Free The Sinner’s Tribe Motorcycle Club, Books 1-3 by Sarah Castille

trust his men not to make the kinds of mistakes that could cost lives.
    They drove around for an hour while Fuentes shouted and banged on the trunk. Zane shared a few stories about his years as a firefighter, and Cade talked about his women. Jagger tuned them out. There was only one woman he wanted to think about. A woman who hid a soft vulnerability behind a tough exterior. Strong. Brave. Beautiful. And totally off-limits, not just because she was the enemy, but also because he’d put her in danger once already, and it damn well wouldn’t happen again.
    The phone rang, and Cade confirmed Fuentes’s people had agreed to the terms. Cheers and laughter all around. The money would help renovate the new clubhouse and finance the imminent destruction of the icehouse, which would put a severe dent in the Black Jacks’ financial operations.
    Twenty minutes later, they dragged an enraged, groaning Fuentes from the trunk and dumped him on the ground. T-Rex retrieved a sports bag from the Dumpster and fished out a piece of paper, holding it up for Fuentes to see before handing it to Jagger.
    â€œThere’s an address on the piece of paper,” Jagger said to Fuentes. “You’re going to give me the address of the icehouse. If it matches, then you’re free to go. If your people have given me the wrong address, you’ll pay the price.”
    Fuentes’s face grew chalky. Clearly he was worried his people would stab him in the back. Not something Jagger ever worried about—not even Axle would have dared to try to take him out. From here on, however, Jagger had no doubt Axle would be gunning for him. Well, stand in line.
    Fuentes rattled off an address in a barely audible whisper. Jagger confirmed the match with a nod. Five minutes after that, they were headed back to the emergency base, which the board had just agreed would be renovated to become their new clubhouse, five hundred grand richer and set to blow the Jacks’ icehouse sky high.
    â€œThis stays between us,” Jagger cautioned as he drove through the darkened streets. “No one else in the club hears about the plan. I don’t want to risk a leak.”
    â€œGood thing, then, you got rid of that pretty little Black Jack.” Bandit gave an obsequious laugh, clearly trying to make up for his massive screwup with Fuentes and totally unaware he was just digging himself in deeper. But that was Bandit. Loyal, honest, but a total knucklehead when it came to social relations.
    â€œShe’s one hot little piece of ass,” he continued. “Maybe Cade should’ve worked her up for some Jack intel. The way he tells it, there isn’t a woman alive who doesn’t want in his pants.”
    Jagger gripped the steering wheel so hard, his knuckles whitened. Then, without warning, or even a word, he reached over the seat, grabbed Bandit by the collar, and smashed his face into the back of the headrest. He made a turn, righted the steering wheel, and kept driving.
    Zane looked over from the passenger seat and dropped his voice to a low murmur only Jagger could hear. “What’s eating you? We’re supposed to be celebrating.”
    â€œFucking hate cages.” Jagger blew out a long breath and shifted his weight. He wasn’t lying. Cages brought back memories of the months he’d spent intubated as he recovered from the rocket strike while on tour in Afghanistan. Unable to shake the residual claustrophobia and the memories of pain and utter helplessness, Jagger could no longer ride in a cage unless he was driving and all the windows were down. And no way would he have been able to handle what they’d just put Fuentes through. PTSD was the military psychologist’s diagnosis. Jagger just called it a need to be in control.
    â€œUnfortunately, my charm doesn’t work on hard-core biker chicks.” Cade folded his arms behind his head, forcing Bandit and T-Rex to move toward the side doors.