax Teller from Sons of Anarchy signed by the actor Charlie Hunnam! RAFFLECOPTER at end of post! Good luck and enjoy~
Scaling the concrete block wall was easy. Only five-feet high, it offered little protection for the Raiders MC. It was a mere obstacle.
Drake crouched between wall and chain link fence, cell phone in each hand. One controlled the surveillance cameras on the north and east sides of the building, the other south and west.
The moon was disguised behind clouds, only a faint glimmer visible. A good moon for breaking and entering.
Simultaneously, he punched an SMS message to shut down the surveillance system.
He looked up at the red dot at the corner of the building. It blinked out. They were all down—he never made mistakes.
His heart rate was spot-on, his breathing controlled. When he threaded the wire cutters through the fence and squeezed, it hardly made a snip. He worked quickly, cutting straight up about nine diamonds high, just enough for him to squeeze through.
A thud sounded from the neighboring building, followed by a woman yelling at her husband for being an idiot. Yo momma’s such a bitch, she barks when I fuck her doggy-style.
The brothers had laughed their asses off at that joke, Drake included.
With a grim twist of his lips, Drake cut horizontally, just enough for him to peel back the fence and fit through.
The noise alerted the dogs.
Drake was ready. He fished a lump of butcher paper from the pack slung over his back. Just as the dogs came snarling around the corner and rushed the hole he’d created, he had the meat ready.
Raw steak spiked with syringes of morphine did the trick. They ate noisily enough that the gunmen came, though.
Drake burst through the fence and straightened in the same motion he pulled his tranquilizer gun. He fired in rapid succession. Killing would be easier than darting them, but dead bodies meant the Raiders came looking for the last people who’d had a beef with them—the Sons.
The men crumpled. Two, three. He waited for footsteps and heard none. He scooped up the three weapons and carried them a short distance to the parking area. He hid them in the driver’s seat of a van where they could find them later.
Then he loped across the asphalt to the ladder on the outside of the building. After all this trouble, Delta might not show up, but if she did, he was ready.
As he reached the roof, he tried to pick out shapes in the darkness. No man shapes, only a few vents and an air conditioning unit. He waited, and since he had time, replayed his actions, searching for inadequacies that might have gotten him killed.
Nothing came to mind, so he rested his elbows on his knees and let his head drop back to look at the sky.
Clouds boiled, purplish black bruises obscuring the stars and moonlight. When the quiet snick of a closing door reached him, all the hair on his forearms stood up. And his heartbeat skipped into a faster rhythm.
Straining to hear, he battled his discomposure, but with each step on the rung, he lost a bit more control. He pushed into a crouch, hand at his hip in preparation to pull his knife if it wasn’t Delta.
Her hair was so dark and shiny, it appeared wet.
He lunged forward and hauled her over the lip of the roof, locking a hand over her mouth before she could even grunt.
She tensed but didn’t fight.
“Shhh, it’s Drake. Don’t make a noise.”
She went wild, kicking and twisting until he released her. Scooting back, she threw out her hands, just as she had in the club to keep him at bay. It wouldn’t work this time.
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