His movements on autopilot, Fury’s mind wandered to Mason. From the first stories he’d heard told across tables and bars, he’d been impressed by the man. For years he’d studied Mason, working to build an image slowly pieced together fact-by-fact. Discarding the obvious lies, Fury had dug into each elaborate legend of the man until he found the meat underneath, the real story. Dug until he believed he knew Davis Mason inside and out, understood him better than anyone else did, except maybe the man’s cousin DeeDee, or Tugboat.
Intel on Mason had been the framework half of Fury’s strategic movements, something he had built around for the past five years. Getting a Diamante charter, then moving that charter closer to the Rebel territory. All of that happening at a time when the Rebels were spreading their sphere of influence both east and west of Chicago. Timing is everything, he thought, flipping on his blinker and turning at the next light.
Then Utah happened. Fury had been circling things in Fort Wayne with the Rebels, trying hard to earn his place in a new club. Earn a place for his men, too, those who had followed him for years. Utah, an event entirely orchestrated by one of the men Fury hated with everything inside him. Deacon.
From what he knew, Deacon and Dion had become friends sometime during the period Fury’d been in Riverbend. Cut from the same cloth, they’d latched onto the evil in the other in ways that tore through the North Carolina town Fury had been living in. This was in the days when he was still toying with the idea of the biker life, riding with men who claimed outlaw status, without actually earning it. Deacon horned in and took over the group and Fury watched how he did things first with disbelief and then anger. He’d ripped in two what Fury had tried to build.
Citing police harassment, Deacon picked up stakes and moved the club entire. But taking their show on the road to Florida hadn’t changed anything except the scenery, and it hadn’t been long before the police had been sniffing after them there, too. Sex slaves and labs were how Dion made his money, and Deacon offered not only the facilities to do whatever was needed, but he also organized much of the activity, too.
Deacon had been friends and enemies with Morgan, an old guy from California who had his own fingers in so much it wasn’t funny. Morgan’s son was crazy, Fury knew that for a fact, but had been surprised to find Shooter had a hard-on for Mason that wouldn’t quit. That shit had bled down to his son, Judge.
He’d known something was up in Utah, but not the what. No details. Didn’t keep him from kicking his own ass over how things had shaken out. Thank God Utah had been a cluster from the beginning, and it was definitely one Fury had been glad to see fail. Still, once Bethy had gotten caught up in it, it didn’t matter that she’d escaped relatively unscathed.
Throughout all the rumors flying through the MC community, Fury had found out most people didn’t know Mason had a sister, not until Utah happened. He’d kept his mouth shut because if he’d appeared to know of her, to fuckin’ know her, there might be questions about the how of that. Questions he couldn’t afford at the time. So Bethy became a detail in Mason’s past that Fury simply filed away. He figured he’d sit on it until he had time to consider the ramifications of a hidden relationship, but that time never came, when things just went from bad to worse in the Diamante club. Everything fucked sideways by Shooter and Judge.
Noting the addresses on the street signs, he slowed and moved to the outside lane, seeing his target building coming up on his right.
Fucked sideways hadn’t taken long. Within five months, his chapter was no more, folded seamlessly into the Rebel chapter in Fort Wayne. That was the best move he’d ever made. So much better than their lives before, and he had no complaints about how Mason and the Rebels had dealt with them.
Still, it meant his men were his to command no more, but equal brothers to every patched Rebel. That was how he’d wanted it, but Fury had nearly chewed his tongue in half the first two weeks, biting back orders and arguments, reminding himself he was no longer the man in charge. No longer an officer, no longer someone with leverage. Member. He had stepped backwards into a role that never sat well with him. Just a member, one of the foot soldiers, expected to do as you’re told without argument, without thought, with only a willing acceptance that you don’t know everything, so whoever is giving the orders must have the right of it.
Slowly, gradually, without even meaning to, he had earned his way into meetings. The important ones, where long-term strategic talk happened behind closed doors. Once he was in and tasted the rich wealth of intelligence and planning the Rebels boasted, that’s when he actively set his mind to earning a higher place, determined to regain a position of prominence because that simply was who he was. It had taken months, but he did it. Mostly by demonstrating his dedication repeatedly, and earning respect all through the ranks with his unwavering loyalty to the Rebels. All in. He snorted. Had to be, no goin’ back.
Gunny and Hoss had proven great allies, and with everyone knowing the real story behind how Gunny wound up in his compound—not yours any longer, he thought, surprised the thought still burned, lease canceled, all the shit moved to the Rebel clubhouse—the fact the man was easy with him went a long way to reassuring everyone about everything else. Hoss, too, was an officer in Fort Wayne and was such a respected member in that town, hell in any Rebel chapter, that for Fury to claim his friendship was a big deal. Worked at that shit, too.
He punched the gear lever with his toe, downshifting as he rolled to a stop, hands working the clutch and brake. Chin to his shoulder, he watched behind him as he shoved the bike backwards, walking it to park pipes to the building. Still on mental autopilot, he killed the engine with a flip of his thumb, heeling the kickstand down so he could lean the bike over and stand up. Stepping through the front door of the bar, he scanned the area, nodding at a couple of men who were clearly in the life. Fury couldn’t see their patches, but given where he was, it was probably safe to say they were Soldiers. Then he saw Duck’s dark hair, saw the top rocker of the Rebel patches over the back of the chair he was seated in. Positioned with his back to the room, it spoke to the level of comfort he had with the man seated across from him.
Fury didn’t hesitate, with long strides he moved towards Watcher, his cousin from the mountains of Kentucky. It felt almost like going back in time, the weight of decades lifting, and he felt light, off-balance. Watcher stood, followed by Duck, and both men stared at him. Well, Duck’s was more of a glare than a stare. About to blow your mind, man. Show you something about me even Mason don’t know, he thought, then he’d reached Watcher who held out a hand for a warrior’s grip. So much people don’t know about me.
Watcher’s laughing question clearly shocked Duck, “You’re Fury? Fuckin’ kidding me?” Standing a foot away from the only family he claimed, Fury looked into Watcher’s face, seeing age and a somber heaviness he hadn’t expected. Mike Otey carried profound responsibility, and it was written into every scar and line on his features. Jesus. Shaking his head, he ignored the outreached hand and wrapped Watcher into an embrace, holding tight, feeling gratified as the man’s arms closed around him. Family. Pulling away first, Fury left one arm wrapped around the man’s shoulders, then dragged him into a headlock, knuckles rubbing in what he knew was a painless noogie. Mike struggled, still laughing as he demanded, “Goddammit, Gabe, let me the fuck go.”
And there’s the first break in the dam. Fury watched as wordless questions flowed across Duck’s face. Deflect? I need to delay, at the least. Or, he could put Watcher on the spot, revealing their relationship and see what the reaction was from everybody in the bar. Loudly, as if Watcher weren’t right beside him, he called, “Cuz. Nice place.” Grinning at Duck, he said, “Brother, good fucking mattress, man. I slept like a baby.” With carefully calculated movements, he stepped between the two men, facing Duck as he reached out a hand. They’d gotten into Lamesa last night, and Duck had been up the stairs and into his woman’s bed like a man on a mission. Fury hadn’t even seen him this morning, getti
ng himself out the door early to meet Chase’s plane.
Duck snatched his hand out of the air, grinding down painfully on his knuckles as he pulled him close. Lips to his ear, Duck muttered, “This would appear the exact opposite to fostering good relations, brother. Wanna explain what the fuck you think you’re doing?”
He really didn’t know, Fury thought, laughing as he pushed back to glare at Watcher. Hands to the side, Fury postured and pushed the fake outrage hard, wanting this to be a story told for a long time.
“Watch—” A calculated pause, then he continued with, “—Michael,” Fury called, “you keepin’ secrets, cuz?”
Another few moments of standing and chatting, then Fury wanted to get the meeting back on track. So, beer in hand, he settled into a seat next to Watcher, and traded pieces of stories with Duck. The Rebels had a lot of things going down, and Mason had been clear that nothing was to be held back when it came to Watcher. So much unreserved trust between the two presidents, and even at the member level between the two clubs. With that in mind, Fury asked about something he’d only heard about in passing a couple of weeks ago. Video footage of Watcher’s compound had been found, and technological wizard that he was, Myron still hadn’t been successful in tracking down who was responsible.
Watcher shook his head, lips pressed together in frustration for a moment. Fury noted how the muscles of his arms had tensed. This was not going to be a good story. Watcher said, “Had someone put up cameras at my place.” He continued, telling them about tracking the signal to a truck, equipment in the bed. They’d staked it out for two weeks, waiting on whoever had strung up the equipment to come back and retrieve their investment.
“About two weeks into our stakeout, it took a burst of power from something. Zapped the entire rig. Fried everything.” Fury watched intently, seeing the strain on Watcher’s face as he drank deeply from his beer. “When we realized it was useless, we went to move it. Fuckin’ IED under the wheel. Blew a crater and sprayed my guys with shrapnel.”
Fury opened his mouth, but had no words. He’d been overseas, knew what an IED was from up-close. Couldn’t imagine having that happen on US soil.
Shaking his head, Watcher continued, “Afterwards, we found a battery under there with a sensor. That’s what had fried the rig. It was hooked to the frame. Whoever did it was able to kill the system remotely by opening a connection. Set a trap.” He paused for another drink of beer, draining the bottle, stress twisting his expression into hatred. “Found a room…a cell buried under the truck. Two women. Devil,” he named one of his officers, “figured they’d been dead about four days.” Rage building in his voice, Watcher continued, “We sat on our asses for two weeks while they starved to death. Sat there eating chips and drinking beer, watching a fucking truck in the middle of the desert while two women starved to death in a metal fucking box under the truck. A truck filled with videos of my house, and my wife and daughters.”
Voice harsh with anger, Watcher stood, pushing his chair back, “So no, I don’t consider that shaking out okay.” Fury didn’t speak, and neither did Duck. They just stared at Watcher. After a moment, he said, “Back in a minute, just need…some air.”
Fury waited for him to hit the door before he asked Duck, “You know any of that shit?” Duck’s head shake was slow, angry. “Fuck. He had guys get hurt, but those women. Gonna fuck with him for a while. And vid in his house? His daughters on that vid? Bastards are lucky they didn’t show at the truck. He would’ve killed them.”
“Yeah, and so would you or I. That’s fucked up.” Duck leaned forwards, elbows to the table, eyes intent on Fury. Here it comes. “You wanna explain to me exactly who you are, Gabe?” The emphasis on his government name was telling, and Fury winced.
“Mike’s my cousin. He went one direction, I went the other. Nothing to tell, brother.” Fury shrugged, keeping his gaze level, not looking away. “We weren’t close. He’s older. But we’re blood.”
“Mason know?”
Fury pressed his lips together and shook his head side to side.
Duck ran a hand through his hair. “Fuck, Fury, you know I gotta say something to him before Watcher calls, right?”
“Oh, yeah, I know you do. Ain’t a big deal.” Still holding his gaze, Fury handed him the next piece. “Mason knows my name. Gabe Ledbetter. He just didn’t put it together. Watch’s mom and my mom were sisters, so it’s close. But Watcher’s sister lived with us when he went into the military, so that’s a little closer.”
“Tabitha?”
The sound of her name spoken aloud caused Fury’s head to jerk back. He corrected Duck, knowing she’d always preferred her nickname. “Tabby. Yeah.”
Changing direction, Duck asked, “You get everything squared away with Chase and the band today?”
Fury nodded, picking up his beer again. “Yeah, they’re all tucked in by now, I hope.”
Then Duck made the one connection Fury had hoped to avoid. “Bethy know you?”
“She didn’t recognize me, no.”
“No, I mean did she know you back in Kentucky?” Duck’s question wasn’t hard to answer, because she had. He nodded. “But she didn’t recognize you?”
“Nope. I’d like to keep it that way. I’m Fury. That’s the long and the short of it.” Carefully setting his empty bottle back on the table, he stood and said, “I’m gonna go see if he’s ready to come back inside.”
***
Sitting and drinking a beer after supper, Fury was surprised at how much Duck’s house reminded him of home. The desert had its own set of sounds, but being surrounded by acres and acres of empty space let a silence settle in, just like the mountains of Kentucky. Noises of animals settling down echoed, strengthening the illusion. I could get used to something like this again, he thought, tipping his head against the back of the chair, comfortable in a way he couldn’t fake. Eyes closed, he yawned and relaxed, knowing the home of a brother would be safe.
Brenda, Duck’s old lady, was full of surprises. Things even Duck didn’t know, it seemed. She’d spoken of her early childhood being in Kentucky, not New Mexico, and something she said snagged Fury’s attention. From Cynthania, so close to his hometown, and she’d lost her parents in a car accident. That wasn’t shocking, wrecks happened all the time, especially in the mountains where a moment’s inattention could result in a fall of hundreds of feet. But she survived because a Good Samaritan had pulled her from the wreckage. Not just pulled a little girl out of a smoldering pile of scrap metal, but carried her to the local hospital. Then left her there, making an anonymous deposit onto a gurney in the ER. Fuck.
He’d heard that story before.
Watcher’s sister had taken a dive off a high curve and died. Little Tabby, raised as his baby sister for years. Fuck.
Everyone thought she’d killed herself. Thought she’d had enough of living with the knowledge that her body had been defiled in a way that should never happen to a woman, never happen to a girl—and never, ever happen to a child. Thought she’d sailed her truck off a mountainside to end the pain inside her mind.
Not my Tabby. That had been the refrain he couldn’t shake. Not my Tabby. She wouldn’t have done that to him. Wouldn’t have done that to her best friend, Bethany. Wouldn’t have done that to her brother, Mike. The day before her funeral, Fury had been in the right place at the wrong time, and overheard an enlightening conversation between his daddy and Preacher Mason. That had been the catalyst to getting himself unassed and out of the holler.
Daddy’s voice was solemn and quiet, but Gabe could clearly hear every word said between the two men. He’d seen old man Mason and Daddy walk to the barn, seen the shady looks Daddy had cast around the clearing before he closed the big door. Whatever this was, the men didn’t want to be seen doing it. Tabby’s death was eating at Gabe, and he’d heard Momma on the phone this morning saying the coroner had finally released her body. Funeral was tomorrow, and Gabe didn’t know how he would be able to stand going. Seeing the box that
held her body, knowing the light that always shone from Tabby was snuffed out.
Everyone on the mountain knew what she’d suffered. Parents dead, and her mother’s death an unsolved mystery. One the TV shows liked to talk about, reporters and cameras arriving in town every few years to capture new footage of the storefronts and any local resident who’d talk to them. Their somber questions echoing through the streets, “And no one knows who killed Mrs. Otey?” As if the person responsible would be jumping up and down in the background, waving their hand and shouting, “Me, I did it. It was me!”
With everything going on, when he’d seen the men’s secretive movements, Gabe followed. He slipped through the narrow door at the back of the building, walking silently on the loose ground, tracking their voices through the darkness with ease. He’d been hunting and trapping the mountains since he was eight years old. Stalking two old men through a barn wasn’t difficult enough to tax him. Close, so close he could have reached out and grabbed old man Mason’s coattails, Gabe crouched and listened.
“Ezra,” Mason said, his voice a growling slash through the dark, “you better take care of that kid.” He puffed a breath, taxed by his emotions. “We don’t need no repeat of before.”
Gabe tipped his head, wondering what the man was talking about. He didn’t have to wonder long.
Daddy spoke into the silence, his manner obsequious, greasy sounding, like someone with something to hide. “You know that was a fluke, Irving. We’ve got the suppliers under control this time. The boy won’t surface. I fixed it good last time, and you know I’m right.”
Gabe barely had time to wonder, Suppliers? Then his father was speaking again, the words stripping the air from Gabe’s lungs. “Tabby never knew what hit her, right? You did it quick?”
Fury (Rebel Wayfarers MC Book 11) Page 11
