Guts & Glory: Walker (In the Shadows Security Book 4) Read online

  “Then give them what they want.”

  Walker closed his eyes and inhaled slowly through his nose, filling his lungs until they couldn’t take any more, until he felt as though he’d explode. Just as slowly, he released it. When he was done, when he no longer felt like throwing his phone across the garage and stomping it with his boot until it was in pieces, he said, “And that’s what I’ll do, Jerry.”

  His cell phone went dead.

  He needed to convince the cartel that McMaster was the better target. That if anyone could get them their money, it was him.

  All Ellie had to give was her life and them taking it wasn’t going to get them paid. In fact, it would get them dead, because if that happened...

  If that happened...

  He rubbed his hand over his eyes, trying to wipe away the image of Ellie sitting in a chair in the same condition as her husband was. Where death would be a blessing compared to the suffering that came before.

  He strode over to the garage door opener on the wall and whacked it. The middle door rose as he snagged his key out of his key cabinet and then strode quickly to his bike.

  The door into the house opened and Ellie stood in the doorway, eyes wide. “Where are you going? You just got back!”

  “Going for a fucking ride.”

  Her gaze slid over him, clearly assessing his mood. And he knew when she figured out how pissed off he was when she said, “I’m going with you.”

  She was wearing shorts and a T-shirt, as well as completely barefoot. There was no way she was riding like that. Especially when he was in a mood to ride his bike like it was stolen and he had a parade of cops on his tail.

  “No. Stay here.”

  She stepped into the garage. “Trace, I—”

  “Stay here!” he yelled at her.

  She stumbled back a half step and her green eyes went wide.

  Then he watched his soft, sweet Ellie disappear. Her face got hard and she got a determined look in her narrowed eyes. “No. I’m coming with you.”

  He raked his eyes down her body. “Not like that you’re not.”

  “Then tell me what to wear.”

  Fuck him. He scrubbed a hand over his hair and blew out a breath before he said something to her he’d regret. “Jeans, socks, solid shoes. Jacket, if you got one. I’ll dig out a fucking helmet. But hurry the fuck up. You’ve got five minutes.”

  She turned and ran inside, screaming, “You and your five fucking minutes!”

  If he wasn’t so fucking pissed and ready to kill someone, he would’ve been amused with her yelling at him. But he wasn’t.

  And he really didn’t want her to go along. But, for some reason, he also couldn’t deny her.

  With a shake of his head, he grabbed a helmet off one of the shelves. It would be too big for her, but it was better than nothing.

  He put it on the hood of his truck, mounted his bike and crab-walked it backward out into the driveway. By the time he had it turned around and warming up, she was there, dressed exactly like he told her, holding the helmet to her stomach.

  “Put your helmet on, get on, then hold the fuck on.”

  She opened her mouth, snapped it shut, gave him a nod, and pulled on the helmet. Before she could secure it, he brushed her hands away and did it for her to make sure it was as snug as possible.

  Something twisted in his gut when she climbed on behind him, wiggling forward until she was snug against him with her arms wrapped tightly around his waist.

  Once she was done with her adjustments, he hit the throttle so hard he thought he was going to lose her off the back. But she caught herself and clung to him even tighter.

  The second he was past the compound gates, he twisted the throttle harder and leaned forward into the wind with Ellie pressed to him like a second skin.

  He took them through the winding back roads out of Shadow Valley, taking each curve as fast as his old restored Harley could handle without wiping out.

  And it felt fucking great.

  Not only to clear his head and to have his girl between his legs, but his girl holding on to him.

  Trusting him with her life. Not only with her situation, but on his bike as he tried to drive away his frustration.

  But then, she was on the back of his dirt bike more times than he could remember. She had loved the wind in her air and used to hoot and holler in his ear the faster he took them.

  Now, looking back, he’d done some stupid shit on that bike with his girl on the back. He could have killed them both.

  However, he didn’t and those were some of the memories that were worth holding onto.

  Now, instead of his girl against his back, he had his woman.

  She just happened to be one and the same.

  After the first twenty minutes, he eased off the throttle, relaxed and Ellie loosened up against him.

  After two hours of having her thighs pressed against his hips, her pussy against his ass, he headed back. Once he pulled his girls back into the garage, she dismounted, took off her helmet and shook out her hair.

  Her cheeks held color, her eyes a spark, and his woman was fucking beautiful.

  She combed her fingers through her long, auburn hair, working out some of the tangles. “It’s going to take me a long time to get the knots out.”

  “Next time remember to put your hair up first.”

  He closed his eyes. His woman. Next time.

  He was sinking fast.

  But then, he wasn’t really fighting that pull, either.

  Her “I’m surprised you still ride,” had him reopening his eyes to see her stashing the helmet on the shelf.

  As she reached up on her tiptoes, his eyes explored her ass in her jeans. When she turned around, he lifted his gaze as she shed the light windbreaker she wore. Her nipples pressing against her thin baby blue T-shirt caught his attention next.

  His mouth finally reconnected to his brain. “When he restored it, Jag customized it for me. I have a hand shifter instead of a foot shifter.”

  “I thought something was different. I wasn’t sure if dirt bikes were designed the same.”

  “No, same concept. One was a boy’s toy,” he ran his hand over the perfectly restored gas tank with care, “this toy is a man’s.”

  Jesus fuck, did he really puff out his chest at that? He certainly fucking did.

  “It’s beautiful.”

  Like you. He dismounted.

  “Thank you for putting up with me.”

  He tilted his head. “On the ride?”

  “Yes. On the ride.” She waved a hand around. “With this whole thing. I appreciate everything you’re doing. Or trying to do.”

  “You got fucked, Ellie, and not in a good way. I can’t sit back and watch you suffer—even die—because of some greedy motherfucker. Even if that motherfucker was your husband.”

  That word, just thinking about Ellie being married to McMaster, left a bad taste in his mouth.

  But it was over. Done. McMaster was no more.

  He just needed to figure out how to keep Ellie alive by getting her clear from her so-called obligation to this dangerous cartel.

  He also needed to sit her down and go over what he found. He’d like to shield her from it, but it wouldn’t be fair to hide things from her. Especially when it involved her life.

  After snagging his duffel out of his Hellcat, he followed her into the house, dropped his bag in the laundry room and went into the kitchen. The smell of something cooking made his stomach growl.

  “Where’d you get that?” he asked, lifting his chin toward a crockpot on the counter. He knew he didn’t own one.

  “Frankie. She let me borrow it.”

  She lifted the lid to check whatever was cooking, then closed it before turning around to lean back against the counter.

  “You look fucking good in jeans.” That sight made his mouth water more than the smell of the food.

  She smiled softly. “I hardly ever wear—wore— them. I miss it and that’s
going to change. We lived in jeans in high school, remember?”

  “Yeah. I still live in them, or cargo pants, unless I’m home. Then it’s easier to wear shorts.”

  “You look fucking good in jeans, too,” she repeated.

  “He didn’t let you wear jeans?”

  She did a half-shrug. “They weren’t appropriate.”

  Jeans were always appropriate. Except for weddings and funerals, that was. “Did his controlling you bother you?”

  “Not at first, because it was subtle. Eventually, it wasn’t. Then, yes, it bothered me. It’s one reason why I put off having kids. I didn’t want them to be little controlled puppets. They could only wear this, only eat that. Teaching a child manners is one thing, dictating their every move is another.”

  The anger he’d lost on the ride was surging back up. “He dictated yours.”

  When she averted her eyes and didn’t answer, he realized he didn’t need an answer. His thoughts went back to something the senior McMaster said. “He put you through college.”

  She blinked, probably wondering how he knew that.

  It shouldn’t annoy the fuck out of him, but it did. And he knew it was because that was something he might not have ever been able to give to her. Not without financing it and going into debt.

  Now? No problem. Then? Yeah. It wouldn’t have been an option. He couldn’t even do it for himself which was, again, why he joined the Army.

  “Yes. He said a degree would open the world to me.”

  “Did it?” Of course, it didn’t. He already knew that answer.

  “No. It put me in a bubble. His bubble.”

  “I’m surprised he let you go away to school.”

  “He didn’t. I took classes at Ithaca College.”

  “For what?”

  She sighed and her expression turned sour. “My major was Art History. I assumed it was to expose me to more culture, which apparently, I was lacking, according to his father. I guess knowing art, I could impress his friends.”

  “Did it?”

  She huffed, “I never discussed art once with any of his friends. Total waste of time and money. Not that I don’t appreciate art, it’s just not something I wanted a degree in.”

  “What did you want to major in?”

  “I don’t know... Back then I thought the culinary arts. I wanted to expand my portfolio to more than grilled cheese sandwiches with tomatoes and ham.”

  His lips twitched. “Nothing wrong with those sandwiches.”

  “No, but still... I would have loved to open a cute little diner. Maybe one that was only open for breakfast and brunch. Or even a trendy food truck.”

  “Two of the DAMC women run a bakery in town.” And from what Hunter had told him, Frankie had wanted to learn the culinary arts, too. She was planning on attending a local tech school just for that reason.

  Maybe it was something the two women could team up to do together. As close as he and Hunter were, it would be good if their women were close, too.

  Fuck, but only if Ellie stayed in Shadow Valley. And that could never happen if he didn’t get his ass in gear to put a stop to the cartel’s threat.

  “Sophie’s Sweet Treats?”

  Her question pulled him out of his thoughts. “Yeah. I’m sure those are the cupcakes they brought.”

  “They were. They were to die for. I would love to be able to learn to bake like that.”

  “Maybe they can teach you. It’d be a start on your culinary dream.”

  She paused. “That means I would have to stay in Shadow Valley.”

  “Right.” That meant she’d have a reason to stay. Especially since she no longer had a home in Denver. Maybe she didn’t want to stay, though. Especially since she kept pushing him to help her go ghost. “You’re right. Never mind.”

  “But it could be something to do while I’m here to keep my mind off everything. And until this mess is sorted.”

  Sorted.

  It was going to take a lot of shoveling, not sorting. And they were running out of time.

  “Right. If you’re interested, I’ll say something to Z.”

  “Z?”

  “Zak, remember? The president of the DAMC. The club now owns the bakery through him and his wife. Bella also is a big part of it.”

  “Bella with the cupcake licking Axel?”

  Say what? “Is that what you women talked about while sucking down wine?”

  She grinned and shrugged. “Maybe.”

  “Fuck licking cupcakes. Did you tell them how much I like licking your pussy?”

  He bit back his grin when color rushed into her cheeks. “Yes, because that’s what we talked about. Which Shadow has the best tongue for cunnilingus.” The sarcasm was strong.

  “I suppose I won.” And didn’t his damn chest puff out again before he could stop it.

  “You didn’t.”

  His brows shot up. “Who won?”

  “We all agreed we’d need more analysis before we could bring it to a fair vote.”

  His eyes slid from her to the slow cooker and back to her, wearing those hip hugging jeans. “How soon for dinner?”

  “It’s a crockpot meal. It won’t get ruined like the chicken.”

  “Then as a candidate, I suddenly feel the need to impress my voters.”

  “Voter,” she corrected.

  “Right. Voter. Just you. If we have time before dinner, I can start my campaign.”

  She rolled her eyes at him. “You need to be pretty convincing to get my vote.”

  “I’ll try my damnedest.”

  “Dinner will keep. Your voter is waiting.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  He had his woman plastered to his side. His stomach was full. His nuts were empty.

  Fucking life couldn’t get better than that, could it?

  Yeah, it could.

  His woman wouldn’t be indebted to a fucking Mexican cartel for 1.3 million dollars, which was due in a few days. He needed to tell her what they’d found in Denver, but it was going to ruin their relaxed mood.

  Her eyes were closed and occasionally she would let out a soft sigh as he combed his fingers through her hair. Her messy, knotted hair. That he caused.

  He smiled up at the ceiling.

  He was pretty sure before dinner he cemented her vote with his mouth on her pussy. But just to be very sure, he did it again after dinner.

  She also got his vote when she wrapped her hot, wet mouth around his cock and took him right to the point of coming before he made her back off, so he could fuck her.

  But, again, he needed to get her up to speed before he took off for California with whoever in his crew decided to join him.

  They needed to get a better lock on the Castellano Cartel, which was based in San Diego but had their claws in quite a few other states.

  He feared what they would find out there was something much bigger than he and his team could handle. And that fucking turned his stomach.

  He dipped his chin and couldn’t see her face since it was tucked into his neck. Her warm breath blew softly across his throat, her fingers were as active as his, but hers were pressed to his right pec, with her thumb softly brushing back and forth over one of his nipples.

  “I gotta leave again Friday morning,” he reluctantly reminded her.

  “To where this time?” She didn’t lift her head but moved her hand over to his dog tags and traced them with the tip of her finger.

  “California. San Diego, to be exact. Hunter and I found out who they are.”

  She gripped his tags in her fist and lifted her head, meeting his eyes. “Who?”

  “Sorry if this hurts you, but McMaster was a fucking stupid ass who deserved to die. Anyone in their right mind would never have gotten involved with this organization. You don’t do business with a cartel like this and expect to walk away unscathed. It just doesn’t happen.”

  She released his tags and sat up, folding her legs underneath her and to the side. “Cartel? Like a drug car
tel?”

  “Out of Mexico. The Castellanos. Does that name sound familiar?”

  She shook her head. “No. Was George dealing drugs?”

  “No. He didn’t get involved with that aspect. Because he had an investment company he had the tools to launder money, which is something the cartel needs. He did it for their ring in Colorado. I’m assuming the organization has someone set up to do the same in every state they deal in.”

  “Every state?”

  “Yeah, I suspect it’s a few. They run drug rings dealing in black market marijuana in every state where pot was legalized. At least on the west coast from what we could find.”

  “If he was working for them, how did he become indebted to them? Wouldn’t they pay for him to launder money? It might be an illegal one, but it was still a service he was providing.”

  The woman was smart as fuck and didn’t need a damn degree in Art History to prove it.

  “Right. So, the first night I called you from Denver, I was not in my room. We were about to break into his offices and I didn’t want to tell you that over the phone. We got in and found shit that proved he was skimming. And for the amount of money he was laundering, even skimming a small percentage was a lot of money. It looked like he skimmed at least two or three million.”

  Her mouth opened, then snapped shut. “Damn,” she whispered. “How? How did he do it?”

  “He used a method called round-tripping. From what we found, it looked like the cartel would deposit money into an account in the Caymans for a shell corporation. Then McMaster would take that money, which was exempt from being taxed, and invest it. Eventually, the cartel would cash out the investments. Dirty money was now clean.” Walker raised his hand before she could interrupt him. “That’s not all he was doing. He also set up his own shell corporation in Colorado to purchase real estate. He was helping the cartel buy houses with the laundered money around Denver for them to turn into illegal grow houses. So, he was setting them up with the real estate, then laundering the drug money they made by buying investments in small increments before turning around and selling those investments in bulk.”

  “That all sounds complex.”