Rough Justice (Sinner's Tribe Motorcycle Club #1)(3)
Zane muttered a curse. Wheels let out a long, low whistle. Even Jagger startled. The Black Jacks and the Sinner’s Tribe had been engaged in a feud over territory for years. But two years ago, the high death toll had drawn the attention of federal authorities and the national media, driving away the illicit underground black market that was the bread and butter of Montana’s outlaw MC operations. In the interest of self-preservation, Jagger and the Black Jacks president, Viper, had called an uneasy truce. The Black Jacks took control of Montana’s drug trade, and the Sinner’s Tribe took over the more lucrative contracts in illegal arms trafficking. With both clubs claiming dominance of the state, the occasional skirmish was unavoidable. But for the most part, the truce had held.
Until now.
Axle cocked his gun and gestured at the two-piece patch on the fallen biker’s cut. “He’s wearing f*cking Jacks colors. Outta my way, Jagger. The feud is back on.”
“He’s not a full-patch brother.” Wheels shot Axle a pleading look and then slid his gaze to Jagger. “He’s missing the bottom rocker. He might only be a prospect doing what he was told to do. You can’t just kill him.” Wheels edged closer to the fallen biker. “We don’t even know if he’s the one who set the fire.”
“We can do whatever the f*ck we want.” Axle shot Wheels an irritated glance. “The Sinners are one-percenters. You know what that means, prospect? It means we’re the one percent of bikers who don’t follow f*cking civilian law. We make our own rules, follow our own codes, and administer our own justice. And the penalty for burning down our clubhouse is death.”
Jagger pushed himself to his feet, taking advantage of his six-foot-two-inch frame as he loomed over Axle. “Last I heard, I was the president of the Sinner’s Tribe. That means administering justice is my call. And after talking to Gunner, I’m not convinced the Ninja rider is the man who torched our clubhouse.”
Axle’s face lit with bitter triumph, and he offered his weapon to Jagger, an insulting gesture, since he knew Jagger was carrying a gun. “Doesn’t matter. He’s a Black Jack. In a matter of honor, one Jack is as good as the next. So do your duty. Give us justice. Revenge. Show us what you’re made of, Oh great leader.”
Jagger took the offered weapon, removed the magazine, then stepped forward and smashed the butt of the gun into Axle’s head. Axle dropped to his knees, then slumped on the ground.
“Zane, he’s yours for tonight.” Jagger’s voice cracked through the silence. “But make sure he’s fit to attend the executive board meeting in the morning to answer for his disrespect.” He tossed Axle’s gun to Zane and glowered at the crowd. “Anyone else got a problem?”
Without waiting for a response, he bent down and removed the fallen biker’s helmet. Long, dark hair spilled over the pavement in a silken wave.
“Well, damn.” Zane exhaled his words in a shocked whisper. “He’s a she. We’ve been disrespected by a f*cking girl.”
No, not a girl. A woman. An angel. From Black Jack hell.
Jagger pressed his fingers to her neck, feeling for a pulse beneath her soft, cool skin. She moaned and her eyes fluttered open, startling him with an emerald-green brilliance like nothing he had ever seen before.
For an instant he couldn’t speak, and then her thick, dark lashes drifted over creamy cheeks and her head drooped to the side. Beneath the pads of his fingers, her pulse beat steady but faint. Reassured, he removed his hand. Only then did he see her injuries—long, thick, finger-shaped bruises around her neck.
With a light touch, he traced along the fine line of her jaw. Mottled black-and-blue marks extended from her temple to her chin. His eyes slid to the helmet and then back to her pale face. Definitely not injuries from the accident. For some reason he couldn’t name, he wanted to hunt down whoever had hurt her and pound him into the ground.
Ironic, really, since he might have to kill her.
TWO
Club first. Club only. Club always.
The dream was always the same: soft bed, dim light, fluffy pink duvet, homework on her desk.
Leo on top of her.
Screams and shouting. Her arms pinned. His hand yanking down her jeans. Her thrashing on the bed, a wail escaping her lips.
“Wake up.” A rough hand stroked her cheek and wiped away a tear.
Arianne’s eyes fluttered open and she squinted to adjust to the dim light, trying to make sense of her surroundings.
She tried to push herself up and then fell back on the pillow when her stomach heaved.
“Don’t move.”
Panicked, Arianne froze and peered in the direction of the deep, rich voice. She blinked to clear her vision and he came into view, leaning back on the chair beside her bed, long legs stretched out in front of him, thick arms covered with tats and folded over a massive chest. Under his cut, a Harley-Davidson T-shirt stretched taut over toned pecs and a washboard stomach. Black jeans hugged his narrow hips, and thick dark hair brushed the top of his wide shoulders. Rough and weathered, he sported at least a day’s worth of beard over his square jaw.
Delicious.
His sheer presence drew her in. No. Not presence. Power. Raw and untamed.
“Who are you?” Her voice wavered despite her best efforts to slow her pounding heart. Running and screaming would do her little good if she knew nothing about her situation.