Free Shelter From The Storm (The Bare Bones MC Book 6) by Layla Wolfe

chest was probably tar to make the gasoline and gunpowder stick. I glanced inside the cab. Two other drivers had each been shot once through the forehead.
    They hadn’t been here to hijack the shipment. They’d been here to destroy it.
    The dashboard cam video that Lytton had sent me showed several masked men—they could’ve been Ochoas, who knew?—stopping the truck by the rest stop back a half a mile. Some of them rustled around inside the cab, but ultimately made our driver take this access road so as not to be seen. That was enough for Lytton to call me, and that was all I’d seen. Now I grabbed the dashboard cam to save it from destruction, walking back to stick it in my saddlebag.
    Wolf was still standing where he had been, next to my scoot. But his grin was even wider this time. He was deeply inhaling the smoke wafting from the truck.
    Grabbing his sleeve, I rattled him harshly. “Jizzmonger! We’ve got to get the fuck out of here before pigs get here. But we’ve got to take those two bodies with us.”
    He nodded, dazed. “Give them a proper burial.”
    “Well, not exactly. We’ve got to get them down the road to that pump station.” Good thing it was a Sunday and no employees would be working there.
    Wolf looked around. “Too bad we didn’t think to bring a cage.”
    “Yeah.”
    “Wait a minute.” Wolf whipped out his phone, thumbed it up and down, and punched “dial” on someone’s number. “Hey, Pedro. We need to call in a favor. A favor .”
    “ Necesitamos un favor ,” I shouted over Wolf’s shoulder.
    “Right,” bellowed Wolf, in that güero way of assuming a non-English-speaker was just deaf. “Necessary un favor. We’re on that road behind the rest stop south of your gas station. Can you bring your cage—”
    “ Traer tu coche ,” I said into the phone.
    Wolf looked at me with irritation, as though I was the one blowing the translation. “Yes, bring your coach, and take the access road to the pump station. You’ll see a burning truck.”
    “ Verás un camión en llamas. Llega aquí rápido .” Get here fast.
    “Yes. Don’t bring your llama. That’s too slow. Get here fast. Got it, Pedro?”
    Apparently Pedro got it, and Wolf hung up to let the guy jump into action.
    We moved our scoots over the next rise in case any cops arrived, then waited for Pedro with folded arms, leaning back against our rides.
    “That Pippa Lofting is hot,” said Wolf. “Smoking hot, I’d say. She’s a firecracker.”
    I snorted at his description. “She’s pretty,” I allowed.
    “There was something between you. When I got back with the smoothies, it was like I’d interrupted my parents rutting.”
    “Thanks a lot!”
    “No, not in a gross or disgusting way. You know, in the way that people suddenly jump apart, clearing their throats, looking but not looking at each other.”
    We had already finished what little “rutting” we were going to do by the time Wolf arrived with the shakes, so I dismissed him as wrong. “She’s all right. I’m not sticking around, though. Once this job is done, I’m out of here.”
    “Why don’t you stick around? We have Slayer on retainer but he doesn’t live here. Not sure where he lives, actually. Such a man of mystery. Who do you work for, anyway?” I remained close-lipped. “Oh, that’s right. Privileged information. I get it.”
    “ I’m the man of mystery,” I asserted, and then Pedro was coming down the road in a trashed Corolla.
    It was time for me to make a phone call.

    The Ochoa men stood near a large pipe that went downhill to a lined evaporation pond. I sat on the pipe, up a bit from the three Ochoa narcos. I’d put on my slouch cap and shades, and replaced my bandanna over the bottom half of my face. Lytton had said to keep our IDs from the Ochoas, so I did. I held my Springfield to prevent them from getting any closer. But I held it casually, to let them know I was on their side—doing them a favor.
    I said dramatically, “As