Chapter Twenty-Eight
Gunner
Sitting in my truck, I watched Kirby pull into Haizley’s driveway. Getting out of her car, she jogged up the steps and knocked on the door. A moment or two passed, and no one answered.
Kirby looked at her watch and knocked again. Finally, the door opened and there she was.
Haizley Walker.
The other half of my soul and the sharp pain in my ass.
When she looked in the bag and saw what it was, her shoulders slumped. That was her tell that she was giving in. She called out to Kirby before the woman got back in her car. I was sitting too far down the street to hear it. But I didn’t need to. She didn’t try to give it back. I counted that as a win.
Who would have guessed watching a woman’s shoulders slump would have the power to get me hard as steel? A professional might suggest that my desire to control her every action was indicative of narcissistic tendencies.
Yeah, I had looked some shit up.
I knew what it was. Knew what I was doing was wrong. I just didn’t give a fuck.
She was mine.
Mine to control.
Mine to protect.
Mine to fucking consume.
And mine to fucking love for the rest of our lives.
She was running scared, but that was ok. I enjoyed the hunt. The wolf always did. And when he finally captured his lamb, there would be nothing left of her for anyone else.
I sat in my truck until all her lights went out. Thank God the weather had finally broken. April wasn’t summer, but at least there was no more fucking snow.
Time quickly fell into a pattern in the days that followed. At precisely eight o’clock in the morning, a breakfast delivery was made to Haizley’s location. The dinner delivery arrived promptly at six o’clock in the evening. Beginning the day following her departure from the clubhouse, I started having lunch delivered promptly at one o’clock.
For the first three days, she texted and asked me to stop. When I refused, she started texting thank you.
Sitting in my truck outside her house, my phone buzzed.
Little Lamb: Thank you for dinner. It really isn’t necessary.
Me: It is. You need someone to take care of you.
Little Lamb: I’ve been taking care of myself for the last twelve years.
Me: Twelve years too long.
She wouldn’t respond to that. I had said the same thing to her in a number of different ways. I guess she figured if she didn’t acknowledge it, it wasn’t true.
I had taken to eating in my truck most nights. It felt a little like we were eating dinner together. I was going to give her two more weeks before I started delivering the food myself.
My phone buzzed again.
King: Church tonight.
Me: I know.
King: Then get your ass home and stop stalking the shrink.
Me: 10-4, good buddy.
King: Fuck you.
I laughed out loud, and the sound echoed in my truck.
I was so focused on watching my woman’s house that I didn’t see the sheriff’s car pull up behind me. When Declan knocked on my window, I dropped my fucking drink all over myself and the damn floor.
Fuck.
Soda was a bitch to get out of the floor pads. Sugar stuck to every fucking thing. Rolling the window down, I glared at the sheriff.
“Did King call you?” I asked, already knowing the answer.
“He did. What the fuck are you doing?”
“I was eating my fucking dinner until you banged on my window and made me drop soda all over everything.”
“Get the fuck out of here.”
He turned and left me there, still trying to clean the sugar drink off my jeans. I started my ignition, making a mental note to have Zero detail it tomorrow. Tonight, I would come back after church and sit here until she went to bed.
Sitting in church, King was getting angrier by the second. I knew where he would be headed tonight. At least he wouldn’t be hounding me about where I was.
“Where are we on this prick?” King asked.
“All we have is a sketch and a first name. It’s not much to go on.”
“It’s been six fucking months! I am at the point I might just have to call Luc and get Indigo out here.”
“Good God, that man is fucking scary as hell.” Jack shivered.
“Yea, well, he gets results,” Cash muttered.
“Dec said there hasn’t been a report in two weeks. Once we sent out that sketch to all the bars in the surrounding towns, there hasn’t been a single woman roofied,” Blade confirmed.
“No report doesn’t mean it’s not happening. Just means no one’s reported that shit,” Colt pointed out.
“You’ve got one more month before I call Luc,” King reiterated. “What else?”
“Got some reports of a club moving into our backyard,” Ghost shared.
“Where?”
“Hillsdale, Wyoming,” Ghost confirmed.
“Who are they?” Nav asked.
“Death Dogs MC.”
“What kind of fucking name is that?” Blade asked.
Nav’s fingers got to work to see what he could find. The rest of us quietly waited while he did his thing.
“Fuck.”
“What is it?” King sat forward, anxious to hear what Nav had discovered.
“Death Dogs MC out of Flagstaff, Arizona. President is Skinner, VP is Vulture, 1% club running drugs, guns, and skin.”
“What kind of fucking skin?” I asked.
“Looks like prostitution. From all accounts, it looks to be voluntary, but you know how that goes. Get ‘em hooked and they’ll consent to anything for a fucking fix.” Nav worked over the keyboard and soon pictures were up on the screen. “Bald fucker is Skinner. The skinny asshole is Vulture. I’ll need a few hours to get names of the entire club.”
“Any problems so far?” King asked, his eyes on the screen. “How long have they been there?”
“Just reports of them being in the area. Haven’t entered Nebraska as of yet, but they’re less than an hour away. Looks like they moved in two weeks ago,” Ghost clarified.
“How many members?” Jingles asked.
With a heavy breath, Nav answered, “Seventy-five, maybe more.”
“Fuck,” Cash whispered.
“We don’t need this shit right now. The whole fucking underworld is on edge. We have enough fucking bikers fighting with each other.” King rubbed his hand over his face. “For now, we keep eyes and ears open. Nav, find out as much as you can. I wanna know why they left Flagstaff and how the fuck they ended up in our backyard.”
“What’s fucking next?”
“We need to talk about Freeway.”
“What the fuck has he done now?” King groaned.
“Nothing, that’s the problem.”
“Why is that a problem?” Colt asked.
“Because it’s fucking Freeway. A quiet Freeway is a scheming fucking Freeway,” I explained.
“Anything more from Steele about why he sent him up here?” Jingles asked.
“No.” King stood up and paced at the front of the room. “Where is he working?”
“With Tank in the wrecker.”
“You need to call Steele and get more information,” Cash urged.
“I don’t want to talk to that fucker,” King grumbled.
I looked at Cash, my brows furrowed in confusion. Cash shrugged. Something was happening in Little Rock. When Steele called to tell us he was sending Freeway, he didn’t give us the option of saying no.
Steele could be an asshole, but he and King had been tight for a long time. King had put him on a pedestal right next to Declan. Looked like they’d both been shoved off.
We knew what secrets King’s brother had been keeping. As for Steele, well, he had always been a shady motherfucker. He didn’t share any shit outside his circle. And that circle was fucking small. King was a part of it when we were in Arkansas. Now it seemed, even King was on the outside.
“Trouble in paradise?” Cash snarked.
King froze in his pacing and turned on Cash. “You got something you wanna fucking say?”
“You already know what I think.” Cash and King glared at each other.
“What the fuck’s going on right now?” Jack asked.
Cash opened his mouth to answer Jack, and King snarled, “Shut the fuck up.”
“Jesus Christ, what is going on with you two?” Looking between them, we all waited, but neither said a word as they glared at each other.
Finally, King answered, “Difference of opinion.”
Cash scoffed.
“Get on the same fucking page,” I barked. “I’m assigning a fucking prospect to follow Freeway. What is the new one’s name?”
Everyone around the table turned a blank look toward me.
“Aren’t you in charge of the prospects?” Jack snickered.
“Fuck you, Jack. The kid is so fucking ordinary it hurts.”
“Like the fucking tundra.” Jingles snorted.
Pointing at him, I said, “That’s it. His name is fucking Tundra. I’ll put him on Freeway. Any time he leaves the fucking clubhouse, I want Tundra following him.”
“Fine,” King conceded. “Got a call from Zeus.”
We all groaned at once.
Zeus was the President of the Gods of Mayhem out of Athens, Texas. They were an ally to our Mother Chapter in Arkansas and by extension, us. However, there was no love lost between the clubs.
Years ago, Banshee had told Kronos, Zeus’ father and the president at the time, to fuck off when Kronos tried to marry off his daughter to Banshee. Kronos wanted to cement the two clubs, but his daughter was too fucking young.
None of us had ever met her, and we didn’t know why he had chosen Banshee. But given Banshee was thirty-eight, and the girl was only twenty-three, Banshee had said no.
It had been a point of contention between the clubs ever since.
“What does he want?” Ghost asked.
“His sister’s missing,” King answered.
“How long?”
“Almost a year now.”
“And he’s just fucking calling us?” Nav asked.
The pride in some of these fuckers was astonishing.
“What’s her name?” Nav sighed.
He wouldn’t get much sleep over the next few days. He was still looking for the three missing women we had learned about when Ellie’s parents tried to marry her off to some fuckwit up in New York.
“Irene Cooper.”
“Who names a baby Irene and thinks that’s a good choice?” Ghost scoffed.
“Irene is the Greek God of peace. I’d be surprised if Zeus’ name isn’t actually Zeus.” Shaking my head, I waited for Nav to pull up a picture of Kronos’ daughter.
“This is all I’ve been able to find,” Nav said, gesturing to a picture of a girl who looked to be around sixteen years old.
“How old is Irene?”
“Thirty,” King answered.
“And this is the only fucking picture they have?”
“No, this is the only one I’ve been able to find.” Nav continued clicking away. “It seems Kronos found someone to marry her. Irene Cooper became Irene Davids five years ago.”
“Who’d he marry her off to?” I asked, studying the photo. She looked familiar, but I couldn’t figure out what it was about her that I recognized.
“Trent Davids.” Another minute of clacking on the keyboard and Nav stopped abruptly. “Oh shit.”
“What?” I asked, turning around to look at Nav.
“Trent Davids is a patched brother in the Death Dogs MC. Goes by Pepper.”
“You have to be fucking with us,” Blade whined.
“I assure you I am not fucking with you. I found a more recent picture. This was from two years ago,” Nav insisted.
The picture that popped up on the screen was a woman with blonde hair, lying in a hospital bed, beaten almost unrecognizable. Staring at the picture, there was again something familiar about her.
“What do we think the chances are that she’s in the area?” King asked no one in particular.
“Pepper is a patched brother. If he doesn’t hold an office, I can’t see a president moving the entire fucking club for an old lady of a patched member,” Cash countered.
“Not even the daughter of a former president and sister of a current one?” Jingles asked.
“FUCKING HELL,” King shouted, slamming his hands on the table. “We need to find this fucking girl. I’ll call Zeus and see if there are any up-to-date pictures he can send us. We need some fucking answers.”
I couldn’t agree more. We had enough of our own shit. And through no fault of our own were tangled up in the shit between the Golden Skulls and the Soulless Sinners. We didn’t need to take on shit from the Gods of fucking Mayhem.
My phone vibrated in my pocket, and I pulled it out. Why was Haizley calling me?
“Baby, what’s up?”
“G-Gunner?”
I stood from my chair so fast it fell back, slamming into the wall behind me.
“Haizley, what’s wrong?”
“I… I… um found Greg.” Her voice was quiet and hesitant.
Hitting the speaker button so everyone could hear, I asked, “Where is Greg, baby?”
“Dead on my living room floor.”