Hell or High Water (The Four Horsemen MC Book 8)(6)

By: Sara Rayne

Not happening.

Lex unclicked the seatbelt with her left hand, reaching for her keys—and her pepper spray—with the right. She scrambled for a better grip on the canister as the metal slipped against her sweaty palms. Her Horsemen protection tattoo shone in the dashboard lights, absolutely worthless this far away from Hell.

“That’s it, baby. Slide on over here. You like it when I’m mean to you?” He smirked. “Most chicks do.”

Oh, buddy, I’m gonna tell my dad on you. And unlike other schoolyard threats, this one packed a punch. Her nerves caught fire, fear thundering in her ears.

Snaking her left hand around the steering wheel, Lex yanked it with all her might as she aimed the pepper spray at his eyes. Grant roared in pain, letting go of the wheel to swipe at his eyes. She kicked at his foot on the gas pedal, sliding on the bench seat as the truck swerved.

The truck careened across the street, tires squealing as they wrestled for control of the vehicle. Terrified, Lex clawed at his hands trying to retake the wheel. Grant rammed his elbow into her cheekbone, and she flew back against the window, cracking her temple on the glass. Her vision blurred, pain spiking through her skull. Her gaze blearily focused through the windshield on the flatbed loaded with steel beams approaching too fast.

They slammed into the back of the truck. The impact snapped Lex’s head back. The sickening crunch and whine of twisting metal screeched through the air, and the windshield splintered, raining down glass shards on her face. Something hot and wet sprayed across her neck before she blacked out.

Pain shot up her spine when she came to, blooming on her cheek. Her mouth tasted like blood, and a bright light flashed in her eyes.

“Miss, can you hear me? Miss?” A man’s voice reached her, sounding distant and resonant. “I’m a paramedic, and I’m going to help you. My name’s Zach.”

Her throat closed as she tried to speak. A harsh squawking sound escaped her mouth.

“She’s conscious. Let’s cut her out, boys.”

Lex licked her lips and tried again, croaking, “W-what happened?”

“You were in a car accident. Can you tell me your name?”

“A car accident…? Grant. She jerked to the side to see if he was still in the driver’s seat, but pain shot up her neck, blinding her for a second. “He wouldn’t pull over, and I grabbed the wheel… It was my fault.”

“Hold your head still. You’re bleeding, and your neck may be injured. They’re coming with a brace in a few minutes. Slowly turn back to me, if it doesn’t hurt too much. I’m going to support your neck.”

Lex wondered why he’d risk it, when her brain finished registering the grisly scene next to her on the seat.

A steel beam had lodged in Grant’s chest. His blue lips were open, but no breath passed between them. Shattered glass surrounded them like macabre confetti from the steel beam piercing the windshield. Blood pooled in his lap and spilled across the seat beside her. His head lolled at an odd angle, and his unseeing eyes stared at her accusingly.

She’d killed him.

Chapter One

March (Three months later)

The gumbo was on fucking fire.

The ear-piercing shrill of the smoke alarm echoed through the shiny, stainless steel kitchen. Flames shot into the air above the stove, fueled by the boiling, black mass welded to the bottom of his prized gumbo pot.

Bad juju.

Voodoo slammed a lid down on the pot. Coughing, he waved away the thick smoke and acrid scent of charred shrimp. Burnt food brings sad news, his grand-mére’s voice whispered in his head. She’d been dead for a decade, but he would carry her ghost with him to the grave.

He covered his ears as the alarms continued to shriek. “Can you shut those fuckin’ things off?”

“Gimme a sec.” Coyote yanked a phone out of his pocket and punched in some info with his thumb. The alarm silenced.

The Four Horsemen MC’s resident tech guru, Coyote, had been working from one of Hades’ spare rooms since vacating Inferno Firearms. He’d offered to automate Hades in return for the space. Voo was surprised the biscuits didn’t butter themselves by now.


A blue northern had blown down from Canada, turning the sky crystal blue and the air tundra-crisp. The cold had given him a hankering for the bayou and a bowl of hot gumbo. While he’d had high hopes for the dish, he would never set foot in swamp again. His bayou days were done.