Fire Meets Fire: Wretched Soulz MC, page 1
FIRE MEETS FIRE
MAYHEM MAKERS
WRETCHED SOULZ MC
MANDA MELLETT
CONTENTS
Production Acknowledgments
Mayhem Makers
Wretched Soulz MC
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Epilogue
Acknowledgements and Author’s Note
Other Works by Manda Mellett
Reading Order
Stay in Touch
About the Author
COPYRIGHT
Published 2024 by Trish Haill Associates
Copyright © Manda Mellett
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book reviews.
www.mandamellett.com
Disclaimer
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Warning
This book is dark in places and contains content of a sexual, abusive and violent nature. It may not be suitable for persons under the age of 18.
PRODUCTION ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Photographer Golden Czermak
Model Colt Kube
Cover Design by CT Cover Creations
Edited and formatted by Maggie Kern @ Ms.K Edits
Proof reading by Darlene Tallman
PROLOGUE
This is not where I want to spend my night. I certainly can think of any number of better plans, one of which would definitely include a drink in my hand and a girl on my lap.
But here I am. Kicking down the stand, I get off the bike, sharing a chin lift with Legend, who’s followed me from the clubhouse. Unlike me, who can think of far better things to do with my time, Legend is bouncing with excitement as though eager to find out the results of his new box of tricks.
As Legend walks ahead into the auto shop, I murmur under my breath, “We shouldn’t fuckin’ need to be here.”
I can’t remember a time when anyone with all their wits about them has stolen from the Wretched Soulz. Everyone knows there’d be quick retribution if they were caught, and probably no funeral as their body would never be found. While not overly worried about someone pilfering, we’re not lax in security. Well, we’re in more danger of being searched by the pigs and need fair warning.
It was a shock to find someone’s been stealing from the shop owned by the club. Walking inside, my spirits are lifted by the obvious success of our business. We build customised bikes as well as providing the usual sales and maintenance service for all models. Evidence of how busy we are is all around me. We’ve gained quite a reputation, even if some people only like coming to us to boast to their friends how they’re not afraid to walk on the wild side.
My mood quickly sours as I pass the containers holding spare parts. You’d think with what people know and rightly believe about the Wretched Soulz MC, that the last thing they’d do is steal from us. But for the last couple of weeks, bits and pieces have been going missing. Not huge things and nothing really valuable, just nuts, bolts, a battery cover and the odd bottle of engine oil. Insignificant, and as such, it took a while for us to notice anything had been disturbed.
Once Weasel, manager of the shop and our road captain, became suspicious, he’d carried out an inventory to check. What he found was that while we maintain and service all models of bikes, everything stolen was for a Harley.
We’re Soulz. It’s our territory. Our reputation alone should be enough to warn people off. But clearly, not in this case. After Weasel’s revelations were greeted noisily at church, Legend was pulled in to replace old or broken cameras and install new alarms. Now, not even a fly could get in undetected. And starting tonight, we’ll be staking the place out to see if we can catch our thief red-handed.
Legend, computer guru and all-round tech guy, wanted me to see the magic he’d worked. So I agreed to come take the first night shift with him. It’s been a while since my fists have seen some action, so I’m looking forward to deploying them tonight. I really hope our light-fingered guy will put in an appearance. At least that would make my missing out on the good things in life worthwhile.
It's quiet, dark, the moon hidden by clouds tonight. We’ve only been here an hour and already I’m bored and fidgety. Fool’s errand. It’s probable our nemesis has already realised the error of their ways. I glance at the clock again, only to find the hands have progressed by little more than a minute.
It must be near midnight and I’m on my third beer, when Legend suddenly exclaims, “There. Look.”
Placing my bottle down, I sit forward as a shadowy figure seems to be approaching the security fence that’s meant to keep everyone out. It’s hard to tell much. Their upper body and head are shrouded in a hoodie, and their face hasn’t yet been caught on a camera.
“I’ll call Claw.” Legend reaches for his phone, his finger hovering over the direct dial key that will summon our enforcer.
“Nah. Hold off a moment.” There’s only one man, and either Legend or I would easily be able to deal with them by ourselves. There’s a practical reason for my instruction too. The clubhouse is only a mile away, and the sound of a loud bike approaching might scare our thief off before we can capture them.
“Will you fuckin’ look at that?” Legend’s eyes widen as he points to the monitor.
My jaw drops as I watch the man lithely scale the telegraph pole close to our fence, secure a rope to the top, then launch himself up and over the high steel fence. Once he’s on solid ground, he lets go of the rope, which stays dangling, obviously waiting to be used as his means of escape.
“Guess that’s the answer as to how he’s been getting in.” I’m already out of my seat. I may be impressed with his athleticism, but he’s still got a lesson to learn about stealing from the Soulz. My companion starts to copy my action. “Nah, you stay here, Ledge. I can handle one asshole like him.” Or if I can’t take the not-very-tall and definitely not-very-built figure who’s been robbing us, then it’s time to hang up my motorcycle boots.
I’ve honed the ability to move silently over the years. If I don’t want you to know I’m near, you won’t, not until I’ve gotten up close and personal. Moving through our darkened building that I know like the back of my hand, I emerge into the yard. There’s the thief who’s somehow not only managed to open our storeroom door but also defied the new alarm Legend had fitted.
I push the what the fuck? question to the back of my mind. It’s not important for now. What’s more critical is that I end this, and before the thief gets more confident and starts stealing things of higher value.
Stealthily, I come up behind the fucker who’s rummaging through our boxes of spare parts, muttering softly as though they’re looking for something in particular that’s not immediately at hand.
Taking my gun out of my cut, I ease off the safety with an audible and unmissable click.
With a speed I wasn’t expecting, instead of freezing, the thief comes straight for me, kicking the gun out of my hand and planting a fist in my stomach.
A split second is all it takes for me to think, game fucking on. No one’s going to get the better of me and definitely not on my turf. Turning the tables, I go on the offensive, using every dirty street-fighting trick I ever learned.
My opponent has clearly gone to the same school, and for a moment, we’re evenly matched, despite that I’m far bigger in size. We both land and block kicks and punches. I’m breathing heavily when, at last, luck’s on my side and I get the upper hand.
I sweep the feet from under my assailant, and he lands heavily on the ground. I come down on him, my fist raised to punch a direct hit on his face, only to pull it at the last moment, as Legend has chosen that precise time to flick on the overhead lights.
“You’re a fuckin’ bitch,” I gasp. To prove it, I sweep the hoodie back off her head, revealing her face.
“Get off me.” She keeps struggling.
“Give it up. I caught you stealing from us.” And I’m going to make her pay. I don’t care if she’s a woman. Thieving is thieving whatever the sex.
She refuses to give in, unfortunately managing to attract the interest of my cock, and I harden as she writhes beneath me. I wouldn’t be a man if I didn’t suddenly have ideas about what retribution she could make.
“Yeah, just keep that up,” I growl, unable to keep the leer from spreading over my face.
In th
Fuck. I’m no rapist. Her palpable fear at the position she’s in makes me feel guilty I got any enjoyment from feeling her curves.
“I’ll let you up, but you run? I’ll catch you and make you regret it,” I warn her. When I see the little nod of acceptance, I lift myself away, strangely regretting losing the softness of her body beneath me.
Free, she warily pulls herself up. Once she’s standing, she brushes herself off, wincing as she must catch one of the bruises I left.
Par for the course, sweetheart. You left some on me too. Reluctantly, I have to admire her and her fighting skills.
She’s about five foot ten, a good eight inches shorter than me. I’d mistaken her silhouette for that of a man as she’s got the smallest tits I’ve ever seen. Her ass is tight and high, and her waist is tiny and pulled in. My cock, which should have stood down now her proximity has gone, jerks as though telling me he likes what he sees.
I should ask what the fuck she’s doing, stealing from the club, whether she’s got a screw loose, or a death wish. But still amazed as, for a moment, it had been touch and go which one of us would win the set we’d just had, what actually comes out of my mouth is, “How the fuck did you learn to fight like that?”
CHAPTER ONE
HELO
Becoming a thief didn’t much bother me. Up against everything else I’ve done in my life, it’s just one more thing in my extensive repertoire to add to my resume. While it’s not my acquisition method of choice, I question whether it can be called stealing at all if the people you’re robbing from are criminals. After all, I’m probably only taking their ill-gotten gains, or items bought with blood money.
I’m not blind to the risks, though. I’m not pilfering from just anyone. No, I’m stealing from the Arizona chapter of the Wretched Soulz MC—the motorcycle gang with an international reputation for violence and mayhem. I have no illusions about what little mercy they’ll have if they catch me. But needs must, as they say.
Whilst I’m never one to turn down a challenge, I’m not doing it for fun. If I could see another option, I’d take it. There might be better ways of keeping a roof over my head, but in my current predicament, keeping the particular ceiling that I’ve stumbled across suits me just fine. I’ll do what I can to keep it that way.
At heart, I’m a daredevil. When the solution to my problem presented itself, I admit I didn’t try to persuade myself out of it. Keeping mind and body sharp has long been part of my training. And what better way of doing that than stealing motorcycle parts from a notorious gang? I’m not that reckless. I’m only taking items that are being discarded or are of minimal value, which shouldn’t be missed. It can’t be unusual for the small shit to go astray, and only an anal-retentive person would keep track of every nut, bolt, or screw. Surely an auto shop run by criminals can’t be that well organised? I can’t see a leather-clad gang wasting time on detailed inventories. They’ve probably got drugs or guns to run, certainly things more interesting.
Like before any mission, I analysed my chances of getting into their auto shop and out again without exposure. They might be equipped to keep the day-to-day thief out, and that’s if their reputation doesn’t deter anyone from breaking into their premises. But they haven’t come up against someone like me before, and definitely not someone of my calibre. Bikers? Huh. I could eat them for breakfast.
And if I’m wrong? Well, we’ve all got to die. Someday. I’ve risked putting my life on the line more times than I can count. Facing danger has become second nature.
Tonight, just as I have over the past couple of weeks, I first check that the shop’s dark and quiet, just as it should be this close to midnight. I move to the telegraph pole that’s conveniently close to the razor-wired topped-rear fence. It’s near enough for me to be able to use it for what I need to, but not for anyone else to suspect what I’m doing. Then, probably, there’s no one else crazy enough to break into the Wretched Soulz premises.
Like any woman who attempts to make it in a male-dominated arena knows, they have to prove themselves better than any man just to keep up. A simple stumble can lead to ridicule and derision, whereas a male companion making the same mistake would just be offered a hand to help them back on their feet. Needing to excel, to be the best, is the background that’s given me the skills for what I’m about to do next.
Using several muscle groups in my arms and legs aided by core strength, I shimmy up the pole that has no handholds, as easily as if there was a ladder attached. At the top, I balance, take a small tablet out of my bag, and send the program that will block the MC’s alarm system until I reset it. Since I was last here, they’ve made some enhancements, but I easily take them in my stride. That done, I loop a rope around the pole, running through safety checks to make sure it will hold. Once satisfied, I draw up, lean my weight back a little, then throw myself forward, leaping into the void that will hopefully allow me to land on the other side of the boundary.
I arrive exactly as I’ve perfected on my previous forays before, two legs balanced on the inside of the fence, well beneath the razor wire, allowing me to gently descend the last few feet until I’m standing on the ground. The rope I leave swinging to help me make the return journey. Later, after I’ve used it to complete the upward climb, I’ll remove the rope, check I’ve left no footprints, and thus leave no evidence that I’ve ever been here. Even if the bike gang knows they are being robbed, how will remain a mystery.
My heart rate is only a little elevated after getting over the barrier between me and the premises I’m about to rob. It takes far more than a simple breaking and entering to get adrenaline pulsing through my veins. Nevertheless, I am on high alert as I pause by my escape route, all senses examining the environment, but as expected, I hear and see nothing.
As normal, first, I start picking through the trash they’ve discarded. My client—I use the word to justify our relationship to myself—has particular requirements. His motorcycle brought back from its current crashed state and restored to factory condition. Not for him are the customisations that the Wretched Soulz are famous for doing. Their customers come in to have a “live to ride” embossed plate fixed over the air filter. Their discarded plain one is absolutely right for what I want. Grinning when I find one that just needs the dents knocked out and some polish to be good as new, I put it into my backpack.
There are slim pickings otherwise tonight though. I’d hoped to find a seal which still had some use, but unfortunately, there’s nothing. That means if I want to be able to get on with the job I’m working on, I’ll need to take one out of their storeroom. The value is only a couple of dollars, and it’s something they’ll likely have in bulk.
It’s just a minor complication. Picking the lock on the door is child’s play and in seconds, I’m pawing through boxes of spare parts, trying to find just what I’m looking for.
“Come on, come on,” I mumble to myself, impatiently trying to sort through the jumble inside, the mess confirming they’re unlikely to miss anything. While I’d like to be out of there as soon as possible, I don’t feel unduly under any time pressure. Those lazy bikers won’t be back at work until the sun’s well over the horizon, but my bed is calling, and I’d prefer to get home. “Where the fuck are you?”
However safe I feel, I remain alert. My brain might accept I’ve done this a dozen times before and can be confident I won’t be exposed, but my hearing and whatever sixth sense makes the hairs on the back of my neck stick up, never stand down. When all my synapses signal a warning, I pause what I’m doing. The soft, but unmissable sound of a gun’s safety being eased off features like a pistol shot.
In less than a second, I’ve assessed the direction the noise came from. Instead of freezing like any other person may have done, I launch myself around, my leg already in motion, to kick the gun out of whoever’s holding its hand. My own hand, fisted and ready, goes into his stomach, expecting to put him down.
