by Dahlia West
He didn’t wait for any more questions. He simply sauntered to the makeshift bar that Tiny had built a few years ago and poured himself a shot of whiskey, not that he needed it to settle his nerves. Jack was oddly calm, given the severity of the situation at hand.
By the time the amber liquid was out of the glass and down Jack’s throat, the roar of Harley engines nearly shook the corrugated sides of the warehouse and the rest of the Buzzards filed into the building. They nodded and flopped onto various chairs and couches that filled the space, waiting to see why they’d been unexpectedly pulled away from their Friday night revelry.
“We’ve got a problem,” Jack announced, reaching into his jacket pocket. From the corner of his eye, he could swear he thought he saw Soap stiffen, but it might’ve been Jack’s imagination. He withdrew the small recorder that the woman had given him.
“What’s that?” Joker called out, squinting in the grimy, cigarette haze.
“A gift,” Jack replied. Not really, though. More like a trade, but Jack knew that other than Paul, who’d be none too happy about turning his kid over to the law in exchange for the security of the club, no one would really care much about the details.
He tossed it to Soap, who fumbled it and had to retrieve it from the couch he was sitting on. Butch was next to him and looked equally confused. Trey was across the room, on one of the barstools.
Soap turned the device over in his hands until he finally found the Play button. He switched it on and froze at the sound of his own, tinny voice coming out of the small speaker.
“…killing a brother ain’t no walk in the park…”
Jack reached into his jacket a second time, drew out his nine millimeter, and shot Soap in the chest, just above his Vice President patch. Butch was going for his own gun as Jack swung the barrel to the left and fired off another two rounds.
The room exploded around him with cries of shock.
Jack pivoted on his heel, intending to finish off Trey. The last of the schemers had a pistol in his hand, having realized the jig was up and using those extra seconds to try and fight for his life. The sharp report of a gunshot rang through the air, but it wasn’t Jack’s gun—or Trey’s—that had gone off.
Next to Trey, on the other barstool, Hook had pulled out his own piece, and shot Trey from behind, just above the ear.
“Jesus Christ, what the ever loving fuck?!” someone bellowed.
Jack didn’t answer. He let the recorder, which was still playing despite being coated in Soap’s blood, speak for 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 and he’ll know we’re coming for him…So, we do ’em all at once. It’s the only way.”
The recorder finished playing and stopped on its own.
“Jesus, Jack,” said Dink, rubbing his face with his hand. The old man had been in the club since its very first days, patched in by Hap Sullivan, an original member. The look on his face told Jack he realized exactly how close to death he’d come recently, a death he never would’ve seen coming.
Jack nodded once but slid his eyes back to Hook, wary that the man had seemed so ready for action, so ready to put a brother down at a moment’s notice.
Hook grinned, though, and returned the nod as though it had been meant for him.
Jack supposed he could’ve been the fourth in their band of merry men, but he wasn’t sure. Hook hadn’t been in the club as long as Soap and Butch. It would’ve been a huge risk on Soap’s part to approach him about it and try to gain the man’s support.
In the end, Jack couldn’t be sure whose side Hook was really on, so he thought maybe it was best to keep a close eye on him. He slid his gun back into his pocket, reached into his jeans pocket, and pulled out his switchblade. Standing over Soap’s corpse, he cut the threads on the Vice President patch and handed it to Hook. The man took it with glee, totally ignoring the spattered blood on the orange stitching of the letters.
Keep your friends close…, Scratch’s voice rang in Jack’s ears.
Part One
Lazarus
Chapter One
‡
Jack was willing to bet that there were few people in the world who felt this same sort of eerie calm while looking down the barrel of a Glock. In fact, he could only think of, maybe, a handful of men who wouldn’t piss their pants right about now, especially with a sniveling shit-stain of a kid only just past puberty holding the weapon.
The kid licked his lips, looking gleeful—and slightly feral. “We could keep the money,” he told the others behind him. “Keep the weed and the money, keep it all.”
Jack almost wanted to laugh. The plan was as half-baked as the kid was, too much sampling of his own product, apparently. Jack could tell he hadn’t really thought it through. If he had, he’d have crunched the numbers and realized a one-time score was nothing compared to the amount of money the Kamloops Kings stood to make doing business over time with the Badlands Buzzards. They’d already done a few deals, each one bigger than the last. What kind of idiot would blow it all now?
But that was the problem with kids. They couldn’t think long-term.
So Jack stood in front of the little bastard who’d drawn a gun on him, unmoving, unblinking, almost willing the kid to pull the trigger. Jack wondered what would happen. Would the gun jam? Would the kid miss, even at this range? He was curious.
He could reach out and take it—the kid was close enough, reach out and grab it, and beat the kid senseless with it for being so fucking stupid. Seconds passed and the kid didn’t seem to have the stones to follow through. Jack hated that. He never made a threat he didn’t have every intention of fulfilling.
So he waited, either for the kid to figure out that even if there wasn’t exactly honor among thieves, there was a cold kind of logic that usually kept business running smoothly. Or for the kid to just take the shot. Eventually, though, he got bored waiting for the kid to make up his mind.
“Go ahead. When you pull the trigger,” Jack told the kid, “and my guys take you apart, piece by piece—and they will—I’ll be waiting for you on the other side.”
The kid’s arm wavered. He looked around, seemingly bewildered at the idea that no one was going to back him up, not even his own MC brothers—the Kings—seemed to want to help him out.
The kid was out there on a limb, all alone, just dangling. Jack almost felt sorry for him.
Almost.
Hook, Jack’s vice president, was standing just a few feet away. He looked menacing enough, Jack supposed, but Hook didn’t even have his own gun drawn and that pissed off Jack to no end, to be honest, but this wasn’t the time or the place to bring it up.
Hook was getting sloppy and maybe it was time to do something about that.
But not here.
Not now.
Morrie didn’t seem to have much of a dog in this fight, either, which irritated Jack as well. Jack would have thought that the president of the Kings would recognize the importance of their business relationship and lecture the kid on the finer points of joining a one-percenter gang, preferably as the kid bled out on the ground. Not to mention the fact that Morrie wouldn’t be fucking Prez of his own club if it weren’t for Jack doing him the courtesy of putting a bullet in the last one.
As it was, Jack felt a little too much like he was being left swinging, and though he’d always felt a little apart from his MC (a little above them—okay a lot above them) he didn’t like this feeling of being left to twist in the wind.
The kid wavered again and his eyes skittered toward Morrie. For…instructions?…approval?…Jack’s hand shot out and he grabbed the Glock, pushing it as he simultaneously gripped the barrel tightly. With his right hand, he smashed his fist into the kid’s jaw, laying him out with just the one punch.
The kid let go of the gun and spun backward, spilling blood onto the hard-packed earth.
Jack swung the gun around and slammed it into th
e other side of the prospect’s face, finally knocking him to the ground. He repositioned the pistol in his right hand, barrel pointing down, but only just barely. He cast a long, dark look at Morrie, who had nothing to offer but a shrug.
“Fucking kids,” the older man grumbled.
Jack could concur, or would have, if he didn’t suspect that Morrie had half-planned the fucking coup. It probably hadn’t been a direct order. Possibly only a hint or a suggestion, planted in the kid’s mind until the time was right to strike.
Morrie could have claimed the kid was acting on his own, maybe even kill the little shit after the fact, to help sell the idea after the dirty deed was done.
“Morrie,” the kid croaked, but King’s president brought his boot down sharply on the kid’s midsection. Air whooshed out of him and nothing else. Several men picked him up off the ground and dragged him away.
Morrie gave a half-salute and tossed Jack the keys to the white panel truck just a few feet away, filled to capacity with BC bud. The Kings had already loaded the stacks of cash into their saddlebags.
As Jack watched the kid being taken away, he was kind of curious what the prospect had been about to say. Too late now to find out, though. He turned and looked toward his men, eyes falling first on his own prospect, Haze, some asshole Hook had brought around (one time too many in Jack’s opinion). But Jack had no reason to give for giving Haze the boot, just a feeling he had that the dude wasn’t quite right. And you could only sell your “feels” to a group of hardcore outlaws so many times, only so often.
Jack would have to wait. And watch.
Haze looked relieved that so little blood had been shed in their largest drug deal to date, solidifying his pussy status in Jack’s mind. Jack’s gaze finally fell on Hook, Jack’s supposed vice president, the man who’d never left his Harley after the kid had drawn down on Jack.
“And where were you?” Jack snarled when the rest of the Kings were finally out of earshot.
Hook’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “I thought you had it, Preacher. I mean, you always have it.”
Jack supposed that was true. He was at the top of his game. Hook was probably used to just watching from the bench these days. Still, it didn’t excuse the man’s general sloppiness lately.
Jack tossed the keys to the panel truck to Tiny, deliberately passing up Haze in the process. At least the man had enough sense not to argue. The rest of the Buzzards got on their bikes and as a group they left the kid to his fate and burned rubber down the unpaved road, out of the canyons, and onto the highway that would take them south, back to Rapid City.
They had nearly made it into town when an RCPD cruiser roared up behind them, lights spinning and sirens blaring. Jack checked his mirror, fought down a grown, and let off the accelerator of his Harley. Slider looked at him questioningly and Jack waved the rest of them on.
They kicked it into high gear, along with the panel truck ahead of them, while Jack, alone, pulled over to the side of the highway. He grudgingly killed the bike’s engine and balanced it with both feet on the hard-scrabble rock of the road’s shoulder. He glanced in his side mirror to see the driver’s side door of the cruiser swing open and a hefty, uniformed cop haul himself out from behind the steering wheel.
Behind his aviators, Jack rolled his eyes.
It was a long walk from the car to the bike, or it was, Jack supposed, if you were fifty pounds overweight and the hot May sun was beating down on you. The gut came into Jack’s peripheral vision first, followed by a shiny badge and now-dusty black patent boots.
Rawlins grinned down at him, yellow teeth flashing. “Afternoon, Jack!” he half-bellowed. The old beat cop had on sunglasses himself, which hid his beady eyes from Jack’s view.
Cars rocketed past them, a few moving to the far lane to avoid them. Rawlins shook the ticket pad in his hand, for emphasis. “Special delivery?” he asked, watching the panel truck, escorted by several bikers, fade out of sight over the next bend.
“Toys for Tots,” Jack growled and fished out his black leather wallet.
Rawlins laughed at the joke, but his mouth was tight.
Jack didn’t like the way the cop was always trying to nose in to club business, but this wasn’t the time or place to argue about it. He pulled out several hundred-dollar bills and handed them to the man. Anyone driving past would assume Rawlins was checking his license.
Jack didn’t prefer to do business this way, out in the open, in the heat, alone with Rawlins so that the man felt bolstered by the odds. Jack preferred the old bastard off-balance, liked to remind him that he could just as easily pay the cop off or put a bullet in him if he felt like it.
Rawlins never seemed to get that message, though, or had lost the meaning of it somewhere along the way. Pulling Jack over on the highway was fucking ridiculous—Rawlins wasn’t even due for his monthly payout for another week. The man was getting bolder. And Jack didn’t like it.
Rawlins handed Jack a folded ticket from the top of the pad and pocketed the bills with a goofy grin on his face. He tipped his hat and turned to walk back to his cruiser.
Jack looked down at the paper. Rawlins had scrawled a large smiley face onto it. Jack crumpled it with his fist. It was tempting to toss it to the side, let it get caught by the wind and blow away like a tumbleweed, but Jack stuffed it into his jacket pocket instead.
If nothing else, it would serve as a reminder that Rawlins needed to be dealt with. It was entirely possible that the aging cop had outlived his usefulness, but Jack wanted to be sure about that, take some time to think it over, before he made any permanent decisions.
He fired up the Harley’s engine and waited for Rawlins to pull out onto the road first. The old man had the audacity to give Jack a final wave as he rolled past. Jack fought the urge to give him the finger. He checked for traffic and surged out onto the asphalt as well. He took the nearest exit, though, leaving Rawlins to his patrol along the interstate, and headed into town.
* * *
With the panel truck safely stowed in the warehouse a few blocks from the clubhouse, and all the local dealers notified to come pick up their product the next day, Jack headed to Maria’s bar for a drink to unwind. He’d never show it, but these long days of dirty deeds were starting to wear on him. At thirty-eight, he just wasn’t a kid anymore.
The crowd was decent at the bar, the usual mix of roughnecks, rednecks, cowboys, and bikers. Jack took his regular seat at the corner table at the far end of the place, so he could see everyone and everything. Dink had always joked that it was the “Assassin’s Seat” (he’d stop spouting that line after what had happened with Soap). Jack never disabused the man of the notion but, in all honesty, he seriously doubted anyone would come up on him, in a fucking bar, and take a shot at him.
More like Jack had learned that the only other viable currency besides cash in this world was information. Who was happy with their dealer? Who wasn’t? Who’d nicked five hundred pounds of copper coil off their job site and was looking to unload it quickly? Who was ripe pickings to bring into the club, free-wheeling and free-dealing? Who was a fucking loudmouth drunk, all bark and no bite, and therefore not Buzzard material?
From his corner, Jack watched it all as he tossed back glass after glass of whiskey, taking it all in. The alcohol felt good, but the stash of weed he’d kept back for himself from today’s shipment would feel better. He was close to calling it a day so he could go to the clubhouse, get high first, then get low with a whore.
Loud voices erupted, closer to the front of the place. Hook stiffened in his chair next to Jack and peered through the dim overhead lights. Jack watched as the crowd parted and a familiar face was revealed.
Chris Sullivan.
Chris had a cowboy by the back of the neck, twisting his arm behind his back for good measure, and was escorting him toward the front doors. Now that he was settled down, Chris came in less often these days, but Jack saw that his time away from the rougher element of Rapid City hadn’t dulled hi
s skills any.
Someone approached from the side, beer bottle in hand. Chris kicked the man’s wrist, never letting go of the man he was already grappling with. The bottle went flying as the second man dropped to his knees.
Hook snorted. “Showoff,” he grumbled, and picked up his glass of Kentucky bourbon. “Someone ought to take him down a few pegs,” he declared. “Maybe permanently.”
Jack grunted. “He’s just taking out the trash, keeping the place clean.”
“Our place,” Red argued on the other side of Jack. “But he acts like it’s his. Fucking asshole.”
“Let it go,” Jack ordered, and then finished off his whiskey in a single gulp. He had already held a gun to Chris Sullivan’s head once…and hadn’t pulled the trigger. Not because he couldn’t, but because he hadn’t wanted to. He had no interest in revisiting that moment in his life.
Honestly, Jack didn’t think Hook had it in him to take out Chris. Red sure as shit didn’t since he was pushing fifty and had a beer gut. Hook was just posturing, but he might get a few too many bourbons in him and do something stupid, leaving Jack to clean up the mess.
And Jack was tired of cleaning up Hook’s messes.
He pushed back his chair and stood up, tucking a bill underneath the now empty glass. He took his cut off the back of the chair and shrugged it on, then walked away, leaving his second in command to scramble after him as he headed toward the front door.
In the corner, now returned, Chris studiously ignored Jack as he passed while Jack did the same. There was a lot to say but no point in trying.
Jack shoved open the front door and let the cool spring night air hit him full on as his boots crunched the gravel on the way to his Harley.
Chapter Two
‡
Erin gave up trying to brush her long brown hair and just twisted it into a braid instead. She had bigger things to worry about today. She checked her appearance in the mirror one last time. Clean shirt, clean jeans, hair corralled. She took a deep breath in and let it out slowly.
