Decoding Morse (Dead Presidents MC #12)

Chapter 1

1

Morse

W HERE I GREW up, snitches didn’t get stitches. Nope. Squealing earned the rat a front-row seat to witness the punishment. Nothing like force-feeding a round of psychological torture anytime someone steps out of line to keep the minions under control. Growing up in a religious cult, I’d never narked on anyone, but I’d seen plenty of consequences for those who had.

I shook my head, trudging down the shadowed hallway responsible for that unwelcome trip down memory lane, annoyed that neither years nor distance could seem to free me from the baggage of my childhood.

My fears were misplaced. Tyler Wade Lincoln, or Link, as his patch read, was the president of the motorcycle club I now called home and nothing like the manipulative hypocrite of a cult leader who still starred in many of my nightmares. Yet old habits still gave me pause as I stood outside the prez’s door and second-guessed myself.

Am I doing the right thing?

Despite my aversion to airing other people’s laundry, this wasn’t the first time I’d come to Link’s door to snitch. No, that had been for Brass, the former manager of our bar, The Copper Penny. When I’d caught the bastard on camera stealing from the club, Link had sliced an “X” through his club tattoo and sent him packing.

That punishment had been deserved.

This was different.

Lives could be in danger if I didn’t voice my concerns, and I was running out of time to speak up. Link kept a tight schedule that I knew like the back of my hand. Tonight, like every Saturday night, we were gearing up for a party in the common area. As soon as it kicked off, Link’s ol’ lady would show up, and I’d lose any opportunity to converse coherently with him. He and Emily still behaved like horny teenagers. It didn’t matter that they had a toddler now or that they’d been married for years. When she showed up, we all knew not to bother them.

I grimaced and raised my hand. If I was going to do this, it had to be now. My knuckles rapped against the door.

“Come in,” came the immediate reply.

I opened the door to find the club president standing with a hip leaning against his desk, cell phone in hand. A high-back leather chair sat behind the desktop computer he used for professional meetings, but he paced the space while working on his cell phone the rest of the time. He was former Special Forces and physically capable of sitting still for extended periods, but he preferred to stay mobile.

His gaze lifted from his phone to scan me for physical damage before focusing on my face. “Morse. What can I do for you?”

That question, asked every time I entered his office, was why I stayed with the Dead Presidents. Well, that and the consequential detail that I had nowhere else to go. Nobody else I could fucking trust. Only two men on this mud ball of a planet had ever believed I was worth saving, and Link was one of them. I’d spent every day since he’d taken me in trying to prove him right.

I wasn’t here to snitch. No. This was about protecting our own.

“Something’s wrong with Tank.”

Link’s attention homed in on me like I was an approaching speck on the horizon, and he wasn’t sure whether I was friend or foe. I didn’t take it personally. He watched everyone with that level of intensity.

“What do you mean?”

“He’s behaving erratically, forgettin’ shit, wandering around like he’s lost.”

Link frowned. Tank was one of his uncles. Not by blood, but by service and duty. Tank was a member of the old guard, the small group of veteran bikers who’d helped Link’s father establish this club. Their dedication to the cause had saved countless lives and enabled numerous struggling veterans to find a home and a purpose once again. The old guard was treated with the utmost respect and appreciation. Always.

“Tank’s gettin’ old.”

“It’s more than that,” I pressed. “Earlier today, I had to intervene and take his keys.”

Link’s expression turned skeptical. “He was drunk?”

“No. Stone-cold sober. Yet he told the mailman he was gettin’ the hell out of here to find his ol’ lady and kids.”

I’d caught the odd exchange on camera and had high-tailed it out of the security office to investigate. Tank and his first wife had divorced over twenty years ago. Their kids were grown and living on the East Coast. His second wife, Amy, couldn’t have kids of her own. A few years back, I’d given her the kids’ contact information. She planned to reach out to them and try to reconcile, but as far as I knew, nothing ever came of it. Amy died a little over a year ago. The kids hadn’t attended her funeral, and Tank had moved back into the fire station shortly thereafter.

Link’s frown deepened as my words sunk in.

“He was confused. Incoherent.”

Link circled the desk to collapse into his chair like the weight of the world now rode on his shoulders. “You sure he wasn’t just distracted?”

“I wish. He didn’t even recognize me.”

Link shook his head, but the move seemed more like defeat than denial.

“He got belligerent when I wouldn’t let him leave,” I continued. “Took me a minute, but I calmed him down, got him back up to his room, and convinced him to take a nap.”

I pulled the keys to Tank’s bike out of my pocket and dropped them on the corner of Link’s desk, officially handing the problem over. He watched them like they were poisonous and about to strike.

“Fuck.”

“I couldn’t agree more, Prez.”

“He’s too young for Alzheimer’s or dementia.”

I didn’t correct him. Didn’t need to. Link was far too smart to believe that lie. This wasn’t the first time I’d seen Tank behaving erratically, and I’d bet the prez had seen some shit, too. He was likely dissecting their conversations for the warning signs he’d assured himself were nothing over the past several months.

“I don’t want to consider what could have happened had I not stopped Tank from gettin’ on his bike.”

Link grimaced. He was an exceptional leader, the sort who genuinely cared about his people, and this… this shit was hard.

“Fuck.”

“I’ll have my team keep eyes on him,” I said.

Link threw his head back and released a stream of curses that would make a sailor blush.

Uncomfortable with his frustration and creeping toward the door to make my escape, I practically jumped out of my skin when an alert sounded from my phone. The tone was one I’d specified for an unlikely catastrophic event, and hearing it now made the hair rise on the back of my neck. Yanking the cell from my pocket, I swiped at the screen to read the notification. It made no sense, so I read it again and again. Still, the message refused to compute.

Link was by my side before I registered his movement. “What is it, Morse?”

“The fuckin’ apocalypse. Or B… hell has frozen over. Has to be one or the other. Why would anyone...? Has to be some sort of mistake.” But as I clicked into the software I’d thrown down a shit-ton of cash for, my worst fear was confirmed.

“What?”

“Amelia is in danger.” There was no helping the tremble in my voice or the shake of my hands. This threat was legitimate, but how? How the hell could this be real?

“Mila?” Link asked.

“No. Not my cousin.”

Link shook his head, confused. “What’s going on? What do you need?”

I couldn’t breathe. My emotions usually stayed locked down, but this… it was too much. Struggling against lungs that felt like they were collapsing, I managed to blurt out the basics. “Someone put a hit out on a military widow. She’s the wife of my deceased recruiter.”

“Ted Hansen’s ol’ lady?”

I nodded. Link knew who Ted was and what he’d done for me.

“How many in the household?”

“Three. Amelia, her eighteen-year-old daughter, and an adult female roommate.”

“They local?”

“Lakewood.”

“Local enough. How old is the hit?”

His Special Forces training had to be screaming at him to launch into a barrage of questions, but he focused on gathering pertinent details. Later I’d appreciate the way he hadn’t asked a single, inessential personal question before springing into action, but right now, I focused on keeping my shit together long enough to answer.

“Fresh. Just posted.”

“Good. Snag two brothers and get your asses over there. Considering the time frame, I doubt backup will be necessary, but have them cover the front and back while you convince Amelia and company to come for a stay. Rooms will be ready for them when you get back.”

“You’re not leadin’ this op?”

“I can’t. You gotta take point on this one, Morse. Take Havoc if he’s available.”

That was odd. Link never missed out. However, I’d have to analyze why later because I needed to go. Amelia was in danger, which meant I had to protect her.

And for once, I couldn’t do the job from my computer.

Link opened a desk drawer, retrieved a key, and slid it toward me. “Storage room. Make sure whoever you take is armed and ready. Guns, ammo, vests, night vision goggles.”

This was unreal and could not be happening, but another glance at the notification on my phone assured me it was.

“Fuck.”

Link raked a hand over the back of his neck. “I’ll call Havoc and have him meet you in the storage room.”

Already texting Rabbit, I ran out the door.