Cross, page 1
Published by EVERNIGHT PUBLISHING ® at Smashwords
www.evernightpublishing.com
Copyright© 2024 Winter Sloane
ISBN: 978-0-3695-0946-8
Cover Artist: Jay Aheer
Editor: Lisa Petrocelli
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
WARNING: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.
This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and places are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
DEDICATION
To my readers, I hoped you enjoy reading Cross and Dana’s story as much I loved writing it.
CROSS
Death Seekers MC, 2
Winter Sloane
Copyright © 2024
Chapter One
Cross gritted his teeth as blood oozed from the gunshot wound on his shoulder, but he refused to waver. His gaze remained locked onto the handlebars of his Harley, determined not to let his pain show. Fainting was not an option, not on these desolate back roads. He knew that a blackout would be the end of him.
Sergeant-at-Arms for the notorious Death Seekers MC, Cross had been through his fair share of scrapes. He understood that if they caught him, the enemy wouldn’t grant him a fast death. These bastards would prolong his suffering, squeezing every ounce of information from him before they let him go.
The last thing Cross would ever do was betray his MC brothers—his family. That knowledge kept him going, kept him focused.
Behind him, the growl of three other motorcycle engines reverberated through the night air. The odds were far from fair—three against one—but Cross refused to let fear consume him.
He couldn’t call on his brothers from the Death Seekers for backup this time. He’d unwittingly blundered into the territory of the Crimson Crows, and there was no escape from this trap. Cross thought of the little bastard who put him in this mess—Jimmy Bailey, one of the MC’s newest informants, had either fed Cross false information or had intentionally betrayed him to the Crows.
Cross normally didn’t trust new informants but Jimmy had been Sean “Mad Dog” Bailey’s younger brother. Mad Dog was loyal to the bone, but he got himself killed during a territory war with another rival MC. Did Jimmy betray Cross because he knew Cross was the last person to speak to Sean? Either way, Cross could question Jimmy himself … if he survived this chase. With every passing moment, the noose drew tighter.
Cross’s heart raced as he rode, aware that the Crimson Crows behind him were merely biding their time before firing at him again. They were toying with him, prolonging the chase for their amusement, and he hated every moment of it.
As the tension in his chest mounted, Cross’s instincts heightened. He had a bad feeling about this chase, a gut-deep certainty that things were about to take a deadly turn.
He scanned the distance and finally saw what his enemies had planned. Another biker, a Crow, rode toward him, shotgun in hand, murder in his eyes. Cross had only seconds to react. He yanked the handlebars of his Harley to the side, the shooter’s first bullet tearing through his left leg as he swerved.
The second shot whizzed past, narrowly missing him. Agony ripped up his leg, but Cross fought to keep control of his motorcycle. With a final burst of adrenaline, Cross veered into a side road, the cursing of the Crows fading behind him. He had no idea where he was headed and his phone was dead, a rookie’s mistake in his line of work.
The road led him to a quiet town. The locals were probably still asleep at this hour. Desperation clawed at him. Cross scanned the town for a place to lay low. His eyes landed on a strip of shops, most still locked up tight for the night, except one. A garage, its lights flickering to life. Without a second thought, Cross steered his Harley toward it.
Cross managed to slip inside the wide garage sliding door, the growl of his Harley muffled as he pulled it in after him. He glanced over his shoulder, searching for any telltale tire tracks that might lead the Crimson Crows straight to his hideout. To his relief, there were none. It seemed like Lady Luck had deigned to smile upon him this time. Still, he couldn’t afford to be complacent. With every passing second, the garage’s sanctuary seemed more like a beacon in the night.
Cross hoped beyond hope that he hadn’t already drawn the attention of the garage’s mechanic or owner.
His wounded arm and leg throbbed, and the pain gnawed at him, but he knew he had to keep moving. Despite his injuries, Cross dismounted his Harley and managed to push it behind a blue Cadillac. The adrenaline that had kept him going during the chase was fast fading, leaving exhaustion and pain in its wake. He slumped against the car, the rough exterior of his leather jacket leaving smears of blood on its polished surface. His vision blurred at the edges, and his eyelids grew heavy, but he couldn’t allow himself the luxury of losing consciousness. Not here, not now.
Cross leaned against the cool metal of the blue Cadillac, his thoughts racing as he tried to piece together what he knew about Elmwood, the small town where he was currently stranded.
This was Crimson Crows territory, that much was certain. These bikers likely kept the local population loyal through intimidation and fear, a standard tactic in such places. But Cross also understood that there might also be locals who weren’t afraid of the Crows. The question that nagged him now was how to identify these individuals, especially in his wounded and vulnerable state.
He knew logic dictated that anyone who stumbled upon a bloodied, battered biker hiding in their garage would immediately scream for help. And if they did, if they dared to pick up the phone and call the cops, it could spell the end for him. After all, the Crows might be lining the pockets of local law enforcement, the same way his own motorcycle club had done in their territory. Cross couldn’t afford to take chances. Every moment that passed, the danger loomed closer.
His breaths came in shallow gasps, pain radiating from his injured leg. He needed a plan, allies, but he also knew that his first order of business was to tend to his injuries and find a way to lay low until he could make a move.
The distant rumble of motorcycle engines grew louder, closing in on the garage. His instincts told him the Crimson Crows were approaching, and they’d finally come for him.
Cross reached for the weapons concealed in his jacket, fingers curling around the grip of his handgun. The magazine was nearly empty, save for one remaining bullet—a desperate reminder of his previous standoff with the bikers. It had been a costly move, but it had bought him time.
Cross’s other weapon, a knife strapped securely to his side, offered a small glimmer of hope. Yet, the odds were against him in a face-off with armed adversaries. The Crows had shown little regard for fairness or honor in the past, and he had no reason to believe they would change their approach now.
As if things weren’t complicated enough, Cross strained his ears to pick up more from inside the shop. He caught the sound of a woman’s voice, chatting away on the phone. So, the shop had a female mechanic or maybe she was the shop owner. He didn’t relish the idea of dragging an innocent bystander into his mess, but Cross had never claimed to be a gentleman. Survival was his game, and he’d do whatever it took to make it out of this alive.
“You can have your car back this Thursday afternoon, Mr. Graham,” the woman was saying.
Her voice was sweet yet firm. Cross’s mind briefly wandered as he debated what she might look like, but he quickly chastised himself for such thoughts. Now wasn’t the time to be thinking about women.
Mercifully, the rumble of motorcycle engines outside began to fade. The Crows had passed by the garage without incident, but Cross knew better than to dismiss them entirely. He understood their way of thinking. They would retrace their steps, and they would return. Cross would do the same in their shoes. For now, Cross could breathe easy, or so he thought.
“Now, what do we have here?” came the same wonderful voice he’d heard on the phone.
Cross finally laid eyes on the female mechanic, and he quickly realized his earlier musings were on the mark. She was a looker. She was in her mid or late twenties and had short red hair, enchanting green eyes, and a curvy figure that simply couldn’t be concealed by the mechanic coveralls she wore. Cross had always had a particular weakness for curvy women, and this one was no exception.
With one hand planted firmly on her hip, she seemed unruffled by the sight of a bleeding biker in her garage—a sight that would send most average people running for cover.
Cross decided it wasn’t proper to remain seated when introducing himself to a lady. He mustered the strength to push himself upright, the effort costing him dearly. After what felt like an eternity, he finally stood on his own two feet. Cross had always found it easy to charm women, but the fiery red-haired mechanic didn’t seem to be impressed by his smile.
“I’m Cross,” he told her, his tone laced with charm. “What’s your name, Beautiful?”
Chapter Two
Dana Harris sensed she was no longer alone in her father’s garage. The familiar thump of the sliding door roused her from work, alerting her to an unwelcome presence. She quickly set aside the wrench she had been using and headed toward the source of the sound.
As she made her way to the garage door, her phone chimed with a call from Mr. Graham, one of their long-standing regular customers. Dana answered, doing her best to maintain a composed voice. Deep down, though, she felt a chill of fear creeping through her.
Her father and most of their customers were always vocal and made their presence known. But this intruder, whoever it was, remained unsettlingly silent.
After ending the call, Dana hurried to her father’s desk and retrieved the gun he kept stashed in the drawer. Her fingers tightened around the cold, reassuring grip of the weapon. For a moment, she considered her options. Calling the cops or her father crossed her mind, but in her heart, she knew that both parties would be equally useless. Her father was in a meeting with Smoke, the president of the Crimson Crows. The Crows happened to be both their best and worst customers. The local police force, on the other hand, was corrupt and inefficient, leaving her with little faith in their assistance.
Ultimately, Dana decided she needed to confront this situation on her own. She knew her way around a gun, thanks to her father’s careful instruction, even though she had never fired one at another person.
Dana inched her way closer to the garage, her gun held at the ready, bracing herself for whatever lay on the other side. When she finally reached the entrance, her eyes widened in surprise as they fell upon an injured man, somewhere in his early forties. He was wedged between a blue Cadillac and a Harley, and he didn’t look so good.
Dana couldn’t shake the earlier sound of motorcycle engines she’d heard, and she hoped against hope that it had nothing to do with the injured intruder now occupying her garage. A petty thief would have been a simpler issue to deal with compared to this unknown biker.
Despite his evident injuries, the man pushed himself to his feet and flashed her a smile that sent her heart racing, despite the circumstances. With his short dark-brown hair and deep-blue eyes that seemed to see right through Dana, he was undeniably handsome, in a rugged kind of way. He stood a head taller than Dana, his body covered in muscles and tattoos. He was exactly the kind of man her mother would warn her against if she were alive.
He had the audacity to inquire about her name.
“I asked you a question,” he stated firmly when Dana remained silent.
His authoritative tone sent a shiver down her spine. Inwardly, she realized, she never had such a reaction to any man. It seemed all the men she dated so far were disappointments. Boys who pretended to know what they were doing. What would it be like to be with a man like Cross?
Reluctantly, Dana found herself offering a response. “Dana. Dana Harris,” she muttered, briefly forgetting the gravity of the situation.
He responded with a smirk, and Dana mentally berated herself. This was no time for polite introductions, and her lapse in judgment was unacceptable. She shook her head, snapping herself back to reality. Dana tightened her grip on the gun and aimed it at the man with trembling fingers.
“Now, get out of my father’s garage. I want no trouble here,” she commanded, relieved her voice sounded steady.
Cross maintained a calm and unruffled expression, as if he’d encountered countless situations where a gun was pointed at him. And, in truth, he probably had.
Dana reminded herself that she held the advantage here, and yet she felt like she was caught in a trap.
“Tell me, Dana,” Cross drawled, his voice surprisingly composed. “Have you ever shot a man with that gun?”
She swallowed hard. “No,” she admitted, her fingers tensing on the grip of the weapon. “But you’ll be the first.”
He arched an eyebrow, a hint of challenge in his gaze. “You’re not the kind of woman who would shoot an injured man, are you?”
Her irritation flared as her patience waned.
“You don’t know anything about me,” she retorted, her voice tinged with frustration.
“You’re right,” he said softly. “But believe me when I say you’ll regret this. Give me that gun.”
Arguing with this man felt pointless, and Dana knew it. He was right, and it gnawed at her conscience. Her old man might be a miserable excuse for a human being, but her mother had raised her to be a better person. She couldn’t go through with this, and Cross seemed to recognize that as well. The standoff had reached an impasse, and Dana knew it couldn’t continue indefinitely.
She decided to switch tactics, hoping to uncover more about the dangerous biker before her.
“What do the Crows want with you?” she asked, gesturing toward the patch on his jacket. “You’re not from around these parts.”
Cross met her gaze steadily. “I was betrayed,” he explained. “Believe me when I say this is the last place I want to be. I’m not a threat, Dana. It’s your call—either help me or shoot me. If you choose to help, I’ll be eternally grateful to you and won’t contact you again. I promise.”
Dana couldn’t help but feel a flicker of doubt as she gazed at the injured man before her. His words held a sincerity that gave her pause.
She released a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding and made her choice. Dana lowered the gun but kept it within reach, unwilling to trust this man with a weapon, no matter how sincere he appeared to be. She was prepared for him to go back on his word, but Cross only regarded her with a mix of amusement and gratitude in his eyes.
“This way. There’s a first aid kit upstairs,” she said.
Dana took a step toward the office. She hesitated for a moment, then offered him her shoulder for support. Together, they made their way to the office, Cross leaning heavily on her.
He groaned softly as she helped him into the swivel chair, the first sound of agony he had allowed to escape. It was nothing short of a miracle that Cross hadn’t fainted from the pain.
“I can bring you to the hospital—” Dana started, but he cut her off with a grimace.
“No hospitals,” Cross gritted out through clenched teeth, and the urgency in his voice left no room for argument.
Dana quickly realized he was right. Sending him to the hospital would be the equivalent of a death sentence. The Crimson Crows had their spies everywhere, and once word got out that the hospital was harboring an enemy of the Crows, they would descend upon Cross without mercy. He’d never stand a chance of escaping. Dana quickly retrieved the first aid kit. Dana unfastened Cross’s belt.
“Well, this wasn’t what I expected—” he started, but she swiftly cut him off with a glare.
“Shut up,” she said sternly. “I need you to bite into something while I extract the bullets.”
Cross, momentarily taken aback, nodded in agreement. Drawing on the scant knowledge she’d picked up from medical school, Dana went to work. It was a gritty, tense few minutes, however, Cross proved to be a good patient. By some miracle, her steady hands managed to extract the bullets from his arm and leg.
Cross observed her quietly as she worked, breaking the silence with his observation. “This isn’t the first time you’ve done something like this,” he said aloud.
Dana paused, wiping the sweat from her brow with a clean rag.
“It is,” she replied. “I studied to be a nurse, but I had to quit at the end of my first year.”
Cross reached out, lifting her chin with two fingers, and she found herself drawn to his piercing blue eyes.
“Why did you quit? Pressure got to you?” he inquired.
Dana shook her head, annoyed he was prying into her past. She didn’t owe this man any answers, but told him the truth anyway.
“My father had debts to the Crows. He needed my help running this shop,” she explained tersely.
Dana had a gut feeling that he was about to start probing with more questions, but she cut him off with her next words.
“You’re fixed. What’s next?”
Cross considered for a moment, his gaze distant.
“I need to make a phone call and lay low for a few hours, until one of my MC brothers picks me up,” he explained.
