King's Barber

by M. D. Gregory

  Scar moved out of the way and I could finally see Quain again. His expression had softened to… almost respect, like he understood who Undertaker was and didn’t want to start anything with him.

  “Yes, if you must know. I was contracted by Rafael Herrera Reyes, the cousin of the cartel boss, to take out a few people a couple of years ago. I know how they work.” He raised his chin and held out his palms. “I’m not here to hurt Barber. I want to protect him, and if that means going with him to get Errol and Sophie back, I will. But trust me, the club can’t ride in there behind him. They’ll kill them.”

  “So how do you plan on getting through?” I snapped, squeezing my fingers around my Ruger. The rough texture of the handle sent a wave of comfort through me.

  “Where do they want to meet you?”

  “Out on Nixon Road. There’s an abandoned house that way. It’s near a train trestle—”

  “I know where it is,” Quain said. He pursed his lips. “I used to play out there as a kid.”

  Me too. I didn’t say it because this wasn’t a bonding experience. I wanted my family back, and this man had lied to me. If he’d been honest with me, I might have been able to keep Errol and Sophie safe. Now I needed his help when all I wanted to do was punch his pretty nose.

  Quain stared at me like he knew what I was thinking, and his lips quirked to the side, looking almost apologetic. “There’s a bunch of trees behind the house that span out to the road behind it. The road goes nowhere except to a couple of homes dotted on some land, so not many people know about it. They’re out-of-towners, they certainly would have no idea about it. I could come in through the trees with my M24. Take a couple of them out.”

  It was on my tongue to tell him to stick it up his ass, but he was right, as much as I hated to admit it. I was stuck with him until we got Errol and Sophie out of this mess. Right now an assassin came in handy, and by the sounds of it, this “Society” didn’t just take anyone. He had to have skills.

  I shoved a finger in his direction. “Fine, but you better stay the fuck out of my way, am I clear?”

  He pressed his lips into a thin line. “I need to go back to my house and get my M24. I’ll meet you just outside of the city, near Suzy’s, that hippie place—”

  “I know what Suzy’s is,” I grumbled, turning my back on him. How did we go from fucking each other’s brains out to this? I knew how—Dad. It was always that asshole’s fault. Even though I was on the other side of the country, he found ways to fuck with me. “Go.”

  I glanced at him to see Quain eye each of my brothers carefully before he backed out of the meeting room slowly, gaze trained on us as though he expected someone to try and put a knife in his back. When he reached the door, he was out of there, giving me a chance to take a deep, shaky breath.

  “I’m guessing you had no idea,” King said, laying a hand on my shoulder and squeezing.

  “I should have listened to you, pres.” I shook my head.

  “An ass like that can blind even the smartest man,” Scar grunted out. If Charley was here, I’d imagine he’d get a smack to the head for a comment like that, but it was true. Quain has a really nice ass.

  “I just need to get my family back.”

  “Tell us everything, Barber. Who is your father?” King asked. I was surprised he hadn’t figured it out. A lot of guys who came into the club had a background check done on them because King needed to know who we were dealing with, but when I’d joined we didn’t have so many enemies.

  I ran a hand over my head, sighing. “He’s a district attorney over in LA. He goes for the big players because he’s got this rep for being a shark. He doesn’t back down, no matter who he goes after.”

  “Damn.” Scar snorted. “Does he know you’re part of the Kings?”

  “Yeah.” I shrugged. “I told him to stay the fuck out of my life. When I first joined, the bastard wanted to prove a point, so he went after the clubs in California. Took a couple of presidents down, too. The criminals over there hate his guts.”

  “Sounds like you do, too.” King crossed his arms and gave me a sharp look. “Will he give us trouble?”

  “Nah. He stopped caring when he realized I wasn’t coming back to that shithole.” I glanced at the large picture behind King. The first brothers in our club stared back, including King himself, Scar, Jester, and a couple of guys I didn’t know. “I don’t know why he’s got an assassin on me. He’s never cared about me before, King, and my father wouldn’t have anything to do with illegal crap. Why he would go to a contract killer….”

  “The Society’s been around for a long time,” King murmured, stroking his chin. “They’re a web of interconnecting people, full of dangerous and powerful killers. The fact that his informant had the balls to give him the number was the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. Anyone who knows about them has sense not to give their number out to a lawman.” He sighed. “Let’s not talk about this right now. We need to get Errol and Sophie back.” King’s mouth twisted in disgust. “As much as I hate to admit it, Beaumont is right. They’ll expect us to come, and they’ll put a bullet in your family if they even hear another bike. Quietly is the best way.”

  “Do we trust him, though?” Scar asked, crossing his massive arms.

  King turned to Undertaker, who nodded. “If he wanted Barber dead, he’s had a lot of chances. I told you, he’s got a killer’s instinct. He sniffs around after blood and death.” He ran a finger over his bottom lip, smearing some of the black lipstick. “I applaud him. He was undercover for a long time and we had no idea until recently. He’s good at his job.”

  “That doesn’t answer whether we trust the motherfucker,” Scar said with a glare. “Give me the word and I’ll slice my knife over that frail neck of his.”

  Undertaker laughed, the creepy sound floating in the air like a veil of evilness. “You wouldn’t get near him, Scar. He’d have you bleeding out before you realized what was happening. There’s a difference between the Society and bikers. They kill quietly, with finesse. These people are trained to be silent and deadly. You have the subtlety of a toddler on training wheels.”

  I quirked a smile, unable to hide my amusement, even if the fear for my family sat heavy in my gut. The weight of anxiety was never anything I’d felt before. I’d never had a reason to worry about Errol and Sophie.

  “All right. So we go with the assassin’s plan.” King stared around at us. “Call our brothers that aren’t here. We’ll wait just outside the city until we get word, and trust Beaumont doesn’t fuck us over. If he does, we’ll bury him with the rest of the skeletons.”

  There was a noise of agreement throughout the room.

  “And Barber?”

  “Yeah?” I turned to King, frowning.

  “You cannot tell anyone about the Society. I don’t want you dead, brother.”

  As much as I hated the idea of keeping the stupid organization a secret from the other Kings, I nodded. “Yes, pres.”

  We met Quain outside the city like we planned. He had his sniper rifle at the ready and told us he’d come in from the trees. All I could do was trust him because after that, I left my brothers behind. I passed a guy leaning against a black Audi on the way out to the house, which told me Quain was right. They were watching me to make sure I didn’t do anything stupid.

  A shower of light rain battered against the smokey visor of my helmet, and I growled in frustration as I wiped it off as best I could.

  When I arrived at the house, I slid off my bike and put down the stand. I felt for the gun in the holster under my leather jacket and stared around at the abandoned house. When I was a kid, rumors said it was haunted, so no one ever bought it. But the truth was, it was owned by someone who didn’t want to fix it up. There was a history there I didn’t know or care about, and it was the perfect place for squatters, so everyone knew to stay away. How the Mexicans knew about it, I didn’t know.

  There wasn’t anything pretty about the house—it was clad with dirty whit
e vinyl panels, peeling paint and broken walls. The arched windows were broken, shards of glass scattered on the wooden veranda that had holes of its own. The shrubs around the front were brown and overgrown, creeping up over and onto the two steps that led to the veranda. The train trestle we’d fought the Demons on not long ago was over to the right, a river rushing angrily beneath it, the bank stretching out behind the house. There didn’t seem to be any sign of life inside, but I knew differently.

  I took the steps fast, the rotting wood creaking under my weight, and went to the front door, turning the knob. The door swung open and right off the hinges, the sound loud and thundering to my ears as it crashed to the floor, splitting on the edges and down the middle. I glared at it and stepped inside carefully. The silence was deafening, but as I reached inside my jacket to feel for my gun again, I kept my eyes front and center.

  The sound of a creak had me pausing, and a door ahead of me opened, revealing a stocky Hispanic man covered in black ink. He smirked and gestured me forward. “Welcome, Mr. Booth.”

  I hated my real name on his lips. Before I became Luke to him, Quain always called me Mr. Booth, and I enjoyed the sound of it coming from him. But not this fucker. “Where’s my family?” I squeezed the Ruger’s handle and raised my chin. “Don’t make me shoot your ass.”

  He laughed, the deep noise echoing around the narrow hallway. “I will need your weapons.”

  Two men stepped up behind me, and I tossed them a glare. I didn’t know where they’d come from, but they’d obviously been ready for me. One of them held out his hand with a smirk. There was no misidentifying them as anyone but Reyes’ men anymore. They had the same smug smiles on their face, like they thought they could take on the world while it was on fire and come out unburned. The tattoo on their forearm was another clue. I didn’t know how I hadn’t seen it before when I was fighting the other jackass. It was hard to miss. Reyes meant king in Spanish, which meant the insignia had a crown similar to ours, but it wasn’t on a skull like the Kings of Men’s.

  “I’m not giving you shit until I see my uncle and cousin.” I glared at the man in front of me, the obvious leader of this Mexican mariachi band.

  He grinned. “Then we’re at a standoff, pendejo, because we’re not giving them over until we have your weapons, and we have a little conversation about your father.”

  “If you’ve got beef with my father, then you take it up with him.” I pointed my finger in his direction, anger fueling every word from my tongue. “Because that fucking prick has nothing to do with me. I stopped talking to him a long time ago.”

  “That’s not our concern.” He waved his hand behind him, toward a hallway and a door at the end of it. “Give up your guns and knives and let’s talk. Sí?”

  “See what?” I glared at him when he cocked his head in confusion. “I’m not seeing jack shit.”

  “No, sí is Spanish, hermano.” His laughter grated on my nerves. “It means yes.”

  “I fucking know that.” I bared my teeth at him because while technically I did know what sí meant, I hadn’t realized what he was saying. “Why don’t you choose to fully speak English, huh? Why mix up two damn languages. Stick to one or the other.”

  The man raised his eyebrows and waved his hand, like this was a waste of his time. “I’m not getting into bilingualism with you, Mr. Booth. You have two choices: give them up and talk so you can get your uncle and cousin back, or don’t and watch them die.”

  Fury stole my voice. If I said anything more I’d end up regretting what came out of my mouth. I reached in to grab my gun. The guys beside me pointed their Berettas at me, and I huffed, raising my spare palm to show I wasn’t going to be stupid enough to shoot them. I passed them the Ruger.

  “Happy?” I snarled.

  “Sí. Yes. Come.” He turned on his heel and went into the room behind him, and the guys at my back shoved me.

  I stumbled forward and let them push me into a rundown kitchen with groaning floorboards and battered walls. Cobwebs filled the corners of the ceiling, some expanding out onto the flat planes, and spiders crept across them. There was a set of chairs and a table in the center of the room, but it looked cheap and new, as though my friendly neighborhood Mexicans had recently bought them from a junk shop or second-hand store.

  The leader was already sitting in one of the wooden chairs, and he gestured to another in front of him. “Sit.”

  I gritted my teeth together and fell into the chair opposite him. “What the fuck do you want?”

  “Do you know how much trouble your father is giving us? He’s taking down very important players for our cartel and my boss isn’t happy.” He clicked his tongue and shook his head. “No feliz en absoluto.”

  “English,” I snapped. “I can’t speak much Spanish.”

  “Your father can.” He grinned like he knew exactly what to say to piss me off, and it worked. As far as Father was concerned, he was better at everything than me, and I was nothing more than a disappointment. “I said ‘not happy at all.’ ”

  “And I don’t care. I told you that I had nothing to do with my father. You think killing me will make him suffer? It won’t. He’s always cared more about his fucking job than his family. It’s why I left when I was a teenager.”

  “Aw, how sad.” His grin widened and he would have been hot if he wasn’t such a douche. He had the warm brown eyes and bronze skin I always found beautiful, although I no longer thought anyone could be on Quain’s level of attractiveness. Not even being angry at him for his lies changed my mind about that. Quain was out-of-this-world gorgeous. “I don’t care, and neither does my boss.” He crossed a leg over his knee and leaned his elbow on the table. His black suit moved with him, and it looked like one of those custom-made expensive jackets, not that I would know. I hadn’t owned a suit since I left LA. “The fact that he sent someone to protect you says otherwise.”

  “Quain? You’re talking about him, right?” I snorted and eyed the gun on one of the other Mexican’s hip. I could reach over there without someone shooting me first. “That you’re more scared of him than me tells me you’ve got no brains. I can do more damage.”

  The leader’s smile slid off his face and he glanced at one of the other men with wide eyes. They spoke in Spanish, fast, and all I could do was watch in confusion. I didn’t understand a single word, even with my basic knowledge. The two other men fled the room while the leader finally turned back to me and stood. “Quain? As in Quain Beaumont?”

  I frowned at him. “Yeah?”

  He pursed his lips. “He’s an assassin. Why would he be protecting you?”

  For the first time I felt like I had some control in this situation, and I had Quain to thank for that. I leaned back in my chair and gave him a smug smile of my own. “We go way back.”

  A familiar shout of anger had my muscles tightening, and I glanced toward the door where the Mexicans were dragging in my cousin and uncle. I stood fast and clenched my jaw. Sophie stopped struggling when she saw me and relief slid over her face, making my chest ache. I shouldn’t have let this happen in the first place. Uncle Errol smiled at me, his cheek bruised and swollen, and his lip cut and stained with dried blood. I was relieved to see while Sophie had a small cut to her chin, she didn’t have any other physical signs of being beaten.

  “Let them go,” I hissed toward the leader.

  “Juan.” One of the Mexicans stared at the leader and spoke in Spanish again. At least I had a name now. I stepped forward, but Sophie was dragged away from me. She let out a scream, and I narrowed my eyes on the fucker holding her. I couldn’t attack him, not while she and Errol were still being held. That would guarantee them being shot.

  “Listen.” I spun toward Juan. “You can still walk away from this. All you have to do is let my family go, and I’ll let you walk out of here alive.”

  The man who’d called Juan’s name laughed. “What have you got on us, huh?” He moved closer to me, but Juan grabbed his arm, yanking him back.
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  “Pedro.” Juan’s voice dropped in warning before he returned his attention to me. “How friendly are you with Quain?”

  “Friendly—” I didn’t get to finish my sentence. The sound of shattering glass deafened me and I ducked instinctively—so did the other two men—but for Juan it was too late. Blood splattered across my arms covering my head, and pieces of brain decorated the dirty wooden floor. Juan’s body dropped, and it took a long, drawn-out moment of every single one of us staring at the body before the other two guys realized what was happening.

  We all moved at the same time. I slammed my foot into Pedro’s leg, driving him to his knees in a scream of pain. Tackling him to the ground, I grabbed the Beretta from the holster on his hip and shot him in the shoulder. He yelled, but I’d already turned to the other guy, taking a shot. Idiot Number Two jumped out of the line of fire, ducking out of the room. Cursing, I glanced at Errol, who nodded to tell me he was okay. I smirked and chased after Number Two, and when I’d found him, he was in some sort of living room with a threadbare couch and web-filled fireplace, his head in a hard-shell gun case. I raised the Beretta to shoot, but he spun around with an automatic rifle in his hands.

  “Fuck.” I dived out of the way behind the couch just as he let a round of bullets go, destroying the wall I’d stood in front of seconds earlier. The couch wasn’t going to give me a lot of protection, but it was all I had right now. “Motherfucker.”

  Number Two growled. “Come out and face the music, you fucking King scum. Mierda!”

  “Language,” I called out in a singsong voice as I popped the magazine and checked the bullets. I had no shots left. Fuck.

  “Who the fuck you got with you, huh?”

  “Someone who’s going to put a bullet in your head, too, if you don’t put down that fucking rifle.” I glanced around the edge of the couch, but he let out another round of shots, narrowly missing my head and destroying the couch. I cursed at him. “Come on. I don’t want to kill you, dude, but I will.”