Gunny (Rebel Wayfarers MC Book 5)

by MariaLisa deMora

  Pulling his thoughts back to the present, he looked over at Slate and reached a hand out for the gavel. It was passed over with a frown, and without delay Mason thudded it once on the table. “National meeting, we have enough officers for a consensus. Listen up. I got some shit to lay out, brothers.” He reached out to pick up his beer, taking a long drink before setting it carefully down on the table, wrapping his strong fingers loosely around the bottle.

  “Judge is still in the wind,” he said, referencing a biker patched into the Outriders club of southern California. Two months ago, Bear’s old lady, Eddie, had been kidnapped and nearly killed by Judge…her own brother. The Rebels had gotten her back safely, but the insult to the club hit hard. They should have been able to protect their own, and Eddie was theirs, no mistake about it.

  “Shooter’s doing a nickel, but we all know he’ll be out sooner; he knows how to play by the rules and which lines not to cross.” Shooter was Eddie and Judge’s father, and had been national president of the Outriders since 2000, taking the club over from his old man. That transfer of power happened about the same time as Mason’s takeover of the Rebels. They had been brothers, both patched into the previous incarnation of the Chicago club, but Shooter eventually left to head home to Cali, and found comfort in his old club there.

  Mason shook his head. It wasn’t like him to reminisce so much, and especially not when he had an audience. Everything came down to what he was about to expose to his brothers, a relationship that should probably have been acknowledged long ago, but he had always known there was a fuckton of pain that would come with this, mostly his, so he had avoided it for years.

  “You all know the basic history of the Rebels. None of you were around when we formed the club,” he said, his gaze slowly scanning the men in the room, pausing on Tug with a nod. “But, some of you were there right after I took over, got to see some of the shit that was still flying around, before and after. Compared to the ‘90s, our life today is fucking tame, brothers. Remember this before you judge, yeah?”

  Fixing his gaze on Tug, the one man in the room with full knowledge of both the club and Mason’s history, he began talking. “Most of you won’t give a shit about any of this.” He glanced at Slate and then Bear. “Some of you will. It’s history, but I feel it’s relevant, because I want you to understand what my intentions are. In ‘88, I landed in Chicago, was introduced by Winger to a man named Deacon, president of the Rebel Fiends.

  “Within a year, I was patched in. In three years, I became one of his officers, and then eight years later, I cut that same man’s rocker, taking the club from him in every way that mattered, a short twelve years after I joined him as a brother.” There were questions, murmurings, and several of the men shifted in their chairs, uncomfortable with the idea of a powerful member and officer being brought so low, having the brotherhood of the club taken from him.

  “My own hands, I cut a dozen rockers. My own hands, I put six brothers in the ground. My hands are still sticky with my brothers’ blood, even though I believed then, and still know now, it was the only way. Our club was dying; Deacon didn’t have any discipline, no fucking care for his brothers. He took first from the workings. His was the first skim. My club was dying around me…my brothers going gypsy or nomad nearly every week.” He took a breath and then sipped from his beer, placing it back on the ring of condensation on the table.

  “Shooter was a Rebel for ten years. I was his prospect when I patched in. He bailed in ‘98, headed home to Cali and his old man’s club. Morgan, his old man, disappeared on a run to Utah in 2000, and Shooter took over that club the same month I bloodied the walls of the Monaco.” More noise from the men in the room at this, Tug had probably been the only man who knew Shooter’s long-ago association with the Rebels.

  Mason ignored the questions thrown at him by the men around the table, continuing with his recounting. “I renamed the club, reworked the charter, rebuilt it in every way with brothers I trust with my life. Carefully recruited members who gave a fuck, who wanted to live their lives free and who weren’t afraid to share the burden. Promoted those members, spread our territory, strategically absorbed families who previously wore different colors. Brought you all in, one by one, and now each of you plays a critical part in the club, and I’m here asking for your vote.” He paused, looking at each individual in turn.

  “We need to set Myron and Gunny to finding Judge, but I know I’m not objective where that boy’s concerned. Nor where things touch Shooter. So, I’m here asking for your opinion, your vote…your trust. I won’t ever be what Deacon became, so I want to make sure we’re going the right direction for all members, not just me.” He looked hardest at Duck, sitting along the wall to Mason’s right.

  Duck’s brother had done damage to the club by injuring one of their own, Mica. Mica, the woman he had been owned by since the first moment he saw her. Mica, who he had given up for her own good. Duck had endured for years, struggling with the guilt from that blood association, and Mason now understood it more than he was ever able to before. He appreciated the horror felt when you found out your family had done so much evil and there was fucking nothing you could do to change the outcome.

  “I’m of two minds for what to do with Shooter, but before we pick a direction, I’d like to have someone reach out to him, take his temperature. See if we can figure out how bound he is on revenge, or if perhaps he’s seen the error of his ways.” He looked at Slate, then Bear. “Anything other than remorse, we call it. He never leaves lockup.” Turning his gaze the other direction around the table, he frowned at the expression on some of the faces, and knew they were struggling on his behalf, because the pull of the club’s brotherhood would be strong on either side of the decision.

  He had to make it clear the club was his life, that his brothers came first. “Would you deny Eddie is ours? That we have a responsibility to make sure he never gets close enough to touch her again? Shooter’s the motherfucker who gave the recall order, handing crazy Judge a blank check on how to execute. We used some important markers to get her back, but it’s not a cost I regret. Do it a thousand times over, because she is ours.” He shook his head. “We dismantled the Outriders in response to what happened to Eddie. We killed a club that had been around for fifty years. Another thing I’d be willing to do again given the same need. But, we all know there will be blowback for those actions, and it’s up to us to see the direction it comes from, so we can track it, and deflect it.”

  He turned to look at Bear again. “Nearly lost a brother in the mix, because he decided to hero-up on us, but we contained shit and made it motherfucking work. Brought everybody home alive.” He shook his head, sighing. “Eddie belongs to us, just like Ruby is ours. Ours. Owned. Like Mica, Maggie, Willa…any of our women or families, if any of them come under threat, then we will put an end to any poison that tries to take them from us with the same goddamn terminal remedy.”

  “But like I said, I’m not impartial, and this is fucking hard.” He felt uncharacteristically troubled and looked down at his hands folded around the bottle on the table, watching as his fingers nervously rubbed the label, twisting the bottle back and forth. Lifting a hand to his face, he scrubbed brusquely across his jaw and neck, feeling the scrape of his short beard across his skin. Setting his jaw, he raised his head, dropping his hand back to the table, and schooling himself to stillness. “I was Shooter’s prospect into the club, because he’s my brother. My half-brother.” He looked at Duck again, seeing the dawning understanding on his face. “Yeah, he’s my blood. Judge…that fucking poisonous snake of a rat bastard, is my blood too.”

  ***

  Gunny sat at one of the tables in the clubhouse’s main room, waiting for the national officers’ meeting to end. He knew the gist of what Mason was telling them, had known for a while, because the man had trusted him to keep a watch out for Judge since that motherfucker pulled a ghost out in Cali. Mason had called from the airfield while they waited for clearance to take o
ff coming home, and laid everything out for him, including the blood tie and relationship with Shooter. He had listened silently then asked Mason one question, and after receiving an affirmative response, Gunny had begun to quietly and methodically run through his sources to ensure the little bastard wasn’t going to land anywhere near Rebel property or people.

  But, he found out more than they counted on when he began digging into the two men and the Outriders. Every stone he turned over held another association between Rebels and the western-based club. More than merely a blood connection, it looked like Shooter had been methodically dragging his spider’s web across Mason’s path time and time again, but to what gain, no one seemed to know. Beyond the things Mason already knew about, Gunny had found evidence Shooter had been involved or had influenced at least a half-dozen events in the past ten years alone that had resulted in negative consequences for Rebels.

  He had been behind their brief but bloody war with the Machos club, feeding the Machos’ president misinformation through Monster, a Rebel officer he had known from shared time in the Rebel Fiends, Mason’s first club. At the time, Slate had been instrumental to Mason, because he had been part of the crew to stop the initial attack cold. It had been a baptism by fire for the man, because it happened on the same day he patched in as a prospect.

  Shooter was also the reason for every shit thing that had happened to Bear in the past several years, at least as far as Gunny could tell. His near-death at the hands of club members in Iowa could be laid directly at Shooter’s feet, as well as the beating he suffered in California bringing Eddie home. Last night, Gunny had discovered a well-hidden money trail, and now it looked like Shooter may have even been behind the carjacking resulting in Bear becoming a Rebel in the first place. Shooter and Mason seemed to share a need to manipulate people and events, but unlike Mason, for Shooter, collateral damage simply didn’t register. He set situations into motion and designed events without the same kind of care and attention to the individuals that Mason brought to the table.

  He felt a vibration in his pocket and reached down, pulling his phone out to look at the email. After reading the first two sentences of the report, he froze, his blood running cold in his veins. John Morgan, aka Shooter, owned four businesses in Kentucky not far from where Mason had grown up. One of those was a strip joint named Shinedown.

  He cast his mind back to what Sharon had mentioned about the owner, saying John was a nice guy, but didn’t come around the club often. Knowing how Shooter had pulled and pushed his chess pieces across the board, was it too paranoid for him to wonder if Sharon had been intimidated into moving on because of…what? Something. What am I missing?

  She was sister to Jase, who was a good friend of Mason, and now a solid member of the Rebels. But, that was only one piece, because Jase was also friends with both Daniel and Mica, one of whom Mason was friends with, and one with which he was much more than friends. Indirectly connected with the Rebel president from two different sides, now the problem would be to determine if Sharon’s appearance here in the Fort was coincidence, or directed. His gut twisted at the thought she might be working for…no. He trusted her.

  Lover or not, if it weren’t for the brutality of the beating she suffered, Gunny would probably be questioning her involvement, but he had come to know her well and couldn’t believe she could have…but Elkins could. He nodded to himself, quickly tapping out an email response asking for additional information on the local bikers who had shown at the club in Kentucky the last night Sharon worked there, and added a request for info on the bouncer, too. Maybe there was something that drove her concern for the man, which prompted her to submit and then leave. Fishing, he thought.

  He was just finishing, when the door behind the bar opened and ten men stalked out, led by Mason. He wasn’t entirely certain what Prez wanted with him today, but had shown up at the indicated time, expecting to simply provide a report and update.

  So, he was surprised as hell when Mason stopped at the bar and leaned into it, giving Gunny his back, but meeting his gaze in the mirror and drawing him over with a tilt of his head. He had taken two long strides headed that way, when a slow clapping started from the national officers who had been meeting with Mason. They had spread throughout the room, and now they were looking at him and putting their hands together in applause. What the fuck? He paused in place.

  Slate put his fingers to his mouth and whistled shrilly, drawing a halt to the disconcerting noise, and the sound level in the room dropped immediately. Gunny finished walking to where Mason stood, covering the last twenty feet in an unnerving silence, the sharp slap of his boot soles on the bare wood floorboards the only noise. Mason held his gaze in the mirror, waiting until Gunny stood beside him to break the stare, looking down at the bar top and tapping several times with one fingertip.

  Glancing down, Gunny saw a patch lying on the bar. Reading it, he figured they must be patching in a new member, but Watchman wasn’t anyone he knew. Maybe he’s from one of the other chapters, he mused, frowning and shrugging at Mason. He motioned for the prospect bartending today to get him a beer, leaning over to toss his empty into the trash behind the bar. Because of his position, he didn’t see Mason move, and was unprepared for the touch on his upper arm. The grip seemed to come out of nowhere, startling him and had him lurching backwards, jerking out of Mason’s hold.

  “Hang on, brother,” Mason said quietly, keeping his hands in clear view as Gunny struggled to control his physical response, because fuck a goddamned flight response—fight had kicked right the fuck into high gear. He could feel his nostrils flaring as he sucked in air, knew his face was twisted in a combination of terror and fury. “Got something to give you, Gunny.” Mason’s wary voice was carefully modulated, level and even in tone, deliberately pitched not to carry. “It’s all good, man. Not fucking with you, just wasn’t thinking.” His president was one of the few people who knew all of what happened to him over in the sand wars, the twenty-plus reasons for his self-isolation, and the one reason for his distrustful attitude.

  “What is it?” he ground out, drawing up to his full three-inch advantage over the Prez, sweat coating his face.

  “Fucking national office,” Mason said, tapping the patch again.

  “What the fuck is a Watchman?” Gunny asked, not moving, still grimly trying to bring his breathing back under control.

  “Someone who watches.” Mason shrugged. “Someone who keeps shit in line, because he sees everything that goes on. Someone like you.”

  “Screw you.” Gunny said, offering a one-finger salute and laughing, slowly relaxing now, since he knew this to be a joke.

  Shaking his head, Mason said, “Not my type, fucker. But, you are my newest fucking national officer. Welcome, brother.” He thrust out a hand, and Gunny gripped it out of reflex, the heat and pressure from the grip working to anchor him and he felt the Pandora’s box of his response slip closed.

  “Funny shit, Prez.” He let Mason pull him into a one-shouldered hold, and then his eyes flicked to a grinning Slate, seeing Jase step out from behind him with a smile on his face. Shuffling backwards, he raised his chin, asking Mason, “You’re shitting me, right?”

  “Shit-free, motherfucker. Get your gal to sew it on tonight; you know the drill. We can catch up tomorrow to discuss exactly what’s expected, but tonight we’re gonna fucking party. It ain’t every day we create a new office and promote a brother.” Mason stepped back, folding his arms across his chest, waiting for Gunny’s response.

  “National officer? You sure you got the right guy, Prez?” He shook his head, even as he felt the heat of bodies against his back, tensing though he knew it was his brothers circling around. Every man in here has my six, he thought, firmly reminding himself this place would always be safe. Every brother trusted.

  “Yeap, right fucking brother for the job, man. It’s all good, Gunny. You’re good.” Mason’s eyes cut over his shoulder then back to him. Prez gave him a chin lift, a soft tap of knuckl
es to his breastbone, and a tilt of his head, and Gunny turned to accept the welcome and congratulations of his club.

  A couple of hours later, he received a text on his phone and grinned. Standing, he looked around to see Mason sitting at a table across the room, deep in conversation with Slate and Jase. Rocking back on his heels, he called out, “Prez. Got something for you. Somewhat unplanned you’re in town precisely when it’s ready, but I’ll count this as a good thing. A sign.” He laughed loudly. “A good fucking omen, man.” He tapped a response on the phone and headed for the wide hallway leading to the outside door. “Be back in a few, Mason. Don’t go anywhere. Hang tight.”

  About thirty minutes later, coming up the hallway from outside, he heard the noise and murmurs as the members took in the sight of him pushing a drape-covered bike into the clubhouse. Bringing bikes in wasn’t uncommon; at times, it was more typical than not, because no one wanted their ride out in the hail of a summer storm. Bringing them in covered was different though, even for him, and had their tongues wagging.

  “Mason…Prez, come over here,” he said, pulling the bike to a stop in the middle of the room, nodding to thank the men who had pushed tables out of the way. He toed down the rear kickstand for the bike, tugging back on the handlebars to secure the bike upright, and settled one hip into a comfortable lean on the still-covered seat.

  “You are a man well-known for his love of bikes. Unlike our brother Bear here, you don’t much appreciate flashy and gaudy, and you sure as shit don’t want to ride sparkles and glitter like Hoss.” He grinned around the room, noting every eye was on him, and not minding it for a change. This was a once in a lifetime opportunity, and he was going to make as big a production out of it as he could stand. Building memories. “Nope, you are a man after my own heart. Classic and black are two main requirements for a scoot you’re willing to plant your ass on. Throw in some chrome, and it’s a done fucking deal. I stumbled on this one a couple years ago—” The noise level in the room rose at this admission, and he glared around at the men until they quieted down. It wasn’t their place to know the degree of dedication he had for Mason. Hell, he thought, two years ain’t nothing. I’d work my whole life to give him something like this.