by Kati Wilde
“No. But at this point, I’m not really surprised.”
Grace laughs. “Yeah, I guess not. She doesn’t really have a practice, just keeps her license current and she advocates for local farmers, property rights, pro bono work for neighbors, that kind of thing—and she represents the Few when they get into trouble. Anyway, she went to Emily and basically said, go ahead and get your divorce. But try to take the baby, and Marian would make sure she was ruined professionally, declared unfit, and Isiah given full custody. And she knows all the local judges, and so on.”
“Holy shit.”
“She scared the crap out of Emily. But pissed her off, too. Then she had the baby and a week later she was gone. Just up and left. She wasn’t waiting around for the divorce or for Marian to ruin her.”
Holy shit again. I stare at her. “So what happened?”
“Isiah was just…hurt. And I think kind of pissed at Marian, because he said she scared Emily away with that custody talk. Marian’s pissed, too, because the baby’s gone, but Isiah was only talking about Emily. Asking, What could I have done?” Grace pauses, bites her lip. “I don’t think there was anything. It just wasn’t going to happen. But he wanted to go after her, and Marian told him, no no—let your brother go. You’re too emotional and you’ll just fight again. She’s mad at you but your brother can talk her into coming back. So she sent Jacob after Emily.”
Oh god. My skin prickles with dread. “What happened then?”
Grace spreads her hands again. “I don’t know really. He came back with the baby, and some papers signing over custody—Johanna’s raising him as her boy now. And Jacob said Emily told him that she didn’t want Isiah anymore, that she wasn’t coming back. And she didn’t want custody because she didn’t want any reminder of her time on the farm or with Isiah. So she was going to get as far away as possible and to never contact her again.”
Because I feel it coming, I say, “But?”
“That’s just it. I don’t know. Maybe it was just like Jacob said. And if it was, I can’t blame her. I’ve looked her up, you know. Googled her. But she was a Jones. You know how many Emily Joneses are out there? Even if she kept her married name, Emily Cooper, there’s still so many. And that’s only if she didn’t deliberately start using another name so Isiah couldn’t track her down.” Her lips press together and she shakes her head. “But maybe there’s nothing left to find.”
“Jesus.” I was thinking it, but she came out and said it. I’m not sure if that’s brave or stupid, outright saying Strawman might have killed her.
Or maybe she just doesn’t know MCs that well.
“Yeah.” She gives me a look that says she knows exactly how crazy the idea is—and how not-crazy it is. “And Jacob, you know—he doesn’t make a move without Marian giving the okay. The only time he crosses her is when it’s about Adam. Jesus, he hates Adam.”
“I’ve seen that.” And the look on intense pleasure on his face when Gunner was pounding Adam’s head in.
“But regarding anything else, Marian’s the last word. So what would she have told him to do? If Emily was going to fight for her baby?”
I don’t answer, but I know. Marian would tell him to do the same kind of thing that Gunner was afraid would happen to me all of these years. The same kind of thing that happened to Ivy Tan. Because Marian is determined to carry on her husband’s legacy—and if Prophet ordered Adam to kill a woman who threatened the children in their bloodline? I have no doubt Marian would tell Strawman to do the same thing.
Grace is studying my face, and whatever she sees there doesn’t reassure her. She lets out a long breath, as if she’s finished getting all that off her chest. “Yeah. So anyway. I don’t even know what to do about Shari.”
“I do.”
She looks to me, waiting.
I pull out my phone, text my mom to give her a heads-up. “First, I’m going to give you a number to call. You or Shari. It’s my mother’s cell. You can call her any time, absolutely any time. If you just need to talk this through again, or if you need to discuss options, she can help. And if Shari decides to go, if she needs protection, there are places that can shelter you, okay? I don’t know their names but my mom can get them for you. And then Shari can be supported while she’s negotiating all the other stuff—custody, divorce, whatever.”
“Okay.”
“The second option is—if she doesn’t want to try negotiating, or thinks Marian’s going to pull some crazy legal shit, just drive her and her kids straight to Pine Valley, Oregon, and this place called the Wolf’s Den. Maybe I’ll be there and working. If not, ask for Saxon Gray. Say you’re my friend, you need help and that you need to disappear. He’ll do it.” He’ll give me a whole lot of shit for springing someone on him, but he’ll do it. “And you can either disappear forever or just until Shari gets her life back together enough to figure out what to do then.”
Grace is slowly nodding as she listens, her eyes shimmering. “Thanks,” she says thickly. “I don’t know if it’ll come to that. But it helps to know there’s something.
“I know what it’s like to feel helpless.” Cancer is a different reason, but the fear is the same. “Having options always helps.”
She wipes at her eyes. “I can tell it’s not your first time.”
“Hah, well. I work at a bar. Some people who come in need more help than a bottle can give. And my brother has a habit of attracting girls who need it, too.”
Sighing, she nods, then her gaze sharpens. “Any word on him? I know it’s club business, so they won’t say much. But…?”
“Not much,” I say softly. “But I hope soon.”
29
Gunner
Stone’s call is a dead end. It came from a burner phone purchased three years ago with cash, and made from a location along an empty highway. So the fuckers probably drove Stone out into the desert, let him make the call, then drove a few hours back to the Cage in whatever direction they’d come from.
And I didn’t expect much from the trace. Not when every single MC around uses burners. But I’d hoped Stone would get a chance to get a message out.
Instead, Jesus—I just hope I misunderstood him.
Tell Gunner that me and Crash had a real bad argument.
Because if it means what I think it does—that if Crash was the man Stone went up against in the Cage—then it means Stone had to kill a Bedlam Butcher.
He had to kill a friend.
And we’ve been through some shit together. But nothing that could rip a man’s soul out like killing a friend would.
But I’m hoping I’m wrong. So I haven’t even told the Butchers yet. Instead I’m riding through some back roads in northern California, escorting a van loaded with shit we aren’t supposed to ask about—and trying to keep my mind occupied, so I don’t reach for the weapon holstered at my side, aim it at the Iron Blood fucker who’s riding point, and blow a hole through his goddamn helmet.
Chef. Who should have been dead within hours after touching Anna.
His day’s coming. But the bastard’s got a few more yet.
And goddamn fucking Stone and his goddamn useless message. That’s what he shares? He and Crash had an argument? I didn’t expect him to rattle off map coordinates but I thought for damn sure he’d give more than that. I’ve even had Blowback ask some of his intelligence contacts to look for any coded shit. Not that Stone’s that damn clever.
It eats at me, though. Because he’s not going to talk in code. But Stone is smarter than that. Maybe he couldn’t get enough of the message out and they cut him off too soon for it to make sense. I don’t know.
I just feel like I’m missing a big flashing arrow—especially because he told Anna to tell me. Not to tell the Riders or Saxon, though he had to know that after she was attacked the Hellfire Riders would be looking out for her.
He couldn’t know Anna was with me. Stone would assume I’m away from Pine Valley and away from Anna, while looking for him. But he wanted her to g
ive that message to me.
And somehow I’m failing him.
But I’m on the right road. Because when we hit the end of our run, we hand the van off to the Desert Kings. Shaggy, the source Stone and I were supposed to meet in Cactus Gulch—the source who never showed—rode with the Kings.
Shaggy’s not riding with them now.
So dead, maybe. Maybe just got scared and ran off. But the dots are all lining up. I just can’t see where they’re pointing yet.
* * *
On the return trip we stop at a roadside joint to seal the new alliance between the Few and the Iron Blood—a suggestion made by Strawman, and with the Iron Blood more than happy to go along as soon as he said the Few would be footing the bill.
Shit. So that’s where I learned that. Open up a tap, get people talking, make them start feeling an obligation to you. Something I’ve done more than once as the Hellfire Riders’ sergeant at arms. But it was straight out of Strawman’s playbook.
But it’s not my play tonight. It’s all his.
Instead I sit with my brothers and try not to stare a hole through Chef’s big skull. I’ve got other shit to manage. Adam’s restless. No girls came along on this run and I can see him slowly tensing up, and he’s looking through the local women. A lot of them are looking back, but when he gets in a mood, he doesn’t just want to fuck. He’ll want to fight. So he’ll go after a woman who’s already taken so he can fuck up the man she’s with before he fucks her.
Across the bar, Strawman’s talking to Paladin as planned. But he’s only chatting a second before he goes from Paladin to Chef.
So what happened there? Did Paladin point him to the Iron Blood’s enforcer to get more info?
I don’t fucking know. But I’m going to keep my ass in this chair, because if I get that close to Chef, there’s a damn good chance the Iron Blood and the Notorious Few will be walking out of here as enemies instead of allies.
Those of us that walk out at all.
Adam gets up and heads to the bar. I glance at Muncher, who sighs and follows him.
Alone at the table with me, Six-Point says, “So you give any thought to our problem?”
The only problem I care about is finding Stone. But he’s talking about Adam. They offered me Anna in return for taking him down. But I’ll be asking for a nomad’s patch, instead, because after this is through I don’t want Anna anywhere near the farm.
But I only say, “Yup”—because now is not the time to be discussing it. I’ve got eyes on Strawman and Chef. Shit looks real easy between them. Not how I expected it to look if Strawman’s poking him about the Cage. But maybe he’s winding up to it. “You ever deal with Chef?”
Six-Point shakes his head. “Strawman’s the only one who does.”
“So he has before?”
“Chef’s the one who came to Strawman asking the favor.”
Asking Adam to get some fucker off of Paladin’s back while they were in prison. “Is Chef the one who’s bringing in the Few on this relay thing?”
“That’s my understanding.”
We both shut our mouths as Paladin comes over, gestures with his bottle to the empty chair next to Six-Point. “All right if I sit?”
“Knock yourself out, man.” Six-Point reaches out to bump the other man’s fist. “We’re here to make friends.”
Paladin grins, sits. Then looks to me, his sharp little eyes narrowing. “Weren’t you wearing a different kutte the last time I saw you?”
“Me?” I shake my head. “You ain’t ever seen me or this vest.”
He scoffs and takes a drink, eyeing my kutte. “You sure? Because I’ve seen your face before. And that leather’s pretty fucking new.”
“Because my last kutte pretty fucking saved my life. And if you’ve seen my brothers, you’ve seen this face.”
“Yeah, that’s for fucking sure.” He looks to Six-Point, grins. But he’s not letting it go. “What’d you mean, it saved you?”
“What I mean is, last month I was out riding, and some asshole in a cage tossed his bottle out the window—one of them fucking sissy tea drinks that looks like kangaroo cum juice. The neck of the bottle got up in my front wheel and just”—I jerk my hands to the side like my handlebars are being wrenched out of my grip—“right into a fucking guard rail. Next thing I’m flying over the embankment and into this tree. And I’m fucking hanging there, on this broken branch, because when I hit the branch the fucker snapped. And the sharp end turned the whole damn thing into a spear this fucking big around. But instead of going through me, by some goddamn miracle it went right up here along my side and through the back of my kutte. So I’m hanging there like I’m on a meat hook. And this lady who was in a cage behind me and saw the whole thing is calling from the side of the road, ‘You alright, mister? You need some help?’”
I shake my head, finish up. “No, lady. I’m just fucking hanging in a tree, having a good time. Don’t need any goddamn help.”
Paladin’s laughing, shaking his head. Because there’s nothing any biker likes better than hearing about some crazy wrecks—especially the ones a rider walks away from.
“Anyway,” I tell him, “I’ve got that kutte framed and hanging up. These bastards said to just patch it up, but I like it up on my wall. I figure I’ll put it next to a picture of that tree and memorialize the whole miraculous event. Besides,” I lower my voice, lean in. “It was some cheap fake leather shit. This one’s better.”
He nods. “These runs work out for you, no worries there. You’ll be picking up a lot better.”
With plenty of money coming into the club.
I glance over at the bar. Adam’s not talking up any girl. He’s looking back at us—then heading our way, Muncher behind him.
Six-Point leans in. “Is there a lot of work available? Because this was a fucking cakewalk. We’d sign up for a lot more of this.”
“There’s more of this. And better jobs up the line. Me, I’m working up to the enforcer’s spot.” With a lift of his chin, he indicates Chef across the way. “He’s the one who gets the good jobs.”
Something in his tone and the lift of his eyebrows hints at what’s good about those jobs.
And Six-Point’s all over it. “You talking girls?”
“Sometimes. Especially when someone needs persuading. Jesus, his last one? He tells me he plowed her so hard he made her bleed. Enjoyed it so fucking much he didn’t take the video he was supposed to. Just showed her crying after. The sweetest face, the sweetest tits.” He shakes his head and has no fucking idea that I’m sitting across from him, thinking about how easy slicing his throat open would be. “Shit. I would have liked watching that one.”
Hard hands clamp down on my shoulders. Muncher. Maybe heard enough to know that holding me down right now is real fucking smart or real goddamn stupid.
Adam drops into the vacant chair, a hard smile on his lips. “You talking about other jobs? I hear mouthing off got you into trouble before.”
“Nah,” Paladin says, but he’s looking a little uneasy, tossing a quick glance over toward Chef. As if the enforcer might be able to hear him talking club business. “Your brother was telling me about hanging from a tree.”
His fingers still digging into my shoulders, Muncher says, “The fucking bottle story?”
“I was telling him why I needed a new kutte,” I say flatly. They know the story well.
It’s Prophet’s story. And more proof that he was chosen for a special destiny, because he should have been dead. Instead a tree saved him.
“Shit,” Muncher says, his voice carefree and his hands locked on me like bear traps. “You know the best part of that story? That lady who called in for help, we go to her house later to say thanks. Take her some flowers.” Which is what he and Prophet really did. “And she’s looking at us up and down, and he’s all, ma’am, let us thank you another way. And she did let us. Jesus, she had the sweetest fucking pussy.”
Paladin grins appreciatively before running his ga
ze over us. “How many are you?”
“Five brothers,” Adam says.
“And another up in Oregon? Patched in with the Hellfire Riders?”
Adam’s face tightens. “He’s not our brother. He left to ride with another club. He’s dead to us.”
Six-Point looks surprised by that. His gaze flicks up over my head—looking at Muncher, whose hands loosen on my shoulders.
So maybe just dead to Adam. I can live with that real easy.
Paladin’s nodding as if he’s not surprised. “So you’re making him pay? I like it.”
Six-Point looks at him in friendly confusion. But Six-Point isn’t lacking any brains and he’s rarely confused. “Making him pay how?”
That fox-like face closes up. “You know. Shutting him out. That’s hard on a brother. Anyway—” Abruptly he stands. “I’ll let you all get back to it. Nice riding with you.”
Fuck. I push up out of my chair.
Adam’s hand on my arm stops me. “No, brother. He’s a cop.”
“What?”
“Either a cop or in a cop’s pocket.” He leans back in his chair. “That bastard they had me go after in the pen? I was curious about why they needed him gone. Because he beat up Paladin a few times?” He scoffs. “It’s fucking prison. A beating is like saying it’s Tuesday.”
I sit back down. “So how do you know?”
“Like I said, I was curious. So I told the poor fucker I’d make it quick if he told me. He did. And apparently, he was saying what I just told you—that little Paladin fucker is either a cop or he’s squealing for one. Because Paladin had a cell mate who was saying things inside and it was going into ears outside—and feds were raiding shit they shouldn’t even know about. A whole lot of busts, a whole lot of territory shifting hands. And the Iron Blood ends up with plenty of it. So either Paladin’s building his career or he’s building someone else’s. So you be real fucking careful around him.”
I nod. Better to be. But, shit—that’s real interesting.
