RIDE OR DIE (Black Thorns MC, #5) by Franca Storm

Author:Franca Storm [Storm, Franca]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2022-01-18T16:00:00+00:00

12

~Smiter~

STUPID ASSHOLES.

Some people just don’t know when to back down.

They’re beating a dead horse, bleeding the well dry as all hell.

It all speaks to one thing.

Desperation.

And that’s a weakness that can be exploited.

And it ain’t just that shithead who smacked into me the other day now. Nah, it’s three of them. Means they’ve come to do damage. Either to the store or Joe himself. Likely both.

I swing my leg over my bike and follow their path as they stride into Livingstone Hardware.

Before I even make it to the door, a couple bursts on out, screaming, scared shitless.

The blinds over the doors are tugged closed just as I hear the clang of the door lock.

Yeah, they’re about to do some damage for sure.

While they’re busy around front, I slip down the small alley at the side of the store, headed for the back.

Way easier to take down three guys when you get the jump on them. Has them reacting all wild and unsure. After all, I am on vacation. I’m gonna at least try to do things the easy way.

Ain’t sure how that’s gonna play out, because it ain’t exactly my go-to.

I round the corner and tense up right away when I see the state of Joe’s old Chevy parked in the small lot of his store. One tire shredded, the windshield smashed in. Can’t be from today, because these guys just got started in there. Must be from another one of their visits then. They’re escalating. First a black eye, now the truck. That means today’s visit is gonna be hella brutal.

I pick up my pace, stride to the backdoor and peer on through into the backroom. Can’t see into the shop from this vantage point.

That ain’t gonna be a problem in a second.

I go for the doorknob, only to find the damn thing’s already unlocked.

Jesus Christ. Come on, Joe!

I push it open and stride on through past a small storage area and his closet of an office.

I come on out to the shop floor to see two muscle-bound guys in matching white tanks and ripped designer jeans holding Joe down on the counter beside the cash register, while the one I met the other day with the slicked back hair raids the cash drawer, cursing him out and issuing threat after threat.

“Break his fingers,” Slick demands when he’s done stuffing the cash into his pockets.

“Which ones?” one of the guys sporting a nose ring asks.

“Don’t matter,” the other tells Nose Ring.

“Well, that’s fucking stupid,” I call out, walking further into the shop. “How you gonna get your money if the guy can’t work with broken fingers?”

Slick’s head shoots up. “Who the hell are you?”

“Just a regular customer. You know, the paying kind?”

He sneers. “Whatever. The shop’s closed. Get out.”

“Nah. I ain’t gonna be doing that.”

Slick gestures at Nose Ring. “Toss him out.”

The guy releases Joe and the other one spins him around and shoves his back against the counter, his arm to his chest, holding him there and making him wheeze at the pressure.

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