by Sarah Osborn
“Actually, you can give me a ride, too. Felix has some stuff to show me.”
His jaw clenched. “Just don't let him railroad you.”
“He's not railroading me, I really want to try something different. The paintings sell well, but they're not who I am anymore, and it feels like I'm just churning out the same old stuff for the money.” Emma knew that this wasn't about an art project; Deke was still convinced that Felix had been the one pushing her to sell, and he was still pissed at him. “We're just playing around with some ideas, is all.”
Deke didn't pursue the subject; right now any potential conflict was being carefully avoided. “Did you call your mom?”
“Yeah. I'm already beginning to regret telling them I'd go, but they haven't met Lottie.” She laughed. “Or you. Are you sure you really want to come with us?”
“Are you ashamed of me, baby girl?”
“No, not at all. But my mother is going to test your diplomatic skills.”
“I'll just turn on the ol' Samson charm. Your ma will be wetting her panties.”
“Ew. I can't begin to tell you how wrong that statement is.” She tucked her hand into his back pocket as they walked back to the house. “You do know you're going to hate it, don't you?”
“It's a few days outta my life, Emma. It'll be cool.”
FIFTY-ONE
Tiny wiped the blood from his face and stared in the mirror. He was getting too old for this. Biker wars – like all wars – were messy. They were never contained, and old allegiances and grievances would be called into play. Clubs that had existed happily alongside each other were suddenly sworn enemies, and patches on every side were watching their backs. Places where they'd always been welcome were now closing their doors, and now the great and the good were screaming for something to be done about these outlaws who were interfering with business. He picked up the soap and began to scrub himself clean, wincing as the water hit a cut on his cheek.
This is what things had descended to. Fucking bar brawls. Tiny had always been a soldier, and would do whatever he had to for the club, but he wasn't a brawler – he liked his violence more focused.
The cut had stopped bleeding, but his eye was puffy. He gingerly washed off the caked-on blood and dropped the soap back into the basin. The man in the mirror looked calm, but inside Tiny, Vesuvius raged. He could hear his brothers congratulating themselves on a job well done in the room next door, and his hands gripped the basin. All they'd succeeding in doing was kicking the shit out of a bunch of guys who, a few months ago, they'd called brothers, because they happened to be drinking in the wrong bar at the wrong time, and destroying some poor sucker's business in the process.
He dried his face and sat on the toilet seat. Tiny and brawling didn't mix. It released the rage, but gave it nowhere to go. Taking a deep breath, he stood and walked into the main room. “I'm gonna head home, boss.”
Vince frowned. “Not even staying for one drink? I'd say your ol' lady had you whipped if I didn't know she was away.”
“Nah. Not feeling it. I need some quiet.” He knew that Vince didn't really understand – few people did – he was dangerous when he was like this. If Beth and the kids had been there, he wouldn't have gone straight home. He'd have ridden until he was too exhausted to ride and then ridden some more, until the fire died down enough for him to be near people, then punched a bag until his knuckles bled. Then, maybe, he'd have gone home to his family.
Now, though, he had no family at home, so he just rode.
~ oOo ~
Beth quietly closed the kids' bedroom door and crept downstairs. Sophia's house was too small, and the stress of having four kids around was starting to take its toll on her mother-in-law. The kids were getting bored and frustrated, too. She'd enrolled Luke and Abi into the local school, but neither was settling well, and while the two little ones were easy to entertain, Alice was frustrated at Sophia's inability to sign and was throwing tantrums at regular intervals.
They couldn't continue like this. Beth understood Joe's need to keep them all safe, and she understood that he wanted to put as much distance between himself and them right now. In the days leading up to them leaving, his mood has grown blacker and his temper shorter. This stupid, goddamned war had begun to leech into their family life, and Joe would do whatever it took to keep that from happening. But this wasn't a workable solution, and if he wouldn't agree to them all moving home, she was going to have to look for alternative accommodation.
Sophia opened her eyes as Beth entered the living room. “Kids asleep?”
“Yeah, finally.” She sank onto the sofa. “I'm going to talk to Joe about going home. We must be driving you nuts.”
Sophia didn't deny it. “Joe won't allow that. It's not safe there, and you saw how he was the other day. There's no way he wants to be near the kids when he's like that.” She shook her head. “We'll manage, Beth.”
There was another option, but neither she or Joe had discussed that; the tenants would be leaving their house in Seattle in a month's time. It had plenty of room, and it was safe. Beth sighed inwardly. Joe would never agree to that. He needed them close. She smiled. “Yeah, we'll manage. You want some cocoa?”
~ oOo ~
His ma's house was in darkness when Tiny pulled up outside, but as he killed the engine, the bedroom light came on. The curtain twitched, and he raised his hand before dismounting. Instead of going straight in, he sat on the stoop and lit a cigarette.
The front door opened and, passing him a beer, Beth sat down next to him. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” Vaguely, he wondered how many times they'd sat there over the years. Beth was the only one who'd sit there with him when they were kids. It had always been her who would comfort him with her presence without pushing him to talk. “I ain't staying. I just wanted to look in on the kids.”
She leaned against him, and he felt some of the tension leave his body. “It'd be nice if you could spend some time with them over the weekend. They're really missing you.”
He was missing them, too. “I'll try, but don't say anything to 'em, just in case I can't make it.” There must have been a list of shit Beth wanted to offload onto him, but she stayed silent. He ground the cigarette butt under his heel and stood up. “It's cold out here. Let's go in the warm.”
Tiny wasn't sure if watching his kids as they slept, then fucking his ol' lady before riding off into the night made him some kinda asshole, but he knew he couldn't stay. Beth understood that the calm veneer was real thin and brittle right now, and that he didn't trust himself around them. She sat up and watched as he pulled on his jeans, but he couldn't bring himself to look her in the eye. “It won't be forever, Beth.”
“I know. We'll be fine, just keep yourself safe.”
He bent and kissed her. “Always.”
FIFTY-TWO
The derelict farmhouse reeked of decay. Tiny wrinkled his nose as he headed down to the cellar. There was no power, and the small, dank space was illuminated by only a couple of high powered flashlights; not ideal for what he needed to do, but Tiny was pretty good and could probably do it with his eyes closed. Mac looked up as he approached. “Do you need me?”
Tiny's eyes fell on the only other figure in the room. “Nah. Wait upstairs.” He grabbed a flashlight and pointed it at the unconscious man tied to a chair. Fuck, they'd already beaten him half to death, and he was only a prospect. Not only would he most likely not have a lot to give up, judging by the wounds and the way he was breathing, even if Tiny could bring him around, he wouldn't survive for long. Shit. Fucking amateurs. He scowled and turned back to Mac. “Who brought him in?”
“Nomads.”
“Did they get anything from him?” He was guessing not. That was why he was there, after all.
Mac shook his head. “Fox didn't say. They just dumped him here, then took off.”
Somehow, he wasn't surprised. With a sigh, Tiny dumped his bag on a table leaning against the wall and pulled out a small glass bottl
e. He leaned back as the stink of ammonia hit him, and waved it under the Serpiente prospect's nose. “Wakey wakey, sunshine. Time for us to have a little chat.”
The prospect lifted his head and gargled as a trickle of blood ran from between his lips.
Shit. The bruising that had formed around his throat probably meant that his vocal cords were fucked. “Can you talk?”
Another gargle.
Tiny looked down at the man's hands. Completely mangled. Fuck. No chance of him writing, either. Tiny sighed and straightened up. “You're dying. You know that, right?” Without waiting for confirmation, he continued. “I don't need to waste any energy on you, all I have to do is wait. So I got a couple of questions – a nod will be enough – if you cooperate, my brother drives you to the nearest hospital, an' you might just make it. If not, you can stay here an' drown in your own blood.” He crouched down. “Do you know who gave up the details of the coke run?”
Nod.
“Was it a Freak?”
Another nod.
“You see him?”
A shake of the head. No.
“But you got a name.”
The kid parted his lips, and Tiny brought his ear closer. It was no more than a breath, but he heard it as loud as if it had been shouted. “Samson.”
He stood and ran his hand across his head, then pulled out his Glock. “Who gave you that name? Think carefully how you answer, shithead. Cuz if I think you're lying, life is gonna get a lot more painful.”
Tiny's captive slumped forward, and he grabbed his hair and pulled his head back. He gave him a shake, but the eyes were unfocussed and his lips were turning blue. “Fuck.” He turned and ran up the stairs. “Mac? I'm gonna take a ride.”
“What about...” Mac pushed himself away from the wall.
“He's done. Bag him and dump him.”
“But... “
“Just do it, asshole. I need to be somewhere.”
He was a soldier. He obeyed his orders without question. Tiny's bike ate up the miles, but the noise in his head just grew louder. He'd been ordered to get information from some pathetic loser and take it back to Vince. So why was he riding in the opposite direction like there were a hundred demons snapping at his heels?
All his adult life, Tiny had been sure of the club and his place in it. He pulled over and, after lighting a cigarette, pulled his cell from his pocket. He stared at it for a time, his thumb hovering over the keypad. Vince was his President, but Samson was more than his brother – he was his friend. With a sigh, he hit a key. “Boss?”
“Where the fuck are you? I just sent the grunt to help Mac clear the mess. You get anything?”
“No.” He'd never lied to his President before. “Nomads had beaten him too bad. He died before he could give me anything. Sorry, boss.”
“Shit. They were supposed to.... Are you sure there was nothing?”
“No. Dunno why you thought there would be. It was just a prospect. He weren't likely to know anything. Even if he hadn't been beaten half to death, what could he have known?” There was something... Tiny couldn't quite pin it down, but the whole thing felt off to him. “I've gotta head out, something's come up.”
“What? I need you here, Tiny.”
“Sorry, boss. Family shit.”
“So get someone to deal with it. You can't just take off.”
“Sorry, this has to be me. I'll be back in a day or so.” Tiny hung up before Vince had the chance to argue, then fired up his bike and headed towards Vegas.
FIFTY-THREE
Jez worked as – of all things – an office manager. Tiny would never get his head around seeing the Vegas president dressed in a suit and tie, but the old guy seemed to switch between the two worlds with remarkable ease, and the construction company he worked for was probably not entirely legit. The chapter President looked up and grinned as Tiny opened the door. “Brother! Good to see you. What brings you here?”
“Not sure.” Tiny sat on the edge of the desk. “Got some information about a rat. Need to get your take before I act.”
“Go on.” Jez stood and poured them both a coffee.
“The coke runs. Who knows the routes?”
“Depends. Usually the Presidents and road captains of whatever chapter is taking part. You know this, Tiny, why you asking?”
“Anyone else?”
Jez shrugged. “Nomads, sometimes. C'mon, Tiny. This ain't how you work. What's going on?”
“Got a feeling I'm being played. Ain't sure how, or by who.” He took a sip of the coffee. “I wanna sit down with Jorge.”
Jez's eyebrows shot up. “Can't see that happening, brother. Serpiente ain't exactly our best buddies right now. An' even if I could pull that off, he won't talk to you. No offense, Tiny. But you're too low down the food chain.”
“Would he talk to you?”
“Doubt it. He's a proud son of a bitch, and the last little chat we had didn't go down too well. He'd maybe sit down with Vince or maybe Samson.”
“Samson?”
“They both did a bid, years back. They ain't exactly blood brothers, but y'know. My enemy's enemy is my friend. They had each others backs for a while.” Jez sat back down. “I reckon you need to tell me what's going on.”
“Nomads pulled in a Serpiente prospect. He gave up a name. Wanna be sure.”
“What's your gut telling you, Tiny? You obviously haven't taken this to Vince, which makes me think that you ain't buying what you've been told.” Jez sighed. “I ain't gonna ask, cuz I don't wanna know. But I know you, brother. If this ain't sitting right with you, then I reckon you gotta follow what your gut is telling you. I do know that Jorge plays things close to his chest, can't see him sharing shit with a prospect, and he sure as shit won't tell you. If there's a rat, he's gonna keep quiet. This prospect... he was sure?”
“I dunno. He died 'fore I could push him.” Tiny stood up. “I need to do some digging.”
“Call Samson. This is his game.” Jez frowned. “Fuck. That's why you're here. That prospect gave up Samson.”
“You think he's our rat?” Tiny was no less confused now than he was when he'd taken off eight hours ago.
“No, I don't. But word on the street is that he's been getting cozy with De Luca, an' his family have used the Serpiente to do their dirty work for years. I should be telling you to take this to Vince.”
“And if I do and he orders the hit?”
“I dunno. I'm sorry, brother. But if you ain't careful, you'll be eating a bullet as well. This ain't your call. Your job was to get the information. What have you told Vince?”
“That the kid died 'fore I could get to him.”
“Shit, Tiny. You spoken to Samson?”
“No.”
“Good. Don't. Go to the clubhouse. I'll ask around. We'll talk later.”
What was his gut telling him? Tiny, instead of going to the clubhouse, found a bar a few blocks away. He knew that Samson would never betray the club, and he knew that he couldn't tell Vince what he'd been told, but... No! There were no buts. Someone had fed that kid disinformation, and he needed to find out who. He just didn't know how he was supposed to do that.
The whole run had been a complete clusterfuck from the outset. The day of the pickup had been changed at the last minute and none of the officers from Bay View had been available. Instead they had relied on the nomads to run the coke from the Mexican border to Vegas, and they too, were two men down. Samson had split, deciding that he needed to spend time with Emma and Lottie, and Tank had laid down his bike and was grounded. They had been barely thirty miles into the States when they'd been hit, and the details were still sketchy. According to Fox, who was leading the run, someone – he couldn't be sure who – was waiting for them in two trucks and had driven them off the road. None of the nomads had been seriously injured, but the consignment of coke was lost, and Vince was convinced whoever had done this had been tipped off. And although Tiny knew there was a chance Samson had known the details of the run, he co
uldn't believe he'd betray his brothers.
The general consensus that it was the Serpiente behind the attack. Tiny wasn't so sure, despite the prospect's confession. Fox had said they were armed with sawed-off shotguns and the fact no Freaks were seriously injured didn't sound like the Serpiente at all. Without exception, all the hits from them had been bloody, and he'd never known them use anything other than semi-automatic weapons.
Everything about this felt wrong, and Tiny really didn't like the feeling he was getting in his gut. He slammed his empty glass on the bar and headed for the clubhouse. He needed to sleep, and he needed to think. He would have liked to be able to talk, but couldn't think of anyone he trusted enough to talk to.
FIFTY-FOUR
Tiny was awake and on the road before dawn. He'd known when he'd gone to Vegas that he wasn't going to get any real answers, but had trusted Jez enough to sound him out. Nothing could convince him that Samson was a rat, but if Vince had heard the rumors about De Luca's involvement, there would be consequences.
All night, he'd wrestled with his dilemma. Betray his closest friend, or lie to his President. He couldn't avoid Vince forever, but until he was sure, he was going to stick to his story: The kid had said nothing.
As soon as he hit Bay View, Tiny headed straight for Vince's place. His President was one of the few Freaks that didn't have regular work. Gloria had always been the main breadwinner, but her days as a stripper were long gone, so now she managed a massage parlor in Richmond. The only cash that Vince brought in was what the club earned.
Tiny banged on the kitchen door. “You there, Vince?”
“Yeah, c'mon in. You wanna beer?”
“Coffee.” Tiny sat, uninvited, at the table.
“You gonna tell me what happened with this Mexican asshole?”
“Nothing to tell, boss.” Tiny kept his eyes fixed on the mug in front of him. “The nomads had beat him too bad. He never regained consciousness.”
