Chaos Bound (Sinner's Tribe Motorcycle Club #4)(7)

Naiya peered out the door and into the night. “Step one. Completed. Now for step two. Hopefully it can be accomplished without bloodshed.” She couldn’t look at the man on the ground as Holt rifled through his pockets, but his grunt of pleasure drew her attention.

“Bike key.” He held up a black, circular key fob. “We’ll ride out of here in style.”

Naiya fought back a groan. “Now we have the beginning of a plan. And an end. How about we work on the middle?”

“We’re gonna have to improvise the middle bit.” He patted down the fallen guard, relieving him of his wallet, his weapon and the holster around his waist. “Problem solved.”

“Ah, it’s the old shoot ’em as you go routine.” Naiya couldn’t keep the sarcasm from her voice. “Nice and discrete. Definitely won’t draw the attention of the fifty or so Black Jacks partying inside.”

Holt tugged the Black Jack cut over the guard’s shoulders and yanked off his T-shirt. “Put these on me. He’s got the same hair color as me. Pretty much the same size. I’ll keep my head down. You hide your face in case they recognize you. I’ll lean on you and you giggle. Make like we’re drunk.”

“I’m not a giggly drunk,” she protested. “I’m not even a giggly person. I’m more the serious type. Maybe you didn’t notice with all the dancing and singing I was doing.” Naiya helped him on with the T-shirt and cut, catching his grimace as he slid the Black Jack colors over his broad shoulders.

Despite the beatings he had taken, and the lack of sustenance, he still had more muscles than the men she’d dated until she hooked up with her current boyfriend, Maurice. And Holt was tall—an inch or two over six feet, she guessed—and that face … she could imagine women falling over themselves for a taste of him. Even the bruises couldn’t hide the chiseled planes and angles of his jaw, the wide, sensuous mouth, or those blue eyes … so piercing they shone in the dim light.

“And I’m not a f*cking Jack. Pretend.”

Naiya startled at his sharp tone, but when she saw the tremor in his hand as he tucked the gun into the holster around his waist, she forgave him. He’d clearly been a prisoner for a long time, and if they didn’t make it out, Viper would finish the job he thought he’d finished days ago.

“Sorry. I’m not good at pretend either.”

His face softened, and he stroked her cheek. “Let’s just get out of here.”

“Sure.” She took up her position under his shoulder, bearing his weight as they breached the doorway, her cheek against the cool leather of his cut.

No. A Black Jack cut.

Naiya slid out from under his shoulder. After spending years in the biker world, she understood the importance of a biker’s cut. It meant more to him than his bike. His cut was his heart, his soul, his bond to his brothers and his club. “Your cut. I’ll get it.”

“No.”

“It’s okay. I’ll just be a second.” She ran back inside, balled up his cut, and tucked it under her arm.

“Good to go.” She slipped back under his shoulder and Holt grunted.

“Just leave it.”

“Really, Holt. It’s okay. I know what the cut means. I’ve turned it inside out and folded it. No one will see your patches.”

“Not my colors anymore,” he muttered as he pulled the door closed behind them. “Not my club.”

Before she could ask what he meant, he took a step forward, and Naiya slid an arm around his waist. Hopefully, they wouldn’t draw the attention of the guards, ever present around a biker clubhouse to protect them from enemies, and especially from an enemy as formidable as the Sinner’s Tribe.

The enemy of my enemy is my friend.

A friend that could assure her safety. And her future. Especially after her stupidity in Viper’s bedroom this afternoon.

They crossed the compound with slow, halting steps, arms wrapped around each other, heads bowed. Naiya’s heart thudded in her chest, and she pressed her cheek against Holt’s side.

“How far?” he whispered.

“Their bikes were parked out front. About one hundred and fifty yards to go. There’s a guard ahead.”

“Start giggling.” He dug his fingers into her side and she snorted a laugh.

“Stop. I’m ticklish.”

“That’s the idea.” He tickled her again, and she laughed.

“Rafe?” A voice echoed in the darkness. Naiya looked up at the name patch on the cut Holt wore.

“That’s you,” she murmured, pulling him back a few steps. “Stay in the shadows.”

“Yeah.” Holt lowered his voice to a husky growl as footsteps approached from the direction of the clubhouse.

“You check on Viper’s new bitch? He’s getting impatient. He’s waited a long time for another taste of that *.”

Naiya choked back a breath and shoved her face into Holt’s side. He smelled vile—sweat and blood laced with decay—and yet his body was warm and solid, his arm tight around her shoulders.

“She’s still screaming and making a fuss. Knocked her around a bit and cut the lights. An hour in the dark with the rats and that dead Sinner, and she’ll be ready for him.” Holt’s voice was thick, hoarse, and scratchy.