Mercenary And His Outlaw: Twisted Iron, #1

By Kayce Kyle and Liberty Parker

Mercenary

 

My self-inflicted name says it all. I'm a nomadic soldier for hire. This isn't just a job to me, this is my life and who I am. I've recently been employed on a locate and rescue mission by the President of the Twisted Iron MC. Turns out, all is not what it appears to be. With lethal men hot on my trail, will I successfully be able to pull off this task? Or will the only thing I've ever loved, turn out to be the one thing that changes my life forever?

 

Outlaw

 

I'm nobody's little angel. Growing up in an MC constantly surrounded by drugs, sex and lies has hardened my heart. Especially now that I've found myself in the crosshairs of one of my fathers' enemies. Darkness shackles me tight in its grip and I find that I'm unable to rescue myself. Will this tragic event course-correct the rest of my life? Or will I meet my demise before that ever has a chance to take place?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kayce Kyle
• Release date: Jul 18, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201348908

Book preview

1

Mercenary

I’m known as a nomad biker, a hitman for hire as it may be. I don’t belong to any one particular club, I work for them all. I wouldn’t change it for all the money in the world. Hell, I have more money than I could probably spend in a lifetime, but it’s just money, and money just buys stuff. It can’t buy the things I treasure most, like the freedom of the open road, the exhilaration it gives me, and the thrill I get while completing a job. I wouldn’t be able to do what I love if I was tied to one particular club. I take the jobs no one else wants, I do the things no one wants to do so there’s no blowback to their club. I’m what nightmares are made of, or at least that’s the word on the streets, and I’d like to keep it that way. Because truthfully, I’m far worse than their tiny minds can imagine. Being underestimated is necessary in this business. It always keeps me one step ahead of them all. I am a hirable mercenary, which is where my road name stems from.

My newest job is to find and rescue a club’s princess. Same old tired story, different fucking day. She was taken in an attempt to get the club that hired me to bend to the demands of the kidnappers. These assholes aren’t affiliated with a club, but instead a drug dealer that goes by the name of Marcum. He’s a punk, and I’ve unfortunately had many dealings with him in the past. I wasn't able to take his worthless life, but now, I have that opportunity, and will end his pathetic excuse of existence, one way or another. I live exclusively for these moments. Oh, the inevitability of seeing the life drain from his pathetic eyes as I watch and hear him take his last breath. The excitement already swimming wildly through the veins inside my flesh causes the tug of a grin at the corner of my mouth as I feel it take formation.

I see myself as an executioner of injustices and dish out my brand of punishments on behalf of those who have been wronged. I try them, judge them, and deliver the punishment most fitting. Sometimes it boils down to a life taken, and others it’s payment in blood. The small amount that are found innocent of the crimes they are accused of, leave with warnings to walk the right path. Otherwise, I will be back and if I have to come back, the punishment will be far more excruciating.

My current mission weighs heavily on my mind. I pull out the file that was delivered to my P.O. Box, and am immediately enthralled by the beauty of the woman I’m going to intercept, and return to her family, preferably unharmed. There’s an instant attraction, and an inadvertent growl rumbles low within my throat as I carefully study her photograph. She looks like trouble that’s going to change my life somehow, and I don’t like change, but I love a challenge. Now, whether that challenge proves to be a good one or not, has yet to be determined. I grab a cold beer as I toss my legs up on my desk, crossing them at the ankles. Simultaneously, I pop the cap off my cold brew on the corner of the scuffed-up wood of my workstation. If even a single hair on her body has been touched, I will not only be wiping Marcum from the face of the earth, but those who work beneath him in his filthy operation. His pipeline is well known throughout the country, but his underhanded dealings and less than stellar reputation has people more pissed at him than afraid of him. The main reason being that he is not selective in who he sells to. Children—young children, are no exception to this rule. He’s had several hits put out on him, due to him and his affiliates dealing to minors. Fuck, I’m not what one would necessarily consider kid-friendly. I don’t despise children per se, but can’t ever see how one would purposely procreate...especially in this day and age. If you are the type that brings life into this brutal world, it’s your responsibility to make sure they don’t find themselves influenced by his type. He promises them riches and respect once they’ve become a customer and the drugs enter their unsuspecting veins. I wasn’t hired for these particular jobs, or he’d already be six feet under. How he’s managed to escape death is beyond my comprehension. He’s been in plain sight enough that the hits should’ve taken place already.

The entire reason behind the princess’ kidnapping is due to the fact that her father and his club have done their damndest to end Marcum’s business dealings and cut out the middleman. Rogue and his club hate Marcum almost as much as I do. I despise the low-life bastard, and even if I wasn’t told to ‘take care of him however I see fit’ I’d do it anyways on principle alone. I want him gone, and dissolve the world from his brand of inexcusable behavior. The only problem with that is there are millions more like him, and try as I might, I could never take them all out in one lifetime. I have no preferred stance against drugs. I don’t do them personally, well, not since I was young and vulnerable myself. I personally can’t have anything besides a cold one every so often because I have to stay grounded and cautious at all times. How can I be stealthy and capable to do my job if my mind is obscured by the high? One, my reputation would be toast, and two, as previously stated, I like living. I’m not dumb enough to become a statistic in that regard. I want to rid Marcum from the lives of the children that have been, or will be, a victim of his. I can want all I want in one hand, and shit in the other, but at the end of the day they both hold the same weight, unless I step in and end it all.

I fire up my Harley and head toward my home. It’s tucked back down a long and windy road hidden in privacy with the help of trees and acreage they’re attached to. It’s secluded enough that I don’t feel the push and pull that comes with the bullshit of city living. The fog, neighbor’s living on top of each other, and unknown people involving themselves in your day to day life is not something I have the desire or people skills to cope with. With what I do, the less visible I am, the better off. I need to be the man with no face, which is why I have no distinguishing marks on my body. Not a tattoo, not a birthmark...nothing. And if nothing else, I’m cautious to the extreme extent that I have no friends or loyalties. A man does have to protect himself at all costs.

As I ride up and take in the surroundings of my home, I shut down my bike, and head toward the front door. My German Shepherds, Sissy, and her brother, Gypsy, are doing their potty dance. Instead of stepping through my door and into my home, I put them on their leads which allow them the capability to explore an acre of land, and also take care of their business. Once I’m satisfied that they are secured and I don’t have’ta worry about them getting off, I head inside and spill the contents of the envelope onto my kitchen table. I need to do some research and figure out where Marcum is keeping this beauty before I go in with both guns blazing. I’d like to come out of the other side of this in once piece. I might not have anyone in my life that values it, and I plan to keep it that way. But it’s mine, and I take it seriously.

Upon further inspection, I feel like I need to do some recon of all known places they have, and use, at their disposal. I gather my dogs, and put them in the pen outside that I place them in when I’m on the road. I have a hired hand that comes and waters and feeds them while I’m away. I send him a quick text to let him know I’m going to be gone for an unknown amount of time. I pack a bag of clothing and essentials, gather the packet of information, and hit the road.

It takes several hours for me to hit the town Marcum has claimed as his and check into a no-tell, nondescript, motel. It’s off the beaten path of the main roads so I can hide better here without worry that my bike will be spotted. She sticks out like a sore thumb with all of her chrome and beauty, that was one expense I spared. Not because of the artwork, but because of its reliability and comfort. I request the back section of rooms from the motel attendant, and begin to make my way to studying the area and resting quarters. Checking around again, I make sure the parking lot is still secure and grab my things. I get into the room and throw my things down before settling onto the pile of springs they call a bed. I shoot off a text using my burner phone to the number written down on a piece of paper that was included inside of the packet. I inform them that I’m in enemy territory and will begin conducting my surveillance once the sun goes down.

Outlaw

My father tagged me with the club name Outlaw, but my birth name is Harmony. It pisses me off when those outside of our lifestyle use my club name. The audacity of some people never ceases to amaze me. Not a member of Twisted Iron? Then you don’t have the honor, or privilege, to call me that name, and you most certainly don’t qualify to have that name rolling off your tongue. An appendage that I’d like to remove from these idiots who, without my consent, took me from my bed in the dead of the night. Dead. A word I’d like to use when referencing them here in the near future. Guess it was a good thing that I decided on that evening to wear some appropriate night clothes instead of sleeping in my birthday suit, my preferred method while sleeping. Call it intuition, call it what you want, but something was brewing and stirring deep within my belly warning me to cover myself last night. I always listen to my gut instincts, and thankfully followed it instead of fighting it. If only I’d known just how dark and sinister the reason my intuition was firing off, I’d have slept with my Glock on my nightstand and one eye open.

I hear the jackholes speaking and once again the urge to slice them from gut to throat hits me hard. I’m not skittish, blood and gore don’t phase me. I’ve grown up in a lifestyle not intended for the faint of heart, one that has desensitized me. I’m not your average woman, I don’t run from bugs and beg men to take care of me. I’m independent and stubborn. Any man attempting to tame the animal that resides within me better come ready. A man has one purpose in my life and that is giving me the relief my body desires. Give me a big fat cock, attached to a man who knows how to use it, and I’m set until the next round hits me. The familiar smell of marijuana in the air has my senses on alert. I know they partake in more than weed, since I’ve been privy to conversations of what they sell on the streets.

When someone is not in control of their functions one-hundred-motherfucking-percent, it doesn’t sit well with me. Unfortunately, this is something I’ve had a front row seat to my entire life. Self-preservation takes over, and I begin searching the small room for something, anything that I can use to protect myself. I know their type, and scum like this usually get their rocks off ‘playing’ with their prisoner...which so happens to be me. Frantically my quest to locate something kicks into high gear as I hear the faint echoes of voices start to become louder. They’re headed my way and I must find something quick. Lowering myself onto all fours, my skin makes contact with the cold, and filthy concrete floor. I can feel my eyes grow wide and my heart slam against the walls of my chest when I come across a rusty nail. If nothing else, I can stab one of them in the eye socket and with any luck, give them the gift that keeps on giving—tetanus. A well-deserved treat accompanied by either temporary, or permanent loss of vision. Once I damage one of them though, I need to prepare to fight for my life. Because, if it’s who I assume it is that’s taken me, I know they don’t give a fuck about whether I make it out of this situation alive and whole or not. He wouldn’t bat an eye while cutting me into tiny pieces and sending my remains to my father one package at a time.

I recoil at the image of what my father’s reaction would be, and hope that it isn’t something that becomes a reality. My father may be seen as a low-life to some, but to me he’s my life and has been since my mother passed away ten-years ago. Sometimes I wonder if she’s somewhere looking down on me with a frown on her face. Am I a disappointment to her? I feel like she always wanted me to be a girly-girl and I’ve turned out to be anything but. Even though she’s no longer living, sometimes I swear it feels like her disappointment in me is palpable. Ladylike tendencies don’t come natural to me, so I