Bash's Hurricane (Black Crows MC)

by EA Hunt

  Bash’s Hurricane

  Black Crows MC – Book 1

  By EA Hunt

  Copyright © 2020 by EA Hunt

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review or scholarly journal.

  Dedication:

  For Brittany C and Chantel S. Thanks for the ideas… all of them …..

  Prologue

  The biting cold whipped across his face, announcing the coming winter. But Bash stood his ground, legs equal width apart and one hand grasping the others wrists at his waist. He was ready. He was always ready. He smirked as another blast of cold slashed across his face. A normal person would huddle into whatever coat they were wearing or just be at home under a blanket to ride out the bitter cold. But he wasn’t normal. Hadn’t been for a very long time. Not since he was seven and his father had been taken from him by the man whose arrival he was now awaiting. A man who couldn’t take ‘no’ for an answer – who had ruined the lives of a young woman and her equally young son.

  Cutting his eyes to his right, Bash gave Trigger a little nod. The athletically built caramel-colored man stood at an easy six-foot-seven with broad shoulders and a keen eye. His ability to hit any target with acute accuracy is why he was called ‘Trigger’ even though his actual name was Darwin. With Trigger’s subtle acknowledgment, Bash moved his eyes to his left. Danish, real name Damien, was a light latte-colored man who stood at an even six foot with a muscular build. He spoke five languages and was as good a shot as Trigger, though he preferred to be in close range of his targets. Turning away from Danish, he focused back on the darkened road ahead. He’d known both these men since his Marine days. He and Trigger had met during basic and been placed in the same Marine Force Recon team, which they’d been chosen for once their commanding officer had seen how adept they were in marksmenship and strategies.

  Danish, who he, Bash, had met when he and Trigger had been on an extraction mission overseas, several years after basic and recon training, was pretending to be a European businessman buying weapons from military personnel who were selling illegally on the black market. Danish, former military intelligence, and the sellers had been in the same building as the man that he and his small, five-man team were supposed to be extracting – a senior officer who’d been captured while on route to an clandestine meeting - and placed on the auction block.

  Before any deals could be made, Bash’s team been ambushed by the people holding the senior officer. He and Trigger would have been killed if it hadn’t been for Danish pulling his weapon out and helping them to escape. Unfortunately, not all of them made it out of the fire fight. Danish’s suspects were killed and so were three other members of their Force Recon. He’d been so pissed after the smoke had cleared, he’d walked into his commanding officer’s tent and punched the man. His intel had been incorrect and the officer they’d been sent to extract had been at another location. He also hadn’t told them about Danish even though he’d had the information. After the altercation, Bash was demoted, from Captain to 2nd Lieutenant – though before it could take effect, he left. Trigger and Danish following right behind him. They’d come home – well, to Bash’s home in Mississippi – to his mother, Melody. He had questioned each man about their own families, but both had confessed that their parents were the last people they wanted to see. He’d wanted to question them further about that but neither seemed forthcoming so he’d left it alone.

  Coming back to Masa, Mississippi, after ten years away had him quickly remembering how much he’d always hated the place he and his mother had been forced to flee to and what his mother had had to live with through because of the man whom they were awaiting to arrive. While taking odd jobs to help support his mother, since he wasn’t getting his military pay and when asked why he was no longer with the Marines; his answer didn’t sit well with some potential employers, like there were a lot of jobs in Masa, Bash began plotting. Well, continued to plot his revenge on the man who was responsible for his mother’s living conditions. He’d vowed when he was younger to bring his mother home to Rydal, Georgia and avenge not only her but also his father. He’d revealed his plan to the men he now considered his brothers and they were eager to help. In the year that they’d been back on US soil, the men had fallen in love with his mother and had even started calling her ‘Mom,’ soaking up the attention she gave them. He’d been about to tell his mother about his plans – wanting her to know that he’d never do anything without her knowledge, especially when it involved his father’s memory – but before he could utter a word, his mother had died in her sleep, just eighteen months after his arrival home. The doctor had called it a heart attack. He’d called it a broken heart. His mother had mourned his father for fifteen years and, once she knew that Bash wasn’t alone in the world, she’d finally allowed her heart to give in and break fully – so in death, she could be with the man she’d loved all her life.

  Sucking in a lung full of the bitterly cold air, Bash let his mind drift. He could still see his father, Sebastian, sitting proudly on his bike, that was now sitting behind Bash, his Black Crows MC cut (leather vest) sitting on his shoulders, weathered from wear and travel down the highways and back roads of the US. Bash smiled to himself. His father had been Vice President of the Black Crows, which he’d joined after a stint in the Army. His older brother, by three years; Rock, and childhood best friend, Stryker were also members.

  Sebastian Delacrox had started out as a lowly Prospect; though his brother and friend were officers of the club. But he had worked his way up the ranks, becoming VP while a more ambitious man became President. According to his Uncle Rock, his father had been happy as VP because he was getting older, and being President of the club wasn’t his plan. His plan had been to be good to his brothers – both blood and road. And to make sure his club thrived. And under him and Doughboy, the President at the time, it had. The men had worked well together and had become friends. Until one day, when they’d been coming back from a run and had stumbled upon a small twenty-year-old car, packed to the hilt with boxes and suitcases, with a flat tire and a young woman attempting to change it.

  Both men had been taken with the soft mocha-colored woman with light brown eyes and medium-brown hair that reached the middle of her back. When telling his son about the first time he’d met his mother, Basher – the name the club had given Sebastian – had said that her smile had reminded him of a sunset on a beautiful fall evening. He said he’d known right away that he wanted her to be his. Then he’d got this dreamy look in his eyes as he turned and watched Bash’s mother in the kitchen while she hummed a tune to herself and prepared dinner for the two men she loved.

  As his father continued to watch his mother, he had told his son how, since he was in his forties and so much older than his lovely Melody when they’d met, he’d assumed she would gravitate more to Doughboy, who was in his mid-thirties. In fact, Basher said, he had been ready to back away – until the headstrong Melody Gray had shown her interest in the man she wanted. His father, Sebastian.

  She hadn’t cared that he was almost twenty years older than her. She knew what she wanted and what she wanted was the six-foot-five, dark-brown-colored man with charcoal eyes who was built like a tree trunk. His father had been surprised by his mother’s choice since Doughboy was not only younger but was leaner, wasn’t greying at his temples and wasn’t nearly as set in his ways.

  Bash chuckled to himself. His mother hadn’t cared. She’d seamlessly slipped into his father’s life, rejecting her dance scholarship to a school in Florida, where she’d been headed when Doughboy
and Basher had come across her, and decided to stay with the man she’d fallen in love with at first sight. Not wanting Melody to give up her dreams of becoming a dancer, Bash’s father had encouraged her to apply to schools in Georgia, much to her parents’ dismay. They’d already advised her of their displeasure at the match. Attending a school in Georgia was the last straw. They’d disowned their daughter, cutting off all contact. His mother had been hurt but she’d known her heart and upon receiving her degree, she’d married his father and was soon offered a company position with the Georgia Ballet Company. She’d even had a few guest appearances with the famed New York Dance Company.

  His father had been her champion, her supporter. Even when he couldn’t be with her physically because of his obligations to the club. Well that was what he’d told his wife when she’d become concerned about their time apart. His mother had worried about her dance schedule affecting her marriage and Basher resenting her because she wasn’t there with him all the time. But his father hadn’t wanted her with him all the time. Truth was, he enjoyed Melody being gone because it meant she wouldn’t get caught in the middle of the feud he was having with Doughboy.

  Doughboy, who, after five years of the couple being together, was still pissed that Melody had chosen Basher instead of him. Doughboy’s jealousy had resulted in the club being split. Some were following him and others had begun following Basher.

  But Bash never understood why anyone would follow Doughboy. From everything he’d learned from his Uncles, Rock and Stryker, and on his own, Doughboy wasn’t much of a leader. He cared more about getting his dick wet than he did about the club. Basher had been the man behind the scenes, pulling the strings and making the deals, while Doughboy had taken all the credit.

  As the years continued to pass, men who were following Doughboy realized he wasn’t the answer to expanding the club or its businesses, both legitimate and illegal. There’d been rumblings of removing Doughboy and putting Basher into his position. But before anyone was able to approach his father about replacing Doughboy, Melody had been involved in an accident while performing a ballet stunt in New York. She’d torn several ligaments, resulting in her five-year professional dance career coming to an end. His mother hadn’t stressed too much because she’d missed his father more than she missed dancing.

  Melody had come back to Rydal, GA, where the club was located and where she’d been born and raised. Then within a year of her coming home, she’d become pregnant. Which resulted in Doughboy becoming even more enraged. Though Doughboy had leveled off with seeking others’ confidence, he’d been keeping Basher out of several deals. He just wasn’t the same man that Basher had known before. Basher, and those who followed him, knew that Doughboy was up to something because he was having meetings off club property and whispering to those who whom he kept close. Unfortunately, they hadn’t been able to learn what Doughboy’s plan was. All they knew was that whatever Doughboy was planning would change the club forever.

  And forever came on a cold October morning when Bash was seven.

  His father had been returning home after a two-day run which had been time-sensitive and would double the club’s pay if completed. Doughboy was supposed to be on the run but at the last minute, he’d disappeared, leaving Basher to complete it with those whom Doughboy had selected to ride with his father. Ten miles north of town, his father had been involved in a wrong-way collision with a drunk driver who’d crossed the median and run into the three men as they rode back into town. His father had died instantly. The others walked away with minor injuries.

  “Show time!” Trigger’s graveled voice announced, interrupting Bash’s reverie.

  With a small nod, Bash ground his feet further into the ground. He needed to stay grounded. Stay in place so that he wouldn’t act before it was time. He’d planned this out. Gone over it time and time again. He’d even scoped out the fifty acres they were currently standing on. He’d come out here two weeks ago, telling the real estate agent showing him the acreage that he was looking to build a housing community on the property. All true, to an extent. He was going to build something on the property – just as soon as they finished with the men who were now coming up the dirt road leading to the middle of the property. He smirked as the bikes’ rumbling hit his ears. It was unusual for someone like him, a low man on the club’s totem pole, to ask for a private meeting with the President of the club, off club property. But when the President of the club was curious about who you really were, you could ask for anything and he would oblige because he wanted to know all your secrets.

  Secrets that he, and the two men he’d brought with him when he’d asked to be a member, would never tell. Secrets they’d hid well since being patched into the club six months ago, after spending almost a year as a Prospects. He and the boys hadn’t minded being Prospects for almost a year. It’d given them the time they needed to put his plan in motion. Doughboy, who by some miracle had kept his Presidency, hadn’t seen Bash coming. And why would he? Doughboy thought he was the King of the little world the Black Crows had carved out in North Georgia. But he wasn’t. He never had been.

  “Who the fuck do you think you are to demand an off property meeting?” Doughboy sneered as he dismounted his bike. He looked at the little shit before him. He’d wanted to put a bullet in the kid’s head just for kicks months ago, but he’d refrained. Bash, named because he was good with his hands at bashing people’s heads in when it was needed, had walked into the club asking for entrance with not only the backing of Stryker but also a letter from Rock, dated before the man had died of cancer, several years before. Backing like that didn’t come easy. And ending someone who had some of the first at his back was not how he was going to play this. He hadn’t stayed President by being stupid.

  “I don’t believe I demanded anything of you,” Bash replied with a slight cock of his head. He had been demanding Bash smirked. He’d walked into Doughboy’s office while he was getting a blowjob from one of the club whores while another was about to ride his face. Bash had slammed a piece of paper with a time and a date on the man’s desk, ignoring the other man’s protest about being disturbed. Bash hadn’t cared if he was disturbing the man. It was time to act. And act he would. Bash wanted to growl as Doughboy started laughing – his distended, Santa Claus looking belly moving up and down. There was nothing funny about what was going to happen to the man and the two men he’d brought with him.

  Nasty and Sexy, as they were called, were a decade or so older than Bash, they’d entered the club when they’d turned twenty-one and become loyal to only one person. Oh, they were loyal to the club but to them the club was Doughboy. They did all his dirty work. Kept him in power. If they heard rumblings of people wanting to take Doughboy out, then they would take that person out. He looked from Nasty to Sexy. These were the two men who’d been with his father the day he was killed. They been good little soldiers and reported to their President that they had ended the man who’d killed Basher, but that had all been lies. Rock and Stryker had seen the man several weeks later in the next town, very much alive. Though they had taken care of his breathing problem, of course.

  “I’m not really seeing what the joke is,” Bash said.

  “No, young’un, I guess you wouldn’t,” Doughboy sobered, shaking his head. “You young’uns don’t understand hierarchy or when you summon someone. Damn shame the schools aren’t teaching what they should anymore,” he shrugged. “What do you want?”

  “First, let me thank you for coming,” Bash politely acknowledged. He was his mother’s son and she had always told him that manners were important. Even if the person was an asshole.

  ‘You always use your manners,’ Melody Delacrox’s sweet voice floated through his ears.

  “Thank you for coming,” Doughboy mocked. “Look, you little shit, I only came out of curiosity,” he admitted. He’d spent the last eighteen months trying to find out anything he could about the kid. But every avenue he tried, every contact he used had come up w
ith nothing. It was like the kid was a ghost or something. No one could tell him anything about the man who’d walked into his club like he owned the place, armed with his own enforcers.

  “Curiosity can be dangerous,” Bash replied. He wanted to spill. Wanted to tell this fat fuck who he was. But he needed to play this out. To make sure that Doughboy and his men knew exactly what they were about to go in the frozen ground for.

  “Hasn’t been for me,” Doughboy replied, crossing his arms over his massive chest. “Now why the fuck am I here? I have matters I need to attend to.”

  No, he didn’t. Unless it was one of the club whores, but those weren’t even his anymore. Not since Bash had had his men, those who were following him now, clean up the clubhouse. They’d gotten rid of everyone who might cause him problems as he took over. He wasn’t a merciless man – he’d given the order to give them options. They could fall in line with the new President or they could leave the club forever and never come back. Those who gave too much trouble were to be put down.

  He smiled to himself. It was good to be a Prince, almost a King, among men. And a Prince he was. As it got passed around the club about who had recommended him, a few members who’d known his father and Uncles had recognized him, though he was a combination of both his parents. They had started the ball rolling on placing him in charge. To them, it was as if Basher had sent his son to save them and this time they wouldn’t stop until the deal was done. Those who were skeptical, quickly changed their minds when they saw how he dealt with the businesses that Doughboy had asked him to handle. He'd been gentle but firm, resulting in businesses turning more profit for the club. There was no need for violence all the time – but when there was, he lived up to his name.

  “If that was the case, then you could have sent Sexy and Nasty,” Bash advised. “You send them to do all your dirty work anyway.” Neither man held the Sergeant at Arms position. An SAA was supposed to do the President’s dirty work unless it involved a brother’s family outside the club – then the SAA would be there to help or clean up, giving the brother the revenge he sought. His Uncle Rock had been the SAA even with his suspicions about Doughboy killing his brother. But without proof, he couldn’t go to the club and ask to end Doughboy’s life. The man who’d run Basher off the road had been drunk but he’d said he didn’t remember drinking as much as he thought and had believed he was ok to drive because he’d done it before. With that admission, Rock and Stryker had believed that sainthood was in their future for getting the man off the street before he killed anyone else.