THE BABY OATH: Anarchy’s Reign MC

by Sophia Gray

Hammer swallowed hard. “Sure. I see your point. And I beg your forgiveness, and, of course, I'll be happy to give you a cut of this. A big one, just so you know this was a total misunderstanding and there's no hard feelings. Twenty-five percent, how about that?”

  Turo's dark eyes drilled holes in Hammer, a smile playing at the corners of his lips.

  “Okay, fifty percent,” Hammer said. “Just to show you we're committed to making this right.”

  Turo stepped forward, putting his left hand up on Hammer's shoulder and squeezing it. For a moment, Hammer relaxed, believing they'd reached an accord. Sure, giving up half their take was a bummer, but at least the Saints would be left with a decent amount and they'd get out of this in one piece...

  Suddenly, Hammer felt a battering ram smash into his midsection. Turo's fist moved like lightning as it delivered another savage blow just under Hammer's ribs. The air left Hammer's lungs and he doubled over just as Turo pulled a handgun from a holster under his jacket, pistol-whipping him in the face.

  Even through his doubled vision and the ringing in his ears, Hammer saw the other Saints start forward menacingly. He held up a hand to stop them. “Don't,” he slurred, tasting blood. “Stay back.”

  “Yes, listen to your president,” Turo told them. “I have twenty men outside with machine guns. If any of you put a hand on me, you will all be exterminated in less than two minutes.”

  He put a hand around Hammer's throat, leering down at the biker's bleeding face. “Perhaps if you had approached me beforehand, you would be in a position to negotiate. Since you chose not to, you have forfeited your rights to this truck and everything in it. These are the rules and, as men, we must live by them. You should be grateful I do not simply murder you right here, along with the rest of this yellow trash you call an MC. But make no mistake—if you ever defy me in this manner again, I will end every last one of you. Do you understand me, Mr. Lithgow?”

  Hammer's pride writhed and yowled in his gut like a wounded animal. He was a born street fighter who'd never backed down from a brawl in his life, and the humiliation of being forced to grovel and roll over like this made him wish he was dead.

  But Turo wasn't known for making idle threats, and Hammer knew if he didn't go along, every member of the Saints would be slaughtered.

  He nodded.

  Turo released him, returning his gun to its holster and wiping his hands on a handkerchief with a faint grimace. “Good. Now give me the keys, please.”

  Hammer pulled the keys to the truck from the pocket of his jeans, handing them over. Turo took them and walked over to a button on the wall, pushing it. The huge main door of the garage rattled as it was pulled upward, letting in the humid bayou air. Turo's gangsters stood outside, holding compact machine pistols.

  Turo gestured to one of his men, tossing the keys to him. The man caught them and climbed up into the cab of the truck. The engine came to life and the man slowly backed the truck out of the garage, driving off.

  “Gentlemen,” Turo said, “enjoy the rest of your evening.” He walked off into the night, followed by his soldiers.

  Lash lunged forward, crouching down in front of Hammer. “You okay, man? Anything broken?”

  “That greaseball cocksucker,” Splinter fumed. “He doesn't give a shit about the rules. He's just a greedy prick. We're not gonna let him get away with ripping us off like that, right?”

  “We should firebomb his goddamn house,” Cobra snarled. “And all his fucking businesses, too. We should shotgun everyone who works for him, and then grab him and cut his head off.”

  “Yeah? How exactly are we supposed to do any of that shit and get away with it?” Lash asked angrily. “They're the fucking Mafia, in case you haven't noticed. They've got more guys, they've got more guns. We start an all-out war with them, they'll mop the floor with us, guaranteed.”

  “So we're just supposed to bend over and take it?” Splinter retorted hotly. “Is that why we joined a fucking MC? So we could let some asswipe in a fancy suit walk in and piss on us whenever he feels like it?”

  “Splinter is right,” Hammer said quietly, wiping blood from the corner of his mouth. “We're Twisted Saints. The day we start acting like pussies and pushovers is the day we may as well hang up our cuts.”

  “Fucking suicide run,” Lash grunted.

  “You're right, too,” Hammer continued. “We go head-to-head with the Ricci, we'll end up at the bottom of Lake Pontchartrain with cement blocks tied to our ankles.”

  “So what are you saying?” Cobra asked, frowning.

  “He's talking nonsense,” Lash said. “His head must have taken a harder hit than we thought.”

  Hammer shook his head stubbornly. “No. I'm saying we need to get some fucking payback, and I'm saying we won't be able to get it by fighting like we usually would. We'll need to come up with something else. Something smarter.”

  The Saints traded uncertain looks.

  “Like what?” asked Splinter.

  “I don't know,” said Hammer, smiling slowly. “But I think I know someone who can help.”

  Chapter 1

  Brock

  Brock Summer poured himself more champagne, admiring how the golden bubbles seemed to dance and twirl in his glass like high-priced strippers. The familiar thrill of victory radiated through every cell in his body like warm sunlight. He leaned over his lunch of caviar and prime rib and toasted Greg Mau, the smiling, baby-faced Chinese-American man sitting across the table from him.

  “Here's to another successful score,” Greg said, beaming. “I still can't believe we managed to pull off the Beijing Tea House scam in fucking Houston.”

  “Hey, if I've said it once, I've said it a hundred times,” Brock replied, sipping his champagne. “You can run any con, anywhere, with absolutely anyone. All you have to do—”

  “—is know how to sell it,” Greg finished with him, laughing.

  They were sitting in the Longhorn Supper Club, surrounded by polished mahogany paneling and sparkling gold fixtures. This was one of the most extravagant restaurants in Texas, where senators made deals with oil billionaires and paid more for their meals than most families spent on food in a week.

  Later, when they hit the road on their motorcycles, Brock and Greg would don the well-worn riding gear they were more comfortable in—jeans, t-shirts, cowboy boots, and sleeveless leather vests with faded patches that told stories of where they'd been and which MCs they'd previously been affiliated with. But for now, they were clean-cut and wore expensive suits and ties, as though they'd just stepped out of a board meeting at a Fortune 500 company.

  In Brock's experience, it was important to make both of these looks work. Either one was capable of comforting or intimidating, depending on the mark and the situation.

  “I still say you almost pooched the deal, though,” Greg chided him, stealing a bite of scalloped potatoes from Brock's plate. “Making goo-goo eyes at the guy's wife, I mean.”

  “I was just trying to be charming,” Brock insisted.

  “Bullshit,” Greg snickered. “You wanted a piece so you went for it, like you always do. And if I hadn't been able to distract the husband, he'd have kicked you in the balls and the whole damn thing would have gone out the window.”

  “I wasn't worried for a moment,” said Brock. “A slick, talented operator like you? I knew how easy it would be for you to keep him busy.”

  Greg rolled his eyes. “I appreciate the handjob, Brock, but I'm being serious here. You're the most gifted con artist I've ever worked with, and you're smarter than I am by a country mile. Hell, you might even be one of the best hustlers in the world right now. But if you can't learn a little self-control and keep it in your pants when it counts, you'll end up dead somewhere with your dick cut off and a mud hole stomped in your ass, and you'll have flushed all that potential down the toilet.”

  “But what's the point of living the romantic life of a wandering outlaw without the romance?” Brock asked playfully.

  “Shit,
the money we just made? You can buy all the romance you want,” Greg said.

  “Paying for it's just not the same, man. It's that look in their eyes when they want you, you know? There's nothing in the world like it. And no one can fake it, either, no matter how much you pay them...or at least, they can't fake it well enough to fool me.”

  “I give up,” sighed Greg. “You're fucking hopeless. So where should we go next?”

  “I don't know. Miami? Boston? Mexico City?” Brock suggested. “Wherever the money's green.”

  “Is Mexican money green?” Greg asked, frowning.

  Brock shrugged. “One way to find out, right?”

  Brock's cellphone trilled and he took it out of his pocket, looking at the caller ID. It was a Louisiana number he hadn't seen or thought about in years. His eyes widened, and the corners of his mouth slowly pulled back into a grin.

  Holy shit, Brock thought. It's Hammer. But why would he be calling after such a long time? We used to be close, sure, but Hammer was never the kind of guy who'd call someone just to aimlessly shoot the shit.

  Maybe he's in trouble.

  “Give me a minute,” Brock said, getting up from the table.

  “Fine,” Greg retorted. “But I'm taking the rest of your prime rib.”

  As Brock walked over to the window, memories of Hammer flooded his mind. They'd grown up together in Grosse Tete—or “Gross Tits,” as they'd called it—just outside of Baton Rouge. As teens, they shared a fascination with motorcycles and decided to form a gang with a few of their friends. Back then, they were just a pack of bored and reckless punks—racing their bikes, vandalizing property, and terrorizing the more conservative locals with their long hair and loud music. Brock was the one who'd come up with the name The Twisted Saints. But as they got older, Brock decided it was time to hit the open road and find new adventures.

  Well, perhaps “decided to find new adventures” wasn't entirely accurate. Perhaps “got caught with his dick in the sheriff's daughter and had to leave town in a hurry” was a little more on the nose.

  Damn, maybe Greg's got a point, Brock mused. This has been kind of an ongoing theme in my life.

  Before Brock could take the call, a waiter appeared by his side, eyeing the phone apprehensively. “Excuse me, sir? I'm afraid we don't allow our patrons to talk on their cellular phones here. It's impolite, and it upsets the other diners.”

  “Oh, you mean this?” Brock asked, indicating the phone. “I know it looks like a cellphone, but it's not.”

  The waiter raised an eyebrow. “Sir?”

  “Yeah, this is actually a combination shaving razor, potato peeler, and pocket watch,” Brock continued. “Benjamin Franklin invented it back in 1754. Here, I'll let him tell you about it himself.” He pulled a hundred dollar bill out of his wallet and handed it to the waiter, who pocketed it and promptly vanished without another word.

  Brock answered the phone. “Jesus, Hammer, is that you?”

  “None other,” Hammer answered. “How's it hanging, Brock?”

  Brock was happy to hear his old friend's voice, but he couldn't help but notice it sounded blunted somehow, as though Hammer's lips were swollen.

  “Hanging, hell. Most of the time, it stands up and dances the Hokey Pokey. Hey, Hammer, is something wrong? Your voice is funny.”

  “Yeah, I took a mother of a beating about an hour ago,” Hammer said.

  “That's a normal Tuesday night for you, though, right?” teased Brock. “Anyway, I hope whoever it was, he's currently wondering how he'll wipe his ass with two broken arms.”

  “It was Turo Ricci.”

  “There's another Turo Ricci?” Brock asked.

  “No,” Hammer responded flatly. “There ain't.”

  Brock let out a low whistle. “Then you're lucky to be alive. That little psycho usually doesn't do beatings, just executions. What the fuck did you do to piss him off?”

  Hammer told him what happened with the truck and the quarter million. As he did, Brock pulled a notepad and pencil from his breast pocket, jotting down notes and names.

  “We can't let this stand, man,” Hammer finished.

  “No, you certainly can't,” Brock agreed. “But if you take a shot at Turo and miss—or even if you don't miss—everyone wearing a Saints patch is going to end up with a hell of a case of lead poisoning. I'm guessing that's why you're calling me?”

  “You always were the man with the plan, Brock,” Hammer said. “If anyone can figure out a way to take this cocksucker down without starting a war, it's you. We need that quarter mil back.”

  Brock snorted derisively. “Hammer, by the time I'm done with this pasta-munching motherfucker, a quarter mil is going to seem like loose change to you.”

  “You mean that?”

  “Abso-fucking-lutely,” said Brock. “Here, hang on for a second.”

  He walked over to his table again, just in time to watch Greg shove the last few bites of prime rib and potatoes into his mouth.

  “Change of plans. We're heading to Louisiana to run a classic Spanish Prisoner con.” He handed the notepad to Greg. “These are the guys we'll need to pull it off. Go grab them, and don't take no for an answer. Let them know this is going to be a massive payday. I'm talking high six figures for each person involved.”

  Greg looked at the list dubiously. “Should I tell them you're the one running this thing?”

  “Sure,” Brock said. He thought for a moment, then added, “Well, you can tell Franny, anyway. Maybe it'd be best if Ben didn't know I was involved, at least not right away.”

  “Why?” Greg asked. “You fuck his sister or something?”

  “No!” Brock replied defensively. The truth was, he actually had, but that wasn't why Ben didn't much care for him anymore. Still, he was fairly certain Ben would be onboard once he found out how much money they could all make from this score. “Once you've got them,” Brock continued, “meet me in New Orleans in three days.”

  “You got it,” Greg said. “Can I get dessert first?”

  “Fuck dessert,” Brock answered. “You hit the road now, and when this thing pays off in a few weeks, you can buy your own chocolate factory and spend the rest of your life playing Willie Wonka with it. Now go.”

  Greg nodded and got up, heading for the door.

  “Did I hear you say you'd be here in three days?” Hammer asked. “I'll be honest, I was really hoping we could kick this off sooner.”

  “Trust me, it'll be worth the wait,” said Brock. “I need to make a stop first, to talk to someone whose help we'll need if we're going to pull this off. Meanwhile, give me everything you know about Ricci.”

  “Well, mostly I just know what everyone knows about him,” Hammer said, thinking it over. “I mean, he's the undisputed boss of New Orleans, and he controls most of the heroin trade in the state. He likes to make a big show of how old-school he is...you know, the whole 'Sicilian man of honor' act, and all his fancy talk. But the truth is, he's just a selfish thug, a big fish in a small pond.”

  “Good, good,” Brock murmured. “We can use that. But does he have any weaknesses?”

  “What, like kryptonite?”

  Brock chuckled. “Like personal stuff, dummy. His habits, his fetishes, his friends and family...”

  “Well, I don't know much about his private life,” said Hammer. “I ain't even sure he's got one. But since you mentioned family, I've heard some stuff about how he's trying to marry off his daughter.”

  Brock grinned. “Tell me more.”

  Chapter 2

  Maggie

  Margherita Ricci impatiently drummed her fingers on the dining room table, ignoring the meal in front of her and wishing the minutes would pass more quickly.

  At the other end of the long table, her father, Turo, and her mother, Amelia, were eating spaghetti in heavy red sauce, with spicy sausage and meatballs on the side. Turo mopped his plate with a hunk of bread, slathering it with butter and stuffing it into his mouth.

  By contrast
, Maggie's plate looked like a minimalist art project. A small pile of wilted greens, a slice of dry-looking turkey breast, and a dollop of plain yogurt. With a whole lot of empty space in between.

  “Maggie, sit up straight and take your elbows off the table,” her mother said curtly. “No one's going to want to marry a hunchback, especially one with bad manners.”

  Maggie sighed, straightening up and putting her arms down at the sides of her chair. Of all the things she hated about living with her parents, she had come to despise meal times most of all. She loathed the unappetizing food her mother prepared for her, always based on the latest—and most vile—health trends Amelia read about online. Even when she could force herself to eat everything on her plate, she still felt hungry and miserable all the time.