“You know it, brother,” came the easy answer, Ruger’s fist bumping against his shoulder. “I got you.”
“Problem solved,” he told Justine, then pulled her in front of him and folded his arms across her chest. “Ruger, this is my old lady, Justine. Jussie, I’ve known Ruger for a long fuckin’ time. Trust him with my life, and now yours. Trouble by the bar, you look for and run to him. We won’t be in the same conversations, so should be an easy swap.” Her nod had soft hair drifting across the side of his neck, and he smiled, smoothing a hand over the curve of her head and tucking those strands back behind her ear. Looking at Ruger, who appeared to be watching the interaction with interest, Wildman asked, “Twisted?”
“Cross the room, near Mason and his boys. Guessing they’re the biggest dom asked in, other than us, so they’re getting a somewhat VIP treatment.”
“Or my man Twisted wants to keep a close eye on this crew himself.” Wildman shrugged. “Either way, two birds, one stone for me right now. Come on, baby.” He dropped a kiss on the top of her head. “Let’s go see the fam.”
“Oh, Lord,” she muttered, then giggled and pressed tighter to him. “You gave me a couple of marks.”
“I know.” Chin high, he led her across the room. “Boss.” He leaned towards Twisted, looking neither left nor right, arm firmly around Justine as Twisted greeted him with a slap on the back. “Timeframe for gettin’ this shindig started?”
“Well now, my good friend Mason and I were just discussin’ that very topic.” Twisted turned to look at Mason, forcing Wildman to do the same.
Mason’s eyes were focused on the IMC-support shirt Justine wore. Then his gaze flicked up to her face and back to the shirt before moving more slowly to the junction of her shoulders and her neck, where Wildman had left two very distinct overlapping marks. One of his teeth, and then a dark bruise from a hard, sucking kiss. Mason’s jaw moved side to side, and Wildman watched as one hand folded into a fist.
“You couldn’t give it one fucking day?” Mason turned his glare on Wildman and took a half step forwards, chin up.
“You should know, old man, there ain’t a single fucking thing about this between me and Justine that’s got shit-all to do with you. Everything I do is for her, and if you’d think with your strategic hat on for just one goddamned minute, you’d see clearly.” Wildman leaned in, chest nearly brushing Mason’s. “She’s wearin’ my shirt because I fuckin’ need my brothers to see the depth of this commitment. She’s not a plant, and you and I know that to our bones, but the scrutiny and skepticism will live on in deep, thick bands of still water if I don’t get out ahead of it and make a goddamned statement. It’s one thing to know, and it’s another to take something that feels like a risk on just fuckin’ faith. So I picked the shirt with care, my man.” He shook his head, inching another fraction into Mason’s space, the big man’s chest rising and falling with each hard breath, their gazes locked on each other.
“She’s mine. Mine. I know you get that, at least, havin’ a good old lady of your own. One to keep. Keep her for you, and keep her safe.” He pulled in a breath, watching the muscles in Mason’s jaw jump, hearing the circle of silence around them grow as attention was brought to bear on this potential altercation. Gotta make my point and then back the fuck up. Justine was tense under his arm and hand, drawn tight, poised for action. Shit, woman. Last thing I need right now is a boner to deal with too. He glanced down at her to see her head on a swivel, watching his back and all around them. “Easy, Jussie.” His mutter was quiet, but she caught it and looked up at him with a quick, decisive nod. Arrowing his attention back on Mason, he considered his next words.
“There ain’t a single other woman here, which puts a spotlight on her. By reputation you’re supposed to be a cagey shit. I bet you can imagine all of what that can do. Some man in here gets to thinking she’s not spoken for, and there might be a possibility of grooming themselves for some of your consideration? I’d have to kill them, and I’m against spillin’ red today, because these are friends and allies in this room, and we’re going to need every fuckin’ one of them to do what’s needed. Me puttin’ my marks on her, having her under my arm, draping myself all over her—I’m keeping her. You feel me? Keepin’ her for me, keepin’ her safe, hell, keepin’ her whole so your family doesn’t have to deal with any fallout. Your blood family.” Time to drill the message home how she’d shifted allegiances. She’d still have loyalty to her brother, but the RWMC? Fuck them.
“Your club family, those patch brothers you’ve talked about setting to watch her? They got nothin’ to do with her no more. She’s IMC now, Mason, and you’re going to have to understand this situation. This relationship, this fucking woman I have at my side, don’t got shit-all to do with the RWMC anymore. Loyalty, brother, and I know you understand that concept. She’s mine, I’m hers. You know our saying, too. I am IMC, and IMC is me. Well, now, she is IMC, and IMC is her, which means she’s covered. You feel me?”
He took a deliberate step backwards, taking Justine with him. Boots behind him shuffled to give him space, and he retreated another few inches. Head high, he held Mason’s gaze until the man gave him a tight nod, the barest dip of his chin to his throat, but not a single muscle eased from the tension forced all over the man’s frame. This ain’t over, got it.
Wildman waited. Still and silent, he waited.
And Mason surprised him.
Slowly, so slowly he missed any first indications, only picking up on the way the man’s cheek creased as if holding back a smile. Grey eyes the mirror of Justine’s blinked, and Mason sucked in a deep breath, then let it out in a slow sigh. “My sister picked well.” Mason’s hand flashed out, and Wildman avoided flinching by only the barest measures, his palm lifting quickly to slap against Mason’s, hard and stinging. There was no grinding grip, no attempt to cow him, just a firm up and down shake, followed by a change in grip so Mason’s fingers wrapped around his wrist. He accommodated and went with the flow when Mason pulled him forwards, dipping until their shoulders met briefly. “You’ll do, Wildman.”
The fuck just happened?
Twenty minutes later, he and Justine stood against a broad pane of glass at Twisted’s back, their positioning entirely intentional, as they were exactly where Twisted had told him to place themselves. Wildman watched as the presidents and VPs of the various clubs filtered into the room, half shooting daggers at Twisted, half looking questioningly at Wildman and Justine. Mason had to break protocol, bringing in four men with him, so that Wrench made his way back to the door and whistled, gesturing. Wildman was unsurprised when Po’Boy poked his head into the room, grinning as he took in the makeup of the crowd.
Since Po’Boy had patched over into the CoBos, he’d been trapped in an uncomfortable gray zone. No longer an officer in the Incoherent MC and not even a voting member of the CoBos, yet he was still someone the standing presidents of both clubs leaned on heavily. Him being in here only made sense to Wildman, though, and he gave the man a nod as he parked up next to where Wild stood. He split the difference between Twisted and Wrench, somehow managing to be behind both. Message received.
Movement on the other side of Justine had Wildman’s head whipping sideways to watch as Retro and Mason had an impressive standoff, their staring glares caught immobile. Finally Retro dipped his chin and took a step back, letting Mason move past him and into the spot in front of Justine. Retro and Mudd lined up after Mason and Gunny, though, splitting the RWMC men with practiced ease.
All of this accomplished in near silence, broken only with muffled coughs and a couple of whispers between the groups lined up on the other side of the table.
Without any kind of signal Wildman could suss out, three prospects swept into the room, six different buckets held in their hands. Each bucket labeled with an MC’s initials was deposited on top of the table near the identified groups.
“Phones in the pot, please, folks.” That was Busk, standing next to the door. “You can understand
our desire to keep our conversations private-like.”
“You bring in a phone, baby?” Justine answered his murmured question with a headshake. “All right.” He pulled his phone from the inside pocket of his vest, hand hesitating over the gun tucked in alongside it. “Just the electronics, right?”
Twisted laughed out loud, and Busk hung his head, swinging it back and forth. “Yeah, Wild. Keep your iron, brother. It’s all good, man.” That broke the silence in the room, and there was a steady rattle and thump of devices being deposited into the containers. The prospects gathered the buckets when the men had all returned to their former positions, stacking them and withdrawing from the room. The doors swung closed and latched, and only then did Twisted pull his chair back from the table, dropping heavily into it.
The men nearest the table around the room followed suit, toppling into place like rows of obedient dominos, until there was a ring of black leather framing the tabletop and a secondary ring of observers standing at their backs. Wildman took stock of the faces and names, the intent expressions each man wore, and a shiver drilled its way down his spine. This is historic shit. Justine’s fingers clamped around his hand, tight then released, then tight again, and he used his peripheral vision to track where she was focused.
The man behind Sparks was glaring at her. Likely a member of the Jailbreakers, but what would his beef be with Justine? Wildman knew the club had been tasked with being her babysitter often enough by the RWMC, the dom they owed allegiance to, so he’d expect she’d know most of them reasonably well. Guess we’ll see. He met Justine’s grip with his own, giving her hand a tiny shake, and she tipped her head to brush against his arm, acknowledging his response.
Twisted had started talking minutes ago, the lead-in for the reason behind this meeting, but hadn’t gotten to the bone of the issue yet, so Wildman kept observing. Gaze flicking from face to face, he kept returning to the Jailbreaker VP, trying to remember the man’s name. The plate on the front of his vest only held his position, and Wildman found he didn’t like not knowing.
Silence fell, and he glanced down at Twisted to see his national president taking a long look around the room. Showtime.
“Cartel dropped a list. List that’s got all kinds of names on it. They’re makin’ it real clear they wanna do a sweep of the coast, push back the power we got until they can take over and run their business any damn way they want. Part of that list is threats. Generalized threats, followed by information.” He leaned his chair back on two legs. “Right now, every club in this room is noted on that list.”
Busk had a stack of paper in front of him, and he flicked half of it on the far end of the table, half nearer this end, then passed a handful of the sheets backwards without looking. Wildman took the sheaf, kept a piece, and shoved it at Po’Boy. Glancing at the words in the screenshotted image, he skimmed, keeping his mouth shut. When Justine pulled at his arm, he passed the paper to her, focusing again on the other men in the room.
“How’d you get this?” Mason’s gruff question broke the tension. “That looks like a private server setup.”
“It is. I got a guy who knows a guy. We light-fingered our way into the server background and have been watching, waiting. Hoping they’d fuck up.” Twisted thumped a hard finger against the table, then pointed at the paper in Mason’s hand. “They fucked up. We were in a position to catch it, and here we are.”
“My man can help with that.”
“Oh, I’m countin’ on it, Mason. Countin’ on Myron bein’ able to dig deeper, faster, and farther than our fumbling attempts. He’s the real deal, and as successful as it feels to have this shit in front of us right now, I know he’ll do a better job.” Twisted looked past Mason to Retro. “Lookin’ for the Bastards to lock ranks with this shit, man. You see those names under your club? I know you’re not even out of the last sack of shit that dropped on your doorstep, but this is gainin’ critical mass with every fuckin’ minute.”
“I have a member missing.” Retro tossed the knowledge out there like it was nothing, like he didn’t protect every one of his men with his life, like whoever it was didn’t matter, but Wildman saw the way the man’s hand shook as he flattened his palm on the table. “That sack of shit you mentioned done landed on my doorstep? Sometime between then, when we spoke on the phone about it as it was barely over goin’ down, and when me and mine were ridin’ to Ms. LaPorte’s little rendezvous, an officer failed to check in. We had dialed out a touchstone, got nearly a hundred percent response, which ain’t enough. Zeroed in and tagged him with dozens of calls and texts and still got nada.” Retro took in a deep breath. “One thing after another comin’ our way. Got someone to his house couple of days later, nobody home. But there was food on the table, dresser drawers in his little girl’s room hangin’ open, and blood on the floor.” He lifted his chin, angling his gaze around the room. “His name is on this fuckin’ list, Twisted.” Voice rough, breaking in half, he choked out, “Brothers, I need your help.”
Chaos descended on the office. Men standing and sitting, men pacing and posturing, shouting with hands up by their heads. Wildman kept his attention on Twisted, and sure enough, it was only a moment before his president, his friend, held out one hand, finger pointing at the only official gavel the IMC had ever had. Wildman pressed against Justine’s belly, settling her against the glass firmly, then stepped away and around a half a dozen men. He reached for and retrieved the bat, splintered and worn, wound round with a bicycle chain which held more residual red than was safe for the club—what with the advancements of DNA and whatnot—and turned to slap the handle into Twisted’s still-outstretched hand, holding it steady as Twisted’s fingers gripped, relaxed and shifted, then gripped again. Wildman popped his fingers wide just in time to avoid being shredded by the chain as Twisted swung it overhand, so it whistled through the air, thudding in a crash against one end of the tabletop, the end nearest the Jailbreakers, Wildman noted, and had a moment of pleasure when it looked like the man behind Sparks was going to literally shit himself.
But he’d left Justine alone long enough at that point, a half a dozen breaths between now and when he’d last touched her, so he reclaimed his position in the line against the window and scooped her close with his arm around her. Somehow he wasn’t surprised she hadn’t cowered, hadn’t looked frightened at all, was standing there and evaluating every man in the room, her gaze marking where they stood and who they looked to, and he thought she was the most magnificent woman he’d ever had his hands on.
The roar had settled instantly when the report of the baseball bat hitting the wooden table had crashed through the room. A profound silence followed as Twisted whirled the bat through his fingers with ease, displaying how frequently he’d handled the weapon. He finished with the flourishing movements and rested it crossways in front of where he sat, folded his hands and forearms over the wood and metal, and deliberately scanned the room.
“When’s the last time anyone saw your man, Retro?” Twisted flicked a finger towards the end of the table. “Swap seats with Capone there, take the lead, man. Or stand or some shit. Let’s get to the bottom of this.”
“Pretty sure you can hear me from here, brother.” Retro’s drawled response held no notes of humor, just tension and plain need. “Last time we laid eyes on Einstein was at my house. Ran Chulpayev off, had ourselves a little cookout, and the men headed home. That was the day of the big raids.”
“Ten days ago.” Twisted thudded his finger against the paper as he had before. “This wasn’t posted until yesterday. You sure it’s cartel?”
“Nope. I can tell you it’s not the Bratva, but that’s about the extent of my certainty. I don’t know who the fuck might have scooped him up.”
Mason cleared his throat and scooted his chair backwards, creating a tiny triangle of space between himself, Twisted, and Retro. He propped his ankle on his knee, looking like he could be in any backyard conversation. “Been my experience that if the obvious isn’t the culprit,
then it’s the next obvious thing you need to look at. You cut anyone lately, bad blood or lose anyone to a patch out for good reasons?”
“Not a one. Bastards don’t patch lightly, we prospect diligently, and I’ve never had to cut a man for doin’ shit. Few who have surrendered their patches over the years have been a location thing, because I’m not interested in nomads. Jobs move, and family matters, so shit happens sometimes.” Retro shook his head, then shoved a hand through his hair, flinging it over his shoulder. “Einstein’s a good man. Good member. Good officer. Eatin’ me up that I can’t put a finger on where or when. Coulda been that same night or anything between then and days later when we put out the touchstone.”
“Where’d he come from?” Wildman leaned over, locking gazes with Retro. “He didn’t grow up in Bama, did he? Man’s got an accent, am I right? I remember from earlier in the summer, when we rode over. Remember meeting him.”
“Yeah, he’s from Philly. Old lady’s family got sickly, so he got out of the MC he was in there and came to Alabama so she could be with them. Did his homework on the Bastards, and we recruited him, because we did our homework too.” Retro shook his head. “He’d been in a shit club, ties to the Italian boys, if you get my drift.”
“Club got a name?” Wrench leaned forwards on Twisted’s other side, eyes bright as he stared at Retro. “If they’re shit, you think they’d be lookin’ for him for some reason?”
“Monster Devils.” Mudd spoke up from over Retro’s shoulder. “And Einstein delivered a message a few weeks ago that was surprising. Was about the same time you”—he pointed at Po’Boy—“and Twisted rocked up askin’ about that shitstorm in Florida.”
Tarnished Lies and Dead Ends Page 22
