Page 25 of Ridin’ Dirty

“Wait!” I called, shifting my attention his way.

He didn’t wait.

He closed me inside and immediately returned to the scene of the crime.

His crime.

He said something to Nomad, Spurs, and Fury—the other Stallions present—but he spoke low enough that I couldn’t hear him through the glass of the window or over the sound of Reaper’s anxious whine. I then watched as Pistol and Nomad stood on opposite sides of the body, each man bending to grab hold of either end of him.

I froze when they lifted him from the ground, and I caught sight of what he was wearing.

A kutte.

A Copper Kings kutte.

For a moment, I couldn’t breathe as I scanned him up and down.

When I was sure it wasn’t Carmy, relief washed over me as I filled my lungs.

The reprieve was incredibly short lived.

A Stallion killed a King.

This was bad. This was very, very bad.

“Shit. Shit, shit, shit,” I whispered, snapping my gaze out the windshield as my mind continued to race.

Pistol killed a Copper King.

Pistol—who was released from prison three days ago.

Max insisted he’d been locked up for a justifiable crime.

Was this justified?

“Shit. Shit, shit, shit,” I whispered.

I was pulled from my thoughts when the truck bobbed, the clunk of a dead body being tossed in the bed of the vehicle making me flinch. Glancing over my shoulder, I watched as Pistol hopped up onto the tailgate before hurriedly working to cover up the deceased King. It only took him a few seconds, and then he was jumping back down onto the ground.

He closed the tailgate, then spoke a few words to the men who had his back. Try as I might, I couldn’t make out what he was saying, and then he was on the move. He stomped his way around to the driver’s side, opening the door and folding himself behind the wheel without a bit of hesitation.

It was when he started the engine that it hit me.

I needed to say something.

I needed to convince him I could keep my mouth shut.

More importantly, I needed to find a way out of the truck.

“Look, I—I didn’t see anything. Not really. I’m not a threat, I swear.”

“Shut it,” he ordered, shifting the truck into drive.

“Pistol—”

He turned his face enough to catch my eye and silenced me with his look. With his mouth, he asked, “You hard of hearin’, or what?”

I looked away from him then, understanding this was not a battle I was going to win. As he pressed his boot to the gas, easing us out of the back ally, I caught sight of Fury picking up the bag of trash I left behind. I turned in my seat as we passed, watching him carry the sack to the dumpster—as if it was an ordinary night and he was taking out the garbage at the request of his ol’ lady.