Outlaw's Bride (23 page)

I stepped up and took it. “Be good for mama, little man. You and her are the only fucking thing I've got. Rest up.”

Caleb cooed. I stood up and swept my hand gently over his head, then walked out and quietly shut the door behind me.

There was something nasty in the air tonight. Some dark, evil shit breathing down my neck like an invisible dragon, threatening to take away everything in this house forever.

Maybe it was Lady Karma, checking in on me for all the assholes I'd killed and maimed. Wasn't like they hadn't deserved it.

They were all cruel, outlaw sons of bitches. Rapists, druggies, and killers who'd crawled onto their bikes as an outlet for the blackness inside them. Not for freedom or honor or any of the shit that was supposed to make life in a one-percent motorcycle club worth living.

I'd been their executioner. I'd blown their brains out with quick, fiery shots, or nailed them to wooden posts and slowly smashed their bones with the nearest blunt object, listening to them beg and plead, scream by scream, never letting up 'til Blackjack told me.

Usually, I didn't let up 'til they were dead men.

That shit had to catch up with a man sooner or later, didn't it?

Before Sally and Caleb, I knew the answer was
yes.
Now, that invisible dragon shadowing me like a goddamned pitbull reminded me nothing had changed just because I'd decided to take off my patch and play family man.

I was due for an ass kicking of one sort or another, sooner or later. Someday, I was due for death.

Whatever, the reaper would have to wait. I didn't give a single fuck how much blood I owed the universe, or how fast that greedy motherfucker with the scythe wanted my mortal soul.

I'd never leave her and my kid willingly. I'd kill a thousand more motherfuckers with my own bare hands before I left 'em high and dry the way my old man had with ma.

Sally couldn't understand the big picture, and neither could the kid. Someday, maybe they would, and I was deadly determined to explain everything in the flesh.

I went downstairs and brewed coffee, something thick and hot to pry my eyes open and wipe away these monstrous thoughts.

My phone buzzed. I ripped it out and answered on the first drone. Blackjack normally didn't call church 'til later in the morning, but I'd been expecting the call all night.

“Yeah?” I growled into the mic.

“We need you at the clubhouse.
Now.
” Brass rumbled into my ear. “I'm having Missy give your girl a wakeup call in a couple hours. I want all the old ladies and the kids at your place, seeing as it's the only one big enough.”

“I'll make sure she knows,” I said, but there was no one on the line.

He'd hung up before I could say shit. Some real serious fuckery was about to go down.

I stood in the doorway and pounded out a couple quick texts, telling her to listen to anything Brass' old lady said. Missy and Christa had both been through the drill a couple times, and I trusted them to help my family keep their heads down during a crisis.

It was hard as hell to roll outta that house. The autumn sun wasn't even up, and the air had an almost wintry chill, biting at my skin, icy and uncaring.

The wind didn't care about the shit I had rolling around in my head, and neither did the club. Not now. I fired up my Harley and tore outta the driveway, wondering if I'd given her a wake up call after all.

The room was packed, all except one brother missing.

Stryker.

I took my seat next to Blackjack's empty spot. Nobody said a word, waiting for the Prez. The door popped open and he came strolling in a couple minutes later, wearing a shadow of the same pain stricken expression he'd worn when his leg was acting up.

“Beam, get up here,” Blackjack said, picking up the bear claw and slamming it down on the table to bring us to session.

I held my growl inside, watching the punk rock asshole swagger up to the head of the table, and dump a thick folder out in front of us. Blackjack yanked it open and began pulling out pages, photos, and what looked like a couple maps torn from an old atlas, shoving the evidence over to us and the rest of the brothers.

“What you're looking at is the same thing that was brought to me last night. It's damning. The rat gnawing away at this club is a man we were glad to call brother.” He paused, looking at Beam. “Thank God both our newest additions aren't traitors. Tell them what they're looking at. The same thing you've shown me.”

“The man in the photos you're seeing, besides Stryker, is Manuel Ruz Gonzalez, or 'Uncle Manny' to our missing brother. He's retired and lives in Florida, pretty fucking well off in my book. I did some digging, found out Manny was a chef, traveling between the States, Mexico, and Nicaragua all the time. Thing is, Uncle Manny didn't get rich by cooking for the high and mighty down there. He was toting more than just gourmet ingredients back and forth between the borders.”

Further down the line, Asphalt slammed a page down on the table, running a stiff hand over his face. “Jesus Christ.”

It looked like an old shipping manifest. Beam looked directly at me, smiled, and it took everything in my power not to let my guts twist.

“Keep it moving, brothers. The Veep's got what I personally consider the best bit of evidence. You see that man at the table with Uncle Manny?”

Brass looked up, and I reached across the table, snatching the photo to see for myself. It had the grainy look of a shitty camera from the eighties or early nineties. A small group of men in suits sat at a table, drinks in their hands, smiling gratefully at the chef standing over some huge platter on a tray.

“There's two cartel dons getting their grub from Manny. One of 'ems still hot shit in Mexico City, spearheading their operations in the States.”

Fuck.
He was right.

The huge crest on the wall behind them gave it away. I'd recognize that eagle swooping down on the serpent in the desert anywhere. Some of the assholes we'd interrogated and killed wore it, and Blackjack kept a couple similar patches locked up in a drawer in his office. They were gray, not nearly as vibrant as the colorful icon in this picture, stained with the blood of the underlings we'd slaughtered.

“He's right,” I said, shaking my damned head. “There's no denying it. Where the fuck is Stryker?”

“Prez put him on leave to heal up a couple days,” Brass said. “We were gonna send him around on patrol with some prospects before this shit broke, probably to watch the old ladies and the kids.”

Fucking shit.
My heart sank. If this motherfucker really was the rat – and it looked goddamned likely – then we'd practically given him the keys to the kingdom.

I had a vision of trucks surrounding my place. Rough, stone faced bastards beating down the doors, knocking out the girls, binding their arms and legs and taping their mouths shut. As for the teenager, Jackie, and my poor son...

My fists swept up and slammed the table. “We gotta fucking find him. Learn for ourselves whether or not this shit's true.”

“Son, you know it is,” Blackjack said coldly. “Stryker's the only man invited into this club whose background wasn't an open book. I overlooked the holes in his record. I'm also man enough to admit when I fucked up.”

“What're you talking about?” Rage tore through my veins, hot and angry, confusing everything in my head.

“I'm apologizing to you, brother, and everyone else in this room. You warned us about all this fresh, impure blood flowing into the club. We let our desperation turn a blind eye to common sense. Hell, I did it too
.
My drive to wreck the cartel, to save this club, to make sure no good brother ever has to suffer again in this hellish contest.”

I shook my head. Seeing the sadness and anger flashing at the same time in the Prez's eyes gutted me.

“Don't deny it, son. I want everyone at this table to take as much time as they need to digest what Beam has brought us. Then we'll vote on introducing our poisoned brother to the bear's jaws.” He paused. “And after that, if you'd like, we'll vote on whether or not I'm still fit to lead this club.”

The room erupted. Men began screaming, begging him to stay. Half the paper being passed around the table flew off and hit the floor as men swung their fists, hit the wood, roared.

Blackjack grabbed the makeshift gavel, slamming the bear's paw on the wood like a mallet, over and over again. I flexed my fists sadly, ready to back him up as Enforcer if everything went to shit.

We had to keep order. Even if it might eat the whole fucking club alive this time.

I shoved my chair back so hard it slammed the wall, getting on my feet. The clatter caused the room to go quiet.

“You're staying, Prez. Everybody in here's screaming for it. As far as I'm concerned, we've already voted.”

Men nodded. Everybody except Beam, who stared down at the almost empty folder in his hands, clenching his jaw.

The bastard was a weirdo, but he'd just saved our asses. As for Stryker, once we hauled him in, he faced the harshest fate anybody in this club had since the bad old days under Fang.

He'd fucked us over royal. Nobody knew what the hell the cartel had, and he'd tried to cover his tracks with that fake ass shot to the arm. The fuck probably fired the bullet himself.

We'd make him fucking scream before we tore the skin off his back, stripping our symbols off his flesh, everything the bastard wasn't fit to wear to hell, before we shoved him into his grave.

“Let's do this thing, brothers. We need to find our man, haul him in, and find out what he knows. The Prez wants us to vote on it, and that's what we're gonna do.”

Blackjack nodded, darkness filling his eyes. “Sit down, son. You've said your part, and you're exactly right. Rat or not, Stryker deserves the same vote any man wearing this patch does, and he'll get another one before we make his heart stop too.”

Men nodded glumly. Brass looked at me from across the table, his temples throbbing, chewing on the same wicked tension all of us had caught between our teeth.

“Everyone in favor of bringing our brother Stryker in to face judgment, say aye.” The Prez picked up the bear claw gavel and looked at Brass, beginning to go down the line.

One by one, we voted. By the time it circled back to me, the last man standing, it was unanimous.

When the Prez's gavel hit the wood, it sounded like a bullet cracking past my ear. “That's it, then. The only thing left for us to do at this table is to decide how to bring our brother in with the least resistance.”

Me, Brass, and Asphalt waited at my kitchen table. The women laughed upstairs, probably playing with the kid, taking their minds off the dark, heavy shit facing the club.

'Course, none of them knew shit. It was club business, and we'd told them to stay the hell away from Stryker if he showed up, without any further explanation.

The fear in Sally's beautiful eyes matched the same spark shining in Christa's and Missy's.

“Shit. You really think he's coming – here?” Asphalt grabbed his coffee cup and took a long pull, snorting when he saw there was nothing but a few cold dregs left.

“With any luck, he'll go straight to the clubhouse,” I said. “That's where the Veep ordered him. Who the fuck knows if our new prospects got loose lips too. If they do, and he decides to swing by our safe place here, we'll be ready.”

“He'll listen,” Brass growled. “Fucker's been dazed and confused since he got shot. Not too many guys think clearly when they're nursing a kiss of lead.”

I hoped to fuck he was right. Something in my gut shook, pumping angry dread through the rest of my system. My hands ached to draw blood, almost as bad as my dick hounded me to march upstairs, pull Sally into the bedroom, and fuck the stress right out.

“Roman?” I heard her voice and spun.

“What the fuck? I told you to stay upstairs with everybody, babe. It's too fucking risky down here.” I stood up, walking over to her.

She had the kid in one hand, and an empty tote bag in the other. “Caleb threw his spoon on the floor and got it dirty. Besides, the girls could use some more coffee, and I thought I'd come down and brew up a fresh –“

I raised my hand, cutting her off.

Outside, a motorcycle rumbled. Not one of ours. Brass and Asphalt were up with their hands on their pieces before I could blink.

“Stay put, dammit. Go upstairs. We've got shit to take care of.” I didn't wait to see if she listened.

I pounded out behind the boys, feeling adrenaline hit me like a shot to the heart as soon as I got in the open garage. Stryker killed his bike and ripped off his helmet, wincing as he flexed his fucked up bicep, still wrapped in a dirty looking tourniquet.

“What's going on, brothers?”

“I told you we're supposed to meet at the clubhouse,” Brass said coldly, stopping at the edge of my garage. Asphalt and I were right behind him.

“Yeah, I already talked to Wisp. He said you were all gathering here, and the crew was light, keeping an eye on the girls. Just came by to see if you could use a hand trading shifts, or whatever.”

We were close to him now. Stryker swallowed. I watched his hand carefully, making sure he wasn't going for anything dangerous strapped to his body, waiting for the Veep to make the first move.

“We've got ourselves a problem, brother,” Brass said, only inches from his face.

“Yeah, the cartel –“

“Bullshit. I'm talking about your failure to follow a direct order, besides the shit you've been keeping to yourself, playing dumb.”

The lean kid blinked, anger and confusion crossing his face. “Dumb? What the fuck are you –“

Brass grabbed him by the shoulders and shoved him down. I helped, smashing his face into his bike's seat, so fucking hard I could've shattered his nose right there.

“You fucking asshole! Did you really think we wouldn't figure it out? Did you really think you could rat on this club and get away with it, cartel piece of shit?” The Veep exploded, snarling as he twisted Stryker's wrists back, just short of snapping.

Behind me, I heard Caleb wail in Sally's arms, and a new kinda anger flared in my gut.