Chapter 12

**~SATAN~**

Holy Christ, when I'd walked into the bar earlier tonight, I'd been thankful I'd been standing near a table, as spotting Marlowe, I'd suddenly found my ass needing to sit down.

My pulse had accelerated and my hands had grown shaky. The tiny bit of denim she was wearing was supposed to be a pair of shorts. And the cropped tank baring her midriff was practically indecent—both, nothing but a prick tease.

I'd known the clothing had come from one of the girls here in the clubhouse, which one, I didn't know, and didn't really care. But motherfucker if the ensemble hadn't gotten my attention, as well just about every other man's in the room. I'd found myself growling low in my throat, unhappy about the attention she was garnering. However, I hadn't been able to do a damn thing about it!

For most of the evening, I'd watched her delectable ass from afar, as she moved about the room, serving drinks and chatting with the other men. Yet, I'd kept my distance, thankful that the area where I was sitting was in a darkened corner. I was pretty damn certain the deadly looks I was giving each and every one of my team members would have gotten my ass pistol-whipped.

Only three of the men in the unit were privy to what she meant to me. And those who weren't would definitely have a problem with the looks they'd been receiving from me. To them, she was fair game—a situation I didn't like one fucking bit. But it was a dislike I had to keep to myself.

It wasn't as if I didn't know these men, didn't know that one word from me would have her being avoided like the fucking plague; it was just how we rolled. Every man who made up our unit had served in some branch of the service in one form or another. Each with a set of skills that allowed them to handle just about any situation they were presented with. It was because of these skills we had been hand-picked to form a group within the Special Activities Division of the CIA.

We operated under the guise of a motorcycle club and we led high-threat military/covert operations with which the U.S. government didn't wish to be overly associated with. As such, we didn't carry any objects or clothing, which would associate us with the United States government. It allowed the Government deniability if we were to become compromised.

Though deadly within our own craft, the dependability in the type of situations we found ourselves in on assignments had forced us to become more than just comrades; we'd become brothers. A necessary means of survival when faced with dangers that no ordinary man would willingly walk into. Not one of us would invade the other's territory—if the territory were made known. But as I had to live with the promise I'd made myself, I couldn't lay claim to her. So, I sat, grumpy as a bear who couldn't have the honey-pot he desired.


MARLOWE

Being jerked out of bed, and having clothes crammed at me at the same time as the words, "Put 'em on," were growled at me, didn't make for me being a very happy person. True to my obstinate nature, as well as to whom the words belonged to, brought the bitch out in me.

Shoving the clothes back at Satan, I snarled, "Fuck you," as I made to climb back into bed.

With a low hiss, he jerked me back around and barked, "Put the goddamn clothes on, kitten, now! We ain't got time for this shit!"

Suddenly, the sound of hurried activity in the other rooms, as well the sound of voices caught my attention.

Eyes jumping to Satan's, I stared at him in confusion, however, without another word, I began jerking the leather pants up under the overly large t-shirt I'd been sleeping in, then, tugged the leather jacket on over the t-shirt, before raising an eyebrow, I waited for further instructions.

After running his eyes over me, and a quick nod, he snapped, "Okay, Kitten, let's go!"

Unsure of what was going on, I followed silently as he led me down the hall. We turned a corner and passed through another hallway before coming to a stop in front of a door. Shoving at it with one hand, Satan gripped my arm with the other as he pulled me forward and into an area that quickly revealed itself as a garage.

Large, with a concrete floor, it reeked with the distinct smell of oil, gasoline, and paint that lingered in the air—yet, opposite of what you would have expected to find due to the powerful aromas—the room itself was spotless.

Quickly going over to a wall, he reached out and pushed at a section of it. Restlessness practically poured off him in waves as he impatiently waited while the wall silently slid open on well-oiled hinges. Bright light flooded the interior and revealed the arsenal within the compartment.

My jaw dropped and I couldn't help but gape, for it looked like world war three could be fought with what had lain hidden behind the inconspicuous wall.


As Satan stepped inside the small room, he quickly gathered two pistols and a knife. Afterward, he stuffed the gun into the front of his jeans, and the knife in a scabbard he'd tied to his leg. Finally, facing me, he handed me the other gun, murmuring, "Pack it, Kitten, and use it if you have to." Then, hitting a button inside the vault, he caused the wall to move silently back into place, at the same time as I slid the gun into my waistband.

Seconds later, reaching out for my arm, Satan wrapped steel fingers around my wrist and turning, he began leading me out another door and into the coolness of the evening.

A number of bikes and their riders—some sitting double—were already in the yard and were, apparently, waiting on us.

As we came to a stop before a custom made, flat-black bike, Satan tossed a helmet at me, grunting that I put it on. Shortly afterward, slipping on his own over his head, he slid onto the bike. Then, leaning forward, he made room for me to climb on behind him.

Placing a booted-foot on a foot peg, I grabbed a handful of his Kutte, and tossing a leg over the bitch-seat, I pulled myself on and settled in behind him. The other bikes came to life with a loud roar, and as if a choreographed dance had begun, we started intricately spreading out in different directions.

As we picked up speed, the bikers wove their way into the tree line, following an almost indistinguishable trail that led them further into the heavily wooded area behind the compound.

Over their roar, the sound of an explosion ripped through the air, causing Satan to shout over his shoulder at me, "Hang on, Kitten, Hell's started raining assholes with teeth."

A few seconds later, I realized his words were an understatement, as having kicked their bikes into gear, Satan, and the two remaining team members who had stayed with us, headed straight into the fracas.

The sound of bullets hitting the ground, as well the bark on the trees, was intermingled with loud blasts that rocked the ground beneath us. Debris filled the air, surrounding us in a dirt cloak.

Covered in a thick layer of earth, I closed my eyes, and ducking my head, I hung on for dear life. My thoughts focused on one thing—I was going to die—and fuck me, if it wasn't going to be on the back of a bike that was escorting me straight into Hell by the Devil himself.