Protect Read online

  PROTECT

  -A Red Rebels MC Novel-

  C.D. Breadner

  The Freak Circle Press

  Copyright 2015 C.D. Breadner

  Smashwords Edition

  Thank you for downloading this eBook.

  This book remains the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be redistributed to others for commercial or non-commercial purposes.

  If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their own copy from their favorite authorized retailer.

  Thank you for your support.

  Table of Contents

  Acknowledgements

  Expose: Red Rebels MC Book Two

  About C.D. Breadner

  Connect With C.D. Breadner

  Acknowledgements

  Thank you to the writers of the Freak Circle Press for their amazing support. I’m not sure I’m deserving of such amazing friendship, but I’ll take it.

  Thank you to Susan Fanetti for her honest feedback in all things, and to Kirsten for helping me find a few more remnants of my genius (that is, spelling mistakes and type-os).

  And thank you to my friends and family for their support and enthusiasm. I am not surprised by it but I truly appreciate it.

  And thank you to my husband just for being you.

  Prologue

  -NEARLY TWO YEARS AGO-

  Mark “Fritter” Horton covered a yawn with one hand, the one belonging to his injured arm, while the other stayed on the wheel of his mom’s old pick-up. Still another month or so until he’d be cleared to ride and this touring around in a cage sucked. He refused to wear the sling, opting instead to leave it on the passenger seat. He’d have to put it back on before going into his mother’s house, though. She’d kick his ass.

  The highway leading out to his Ma’s was dead, not another headlight to be seen. He hit the gas, anxious to get to his own bed. The party at the clubhouse had been a lame duck so he left after a blowjob. If he got his ass to bed his mom would make him breakfast the next morning. That was worth the late-night drive at one o’clock.

  When the lights flared up behind him he checked the speedometer, wincing. Shit. Twenty miles over the limit. Fuck.

  He pulled over immediately, knowing full well the unregistered Glock in the glove box would be enough to get him taken into custody. No need to give the cops a reason to search. He’d only had one beer and knew it wasn’t on his breath. He’d be fine, take the ticket with a smile, and go.

  With a heavy sigh he put the shifter in park and reached for his wallet, flipping it open to his license. The window groaned and squeaked as he rolled it down, then he covered another yawn. Man, he wanted his bed.

  “License and registration,” the voice said, and Fritter put on his most charming grin.

  “Sheriff Downey,” he drawled, letting the Oklahoma accent roll in heavier than usual. “Is it normal for the sheriff to be workin’ late shifts?”

  She took the wallet from his outstretched fingers without expression. He kept the smile in place. She’d been cold to him since he got shot, and he had to admit there was some embarrassment on his part. When he’d been coming out of surgery he’d pulled up his hospital gown, terribly proud of the erection he’d had.

  Fritter had no idea why the hell he’d done it.

  “Step out of the truck please,” she snapped, moving away from the door and circling to the front quarter panel of his truck.

  With a frown he opened the door, and then resolved to keep his smile and easy demeanor in place. “Problem, Sheriff?”

  “I need you up here, place both hands on the hood.”

  Fritter paused, scratching his head. “I know I was speeding. Is something else goin’ on?”

  “Mr. Horton, please place both hands on the hood of your truck.”

  His brain was cycling through what this could be about. His license was current. Was the truck’s registration expired? Nah. He always renewed it for his mom on her birthday.

  With another sigh he moved to stand over the wheel well, and put his hands on the warm hood. She kicked his feet further apart and he hid a chuckle at that, something off color just on the tip of his tongue but he kept it in check. The club wanted to treat her with more respect. He was one of the worst offenders in light of the flashing incident. He’d need to play nice here.

  Sheriff Downey’s hands slapped down his sides in that standard cop way, under his arms, over his hips and down both legs. It was involuntary; he got hard. She was an attractive woman, and he liked the uniform. As the frisk continued he had to roll his eyes. He had no idea what this was about, but if someone called something in there was no way it was about him. He knew damn well he hadn’t done anything to—

  “Whoa,” he mumbled, looking down. Downey’s hands were on his crotch.

  They were both frozen in place, his dick torn between wanting to enjoy itself and being terrified this was some kind of trap.

  Fritter even held his breath, wondering if she was embarrassed, too. First that her hand had gone where it had, secondly because he was apparently unable to control his cock.

  With an exhale she pulled her hand away and he stayed put, blinking furiously to get himself under control. He tried to call off that hard urge but it was up and ready to play, suddenly not as tired as the rest of him.

  She moved away, he could hear her boots on the asphalt, and when her hand slammed down on the hood in front of him between his own paws he jumped about a mile. His wallet was left behind as she pulled back, as was a large plastic oval, about the size of his wallet, with a key attached.

  It made no sense and he was frowning at it as she spoke, close enough to his right arm that her chest was pressed against it. His dick took note of that, too.

  “Markham Manor. Room 214, one hour. If you’re interested.”

  The scrape of boots on concrete faded away and still he was staring down at the hood between his flattened palms, frowning and blinking. Trying to compute.

  The cruiser pulled out from the shoulder and drove past him. That’s when he straightened, staring at the tail lights heading off down the highway. Hands on hips he turned to study the items on the truck.

  The answer was, of course, absolutely fucking not. It was disaster. Awkward.

  But shit. Sherriff Downey? Fucking hell, who didn’t want a good look at what was under that polyester uniform? He knew she was hot. She had to be. Her face was pretty but the body, from what you could see, was trim and fit. His cock throbbed again, casting its vote.

  He adjusted his junk and scooped up the wallet and key. It was maybe the stupid choice, but not a lot of people accused him of being smart.

  Chapter One

  “I’m telling you, that cat is always over here. Look at these petunias! You know how much work a flower bed is?” The ever-put-upon Mrs. Tyler prattled on about bedding plants as she scuttled her way around the side of her house to the flower bed in question.

  Biting her tongue Sharon Downey followed, tucking her notepad back into her pocket and holding back on a sigh. This is the real hard-hitting crime they trained you for, she reminded himself, fake smile still plastered in place. This is you doing the good work.

  Just put a bullet in my fucking head.

  “See? Look at this cat shit. That’s not from my cats. They know to stay in the back yard. It’s Ethel’s damn cat. I think she trained it to shit in my garden.”

  “Mrs. Tyler,” she broke in as kindly as she could. “I can only write up a fine for this. If you’re entirely sure that Mrs. Graham’s cat is the one defecating in your flower beds I can talk to her. I’m sure there’s a way to work this out without fines, though.”

  Mrs. Tyler squinted with one eye up at her. Sharon pushed a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Jesus, it was hot.
<
br />   “I want her arrested.”

  She bit down on a laugh. “Mrs. Tyler, this is barely a bylaw infraction. You have no proof that it’s Mrs. Graham’s cat. I’d suggest mothballs or cayenne pepper. Cats hate both of them.”

  Mrs. Tyler sniffed, then her eye squinted a little tighter. “Why don’t you try wearing a little make-up? Do something nicer with your hair? You’ll never get married looking so much like a man.”

  It took all of her fingernails digging into the palms of her hands not to smack the old bitch. Unfortunately, she was used to this and there was only one way to deal with it.

  “You have a nice day, Mrs. Tyler,” she said amiably, slipping her shades back on and walking to the front walkway again.

  “My taxes pay your salary, young lady!”

  Sharon gave a wave as though she was merely saying goodbye and climbed into her cruiser. As she was shutting the door the radio crackled to life. “Dispatch to Sheriff.”

  She grabbed the handset. “Go ahead, Dispatch.”

  “Your presence has been requested at the station. Two detectives from Kern County just dropped in. They won’t say what’s going on, but I think you should get here.”

  “All right. I’m on my way.”

  She pulled her belt across her lap as she racked the mic, then pulled out onto the shady, quiet street.

  Markham was home for most of her life. There was the half-year she spent at the police academy, then the three years she tried living in Pasadena with Steven, her ex. Other than those not-quite-four-years, she’d lived here. Her father had become an accountant when the steel mill shut down, her mother stayed home to tend the house and their two kids. Sharon’s little brother was in the Army, had been for nearly a decade now. Normal life, all of it so wonderfully normal.

  Other than the fact they were in Markham, of course. A town with a motorcycle club in residence. Her father had sold his bike when she was born; apparently her parents had needed the money. But he hung around the clubhouse belonging to the Red Rebels and was considered a friend. Now she knew he’d be labeled a hang around. He just liked the bikes, liked talking bikes with the guys.

  Her mother forbade bikes, even once they were financially stable. As soon as he could Scott, her brother, bought a used Harley Softail with money he’d been saving for years. Jesus, her mother and brother had fought over that. The family had paired up in that odd way; the mother having a soft spot for her son, the daughter that could get anything she wanted from her father. But that bike had been a crack between mother and son that still seemed to gape a bit wide when Scott was home for an extended period of time. Relief over his safe return gave way to past, imagined wrongs. And holy hell, did her mother hold a grudge.

  Neither Scott nor Sharon were strangers to the clubhouse. They never went inside, but the yard was where the town was welcome during Fourth of July barbecues and other holidays. Sharon’s mother always stayed home.

  As she grew older and the club began to change, largely in part to the president at the time growing a bit soft in his old age, the town began to feel safer with the club. Their hard edges were better hidden.

  By the time Sharon was in high school Jayce McClune was vice president, poised to take over for his old man. The club was almost entirely new, so the change looked like it would work well. His father’s club was almost a dead entity. The new members embraced the friendlier persona.

  Sharon had never had a bad boy fetish. Any kind of fetish, really. She just liked what she liked. But even she took notice when Jayce McClune, rough and handsome even at twenty-three, would roll down the Markham main drag on his bike, cigarette hanging out of his mouth.

  Hell, every girl in Markham noticed that.

  In an ill-advised fit of rebellion shortly after her nineteenth birthday she attended an infamous Friday night clubhouse party. She drank too much, likely could have put herself in a very dangerous position by doing so. But Jayce found her, just as drunk. He’d taken her virginity that night, and he didn’t even realize it. Or remember it. She hoped to hell the club didn’t know that, but she certainly remembered it. Hazy, sure. But she’d never been one to put a mystic opinion on sex. She’d been curious what it was like, and he showed her. Jesus, had he ever. She was one of the lucky few that had actually enjoyed her first time. Although, being drunk had left her a bit less inhibited than most women.

  Now Sharon knew McClune better. Knew he was a good man, despite what the club had to do, and knew that the town owed the club a bigger debt than most residents fully realized. She played her part in that, left the club to handle their only garbage knowing full well it kept her department looking somewhat competent. The really dangerous drugs were hard to find, and when they were found the problem was run out of town limits. Because of that the randomly violent gangs stayed away. The only shoot-out she knew about had happened right at the clubhouse a while ago. The club had called her in, asking for a head start, in case they couldn’t contain it and it got out of hand.

  Just to keep Markham safe.

  Her own fear at finding a member, one member in particular, hurt when she’d arrived that night, was her own issue, nothing to do with the town, and more to do with her own dwindling intelligence. Apparently.

  The Markham PD was a squat, square, utilitarian building with a long, barely sloping concrete staircase leading up off the parking lot. The metal railing was painted the same yellow-beige as the building. There was a black sedan parked parallel to the staircase, definitely not in a parking spot. She barely got her cruiser into the sheriff’s spot at the sedan’s rear, then headed into her domain.

  One man in a well-cut suit turned as she came through the doors, offering his hand and a too-white smile. His hair cut was as precise as a military watch and his ruddy face clean shaved. “Sheriff? I’m Agent Terence Hogan. DEA.”

  Detective from Kern County, indeed.

  The other man stood from the vinyl seat where he’d been slumped. He was in dark jeans and a white button-down, slightly rumpled. Dark sunglasses were hitched into the neck of the shirt, his hair under a Red Sox ball cap. He offered his hand too, then when he said, “Downey,” in an amiable tone she placed him.

  Jesus. It was Agent Townsend. Also known in certain circles of Markham as “Bark.”

  She froze, staring, wondering if he was fucking insane coming back here. Certain criminal elements thought he was dead, which was great for his changes of staying above ground, all things considered.

  “May we talk in private?” Agent Hogan asked, realizing Downey knew his colleague.

  She shook her head and nodded. “Sorry. Of course. Follow me gentlemen.”

  They did, falling into line as she made for her office, and she moved behind her desk as Agent Townsend shut the door and Hogan sat down across from her. As standard practice he tossed his card on her desk.

  “So you know who we are, and I’m sure you’re wondering why we’re here.”

  “Yes, terribly curious.”

  “As you know, recently the Mad Gypsys chapter in Hazeldale was ... well, wiped out.” Agent Hogan was speaking. Townsend preferred to hover near the door, and she supposed that was understandable. “Their president, Jacob Todd, also known as Thor, was just found dead barely inside Hazeldale town limits. He was beaten and mutilated.”

  Good, she thought, but kept her face indifferent.

  “The Gypsys worked with the Galiendo cartel, transporting pharmaceutical-grade Thebaine out of Mexico up into British Columbia. It’s being made into incredibly potent Oxy. I know you’ve seen it popping up in Markham.”

  Now she nodded. “The orange stuff. Sunshine?”

  “G-Town is your nearest distributor in Bakersfield. With the Gypsys out of the picture there’s a hole, a vacuum in Hazeldale. The Galiendos were recently overrun by the Castillos, who only moved in for that Thebaine pipeline. I’m letting you know all of this because your club here in Markham could be a viable candidate for the pipeline.”

  She cleared her throat. �
�I appreciate the warning. The Red Rebels have never engaged with any narcotic trade other than marijuana.”

  “Which is still illegal in California,” Hogan pointed out with that toothy grin.

  “Your Red Rebels are running weapons for the Sachetti crime family,” Townsend spoke up. That gave her pause. She hadn’t known that. “Sachetti has dealings with the Castillos. He keeps them at arms’ length because they’re so unpredictable. But it’s a business relationship, and if he sees the Rebels as his lackeys he wouldn’t hesitate to offer their help.”

  She digested that. It was good to know, but it didn’t explain what they were doing here. A memo could have told her that Thor was dead.

  “There’s something else,” Hogan spoke up, his eyes dropping to his hands, then he looked back over his shoulder at his partner.

  “Another body was found outside Bakersfield. Advanced decay, but it’s Louis Dénis. Gertie’s father.”

  Sharon inhaled and sat back. So that was why Bark was here.

  “We know usually this would be handed off to your department to deliver, but we also know that David Buckingham is out of town at the moment.” Hogan’s eyes went from Townsend and back her way. “My colleague wanted to tell her in person, and we’d like you to be there.”

  Sharon nodded, keeping Gertie’s father in mind as she stood. He’d gotten into some bad debts with the Sachettis, gone into hiding, and when G-Town found out how much her old man was worth they kidnapped her to get the Sachetti ransom and handed her over to the Gypsys for safe keeping. Not the best tactic since she’d already been tied to a rival club’s Sergeant At Arms. Even when given video evidence of how his daughter was being treated in that Hazeldale clubhouse, Louis Dénis had not turned himself in.

  Sharon had no sympathies to hear that Dénis had met his end. But she was worried about Gertie, and one look at Townsend told her she wasn’t the only one.