Slate (Rebel Wayfarers MC) (23 page)

Slate cocked his head, and made a hand motion urging Estavez to continue, then was staggered by what he said. “You saved my daughter, my heart, my life—Maria Luisa Carmela Estavez—my child, stolen by my brother and hidden from me for more than two years. I could not find her, but you saved her and brought her back into the light.”

“Carmela is your daughter? She called you uncle and said you had sold her into slavery. You told us to bury her with the fat bastard who had been given a girl as a sex slave. How the hell is she your daughter, your
heart
?” Slate was angry, as furious now as he had been while sitting on his bike in Juarez, watching Devil seat the girl in front of him, taking her across the river with them into America.

“May we sit, Andrew? Mason?” Estavez asked. Mason looked at Slate’s face, and nodded without shifting his gaze. Slate looked around, aware for the first time of the men standing near the three of them. There was a mixed ring of Machos and Rebels about ten feet from them, and then beyond that, there had to be more than one hundred members of the Rebels and their local support clubs circling the entire group. Slate stepped back, watching as an aisle appeared towards the door of the bar.

“Mason, we can’t fit everyone,” Slate said low and quiet. “We can put a couple of kegs inside the door and pass out cups.”

“Do it, brother,” Mason agreed. Slate led the two club presidents into the bar, quickly making the arrangements for the beer to be set
up as he had suggested. He walked over and used the intercom to reassure Tara, releasing her from the panic room. He saw Bingo was still watching the two Machos they’d disabled inside the bar, and relieved him of that duty by asking L.J. to escort the two men outside.

Bringing three beers with him to the table, he sat down beside Mason carefully. “Estavez, I don’t understand,” he started, and the man nodded.

“I can explain, Andrew, and it’s important for you to comprehend.” Estavez took a shaky, deep breath, and then a long, slow drink of his beer. “My brother and I had no love lost between us. I had the esteem of the family; he had the approval of the cartel. I was a businessman in Mexico City; he was a gang member in Juarez. My child, my daughter—my
only
daughter—was a favorite of us both, one of the few things we had in common. We had a falling out when our parents died, and things that had been difficult or strained went to antagonistic and hostile. I wanted him gone, and I talked to an official in Mexico City about his activities in Juarez. That was my mistake, and my family paid for my error, because that official worked for him.

“My brother, he came to Mexico City and stole my daughter from my home. He took Maria...my Maria. You have to understand the police were of no help. There are so many abductions in Mexico, so many kidnappings, that they do nothing unless there is a benefit for them in the recovery. I didn’t understand how they could be so mercenary, but I had to find her. So, I took things in hand looking for her, stalking my brother. It wasn’t until Maria—Carmela, as you know her—was at Watcher’s home that she was able to contact me.”

He smiled briefly, but it didn’t reach his eyes and the expression faded quickly. “Her uncle asked for her death. Her uncle threw her away for a favor with the cartel, and into hell. For more than two years, she was trapped with the man you killed that day. My Maria called me from America, from safety, and Watcher listened to my tears as I heard my dead daughter’s voice once again,” he spoke quietly.

“I decided I needed to deal with my honor in a lasting way, so I began to systematically take out my brother’s allies.” He sneered. “I am a businessman at heart. I can patiently strategize, and then execute on those strategies. Within eighteen months of your rescue of Maria, I gained control of his club, the Machos. My
brother lies dead at my hand, as well as all of his main allies. It is now my club; these are
my
Machos.”

He took another long drink of beer, his throat working hard. “But a debt remained. Maria told me of your part in the events in Juarez, and your kindness and comfort to her. Your assurance of her safety allowed her to trust and be saved. She holds you in high regard, Andrew Jones. I cannot ever repay what you mean to her by becoming her shelter of security in a storm of terror, but I acknowledge a debt to you. I have tracked you from Las Cruces to Lamesa, from Longview to Memphis, and now to Chicago. Along the way, I have continued to clean up my brother’s messes, as I did today.

Motioning towards the door, he explained, “The ones killed today were loyal to my brother, and had planned on creating more difficulties for you here. The woman lying dead in the parking lot is not your Sylvia. It is Silverio, my sister-in-law. She came to Chicago months ago with the intention of replacing your Sylvia, knowing she could use that relationship to get close to the Rebel club members, and be able to hurt them.

“Silverio was also behind the attack you experienced a few weeks ago. She and her cadre of accomplices have been dealt with
most persuasively, as you saw.” He pushed back from the table, standing and holding out his hand to Slate. “My word to you, Andrew, Machos will not bother you or your family again, but you must tell me how I can repay you in my daughter’s name. I will not rest well with an unresolved debt such as this.”

“I have to think on that, man, seriously, but as long as Carmela is safe and happy, I’m good. Yeah, I’m good.” Slate stood, accepting both the handshake and the commitment somberly.

Estavez shook hands with Mason too, and then stepped back. “I would like permission to remain in Chicago for a few days, to be certain I have cleaned up this rubbish in its entirety, if that is acceptable.”

Mason nodded. “Sure, brother. We can house you if needed.” Estavez accepted the offer, and Mason asked Tug and Bingo to begin the process of getting Machos to a secondary clubhouse in Chicago. After seeing the groups off, Mason and Slate headed back into the bar.

Drinking and talking to Mason late into the night, Slate told him the full story of the events in Mexico. He had a feeling Mason already knew about it, but felt the need to explain all that had happened, and what it meant to him. He talked for hours about the girl they had saved, and how Carmela had changed his life, showing Mason the tattoo he’d gotten in her honor.

“I need to know I make a difference, Mason. I think that’s what it boils down to; I need to make a difference,” he slurred his words, but the sentiment was honest. “My brother, my little brother Benny might need someone one day, and I wanna know I’ve racked up enough good things to give him a chance.” Slumping in his chair, he ran a rough hand through his hair. “My brother Benny, my brother Mason—I love you both, man. Karma, my brother.” He sighed. “Fuck me, I’m tired, and I think a little drunk. Can I crash here?”

Nodding solemnly, Mason helped him up and got him into the back room where the bunks were. “You need to sleep,” he said as he threw a blanket at Slate. “We’ll talk about the marker tomorrow, man. It’s all good.” The last thing Slate thought about as he fell asleep was the carefree look on Carmela’s face the last time he’d seen her at Watcher’s house.

***

Six years ago

They were arguing back and forth, debating the worth of a recent prospect who had app’ed to the Rebels, Reuben Nelms. Slate had met him a few years back in Texas, but didn’t really know him. Reuben had shown up in Jackson’s a few months ago, and like a lot of them, it seemed like he was looking for a home, a place he could set his demons to rest. Mason liked the guy a lot, but he wanted to evaluate Slate’s recommendation. He was trying to make Slate his lieutenant, and planned
to have him do these kinds of things going forward.

“Tell me about the girl, Mason.” Slate thought this sounded like a long-term issue, and wanted to figure out the potential blowback for the club if anything Nelms did went sideways.

Mason leaned back in his chair; they were sitting in the meeting room in the Chicago clubhouse, with a couple dozen Rebels in attendance. The other members were scattered around the room, sitting at the bar or high-top tables, or playing pool. Two prospects were tending bar tonight, and Slate held up a hand to catch an eye for a refill.

Bear brought them two more beers, wiping the table before setting down the new bottles. Bear’d been in the process for about a year now, and was a solid, settled brother. His past was tragic, but Mason had found a way to connect with the man. They were going to vote on patching him in the next time they met for church, which would be when they decided whether to welcome Nelms or not.

Gypsy was the other prospect here tonight, and he ‘d only been wearing his colors for a couple months; they’d have to take him on a run soon, see how he shook out. He was good at keeping order here in the clubhouse; he’d been a cop in Fort Wayne before he came to them, and the brothers all respected him.

Mason waited patiently for Slate to return his attention to him, picking up his bottle and turning it in his hands. “She’s a student at UI in Springfield, and he checks up on her every couple of days. He’s got a shit-for-brains brother who hurt her. When you met him in Texas, he’d ran from what was happening, and now he feels responsible. When I say the brother hurt the girl, it sounds like it had got real physical before she was able to get away. He’s loyal, he’s fearless, and he’s got a heart the size of fucking Texas. I think he is a good fit for us, but I want to know your thoughts, brother.”

“Does the girl know Nelms is watching over her?” Slate mused, “It seems weird, man. I know you helped him get his scoot, but have you been down with him to see her? Do you trust him? Does she meet with him and have fucking coffee? Fuck me, but this feels off.”

“Nah, I haven’t run down with him, but he talks about being careful that she doesn’t see him. I think she’d bolt. Sounds like he just ducks around corners and shit. He’s not perving on her, simply making sure his brother isn’t catching a sniff of her.” Mason grinned. “Maybe she’s hot. Reminds me, we need to get you an old lady soon, or you’re going to be too ancient to fuck.”

Slate flicked a coaster at Mason, grinning. “Fuck you. You’re the old man at the table. Where’s your old lady, hmmm? Haven’t seen anyone riding tail with you in months. You give up fucking for Lent and forget to start back up?”

“No man, I gave up talking to assholes; that’s why it’s been so long since you heard from me,” Mason shot back. The two men grinned at each other; they’d become close friends over the years, seldom apart.

“I’ll ride down with him tomorrow, get a read on this shit. I can take Gypsy with us, maybe Bear? That would leave you two prospects as gofers if needed, Hoss and Tequila. We still thinking about voting Bear in on Saturday?” Slate stretched in his chair, sliding his ass down in the seat and crossing his legs at the ankle.

Mason nodded. “Yeah, at Saturday’s church we need to vote on Bear and Tequila as full-patch brothers, and about Nelms and Steward as prospects.” He dropped his voice. “We also need to vote on Monster, figure this shit out for the last time. Motherfucker has dogged me too often in the past few years, and I’ve found proof he’s skimming on runs. I don’t want to take him down without a consensus, but the bastard is going to be sorry he fucked me. I am the Rebels, and he’s fucking with them, so he’s fucking with me.”

Slate looked at him levelly. “Mason, full fucking backing here, and you know it. I’ve been hungry for his ass since his lies cost a brother’s life. I can take care of that fucking business before sunset today; you just gotta give me the word.”

Waving a hand casually, Mason brushed off his offer. “Nah, man. Church, consensus, closure—it will do us all good.”

14 -
            
Mica

Four
years ago

“Are you fucking kidding me, brother? She bought the house next to Mason? Does he know yet?” Slate listened on the phone he was holding against his ear, lying in his bed at the clubhouse
with eyes closed. The call had pulled him from sleep, but he wasn’t ready to fully commit to waking up yet. He jerked as a hand pressed against his bare chest, sliding down towards his belly. Reaching down with his free hand, he stopped the progression of the feminine fingers, trapping them against his chest with a hard fist.

“Mason needs to know, but this is a good thing, Duck. Makes it almost a joke to keep an eye on her. No fucking way will your dickhead brother get a finger on her now.” He paused, listening again. “Yeah, I know. I’m here; I’ll see him in a few, and I’ll get a read on this shit. Later, brother,” he said as he pressed a fingertip against the screen, cutting the call.

Turning his head, he stared at the woman in his bed. “Tawny, I told you to get the fuck out last night. Don’t fucking do this shit again. I’m not sleeping with you. I’m not fucking you. You’re not giving me head. I got nothing to do with you.” He sat up in bed, flipping the covers off her. “Now get the fuck out.” He watched her slide from the bed, glad to see she had on a t-shirt and panties at least. Without a word, but with more than one dirty look his way, she pulled on a short skirt and slunk from the room.

“Goddamn shit,” he muttered to himself. “Fuck me.” Dragging his body to the bathroom, he took a hot shower. Half an hour later, he strolled into the meeting room, seeing Digger on bartender duty. He was a good prospect, but damn shy. “Where’s Mason, Dig?” he asked as he rolled his shoulders.

“In the office, Slate. He said to let you know he wanted to talk to you when you got up.” Digger slid a glance over Slate’s shoulder, and then back to his face.