by Ivy Black
“That was Monk. We have to go. Prophet’s been shot.”
Epilogue
Domino
Ashley and I both got looked at when we got to the hospital. Thankfully, the bullet only grazed me rather than going through my leg. A few stitches and I’m right as rain again. Ashley escaped serious wounds, and for that, I’m thankful. I’m glad I got to her in time because I really can’t imagine my life or my future without having her in it.
Both of us are sitting in one of the bays in the emergency room. Derek’s out in the waiting room with Cole, who had started to come out of his shell with Derek now that the danger had passed. The catatonia or whatever it was had worn off, and he was starting to laugh and giggle again, which I’m glad for. I know it’s a massive weight off Ash’s shoulders. I think it says a lot about the resiliency of children. Also, having somebody who’s as mentally on par with a four-year old, as Derek is, certainly helps.
I’m itching to get up to Prophet’s room. I’m eager to see him and verify that he’s actually all right. But Singer’s been in our emergency room bay for the last half hour, questioning us about Ryan. He’d already gotten most of the story from Missy and Mark, and we’re just putting the final touches on the story of how a dead body ended up inside town limits.
“Okay, I think that’s it for now. Seems pretty cut and dry,” Singer says.
“Thank you, Sheriff,” I say, to which Ashley nods in agreement.
“No need to thank me.”
I frown, knowing what I want to ask him, but not wanting to reopen any hard feelings. Though, to be fair, I’m not sure that can was ever closed. He’s more in control of himself now, but I have a feeling that Singer is still stewing on what we said to him back at the clubhouse earlier. But I have to know.
“Any idea who shot Prophet, Sheriff?”
He arches an eyebrow at me. “Oh, I think we know who shot him. Or at least, whose proxy shot him.”
“Do we have proof of that?”
“None. Nor do we have proof that it was Zavala or one of his men who murdered Costco, and yet we’re sure of it all the same.”
A rueful smile stretches my lips. “Touché.”
“I hear he’s going to pull through all right, though. That’s a good thing. Believe it or not, I like Prophet a lot. I think he’s a good man. I just think he opened a door he shouldn’t have with this cartel business.”
I bite my tongue, not wanting to remind the sheriff that this cartel business only started when we saved his daughter from them. If not for that, there wouldn’t have been a shootout at the lodge, Zavala’s men wouldn’t have died, and there wouldn’t be a blood feud in progress. But Singer apparently can’t see past the bodies dropping inside town limits.
“Anyway, I should let you get up there to see him. I’m sure you’re anxious.”
“Thank you, Sheriff Singer. And I appreciate your help earlier with locating Ryan’s car.”
He cuts a glance at Ashley and nods. “I get it. I’d be willin’ to risk everything for the woman I love, too.”
Without another word, he turns and pushes he way through the curtains. Ashley, who’s sitting beside me on the exam table turns to me and presses a gentle kiss to my lips then slowly draws back.
“You came for me,” she says. “I can’t believe you came for me. I mean, I had literally just prayed about it right before I saw you… and then you were there.”
Leaning forward, I kiss her forehead and then look her in the eye. “Not that I ever want you to be in a position like that again, but I’ll always come for you, Ash. No matter the odds or the cost, I’ll always come for you. I truly do love you with everything in me.”
“And I love you, Max. With my entire heart, I love you.”
She lays her head down on my shoulder and takes my hand. We sit in a companionable silence for a minute before she looks up at me.
“We should go see your friend,” she says.
I nod, feeling a jagged spike of fear pierce my heart. I’ve heard Prophet’s all right, but I won’t believe it until I see him with my own eyes. We walk out of the emergency room hand in hand and find the elevator, taking it up to the ICU floor. We step off the elevator and find the waiting room that’s filled with Pharaohs. I can see it’s making some of the other people nervous to be around so many bikers. Right. Like we’re going to take over the fucking hospital.
Derek and Cole are tucked away in a corner playing a game, and though she wants to go over to him, I can see Ash doesn’t want to interrupt. Not while Cole is still in the process of putting the day behind him. The door to the waiting room opens and Doc steps in. He looks at me and nods.
“He’s askin’ for you,” he says.
The fact that he’s awake and alert sends a wave of relief sweeping through me. Still holding onto Ash’s hand, I lead her out of the room and down the corridor to where they’ve got Prophet stashed. We walk in and find him propped up in the bed already. His face is drawn and pale, and he looks like he’s aged ten years since I last saw him. Looking closely at him, I can see him grimacing when he moves, telling me that he’s in a lot more pain than he’s letting on. But he’s a tough man. He’s alert and gives us a smile as we step in.
“Prophet, this is Ashley. And Ash, this is Prophet, our club president,” I introduce them.
“It’s very nice to meet you,” she says.
“Likewise,” he croaks, his voice still hoarse. “I’d heard that Domino was dating above his station. I just never knew how much above his station.”
Ashley’s cheeks flare with color and she looks away, hiding her smile. I give her hand a squeeze.
“I don’t deny that at all. In fact, I was hoping she wouldn’t figure it out, so thanks for blowing that for me, Prez.”
“Please. Like she wouldn’t have figured it out sooner or later.”
We all share a laugh, but agony is written into Prophet’s features. He draws in a breath and lets it out slowly. It wavers, but he manages to stuff it all down and keep pretending that he’s the perfect picture of health.
“Cosmo says everything went well today?” he asks.
I nod. “Textbook. Shockingly enough.”
“I’ll take it. About time something went our way.”
“I had the same thought, actually,” I tell him.
His smile is small and weak. “Well, good work. Cosmo says it was one hell of a shot. A shot none of us would have made.”
I shrug. “We don’t know that.”
“Stop being modest. It doesn’t suit you.”
We laugh and Ashley leans her head against my shoulder.
“How many times did they tag you, Prez? And how did they get the drop on you?”
“I was at a light, and this minivan pulls up next to me. Next thing I know, the door flies open, and some dude jumps out and opens fire. He’s back in the van and it’s peeling away before the fuckin’ light even turns green. Fuckin’ cowards. I took four bullets. Only one of them was considered serious, but even that wasn’t all that bad. It’s all good,” he says.
“I’d say it’s pretty far from good.”
“No, you’re right. It’s pretty far from good,” he agrees.
“The question is what are we going to do about it?” I ask.
He looks at Ashley meaningfully, then back to me, the question in his eyes unspoken. I look at Ashley, offering her a small smile.
“I don’t keep anything from her. She knows everything, Prez.”
Prophet nods as if he expected nothing less. And when he looks at Ashley again, I see something like respect for her in his eyes. Like Cosmo said, it takes a certain kind of woman to know what we do and either not run away screaming or call the police on us. But then, Ashley is a rare kind of woman indeed.
“Was it Zavala’s men? Do we know it for sure?” I ask.
He nods. “Yeah, it was them. The shooter told me it was compliments of Zavala himself before he pulled the trigger.”
“Fuckers. What now?”
I growl.
Prophet looks at me, pinning me to my spot with just his eyes. I have a feeling I know what the next words out of his mouth will be, and I get the idea Ash does, too, because her grip on my hand tightens. An expression of worry crosses her face, but Prophet remains unflappable. And beyond that, he looks righteously pissed off.
“We’re going to war,” he says.
Damn. I hate being right all the time.
* * *
Enjoy the following preview of
Spyder (Dark Pharaohs MC Series Book 3)
Spyder Preview
Chapter One
Spyder
Prophet shuffles into the clubhouse, looking vastly older than his forty-three years. His face is pale and drawn, he’s moving slowly, and judging by the grimace on his face, not without some substantial amount of pain. It’s understandable. I’m sure I’d feel like shit if I’d taken four bullets, too.
Doc moves to help, but Prophet waves him off, dropping down heavily into a chair, wincing with the effort. The clubhouse is silent, all eyes on our prez as he shifts uncomfortably on the hard, wooden seat. The entire MC is here today and the air inside of the clubhouse is stifling and ripe with some pungent body odor. Not all of our guys are big on personal hygiene.
“Can somebody crack a fuckin’ window, please?” Cosmo shouts.
“And some of you animals need to get acquainted with soap and water,” Prophet says. “Jesus Christ, it smells like a goddamn zoo in here.”
Laughter ripples through the room, but Prophet isn’t smiling; he’s obviously not kidding. Can’t say I disagree with him, either. With the entire MC in the clubhouse, the atmosphere is tense. Expectant. We don’t have club meetings very often, so we know something big is coming—and I think most of us already know what it is.
I’m standing behind the bar, fulfilling my duty as a prospect by handing beers to the guys. The murmur of conversation is a loud buzz and the tension only seems to be ratcheting up the longer we wait. Finally, Prophet bangs his beer bottle on the table like a gavel.
“Okay, settle down,” he calls. “Let’s get this started.”
The chatter immediately ceases and all eyes snap forward, locking onto Prophet and the rest of Leadership, standing in a half-circle behind him. We may be an unruly, and in some cases, smelly-as-hell group of bikers. We may be a bit rough around the edges. But if there’s one thing you can always count on from us, it’s discipline. Since virtually everybody in a Dark Pharaohs kutte spent time in the military, it’s ingrained in us.
“It’s no secret the Zavala cartel is coming at us hard,” Prophet says. “They murdered Costco. They took a shot at me. And from what I’m hearing, that’s just the tip of the iceberg of what’s coming.”
As Prophet’s voice trails off, giving us all a moment to absorb his words, the murmuring starts again. There’s a tightness in the air that’s woven around the anger as we recall our fallen brother, Costco and the attempt on Prophet’s life. When you come after one of us, you come after all of us. And there is a price to be paid when you do. It’s a lesson the Zavala cartel is going to learn.
“I’m sure it’s not going to come as a surprise to any of you to hear me say that we are officially at war with the cartel. Miguel Zavala is at the top of our most wanted list with a bullet, I suppose you could say,” Prophet says, eliciting a grim chuckle from the crowd.
“So, let’s do it. Let’s take these shitbags out,” Monk calls out. “Let’s show them what happens when you fuck with the Pharaohs.”
Most of the guys cheer as they bang their beer bottles on the tables, making a noise that reminds me of thunder. Prophet and Leadership remain where they are, though, not speaking and not moving, their expressions dark and foreboding. They give the guys a couple of minutes to settle down again, remaining stoic all the while. And when silence falls over the room again, Prophet speaks, his voice as grim as the expression on his face.
“Before we get too ahead of ourselves, hear me out first. Yes, we’re taking the fight to these shitbags. But this is volunteer only. I cannot stress this enough—this fight is strictly for those who want to take part,” Prophet says.
“We’re with you, prez,” one of the guys calls out to the muttered agreement of the others.
Prophet holds his hand up and everybody settles down. “I mean it. You do not have to join us in this. We’re going to war fellas, and if you don’t want any part of this, now’s the time. There will be no repercussions. No judgment,” Prophet says, casting a meaningful glare around the room. “You want to walk, nobody here is going to say shit. You all got me? So, if you don’t want this fight, then you’re free to stand down with no consequences. From anybody. You’ll not lose your patch or your standing in the club.”
The silence in the clubhouse is heavy. It’s oppressive and has a physical weight that feels like it’s pressing down on me. I don’t think anybody is going to walk. We’re a brotherhood. All for one, one for all, and all that. So, it surprises me when I hear the squeal of the legs of a chair dragged across a hardwood floor. One of the older guys gets to his feet, a sheepish expression on his face.
“I’m sorry, boys. I’d go to war with you all, but I got a wife and kids to think about,” he says.
Prophet nods as the man walks out of the clubhouse, his head down. Even from where I’m standing, I can hear the low mutters following him out the door. But Prophet slams his bottle down on the table.
“Cut the shit,” he growls. “I meant it when I said there is no judgment for anybody who doesn’t want this fight. Not from me and not from you. This fight is going to be nasty. Bloody. You know these cartel pricks play for keeps, and I can’t guarantee your safety. And because I can’t, I’m only looking for volunteers. You got me?”
Everybody properly chastised, the room falls silent once more. Half a dozen more of the guys stand and slink out of the clubhouse, their eyes on the floor, expressions of shame on all their faces. Prophet can say there will be no judgment or repercussions all he wants, but some of the guys are going to feel abandoned. Some of them will undoubtedly feel like the guys who left are turning their backs on those of us staying in the fight.
In times of war, all we have is each other. We rely on our brothers. Our lives are in their hands and theirs in ours. Walking out on your brothers when there’s a fight coming is a cardinal sin in the military. You never walk out on your brothers. No matter how fierce the enemy, no matter how steep the odds, you have your brother’s back. Always.
The dark looks the guys are casting at those who are walking out worry me. I hope I’m wrong and hope that when this war is done, this is something that will blow over. I understand why some of the guys don’t want any part of this—they’ve got families to think of. And like Prophet said, the cartel doesn’t fuck around, and they play for keeps.
Zavala’s animals don’t respect the normal rules of war and will go after somebody’s family. Women. Children. Young. Old. It doesn’t matter to them. They’ll kill anybody and everybody to further their goal. To make a statement. And I can only hope the guys who are staying will come to the same understanding I have, simply because this is something that can tear an MC apart.
The slow trickle of guys leaving has stopped and Prophet looks over the men who are left and nods to himself. It’s a hardened bunch of men. Combat veterans all—except for me. I’m a veteran, but I never actually saw any action. I spent my time overseas as a glorified cop at Rammstein Air Base in Germany.
On the one hand, I’m glad I never saw combat. The guys here, the veterans who went through some shit over there, all have a hard edge to them. There’s a brittleness and an anger that runs just below the surface in all of them. They’re jaded in ways I’m not. But the flip side of that coin is, there’s always a small gap between them and me. We all wear the patch and we’re all brothers here. As combat vets, though, they share a bond I’ll never have with them. They’re a club within the club that I’ll never have membership in.
> Not that any of them treat me any differently because of it. None of them look down on me, or lord their experience over me in any way. For the most part, it seems that as far as they’re concerned, we’re all the same. It’s a division of my own creation, in my own mind. I’m aware of that. But it’s a division that stands out to me, and perhaps makes me even more eager to prove myself to them.
“Okay, so this is it. This is the crew we’re going to war with,” Prophet says. “But I want you to know, since this is a voluntary deal, you’re free to come and go as you please. If you ever get to a point where it’s too much and you want to bail, no harm, no foul. Understood?”
We all grunt our approval, and he nods, then his eyes fall on me. He holds his hands up to quiet the room again and everybody falls silent.
“Derek, front and center,” he calls.
Scooting around the bar, I make my way over to his table and stand before him, my hands clasped behind my back, as I unconsciously fall into a parade-rest stance. Like I said, the military is deeply ingrained in all of us.
“Derek, you’ve displayed courage and grit. What you did with Domino’s whole situation proved your value to this club. Your worth. You’ve proven yourself to us ten times over,” Prophet says. “And because of that, we all voted already and we’re going to patch you in early. Congratulations, kid. You’ve earned it.”
As Doc lays a brand new kutte down on the table in front of me, I’m overcome by an unexpected wave of emotion. I’m dimly aware of the room around me exploding with applause and cheers. My body is rocked by the hard thumps on the back of my brothers as they congratulate me. Prophet gives us all a few minutes to celebrate before calling for order once more.
Everybody takes their seat again and Prophet leans forward. “I’m sorry we don’t have time to throw a proper bash to celebrate right now, but there are a lot of things in motion right now. I promise you we’ll do it up right when this is all over.”
