Ryders edge, p.1
Ryder's Edge, page 1
Ryder’s Edge:
Lords of the Plains MC
Book 1
By Christopher Harlan
Cover design by Golden Czermak at Furious Fotog
Proofreading by Stephanie Albon
Interior Formatting by Cassy Roop of Pink Ink Designs
This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to anyone who did not purchase the book outright. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or any other means not listed specifically herein) without the express written permission of the author.
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is entirely coincidental. All people, places, and events contained herein are a product of the author’s imagination and are completely fictitious.
Warning
This book is intended for those 18 or older. It contains explicit sexual content and adult situations. Discretion is advised.
Table of Contents
Newsletter Sign Up
Also by Christopher Harlan
Part One
Prologue
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Part Two
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-one
Twenty-two
Twenty-three
Twenty-four
Twenty-five
Twenty-six
Twenty-seven
Epilogue
Connect with the Author
Also by Christopher Harlan
Newsletter Sign Up
Dear Readers,
Thank you so much for all of your amazing support! Please sign up for my NEWSLETTER so that we can stay in touch, and you can have access to all my giveaways, new releases, and cover reveals. Don’t worry! You’ll never be spammed, shared, or sold, and I only send a few emails a year.
Also by Christopher Harlan
The Savage Gentleman
My name is Lucas “The Ghost” Esparza.
I’m the best MMA fighter in the world that you’ve never heard of, but if I have my way, I’ll be a household name soon enough. My life’s been nothing but hard training, crazy partying, and fast women, and that’s just how I liked it. No man had ever gotten the better of me inside the cage, and no woman had ever been able to slow down my lifestyle outside of it.
And then it all came crashing down.
When I tasted defeat for the first time in the biggest fight of my life, I was a broken man—my pride destroyed and my dreams of greatness deferred.
That’s when Mila walked into my gym.
When my trainer told me I had to giver her self defense lessons because she was a ‘special case’, I had no idea what he meant. All I knew was that she had a body to die for, and a face that made me forget my own name. I’d been with my share of women, but she was easily the sexiest I’d ever laid eyes on.
There was only one problem—we hated each other with a passion!
I thought she was whiny with a bad attitude. She thought I was full of myself. But then something happened that changed everything between us. She gave me the confidence to pursue my dreams once again—to be a champion, to make it into the UFC, and to be the savage gentleman that I was born to be.
Amazon—> http://Amzn.com/B07WLN711T
THERE WAS ONCE a boy of three names, fathered by the toughest of fallen warriors.
He was a half breed— His mother was of Comanche lineage, four generations removed from the plains and only one from the reservation. His father, an old grizzly Irish Protestant.
From his mother, he learned grace, humility, and to use a gentle touch when required. And from his father he learned to conquer—to use his ferocity as he saw fit—to be insufferably hard when he needed such a quality.
He was known by any of three names throughout his life. His birth name, which only the women in his life or his oldest and closest of friends called him, was Ryder. In his father’s MC, The Mescaleros, he was given the nickname of ‘Nugget’, and later in his life, as the founder of his own MC, he took on the middle name his mother had given him—Quanah—the most fearless Comanche war chief in American history.
In his life, Ryder would do great things, most of which cannot be chronicled here. But before that, he would found the most powerful MC in northern Texas.
This is the story of how he did it.
His legend begins with a food truck, rigged to explode.
“WE GOTTA BLOW this shit, c’mon. Show up damnit!”
The urgency in my voice is making Onyx and Agony nervous. They normally have nerves of pure steel—we all do, but today is the first really big move we’re making as a team, so I understand them being a little on edge. But the way I see it, no risk, no reward. The reward here isn’t money—this is pro bono work— but that’s not why I just rigged this food truck to blow up and light the night sky like the Macy’s Fourth of July fireworks. This is a favor for the two men and one woman who were like second parents to me.
I’m Ryder, but most everyone these days calls me Nugget.
The nickname came from a guy in my father’ MC—The Mescaleros. When I was little I’d always hang on my dad’s leg when business wasn’t being conducted. He used to call the me Little Nugget. I dropped the ‘little’ part when I sprung up to 6’2” my senior year of high school.
“I know, I know!” Onyx is holding the binoculars as we watch and wait. This job is two F’s—a favor to North and Joaquin and a major ‘fuck you’ to the cartel guys who are extorting the woman who was a second mom to me.
James North—one of the founders my dad’s MC—asked me to take care of this situation for him. Well, that’s not totally true. He wanted to handle it himself with our help, but he’s got one foot outside of this world now, and I’m not about to have him risk his future for some bullshit—not when I can handle it on my own. I know he’d be here with one phone call if I needed him, but I’ve got this.
Joaquin, North’s best friend and co-founder of the Mescaleros, was murdered by a rival MC, and now his widow Ana is being extorted by Mexican drug cartels. Those pieces of shit try to collect the measly bit of extra money she clears every week from her food truck business, but I’m not about to let that happen. I’m a decent enough guy—if you walked up to me on the street and said hello, I’d say hello back. Shit, I might even smile at you. I speak in a calm tone and I always show people respect.
But push me past my limits or threaten those I love and I’ll rain down hellfire upon you. I like to follow the philosophy of the great Patrick Swayze from Roadhouse—‘. . .be nice, until it’s time to not be nice.’”
The not so nice treatment is what these guys are about to get.
Phase one of my plan is to blow Ana’s food truck. I know a ballistics guy who rigged it up nicely, and it’s going to be easier than lighting a Roman candle on the Fourth. In a few minutes I’ll be done with all that, and that’s when phase two begins. I’m going to smuggle Ana as far away from Texas as possible. I know people who do that also. My father was well connected, and while he was alive he made sure that I knew at least one guy who could do just about anything I needed—from running weapons, to smuggling people, to anything else that might come up.
Unlike a lot of fathers, he never tried to keep me from this life.
He knew I had angels and devils inside of me, and he never tried to eliminate either of those things from my personality. All he and my mother tried to do as parents was show me how to control either of them as the situation called for it, and let the other part loose when necessary. Right now, there are no angels to be found. Despite what North cautioned me against, I’m out for some blood. You don’t just threaten and extort a pregnant woman with no consequences.
Before I moved her, I had Ana use a burner phone to contact the guys who come and collect her money every week. Had her tell them there’s been some heat from the cops recently, and that the next drop off had to be at night when no one was around, and that she’d leave an envelope by the back of the truck. Tonight is collection night, and it’s the last thing they’ll ever do for their piece of shit organization.
My boys, Onyx and Agony, are still nervous. Agony in particular.
“I don’t know about all this, man. Maybe North was right. Just blow the truck and get Ana out of here. I don’t see the point of the killing.”
“Of course you don’t,” I tell him. “It’s not your second mother they’re threatening. Plus, let’s face it, you’re a little bit of a vagina.”
“What the fuck did you say?”
“I called you a big, gaping wide vagina. Did you hear different?”
“Why’d you have to call me that?”
“Because, my friend, sometimes you remind me of a big, giant, gaping, been-fucked-by-every-dude-in-the-club-had-three-babies-naturally pussy! I don’t need your opinion on this operation. If you don’t want to be here, hit the fucking road. But if you’re here, you’re on my orders. Now keep your eyes peeled.”
Onyx laughs. He’s more like me than his brother Agony. If he has any reservations about t his he’s keeping them to himself. I respect that. Truth is, it’d probably be better to follow North’s advice—he’s always been on the cautious side of things when it comes to breaking the law. When he was running things with Joaquin, The Mescaleros had a strict no crime policy.
But, over time, the game has changed, and the people who play it have changed even more. This is no country for old men any more—the old days of just riding bikes, drinking beer, and hanging out at the clubhouse are over. We still do all that shit, but there’s more to being in an MC now—my father saw it, and he was in line to take over one day before he got himself killed on the road. With The Mescaleros no more, and my dad gone, pretty soon it’ll be my time to show all these fucks how the game is played.
But not just yet. Now, it’s about the task at hand.
A few minutes later Agony nudges me and nods to indicate that the targets have arrived. I should have blown the truck already and let them discover it the next time they showed up to collect money. But that wouldn’t have guaranteed Ana’s safety. Plus, I wanted to be here to see this ‘fuck you’ and see these assholes in their final moments. “Gimme,” I say, snatching the binoculars from his hands to get a better look at the situation.
I see a black car with tinted windows pull up a few feet away from the food truck. Two men get out, one from the front passenger seat and one from the back. “Shit!” I whisper yell.
“What is it?”
“There are more than two of them. At least one, but maybe more. I can’t tell. They were driven here. Maybe they suspect something is up because of that phone call we staged.”
“So are we still going to…”
“Yes. Nothing’s changed, this is just going to be another day in the park.”
“Shit, boss. I don’t know what kind of parks you went to when you were a kid.”
I have to smile at that one—every now and then Agony is a funny bastard. “You have no idea. Now we wait.” I watch with a keen eye, like a predator studying creatures who don’t yet know that they’re dinner. The other men are a complication, but only a slight one. Whoever I get in the explosion I get, fuck the rest of them. My point will have been made.
The two guys approach. Each is wearing a dark suit and sunglasses, and from this distance, even with magnification, they look like two of the same guy—like those identical twins in Breaking Bad. They approach the back, as expected. I’d put an envelope there with a single piece of paper inside. The paper’s got a nice little note for them, but from this distance it’ll be hard to see the expression on their faces enough to enjoy it.
It’s time.
The two men walk up to the truck and do what they’re supposed to do. They reach over and grab the fake envelope. Now’s the time. “Now,” I whisper. Nothing. “Now!” I repeat, a little louder. Nothing. I look over at Agony and he’s staring at the detonator like an idiot—like a kid who just got a toy he doesn’t know how to play with yet. There’s no time for this shit. I grab it out of his hand and throw the binoculars at him. “Switch, asshole.”
As soon as I have it in my hand, I flick the button. It’s too easy. There’s a slight delay, maybe a second, before I hear—no, forget that, before I feel the explosion. The sound rings out just like in the movies, but you can actually feel the shockwaves even from the distance we are. We all duck down and cover our heads. A few seconds later, when the sound of the explosion vanishes and the sound of a raging fire is left, we all look back up. I grab the binoculars again and look through the lenses.
It’s hard to see what’s going on in the chaos of the fire, but I see enough to know that my two identical friends didn’t make it, and that the guys in the car are backing up and peeling away. “Fuck!” I yell.
“What’s the matter?” Onyx asks.
“I was hoping to get all those fuckers. What the hell is that car made out of? I felt that shit from here and we’re far enough to need these to see.” I hold up the binoculars. “How was that car not incinerated?”
“Don’t know, but I don’t give a fuck right now. We gotta go.”
Onyx is right. We gotta go. The only criminals who have the time to admire their handiwork are the ones who get caught and tell their story in prison to the other idiot criminals for the next thirty years. Not me. Not us. Time to get out of Dodge and complete phase two.
We jump on our bikes and peel away, off to the motel we’re staying at. It’s just off the parkway, so we get there fast. Ten minutes exactly. I like to be precise, so I set a stopwatch to time our getaway. Ten minutes from the time I turned my bike on to the time I turned it off. Not bad. We get inside the room we’re sharing and take off our shoes. I don’t know why, but I start laughing my ass off.
“Woo-hoo, motherfuckers! We fucking did it!”
We all yell and scream a little, and Onyx grabs some beers from the mini fridge. We chug them together and let out a collective scream.
“Hey boss, what did the message say?”
“Huh?”
“The message. The one you left for the guys in the envelope.”
“Oh,” I laugh. “It said ‘Yippee Kiyay Motherfuckers’. You know, like from Die Hard.”
“Nice touch.”
“Thanks,” I say, taking another swig of my beer. “I thought so, too.”
ONE BEER JUST isn’t enough for this celebration.
We all need a stiff drink. I just got the call from my guy that brought Ana to the first safe house I had set up, so I don’t have to worry about her tonight. I’ll deal with all of that later. Right now, I want to get fucked up. The old man who owns the bar we’re going to is a huge movie buff—he’s like Rain Man with that shit. You just name an actor, or a scene, or even a line from a movie that’s been made over the last hundred years and he’ll tell you everything about the movie. He knows the director, the cinematography, how much it made at the box office—all that stuff, it’s crazy.
So, it wasn’t much of a surprise when he opened up a bar called the “Titty Twister”—an homage to the B-horror flick ‘From Dusk Till Dawn’ with George Clooney and Quentin Tarantino. That’s where we’re headed—for some hard liquor and celebration of a job well done.
Inside, the place is swarming with bikers, like it should be. The world of MC’s is like an ecosystem. Most of the time there are all different species of animals living in harmony. Everyone does their thing, but all the animals live in balance with one another.
“Yo, Nugget, look over there.”
I turn my head and see one of them at the end of the bar, their stupid patch staring me in the face. Case in point: there’s a system to this world we live in—an order—even with predators jacking the occasional limping animal, everyone knows their place, and that’s the way it should be. But every now and then you get an invasive species—something introduced to the ecosystem that fucks up the natural balance of things. Around north Texas, that invasive species is the Leviathans, and the ever-growing presence of the Mexican cartels.
The Leviathans are on their way out, though. All the RICO cases and mass arrests have them pretty weak. We don’t like Leviathans. And by ‘we’ I mean ‘me’—those pricks are responsible for killing Joaquin—my second dad—and they’re not welcomed at this bar. I don’t need any more reason than that, but The Mescaleros and the Leviathans had a small war a few years ago over how much criminality was acceptable in the community, and I grew up being taught to hate them.
Agony turns back to me. “Do you want to handle it, or should I?”
“Take care of it, would you?”
“You got it, boss.” Agony is a good guy even though I give him world’s worth of shit.
“Thank you.” I put my hand on his shoulder. “No violence though, alright?”
“No,” he agrees. “I think we’ve had enough for one night.”
What drives me nuts is that the Leviathans—and every other MC, good or bad—is an actual MC. They have members, patches, hierarchies, and, most of all, they have the respect of other clubs. Me and the boys are still wearing our Mescaleros jackets, even though there isn’t really a club left to speak of. But it’s better that than being unaffiliated. It’s kind of like prison around here—you need to have numbers to be safe.
