Ice (Regulators MC 1)

“Damn right we will, boss,” Hammer says. “So, where are the goods? My boys are ready to have a little party tonight to break them in.” He rubs his hand over his dick through his jeans to illustrate his point.

Sandoval barks a laugh, shaking his head in amusement. “I thought about asking your Vice President for another show since the last one was so enjoyable. Any man who can take two women like that knows what he is doing, yes? Unfortunately, there is no free time for such pleasurable activities tonight. So, down to business it is.”

Raising his hand, he signals his man by the back hangar door who lifts his walkie-talkie and speaks into it. A few seconds later, the door once again opens, this time to reveal three women wearing nothing more than lingerie and heels. They are all drugged and wobbling so badly that, even with the help of the men escorting them in a relentless hold by their upper arms, they still struggle to walk.

“See? I gift wrapped them for you this time,” Sandoval laughs.

One of the women abruptly stumbles and crashes to land on the floor on her hands and knees. My chest squeezes a little as I watch her whimper in pain, but I stay stock still as if totally uncaring for her predicament.

Sandoval spits out some rapid fire commands to his men in his native tongue that I can’t understand, but the message is clear. He is not happy that the merchandise almost hurt herself before delivery.

One of the men roughly picks up the crying woman with one hand in her hair and the other on her arm. The unhappy Cuban drags her the rest of the way to us, ignoring her screams, until he throws her at Hammer, who manages to catch her just before she falls again.

Unable to soothe the frightened woman, I watch as Hammer throws her over his shoulder and smacks a hand over her ass when she starts to struggle. It is time to wrap this negotiation up before anything else is said or done that can set one of my men off.

Reaching back blindly, I reach my hand out for the bag of money Roy Boy is holding for me. Once it is handed over, I throw it at the dipshit that is standing next to Sandoval.

“Here’s your payment. Thanks for our party toys.”

The lackey opens the bag, quickly counts the money, and then gives his boss the signal that it is all there.

“It is good to do business with you once again, Ice. I look forward to your next order.”

I give him a chin lift when, honestly, I would rather give him a few bullet holes in that fuck-ugly face of his. Turning around, my boys and I walk out, though with our instincts on high alert to make sure we are not attacked from behind as we leave.

Once we get the women settled in with Doc and Crissy, we make a quick rendezvous back to Screech.

“Location found. Specs of surrounding area being determined now,” Screech immediately spouts off when we enter the room.

“Skid, BJ, Hammer, you’re on extraction points. Coal, you’ll ready the boxes. Rocks, make sure Crissy and Doc are ready for the rest of the women. Screech, have you tallied a rough count for us on how many they have?”

“Currently, we have seventeen in that particular facility.”

“He may have sold off some like he did with us, which I’m guessing is the most likely option since the Ex Ops Team found one of the missing women down in Mexico at the Rivera Cartel’s stronghold. He probably didn’t want to keep merchandise on hand for too long. Some may have died from the drugs or other unknown medical conditions. Or he may have another location,” Hammer replies, knowing the numbers don’t add up to cover all the missing women.

We spend the next two hours ironing out our plans for the next day. On any mission, you have a plan A, a plan B if shit starts to go south, and plan C, which is light up all your tangos and haul ass back to the extraction point because everything is fubar.

After securing our weapons, acknowledging our entry and exit points, we are ready to head home. I check in on Madyson on the screen one last time before leaving.

“Hang tight. I’ll get you home to your sister soon,” I say to the screen.

Adrenaline courses through me knowing that tomorrow is the day.

Arriving home, I struggle to wind down. When I enter the kitchen, the smell of cinnamon assaults my nose. My kitchen never smells this good.

“Fuckin’ cookies,” I say to myself with a smile. “Bakin’ fuckin’ cookies.”

“You know something?” Morgan asks, entering the space.

“You should be asleep.” I answer to avoid her question.

Morgan shakes her head, and I can see the faint tremble of her lip. “I can’t sleep knowing she’s out there, possibly hurt, sick, or someone doing things to her.”