Preacher

by Dahlia West

  Preacher

  (Rapid City Stories)

  By

  Dahlia West

  Copyright © 2015 Dahlia West

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  Also by Dahlia West

  The Burnout Series

  Shooter

  Tex

  Slick

  Hawk

  Easy

  Vegas

  Doc

  The Stark Ink Series

  Harder

  Better

  Faster

  Stronger

  For everyone who liked Shooter,

  hope you enjoy this trip through the looking glass.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Also by Dahlia West

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Part One: Lazarus

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Part Two: Gilead

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Part Three: Eden

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Part Four: The Prodigal

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  Chapter Sixty

  Chapter Sixty-One

  Chapter Sixty-Two

  Chapter Sixty-Three

  Chapter Sixty-Four

  Chapter Sixty-Five

  Chapter Sixty-Six

  Chapter Sixty-Seven

  Chapter Sixty-Eight

  Chapter Sixty-Nine

  Chapter Seventy

  Chapter Seventy-One

  Chapter Seventy-Two

  Chapter Seventy-Three

  Chapter Seventy-Four

  Chapter Seventy-Five

  Chapter Seventy-Six

  Chapter Seventy-Seven

  Chapter Seventy-Eight

  Chapter Seventy-Nine

  Chapter Eighty

  Epilogue

  Prologue

  ‡

  The sun was setting in Rapid City, the last of the daylight filtering through the trees just before it sank below the horizon. It was the time of day when predators were gearing up to go hunting in the dark.

  Jack “Preacher” Prior was gearing up, too. He cranked his Harley into third and rumbled down the already-empty main thoroughfare, office workers having already gone home for the night—for the weekend—and leaving the streets mostly empty.

  Only a few of his boys were behind him, matching black leather jackets, all of them roaring through town on two wheels. The few people on the sidewalks and drivers in their cars at stoplights all turned to look.

  Jack had lived in Rapid City for most of his life. He’d been on a Harley since the day he’d gotten his driver’s license. He supposed that if people hadn’t stopped staring by now, they were never going to. And that was okay. He liked being king of his concrete jungle.

  By the time they reached the little bar just on the edge of town, it was full-on night and Jack was ready to get his drink on. He could party at the clubhouse—hell, half his boys were still there, doing their thing. But Jack knew what they didn’t: that it wasn’t enough to run the town, you also had to see and be seen. You had to remind people who was in charge.

  And Maria’s bar was the perfect place to do that.

  The parking lot was already half full when Jack and the other Badlands Buzzards pulled into it. The only open spaces were at the front, near the door. No sign said ‘Reserved’ but people knew.

  Jack pulled into the first space and killed the engine. He watched from the perch of his leather seat as the others pulled in next to him.

  If Jack squinted, he could almost still see his father, Scratch Prior’s, bike parked outside the low-slung building as well, but it was just an illusion. Scratch and his Harley were long gone now, one gone to the boneyard and one to the junkyard, both having been stripped of any usable parts first.

  Jack slid his leg over the bike and put his boots down on the crushed gravel. Without waiting for the rest of his men, he sauntered toward the front door and went inside. The place seemed perpetually crowded, even back to the days before Maria owned it, back when Jack and his best friend, Chris Sullivan, would sneak in the back door and swipe half-empty beers from totally empty tables while the cowboys danced to the ancient jukebox.

  Chris was gone now. Went off and joined the Army, did a few tours in Iraq and Afghanistan. He’d come back a few years ago, but he’d never really come back. Chris and Jack weren’t on speaking terms these days.

  Jack perused the crowd of regulars and semi-regulars anyway, always looking for that familiar face—always pretending that he wasn’t. He saw neither hide nor hair of his old friend and figured that was just as well.

  He did, however, spot a cute, curvy brunette in tight jeans and a half-unbuttoned shirt sauntering up to him with a bottle of beer in her hand. She wasn’t club ass, and Jack had never seen her before, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t interested in seeing all of her now.

  He was two whiskeys in to a true and proper binge, but his cock stiffened anyway as she set her chilled bottle on the edge of the pool table and gave Jack a look that was practically molten.

  She smiled at him and reached out, dancing her fingers along the length of his pool cue. If they weren’t in the bar, Jack might’ve whipped out his own rod to see what she’d do with it.

  “Your stick’s big,” she purred and tossed her long dark hair.

  Jack grinned at her. “It’ll get bigger if you unbutton your shirt a little more. Or your pants.”

  “Let’s get out of here,” she replied, surprising him.

  He expected a little more of a challenge than that, but he certainly wasn’t going to turn her down. He tossed his cue onto the table to the protest of Slider who had been lining up his next shot. Jack ignored him, slid one hand over the brunette’s hip, and pushed her toward the front door.

  Outside the
temperature had fallen a bit in the chilly October night air, but things were heating up between them to make up for it. Her steady gait led them away from Jack’s Harley and toward the rest of the parking lot.

  Not wanting to wait anymore, Jack pressed her up against the nearest car and placed both hands on either side of her, gripping her hips tightly. Now that he wasn’t concentrating on the game, he could get a better look at her—up close and personal. He leaned down to her but held himself off as something about her seemed so familiar.

  “I know you,” he mused. In fact, Jack was sure of it. He just didn’t know where he’d seen her before.

  She shook her head and slid sideways, against the car, out of his hold. “No, you don’t,” she replied.

  “Yes, I do,” Jack argued. He leaned back and searched her face again. The eyes, he recognized, looking up at him. Like before. “You were in my bed,” he realized.

  “True,” she said. “I was in your bed. But you don’t know me.”

  “What the fuck?”

  Jack turned to see a familiar face stalking toward him from out of the shadows. Caleb Barnes. Ex-cop, ex-Army Ranger, among other things, Jack suspected.

  Jack narrowed his eyes at the man. Beside him, the youngest of Chris Sullivan’s lackeys, the one with the missing leg, stood as backup. Jack glanced toward the bar’s front door, looking for Chris or the other two guys he usually hung around with. Not seeing them, he snorted and turned his gaze back to Barnes. An Ex-cop and a cripple were nothing to worry about. “Fuck off,” he snapped.

  “Get your fucking hands off her,” Barnes snarled back, moving toward Jack as though he stood a chance against him.

  The brunette moved in between them, blocking Barnes’ advance. “I need something from you, Prior,” she said smoothly.

  Jack smiled but didn’t take his eyes off Barnes. He had no doubt that he could kick the man’s ass, but he also knew it’d be a rough ride. Plus, he’d rather ride the brunette. For sure. “After I grease Barney Fife and the Gimp, I’ll give it to you, baby,” he assured her. “I’ll give it to you all night and all day tomorrow. If you’re a good girl.”

  She wasn’t impressed. In fact, she sighed heavily. “I doubt that, Prior. You’ll probably be dead by then.”

  Jack’s gaze swung back to her. He stiffened at her suddenly-prickly tone. Finally, he realized that Barnes and the woman knew each other, even though they hadn’t come in to the bar together. Outnumbered and confused, Jack slid one hand into his pocket and pulled out the switchblade he always kept there, and snatched at the woman with his free hand. He yanked her hard, nearly pulling her off her feet, and maneuvered her in front of him, knife at her throat.

  He wasn’t certain what the hell was going on, but he needed a safe position from which to figure it out.

  Barnes reached behind himself and drew a .45. He leveled the gun right at Jack. Tricky shot, though. He might fuck it up and kill the woman. Jack wondered if he’d try anyway.

  Over the last couple of years, Chris’ newly-formed crew made sense to Jack. The Indian was from around here anyway, from the res a few miles down the highway. The Texan looked strong enough, a good man to have in a fight. And the Gimp, well, Chris was a good guy, and every club needed a mascot.

  But Barnes…Jack had never figured out. Because if Caleb Barnes hadn’t latched on to Chris Sullivan and the rest of his white hat group of friends, Jack could easily see this man being Prez of his own gang. This man was a killer. And how the fuck Chris couldn’t see it, Jack would never understand.

  “Holy Fuck,” the kid next to Barnes grumbled. “Fucking fight and I don’t have a gun or a knife. Thanks for the heads-up, Doc.”

  “Let her go, Prior,” Barnes ordered.

  “What the fuck?” Jack replied curtly. “Someone start talking, or she starts bleeding.” He wasn’t going to knife a woman in a parking lot, but leverage was leverage, and Jack wasn’t above using her—and Barnes’ obvious concern for her—to his advantage.

  “Fair enough,” the woman answered.

  Jack was impressed that she wasn’t crying or blubbering or otherwise irritating the shit out of him. He felt her reach into her jacket pocket and he steadied the blade against her skin, knowing she felt it. There was a sharp click, though not of a gun cocking.

  She lifted a palm-sized digital recorder into the light. And Jack heard Soap’s voice, clear as day. “Look, enough’s enough. All these fucking plans and we’re still standing around with our dicks in our hands. We ain’t seen a payday like he’s been promising.”

  “Soap, killing a brother ain’t no walk in the park.” That was Butch, always the voice of reason.

  “Jesus, man. Killing a brother? Nah, man, killing the Prez. Let’s call it like it is. He deserves that much, anyway.” Trey. That was Trey. A man Jack had brought into the club almost five years ago. A man Jack had trusted with his life on more than one occasion.

  “True,” came Butch’s voice over the recorder. “And not just him. Tiny, Switch, and Dink? They’ll never stand with us. We take out Prior, they’ll be out for blood.”

  “We take them out first,” Trey argued. “And he’ll know we’re coming for him.”

  “So, we do ’em all at once. It’s the only way,” Soap declared.

  “Heads are gonna roll if we fuck this up.” Butch again, always level-headed.

  “Heads are gonna roll,” Soap repeated. “But they won’t be ours.”

  There was another soft click of the recorder and a heavy silence hung over them all.

  “Prior,” growled Barnes, reminding Jack of his hostage.

  Jack lowered the knife and let go of her. When she turned to face him, he practically roared, “How the fuck did you get this?” How the fuck indeed. How had a woman he’d never laid eyes on in all these years manage to record Jack’s own VP and two hand-picked men plotting to murder him and take over the club?

  “I bugged your clubhouse,” she told him, as easily as if she’d said she’d picked up his mail. “That’s how you found me in your bed. I was setting up surveillance.”

  Anger sparked in Jack’s gut. Some fucking bitch had infiltrated his clubhouse and he’d let it happen. And now his men were turning against him. They weren’t here, but she was. He surged toward her.

  “I got no problem putting you down, Jack,” Barnes growled. “You touch her again and I’ll ghost you before your crew has a chance to do it.”

  Reluctantly, Jack moved away from the woman. “So, what? You’re just doing your civic duty? Protecting and serving? Oh, that’s right, word is you’re not a cop anymore.” He snorted. “Not that you ever were. I’ve always said that. Animals smell their own.”

  “That’s right. So you know I’m not just blowing smoke.”

  Jack had only to look at the man’s grim, determined face to know it was true. He couldn’t imagine throwing down over a female, but he recognized it in Barnes. And it didn’t seem wise to test him. “Why tell me?” he asked.

  It wasn’t Barnes who answered, but the woman. “Like I said, I want something.”

  Jack felt a bit of his rage dissipate as he got himself back under control. He looked down his nose at her with a smirk. “Why do I feel like I’m not going to enjoy it as much as riding your sweet ass?”

  She didn’t take the bait. “Jace Paul,” she said instead.

  It took a moment for Jack to catch up, since she’d switched gears so fast on him. For a second, he couldn’t even think who Jace Paul was. Then he remembered he was Bomber’s boy. Jack had seen him around, but that was it. “The fuck?” he said, officially confused. “The Paul kid? What about him? He’s nothing. He’s not even patched in.”

  This chick had his clubhouse wired, had Jack and his club by the shorthairs from the sound of it, and she wanted some pissant teenager who probably didn’t even shave yet?

  “So, you don’t mind giving him up,” she replied. “After all, he’s not a brother.”

  She hit the word hard and it made Jack grin
d his molars together. It was bad enough that his men were turning on him, but having outsiders know—having Chris’ crew know—didn’t sit well with Jack at all. “What do you want?” he bit out.

  She rambled off some story about a gas station robbery in Colorado. Not the Paul kid but a friend of his. And a missing teenage girl. It sounded like rinky-dink shit that Jack and the Buzzards would never bother with, but she didn’t seem interested in the club itself. As long as it stayed that way, Jack had no problem tossing some idiot kid her way to keep her out of club business.

  But if she stuck her nose in again, he’d kindly break it for her—female or no. “I’ll call you in a day or two,” he vowed and headed toward his bike.

  He had a few things to take care of first.

  Jack slung his leg over the seat of his Harley, but before he fired up the engine he fired off a text on his phone. Just one word. Church. He didn’t wait for the rest of his MC brothers to come out of the bar behind him, or for a response from the few brothers who were already at the clubhouse. He simply tucked his phone into his black leather jacket, confident that even if Soap, Butch, and Trey were planning to kill him, they wouldn’t dare miss a meeting in the meantime.

  He kicked his bike to life and roared out of the bar’s gravel parking lot, heading across town to his other home away from home. The warehouse loomed just up ahead, lit from inside as Buzzards, club whores, and hang-arounds partied a little harder than was legal inside Maria’s bar.

  True enough, tits were everywhere, ass was plentiful, and almost every flat surface was covered in one white powder or another. The men were already up and out of their seats, though, shooing the girls out the door before Jack even had a chance to say anything.

  Several pairs of heavily mascara-ed lashes batted at him as the women headed out, knowing better than to interfere with club business. Jack ignored them all, instead zeroing in on the three men who’d managed to get themselves recorded plotting murder most foul.

  “What’s up?” Soap asked, zipping up his jeans.

  “Business,” Jack replied gruffly as he realized if these three had been at Maria’s with most of the others—or if Jack had been at the club instead of the bar most nights—then he would’ve known his men were turning on him, instead of having to hear about it from some bounty hunter bitch.