Authors: Debra Kayn
Chasing Down Changes
Book 6, Moroad Motorcycle Club series
by Debra Kayn
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Chasing Down Changes
1st Digital release: Copyright© 2016 Debra Kayn
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.
All rights reserved. This copy is intended for the purchaser of this e-book ONLY. No part of this e-book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without prior written permission from Debra Kayn. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author's rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
t's only fitting that I dedicate the last book in the Moroad Motorcycle Club series to all my readers. You took a chance after all my warnings that this series was going to be different than anything you've ever read, and you opened your minds. Thank you for taking the time to read about men who normally would not be understood. The old saying that everyone deserves love and to feel wanted is true.
allace, Idaho —
As most of you know, Federal Idaho where my Bantorus MC and Moroad MC series books are based is set in my hometown of Wallace, Idaho. It's wonderful to live in an area where we take pride in our colorful past, rich history, and mining. Most of all the acceptance of those we call neighbors. Thank you to Ryan Motel, Lux Rooms, Oasis Bordello Museum, Wallace Inn, Rossi Building, Shoshone County Sheriff's Department, Harvest Food, Hecla Mining, Molly B'Damn Motel and the community for adding that special touch to my books.
— It's simple. I love you.
Jeremy Aldridge rolled his upper body into one more sit-up, unhooked his feet from the bottom of the cot, and pushed into a standing position. The voices in the corridor on the third floor of Idaho State Penitentiary picked up to full volume, signaling the arrival of the guards. In five minutes, his cell door would open to him for the last time.
He grabbed his jumper and stepped into the legs, pulling the sleeves over his arms. The front of his uniform flapped against his heated skin. The Velcro strips along the inside of the material long gone.
He never put in a formal request for a new jumper or anything else the other prisoners requested on a daily basis. He'd walk down to the cafeteria naked if his one uniform rotted off his body before he'd ask any of the motherfuckers for a favor.
Prison wasn't the place to play nice with others.
At the end of the day, he always ended up in a cell by himself. Nobody stayed long before requesting a transfer. He worked damned hard for the reputation he'd earned and preferred solitude.
He fingered the long, hard ridge of scar tissue running across his cheekbone.
Nobody ever touched him, or they ended up dead.
Keys rattled against the bars. He stared at the thin, dirty mattress. One of the many beds he'd slept in the last fifteen years and waited for the childhood emotions he remembered to show up. They never came, though he always expected them.
The guard rolled open the creaky iron door. "Let's take your final walk, inmate."
His pulse remained the same.
His heart beat in a rhythmic pattern.
His breathing remained steady.
He leaned over and removed the one picture he kept during his stay in prison from underneath the cot. Walking over to the corner of the cell, he stared down at the smirk on a beautiful face, the wild blonde hair scattered and tossed, the hand planted on the tilted hip and blue eyes that flashed at him in temper. He tore the picture into small pieces, dumped the shredded photo in the toilet, and flushed away the proof of how he'd survived fifteen years in prison.
"I don't have all day," muttered the guard. "They've got armed escorts waiting for you on taxpayers dollars."
Jeremy held his shoulders straight, turned, and followed the guard. On the catwalk, six more guards surrounded him.
He stood still with his feet a foot apart and waited for the men to lock the shackles on his ankles. A guard grabbed his wrist, putting both his hands behind his back. The State of Idaho wasn't taking any chances of him fucking things up. They wanted him out of the system.
A billy club held by one of the guards poked him in the back to get him moving. He shuffled his feet, rubbing the piss off his slip-ons.
In the fifteen years he'd called the penitentiary home, he'd gone from a lanky six-foot-three-inch kid to a two hundred and forty pound man, leading the Moroad Motorcycle Club in complete domination inside the penal system against the other gangs.
Word from the outside proved his leadership on the inside of the Cyclone fence. Reds—an all Latino gang. Blues—a blacks-only gang suffering to hold their membership together. Los Li—who lost power on the inside had regrouped on the outside and rallied new blood into their organization by recruiting across the border. They all waited for him.
The target on his back bigger than ever and with the change coming with his release, last night was probably the only sleep he'd get for a while.
The first door opened.
He focused his attention on the sounds behind him. The three guards in front of him were no threat. He'd see them make a move before they'd hit. It was the three men behind him that would take a shot at putting him down before he gained his freedom. They might not want him on the outside, but they feared him on the inside.
Behind him, footsteps came quicker and louder.
Jeremy turned and gazed over his left shoulder and looked the guard in the eyes. "If you take me down, I guarantee the men outside expecting me to walk out of the gate will kill every fucking member of your family before you can make it to your car after your shift."
The men in front of him stopped before the second security door. He turned back around. They had no idea if his promise held any weight. He only knew someone from Moroad Motorcycle Club waited outside for him. The details were unimportant.
He hadn't talked to his dad, Cam Farrell, for a month. All the other requests for visitation he ignored. His dad's woman, Christina, never visited. His uncle Merk came every few months. Once in a while, Lola came and gave him something soft to look at in a harsh world.
The less they came around, the better. He wanted no one on the inside to use his family against him. He protected the club before anything else.
The third door beeped, slid open, and six armed guards escorted him to check-out. He stood in the middle of the room, loose and obedient, as the guard removed the shackles from his ankles and the handcuffs from his wrists.
A female guard stepped in front of the AK-47's who were held by men not messing around. She handed Jeremy a stack of clothes he failed to recognize, a brand new pair of black leather boots, and ordered him to change, pointing to his right. He glanced over at the open doorway and carried his clothes into the room.
"Leave the door open, inmate," ordered the female guard.
He stood with his back to the empty room and kept his eyes on the others, watching, waiting, ready to kill him for any movement. If they wanted to watch, he had no problem, but he'd take at least one of them down before enough bullets riddled his body.
He raised his hands, palms out, fingers sprawled, to show them he was empty handed. Removing the material from his shoulder, he shrugged the other arm out and let the jumper fall at his feet. He stepped away from the discarded uniform and slip-ons, and grabbed the black T-shirt, slipping it over his head and putting his arms through the sleeves.
The tight cotton material tight and uncomfortable after a decade and a half of wearing nothing but a loose jumper, he pulled at the neckline until he heard the stitching break. He reached for the pile and his chest warmed. A new Moroad Motorcycle Club jean vest lay folded on top of the worn Levis. Without hesitating, he slipped on the jeans and buttoned the waist, knowing Christina sent him a pair of his dad's Levis in hope that they'd fit his larger body.
After he had pulled his socks and boots on, he straightened and picked up his vest. He held it in his fist, refusing to wear it on the inside. He stepped out into the main room.
Guided by the armed guards, he moved over to the bulletproof glass partition and retrieved a see-through plastic bag containing what little possessions he had on him when the cops arrested him.
A wallet with eighty-five dollars. The chain that held his wallet to the belt that was also in the bag. A pair of small jeans, a shirt that would no longer fit him, boots he no longer needed, and a fifteen-year-old can of snuff, probably tampered with years ago. He tossed everything, except the wallet and chain, in the garbage can to his left.
He hooked the chain to his belt loop and shoved his money and identification in his back pocket. Presentable to those on the outside, he turned.
"Here's your official release papers from the State of Idaho." The female guard handed him an envelope, which he shoved in his other back pocket without looking at it. "You're free to go, Mr. Aldridge."
Mr. Aldridge? Nobody had ever called him that before.
He turned to his armed escorts, pivoted, and pushed out the door. He braced, striding forward. Each step took him closer to the Cyclone gate. He only hesitated while the gate fully opened over the twelve-foot span. He'd be damned if he'd show any pressure from the rifles pointed at his back. They could wait until he was ready to walk away.
The sun beat down on his shoulders. His head pounded from the brightness. He'd checked the wall clock on his way out and gained his freedom at noon.
The full parking lot blocked his view. He walked forward, past the first row of cars, and the gate
shut behind him. He kept walking. Far as he believed, he had enemies everywhere, ready to put a bullet between his eyes.
Four rows into the parking lot, he heard the rev of a motorcycle. He cut between two vehicles and headed toward the outskirts of the lot.
He spotted Merk sitting on his Harley and soaked in the familiar sight of his uncle. The dark hair sprinkled with gray. The well-worn vest faded and ragged. The same old Harley from fifteen years ago.
Two riders sat on their motorcycles on each side of Merk. Jeremy lifted his chin. Ring, minus the earrings, hoops, and shit he'd used to modify his body years ago, sat on a softtail watching Jeremy closely, leery. Bear raised his arm and nodded in greeting. His full beard still covered half his chest. Though his unbound hair lacked full coverage on the top of his head. Jeremy turned his gaze to the old fifty-seven Ford pickup parked to the left.
The driver's door swung open, and his dad stepped out of his seat. Jeremy stopped ten feet away. The size of the men, the memories of the club, the fast changes attacked, disorienting him. He inhaled swiftly, fighting the invasion of his personal space.
Cam limped forward and stopped in front of him. Jeremy gazed into his father's eyes, soaking in the calmness, the strength, the perseverance. At sixty-five years old, Cam had more wrinkles, more wear, more vulnerabilities that came with age. To Jeremy, he remained the man nobody could beat. A pillar of everything Jeremy wanted to be.