Outlaw's Vow: Grizzlies MC Romance (Outlaw Love)

by Snow, Nicole

  “Rest up, brother. I'm going in to survey the scene.” I walked in and found Sally already inside.

  She stood in the kitchen, staring at the mess, two bloody streaks on the floor left behind by Stryker catching lead on his way to the basement. Her big blue eyes looked up at me, and then she turned, heading for the downstairs door.

  I caught up and grabbed her wrist, spinning her against my chest. “Don't. I'm going down first to make sure it's all clear. It's my job. Prez said it's fucking gruesome. Stay the hell up here unless you wanna see your cousin's dried blood too.”

  I didn't mention the busted teeth scattered on the ground. Men had definitely gotten into the house, and they'd surprised the stubborn farmer, pistol whipping him into a coma, or maybe using something bigger and heavier than a gun.

  “You're right,” she snapped. “I need to be with him. How much longer?”

  “I'll take a quick peek downstairs, and then we'll head to the hospital.”

  I ripped open the door and pounded down the narrow stone steps, ducking as I made my way into the hole in the ground that doubled as a laundry room and storm shelter. Scattered light poured through the crack in the storm door to the side. The basement's lone light bulb was smashed in the commotion.

  I saw something move against the wall, and my hand instantly drew. Beam's ugly face appeared in the shadows. Anger tangled up his bitter mug when he saw me with a nine millimeter aimed at his head.

  “You gonna finish what we started at the clubhouse by blowing my brains out my skull?”

  “Depends on what the fuck you're doing down here. Why aren't you upstairs?”

  “Same reason you're down here, brother. I'm taking it all in. Trying to figure out what the fuck happened. Prez thinks we've got a rat in our ranks. Looks like it's Stryker to me.”

  Fuck. I goddamned despised being on the same page as this asshole. I lowered my gun, kicked aside some broken glass left by the light bulb. A few tiny pellets bounced behind the washer – probably the poor bastard's teeth.

  “The storm door was locked up tight. They busted the window, undid the lock, and fucked him up before he could get off a shot.” Beam pointed to the bloody shotgun laying in the corner. “It's like somebody knew exactly how to get inside. Only thing I'm not sure about is what the fuck drew him down here in the first place.”

  “Leave that shit to me,” I growled, trying to keep the hot gun in my hand aimed at the ground.

  “Whatever you want. Listen, I'm sorry we got into it the other night. I was a fucking idiot to keep going after Sally after you'd claimed her. I know that now.”

  “Stay the fuck away from my woman, and we won't have any more problems.”

  The bastard managed a thin, awkward smile. I didn't trust him – especially not with that punk rock haircut looking like he'd just walked outta the nearest pet shop. He'd get his ass whipped hard in prison for that.

  Too bad I wasn't sure if Stryker was an even bigger bastard. Neither of these boys sat right with me, and my rat senses droned every time I looked at both of 'em. If only we'd waited a couple weeks before handing them the patch.

  Fuck. I'd have never voted yea.

  “Shake on it.” Beam stuck his hand out. “The Prez doesn't want any bad blood in the club. I'm man enough to admit I fucked up bad, brother, and I hope some day you'll forgive me.”

  It took me several seconds to finally take it. I squeezed him so hard his fingers flinched in mine. Then I broke away, stuffing my gun back in my holster.

  “Just get outta here and take the other door. I can forgive you, but my old lady's not ready for that shit after what you did.”

  He nodded, and I watched him undo the storm door's lock. It banged behind him as he headed out, going up the small stone steps leading to the garden behind the house.

  I looked shit over again. None of it made sense. I also realized I'd forgotten to ask the bastard where he'd been all night, and I'd need to remedy that as soon as we all calmed the fuck down.

  When I got upstairs, Sally sat at the kitchen table, her face resting delicately in one hand. She stood up when she saw me.

  “Well?”

  “Let's get outta here. We'd better go see your cousin before the Prez rides my ass to debrief on this shit. I've got a few hours, if we're lucky.”

  She followed me back to the truck. The whole drive out to the hospital, she clung to my hand, as if I'd single-handedly swept down from the sky and carried her away from all this.

  That was only half the battle when I marched in and took control. We'd gotten lucky that I'd gotten her and the kid out before things went to shit.

  Lady Luck winked at my sorry ass this time, but I wasn't gonna rely on her help again. I had to find the rat and make sure the Mexicans were chased outta NorCal forever. Anything less put my old lady and son at risk, and I'd fucking die before it was their blood on the ground instead of Norm and Stryker's.

  * * * *

  The man in the hospital bed had the hellfire sucked right outta him.

  Norm's arms and legs were shattered. They'd busted his jaw too, fractured it with such skull-cracking force the poor bastard would be lucky to operate a good pair of dentures or some implants one day.

  I watched my girl kneel at his side, her hand tightly clutching his. “Why did you have to be this stupid? This stubborn? Why?”

  She kept shaking her head. I stepped up, put my hand on her shoulder, and squeezed.

  “Just let him rest, babe. He did a dumb thing, digging in his heels when he knew he didn't have the support. But he stood up for your place like a man, and I can respect that. He's a tough motherfucker. I gotta feeling he'll be on his feet again sooner than you think.”

  So I hoped. I wasn't just hoping my woman's cousin would bounce back for her sake neither. He just might be the only man there that night who could tell us what happened, without feeding the club a line of bullshit.

  I barely trusted letting Stryker and Beam outta my sight. Their wounds and tough words didn't prove shit. Somebody ratted to let the cartel slip through for this kinda attack, and there'd be absolute hell to pay when we found out who.

  Sally stood up, blotting at the angry tears slicing down her cheeks. “Maybe you're right. I just didn't think it'd come to this. I knew the cartel was horrible, but seeing their brutality like this, up close and personal...”

  I didn't let her say another word. Just pulled her in tight and smashed her face to my chest. I held her for a long time, eyeing the beat up shell of a man in that bed.

  He'd fought the bastards hard and lost, stumbling into disaster without realizing how shitty his odds were. Maybe mine weren't much better, the same as the rest of the club, but damn if I'd get my ass kicked so easily.

  These fucking invaders would never put my old lady or my kid in a bed like this. I'd be in my own grave before they did.

  “Don't ever do this to me,” Sally hissed, fire lighting up her bright blue eyes. “I won't survive seeing you torn up like this. I'll lose it, Roman, I'll –“

  “That's enough.” I dug my fingers into her chin, tilting her small face to mine, giving her the most reassuring look in the whole damned world. “We're gonna beat them, babe. I don't give a shit what it costs, or how long it takes. You're gonna help this old boy back onto the farm when we're done, and he'll live to pick up where he left off.”

  She bit her lip and tried to break the lock my eyes had on her, but I wouldn't let her. I didn't release her head 'til she stopped looking so panicked, sinking into my arms with a heavy sigh.

  “Now, stop worrying. I'm gonna get you home and I'll hash this shit out with the club. All you gotta worry about is keeping the kid fed and happy. Nothing else.”

  * * * *

  Later that night, I sat on the edge of the bed, long after she'd slumped into a melancholy sleep. My dick ached.

  That thing between my legs was an emotionless demon. It had no goddamned context for tragedy, and didn't give a shit about anything except the fact that o
ur week long fuckfest had been rudely interrupted.

  Just watching her sleep made me want her so fucking bad. I stood up, stretched my legs, and crept into the closet for my clothes.

  I was pulling on my cut when I walked into Caleb's room to check on him. The baby rolled over in his crib, awakening just enough to catch a glimpse of me. He grabbed at the wooden posts on the side, reaching one small hand through the gap.

  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.”