Rush was not feeling that optimistic.
She gave him a shake.
“It can’t be anything else, honey,” she whispered.
It could be.
It absolutely could be.
Rush closed his eyes and deep breathed.
He opened his eyes and reminded her, “Got a brand-new baby down the hall who’s not safe to be in his own home.”
“It’ll be okay.”
“Millie ducked in her car through a hail of gunfire.”
“It’ll be okay.”
“Brick nearly hit an SUV head on.”
“It’ll be okay.”
“How do you know?” he growled.
“Because it has to be.”
He shut up.
Rebel shut up.
She let the silence flow.
Then she stopped doing that.
“Do you want me to teach you to meditate?” she asked.
“Hell no.”
“You want me to go order you some General Tso’s chicken?”
With her shooting schedule, and the cleanup after Valenzuela’s exit, they got the takeout thing down.
She knew his preferences in Mexican, pizza, Italian, Thai and definitely Chinese.
He also knew hers.
“Yeah,” he muttered.
She kissed his bearded jaw, pulled from his arms and crawled off the bed.
He watched her ass in her jeans as she moseyed to the door.
His eyes lifted when she stopped and turned to him.
“It’ll be okay,” she whispered.
“How do you know?” he whispered back.
“Because it’s time for you all to be free.”
After she gave him that, she gave him a small smile and went through the door, closing it behind her.
He scrubbed his face with his hands.
And he hoped his girl was right.
He was about to get up and follow her when his phone rang.
He dug it out.
Stared at the number.
And with brows furrowed, considering the state of play, even though he didn’t know who it was, he took the call.
If it was a marketing person, he’d hunt them down and strangle them.
“You got Rush,” he greeted.
“Cole, muchacho, it’s Nana.”
He sat up.
“Mamá Nana,” he murmured.
“I hear you’re next up for Chaos.”
Of course she’d heard that.
“Maybe,” he replied.
“Mm . . .”
He held his patience.
She didn’t make him wait long.
“I’m sorry, Cole, my people have been paying attention, but this one is slippery.”
Goddammit.
“I hear, I’ll share with Chaos,” she offered. “Not a freebie, jefecito. A marker.”
There was never a freebie with Mamá Nana, unless your skin was brown.
He respected taking care of your clan.
“Thanks, Mamá Nana.”
“El gusto es mio,” she murmured and hung up.
Christ, Chew wasn’t even on Mamá Nana’s radar.
“Shit,” he whispered. “I hope we’re not fucked.”
Now he had more reason to go out and get a beer, needing to share this not-so-good news with his father.
So he angled off the bed and did that.
Beck
Seven seventeen, Friday evening, a week and a half later . . .
Beck stared out the sliding glass doors in Janna’s living room, seeing nothing and not just because it was dark.
Her hand lighted on his back.
“Honey, come eat something.”
He didn’t move, just stared out the window.
She pressed her hand in at his back just as she pressed her front down his side.
“Beck, honey, please come eat something.”
His phone in his hand rang.
He looked at it, took the call.
“Yeah?”
“Throttle?”
Fuck, he hated that fucking name.
“Who’s this?”
“Tack Allen.”
He closed his eyes.
“Honey,” Janna called pleadingly.
“Amends made, Throttle, blood for blood, you boys’ asses swung way out there. Now step back,” Tack said.
He opened his eyes.
“Not gonna happen.”
“You lost a brother, Throttle. Wear the black. Stitch the patch. Step back. Heal. Stay healthy.”
Griller.
Throat slit.
Got too close.
Gone.
Fucking gone.
“Club’s already voted, Tack.”
“Do not do this to your brothers,” Tack growled.
“We already did it to ourselves and we did that way before the latest vote.”
“Throttle—”
“We got close.”
“Let us handle this.”
“We’re in, Tack. Now we’re in more than we were in and you know it. Even if I tried to talk them down, I’d fail.”
There was a moment of silence.
Then a sigh.
Yeah.
Tack knew Beck would fail at that.
“Be smart,” Tack bid.
Too late for that.
“Yeah.”
Another moment of silence then, “Sorry, my man, know too well how much this cuts. Especially for you, sitting at the head of the table when it happened.”
Beck shut his eyes again.
He opened them.
“Right. Thanks. Later.”
“Later, and Throttle?”
He caught himself from shouting “Beck!” and grunted, “Yeah?”
“Chaos, Resurrection. Brothers sat down. We’re solid.”
A Club like Chaos, what his club had done, Beck wished that could feel good.
He didn’t feel anything.
Strike that, he didn’t allow himself to feel anything because when he did, it fucking killed.
Tack disconnected.
He barely got his phone lowered when Janna had his face in her hands and now she was pressing up to his front.
“Please, Beck, come eat something.”
He looked in her sad, troubled eyes.
He couldn’t have that.
But he couldn’t get rid of the sad. She felt what he felt. It was the way she worked. He knew it because she gave him that, but he also felt what she felt.
If it was right, he was guessing that was just the way of things.
So he couldn’t get rid of the sad, but he could get rid of the troubled.
On that thought, he bent and touched his lips to hers.
After he did that, he took her hand, led her to the kitchen and he ate something.
It tasted like dirt and made him feel sick to his stomach.
But she looked relieved.
So he kept eating.
Pope
Seven o’clock sharp, two weeks later . . .
Jesus, these fucking Chaos brothers.
Pope sat at the cheap-ass folding tables shoved together at Resurrection’s clubhouse, his vice president at his side, watching the Chaos brothers file in.
There was noise outside the room, women’s voices, kids.
They’d brought their families.
Pope did not blame them.
Resurrection’s families were out there too.
Bad times.
Total shit.
Beck sat at the head of the table, no gavel in front of him, that wasn’t how this brother rolled.
Hardcore stood behind him, not a second, a sentry.
These brothers in this newly formed charter were all about the loyalty and making a statement.
Pope had to admit, he was impressed.
And Beck and Core stared down at the table as the Chaos brothers rounded it, each one burying a knife in the cheap particle board at the corner of the table, walking behind Beck, circling the
table and walking out.
Except Rush, who, after he buried his knife with the others, he rounded Beck and took a seat.
Tack buried his knife then set a patch in front of Beck.
Pope looked at it.
It said,
Some will walk through the pearly gates . . .
Some will ride.
Griller
Now every time they sat that table, the knives would be gone.
But the scores stabbed in meant Griller would be at that table until they got rid of it.
Pope suspected even as shitty as that table was, in some capacity, it would always remain.
Christ, Resurrection beat down one of their women, they went balls to the wall, one of them falling in a war that wasn’t their own as contrition, Chaos offers mercy.
Yeah, those Chaos brothers were something else.
Pope didn’t know if he could do that.
Though, some biker brother got his throat slit in penitence, he’d find a way to try.
Tack sat next to Rush as the door shut on the last of Chaos.
So word was true. Tack was grooming his son to take over.
Pope knew Rush. Watched him grow up. Partied with him at rallies and on joint rides.
It was a good choice.
“Pope, you called this meeting,” Tack prompted.
“Got word from Sparkle,” Pope started, felt the blast from Beck and Hardcore as their attention focused on Pope, but he kept looking at Tack. “Says this job isn’t worth it, gonna take his pay and have a very long vacation. Put some ears to the ground, the guy has ghosted.”
“Fuckin’ fuck,” Beck bit out.
He turned to Beck.
“I understand your anger, Beck, but this guy ain’t stupid,” Pope shared carefully. “He had one MC lookin’ out for him, that’s one thing. Three, Sebring’s local boys and a shit ton of cops?” Pope shook his head. “He’s gone.”
“How gone?” Beck clipped.
“Chew paid him a quarter of a fortune, he wasn’t exactly kicked back with his feet up before that, no one in Colorado will ever see him again,” Pope answered. “Fuck, probably no one in the US of A will see him again.”
Beck covered the patch in front of him with his hand.
Fuck, Pope felt that.
He felt it.
Then Beck took his hand off and sat back in his seat.
Pope looked at Tack. “Sparkle shared he thinks Chew used everything he had for that hit. And it’s so hot for Chew along the Pueblo to Fort Collins corridor, if he has any brains left in his head, he’s gone. And we already know, you don’t got a pussy or it ain’t dark and you got your back to him and he’s got a tire iron, he doesn’t have the balls to do dick.”
“We can’t take that chance,” Tack replied.
Pope nodded. “Not surprised. Just want you to know, Sparkle himself has communicated he’s out. Don’t know this fuck. He could be lying. Asked around. He’s a professional as in, professional enough to cut and run when shit gets stupid and he wasn’t paid enough for the headache. Almost as much heat on him as Chew, he took out Griller and the way he did. And he ain’t dumb, like Chew.”
Neither Beck nor Tack spoke.
So Pope finished it.
“Just here,” he looked to Beck, “to offer condolences from Range and needed you both,” he looked back at Tack, “to know that state of play. Range is still at your back. Eyes open and ears to the ground and cover if you need it. Send boys down from Boulder, you just say the word.”
“We don’t need any other bikers dead ’cause a’ Chew’s shit,” Tack rumbled.
This was why he hadn’t pulled in their boys from other charters.
Pope understood that.
Those new charters weren’t around when this shit started, so a man like Tack wouldn’t drag them in to finish it.
But even if an apocalypse hit Denver, the work and sweat and blood he put into that Club, Tack would want someone in Chaos left standing.
“Offer stands,” Pope replied.
After Tack nodded, Rush entered the conversation.
“Griller got close, you got anything else?” he asked Beck.
“Only on Sparkle,” Beck grunted, eyes still on the patch. “But all leads to him dried up after he did Grill. Digger’s tapped out on news about Chew, though from what he knew, it confirms Pope sayin’ Chew used everything he had for one last shot at whatever the fuck he’s trying to accomplish with all this shit.” He lifted his eyes to Rush. “But Resurrection is not out. We’re still at your backs when we can be, we’re still on the hunt for Sparkle and we’re still on the hunt for Chew.”
“I’ll say it again, you should bow out, regroup, heal,” Tack advised.
Slowly, Beck turned his attention to Tack.
“You’re right. We should. But that’s not what we’re doin’.”
“Web, Rainman and Spartan got kids, man,” Tack reminded him.
Beck said nothing, just stared in Tack’s eyes, the memorial patch for his brother sitting on the table in front of him.
Pope didn’t have a lot of interest in this club, not when they were Bounty.
Pope was paying a lot of attention to Beck now that he was president of Resurrection.
“I don’t wanna have to have another patch made up, Throttle,” Tack went on.
“Respect. But it’s Beck,” he ground out. “And I don’t want that either. So this has to end. And to do that, we got bounties on Sparkle and Chew. Everything we got left. Everything we could round up. Everything every brother could pour into that pot. We don’t get him, every hunter in eight states lookin’, someone will.”
“Makin’ a desperate man more desperate, you doing that and word gets to Chew,” Tack replied.
“You want us to rescind the bounty on Chew, it’s done,” Beck returned. “But the one on Sparkle stands.”
Tack stared at him, looked over his shoulder at his son, Rush tipped his chin, Tack looked back to Beck.
“The one on Sparkle can stand,” Tack decreed.
Beck’s jaw ticked but he said nothing. He didn’t like that, Chew behind Sparkle killing his brother. But he’d do what he promised.
Tack sat back and rested his linked hands on his stomach.
“Last few weeks, brothers have had tight security systems installed, or tighter ones if they already had them. We’re movin’ our families back home. Appreciate anything you see or hear fed to us.” He looked to Beck. “You boys do what you gotta do.” He looked to Pope. “Time to resume our lives and fuckin’ hope.”
“Hate this for you, brother, and believe it that Range has got that hope with you this ends soon,” Pope said.
“Yeah,” Beck put in.
“Beer before we go?” Pope asked.
“Rosalie out there?” Beck asked Rush, straight up.
Shit.
“Yes,” Rush answered.
“No beer,” Beck grunted. “She needs to get safe home.”
Tack studied Beck closely.
It was uncanny, but Rush was studying him the exact same way.
So Chaos wasn’t going to get a new president.
Just a younger version of the same one.
“Guess we’re adjourned,” Beck decreed.
He then pushed back his chair, yanked out a knife from the table, walked to the brand-new Resurrection flag draped on the wall behind him, held that patch against it and drove the knife through.
He turned, crossed his arms on his chest.
Hardcore went to stand by his brother, assuming the same position.
“Ride safe, men,” Beck bid.
Handshakes were exchanged and the minute Pope opened the door, Range and Chaos were brushing shoulders with Resurrection as what was left of that club filed in.
They closed the door behind them.
Pope did not take that as disrespect.
He just gave his respect to Chaos and the old ladies he knew, and he and his VP got the fuck out of there.
Rush
Three and a half hours later . . .
“God, it’s good to be home,” Rebel mumbled against his chest.
Everyone was home. Kids getting back to schedules. Old ladies getting back to work.
Except Millie.
For weeks, Millie as well as High’s girls by his ex, Zadie and Cleo, and his ex, Deb, were down in Phoenix, hanging with Millie’s parents.
D, Mad and Sixx had all promised to keep an eye on them.
High still called down there seven hundred times a day.
Rush tightened his hold on Rebel, staring at the moonlight dancing on the Christmas balls hanging from her ceiling.
Her body relaxed into his as she fell asleep.
He did not sleep.
Could not sleep.
Because Pope made sense. Chew was out of resources. He was out of options. And he had to be running out of luck.
But Rush knew . . .
This was not over.
Because Chew knew all of that.
And because if it, Chew knew he was running out of time.
Free and Clear
Snapper
Six fifty, Saturday evening, two weeks later . . .
It was raining hard.
He was soaked.
His throat was choked.
His hair was straggling in his eyes, eyes that were blinking away the hair and the wet.
And the blood.
His hands were in fists, including the one with its fingers curled around the butt of his gun.
And Everett “Snapper” Kavanagh stared.
This was it.
The end was near.
And by what he was right then seeing, what had just been done, something that had already been hideously nasty was going to get seriously . . . fucking . . . ugly.
Chew wasn’t going to give up.
That fucking guy was not gonna give up.
The red staining the rainwater was pooling at his boots.
It was Black again.
The asshole had tried to pull the same thing on Snap that his mentor had succeeded in doing to Black.
Just like they thought he’d do.
Take out the brother that everyone liked. The even-keeled one.
The calm in the storm.
Take out the brother that would light a fire under the whole Club that was already a powder keg in an attempt not to blow it sky high, but to force them to scramble to put the light out then toe the line.
Do whatever it was that lunatic wanted them to do.
Eat whatever shit he wanted them to eat.
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