Hades’ Anguish (Saint’s Outlaws MC: Boston Chapter #2)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

hades

The wrench slips in my hand, scraping across my knuckles hard enough to draw blood.

I curse under my breath, wiping the cut on my jeans as I lean back from the Harley's engine.

The bike's been running rough for weeks; it needs to be tuned up and fixed.

Anything to keep my hands busy. Anything to keep my mind from wandering to places it shouldn't go.

"Pass me that socket set," I tell Tempest, who's sprawled under his own bike nearby. Oil stains cover the concrete floor of the clubhouse garage, and the familiar scent of motor oil and grease fills my lungs. This is where I belong, where things make sense.

"You're gonna strip that bolt if you keep forcing it," Tempest says, sliding out from under his ride. His blond hair is plastered to his forehead with sweat, and there's a streak of grease across his cheek. "What's got you so wound up today, brother?"

Before I can answer, my phone buzzes on the workbench. The screen lights up with an unknown number, and ice crawls up my spine. Unknown numbers never mean good news in our world.

"Ronan Blackwood?" The voice on the other end is professional, clipped. Official.

"Who's asking?"

"This is Detective Isaacs with Boston PD. I'm calling about Marcus and Calla Peterson. You're listed as their emergency contact."

The wrench clatters to the floor. Calla. My sister. Marcus. My brother-in-law. The only family I have left besides my club brothers.

"What happened?" My voice comes out rougher than intended.

"Sir, I'm sorry to inform you that Mr. and Mrs. Peterson were found deceased in their home early this morning. It appears to be a home invasion that went wrong."

It feels like someone’s reached in and ripped the air right out of me. Calla. My baby sister. The only person who ever looked at me like I was more than just Saint's Outlaws muscle. She's gone.

"Sir? Are you there?"

I clear my throat, forcing the words out. "The kids. Where are the kids?"

"The five children were at a sleepover last night. They're safe and currently in protective custody. Social services will need to speak with you about custody arrangements, as you’re listed as their legal guardian along with the children’s aunt.”

My gut clenches. I remember signing the papers Calla gave me last year. She said she needed them for “just in case.” I didn’t ask questions; I just signed. Club lawyers had them notarized, tight and legal.

“You’ll still need to go through the family court process,” Isaacs adds. “But with guardianship papers on file, you’ll have temporary placement rights for now, along with their aunt, Evangeline.”

Good. I don’t trust the system to keep those kids safe. But the Outlaws? We have ways of making sure custody sticks. As for Evangeline, of course she's involved. She would be. She adores those kids and she adored her brother and my sister.

"I'll be there in an hour," I manage.

"Sir, the scene is still being processed. You won't be able to—"

"I'll be there," I repeat, already reaching for my cut.

Tempest has gone still, his eyes locked on my face. He knows something's wrong. Hell, probably half the clubhouse heard my side of the conversation.

"Calla and Marcus are dead," I say, the words tasting like ash in my mouth. "Home invasion."

"Fuck." Tempest scrambles to his feet, wiping his hands on a rag. "The kids?"

"Safe. They were at a sleepover." I shrug into my cut, my hands moving on autopilot. "I need to go."

"You don't need to handle this alone, brother," Tempest says, his voice steady. "I'm coming with you."

I want to argue, to tell him I can handle it myself. But the truth is, I'm not sure I can. Not this. Not Calla.

"Let's go."

* * *

Calla and Marcus’ house is a fucking circus when we arrive. Police cars line the street, crime scene tape flutters in the wind, and neighbors cluster on their porches, whispering among themselves.

I park my bike across the street and sit for a moment, staring at the house where Calla laughed and cooked family dinners and worried about homework and piano lessons. Where she built a life so far removed from the violence of my world that sometimes I forgot we shared the same blood.

"You ready for this?" Tempest asks quietly.

No. I'm not ready to see where my sister died. I'm not ready to face the fact that while I was rebuilding engines and being the enforcer for my club, someone was taking her away from me forever.

But I nod anyway and swing my leg over the bike.

Detective Isaacs is a thin woman with deep gray hair and tired eyes. She meets us at the tape, her gaze taking in our cuts with the weary resignation of someone who's dealt with bikers before.

"Mr. Blackwood? I'm Detective Isaacs. Thank you for coming so quickly."

"What happened?" I ask without preamble.

She glances at Tempest, then back at me. "Can we speak privately?"

"He stays," I say flatly.

Isaacs sighs but doesn't argue. "The preliminary investigation suggests the perpetrators entered through a back window sometime between midnight and two AM. Mr. and Mrs. Peterson were found in the master bedroom. It appears they were killed quickly, execution style."

Execution style. The words slam into me, and my legs give out and I drop to my knees in the doorway, hard. I don't cry. I can’t. My breath won't come, and for a second, I think I might black out.

I clench my fists until I feel blood. Something to hold on to. Something real.

This wasn't some random home invasion. This was targeted. Professional.

"You said it looked like a robbery," I say as I rise to my feet, my breathing hard and unsteady.

"That's what we're telling the media," Isaacs says carefully. "But between you and me, nothing was taken. This was made to look like a burglary, but..."

But it wasn't. Someone wanted Marcus and Calla dead, and they wanted it to look random. My mind immediately goes to club business; to enemies we've made over the years. But Marcus was clean. He worked in accounting, for fuck's sake. Never had anything to do with the MC.

"I need to see where," I say.

"Mr. Blackwood, I don't think—"

"I need to see where my sister died."

Isaacs studies my face for a long moment, then nods. "Five minutes. Don't touch anything."

The house smells wrong. Like copper and fear and death. I follow Isaacs down the hallway, past family photos that show Calla's life in snapshots. Her wedding day, the kids' school pictures, birthday parties.

The master bedroom door is open, and I stop in the doorway. There's blood on the carpet; dark stains that tell a story of violence in a home that should have been safe. Calla and Marcus are gone now, their bodies removed, but I can see the outlines where they fell.

My sister died in this room, afraid and no doubt worried for her children.

"I'm sorry for your loss," Isaacs says quietly. "For what it's worth, it appears they didn't suffer long."

I nod, not trusting my voice. Five minutes feels like five hours before I finally turn away.

Outside, Tempest is leaning against his bike, his phone pressed to his ear. He ends the call when he sees me.

"That was Ghost," he says. "He's calling a meeting for tonight. Word's already spreading."

Of course it is. Violence like this doesn't stay quiet in our world. Someone will pay for what happened to Calla. I'll make sure of it.

"The kids," I say, focusing on what matters now. "I need to get to the kids."

“The social worker wants to meet you at the temporary foster home. She’s a friend of your sister’s. The kids know her and will be comfortable there until you’re situated,” Isaacs calls out, walking toward us. “I'll give you the address.”

She hesitates, then adds, “They’ll do a full home check and family court hearing before any permanent arrangements. For now, the kids are in temporary placement under the guardianship paperwork. Until then, one mistake, and the kids could end up in the system.”

Not set in stone. Which means someone, or something, could still fuck this up for the kids.

“Fine,” I say. “We’ll make it stick.”

* * *

The foster home is in a nicer part of town that boasts perfectly cut lawns and white picket fences. It's the kind of place Calla would have loved; the kind of life she built for herself and her family.

We park in the driveway, and I take a deep breath before walking to the front door. Through the window, I can see movement inside. Small figures that must be the kids.

My hand hovers over the doorbell. Once I ring it, everything changes. I become responsible for five children who just lost everything. I become the guardian who has to explain why their parents aren't coming home.

"You've got this, brother," Tempest says beside me.

I press the bell.

Footsteps approach from inside, and then the door swings open. A middle-aged woman with kind eyes and flour on her apron smiles at us.

"Mr. Blackwood? I'm Mrs. Lyndsay, the emergency foster parent. Please, come in."

She leads us into a living room where five children sit clustered together on a couch. They range in age from the teenager down to the smallest, who is four. Their faces are red from crying, and they look lost in a way that makes my chest tight.

"Kids," Mrs. Lyndsay says gently. “Your Uncle Hades is here. He's here to take care of you now."

The youngest, Lily, a little girl with Calla's dark hair and wide brown eyes, looks up at me. Her bottom lip trembles. She’s only four and already lost so much.

"Uncle Hades?" she whispers.

I drop to one knee in front of her, trying to make myself less intimidating. "Hey, sweetheart. You remember me?"

She nods slowly. "You came to my birthday party. You brought me the pretty bracelet."

"That's right." My voice comes out rougher than I intended. "Can I have a hug?"

She launches herself into my arms without hesitation, her small body shaking with sobs. "I want Mama," she cries against my neck. "I want my Mama!"

Over her head, I see the other four children watching us. Waiting for answers I don't know how to give.