Otto: The Hawthornes (The Aces’ Sons #11)

Prologue

Otto

“In and out,” my dad murmured, checking to make sure that the pistol he’d pulled out of the safe was loaded before handing it to me. “You’re just there to keep watch, yeah? Make sure there ain’t any surprises.”

“Got it,” I replied, checking it myself before sliding it into the holster hanging against my ribs.

“Got three chances to find those guns,” he muttered to himself. “Me and your uncle are takin’ you boys and Brody with us to the cabin. Casper’s takin’ another group to the warehouse downtown. Gramps and Dragon are checkin’ out the church down by the stadium.”

“We check out all three at once, they won’t have a chance to move ’em,” I replied in understanding. “Where do you think they are?”

“Honestly,” he said with a grimace. “No fuckin’ clue. My bet would be on the cabin. It’s isolated, yeah? Makes sense. But who knows with these fuckin’ weirdos.”

I let out a soft chuckle and loaded an extra magazine, running my fingers through the box of loose bullets my pops kept on a shelf next to the safe.

“Can’t say our family’s any better,” I pointed out dryly.

“We worship the wind in our faces and the open road as much as they worship their lord and savior.”

Dad scoffed. “Wouldn’t exactly call what we do a religion,” he mused. “But if I did, at least ours doesn’t discriminate, yeah? Plus, I doubt thinkin’ about their god gives ’em a tingle in the balls the way firin’ up my Harley does.”

“Pagan,” I said, laughing.

“Nah, man.” Dad reached up and scratched the back of his neck before turning toward the safe again. “I think there’s someone up there, keepin’ an eye on shit.”

“You do?” I asked in surprise.

“Have you seen your mother?” I could hear the smile in his voice. “There must be a god.”

My lips twitched. Leave it to my dad to bring the conversation around to my mom. Typical.

“You know, I watched her give birth to Myla on a mattress on our bedroom floor,” he said, his tone growing more serious.

“No meds, no hospital, just sheer determination and grit. That was what sealed it for me. If I’d had any doubts that someone was watchin’ out for us, that woulda made me damn sure. ”

“Fair enough.”

“You don’t think there’s a god?” he asked curiously, glancing at me over his shoulder.

“Is this seriously what you two are discussin’?” my brother Rumi asked, poking his head into the closet. “Should I be worried?”

“You should always be worried, Rum,” my dad said, tossing a bullet at his head.

“I believe in God,” Rumi replied defensively, dodging the projectile. “Have you seen Nova?”

I choked as my dad started to laugh.

“You’re turnin’ into Dad,” I said, shaking my head at Rumi as I ignored the nausea pooling in my belly. “You know that, right?”

“Whatever, I’m way more like Mom.”

“I’d say you’re a good mix of us both,” my dad said, not bothering to look at us.

“Yeah, you somehow inherited the worst traits from both of them.”

“I’m tellin’ Mom you said that,” Rumi threatened as he checked his watch. “We about ready to go? Cuttin’ it close.”

“Here,” my dad said, turning back toward me with a shotgun dangling from his fist.

“You serious?”

“Stop bitchin’,” he said, forcing me to take it. “Put some of these in your pockets.”

“You expect me to carry a shotgun?” I asked flatly as he handed me a fist full of shells.

“Shotguns are perfect,” Rumi said, grinning. “You don’t even have to aim in close quarters.”

“I’m a better shot than you.”

“Bullshit.”

“Jesus Christ, both of you shut up,” my dad muttered, sliding his pistols into the holsters at his back and ribs. “Take the shotgun in case you need it. Doubt you will. We’re doin’ this shit quick and quiet, remember? No one’s gonna be shootin’.”

“I got a rifle,” Rumi whispered as I followed my dad out of the closet. “Like a big boy.”

“You’re such a fuckin’ asshole,” I muttered, shoving him away from me.

Rumi may have gotten a big boy rifle, but he’d been smaller than me since I was eleven years old.

“Sticks and stones, baby brother,” he shot back, kicking at the back of my knee to make it buckle.

“Dad’s gonna kill you,” Mick announced, stepping out of the bathroom as we walked single file down my parents’ hallway. “Get your shit together.”

“Got my game face on,” Rumi replied with mock seriousness. “You got any idea where we’re goin?”

“Cabin’s about forty-five minutes south,” Mick replied as he grabbed his cut off the back of the couch and slung it on. “Should take a little over an hour since we won’t be takin’ the quickest route.” He glanced between the two of us. “You two gonna be able to make it without killin’ each other?”

“We’ll be fine,” Rumi said, dramatically wrapping his arms around my waist and laying his head against my chest. “I made us a road trip playlist!”

“Get off of me,” I muttered, holding my arms out at my sides. “Why are you so fuckin’ annoyin’ all the time?”

“It’s a gift,” Rumi said, moving away as his expression changed. “You all set?”

“I’m good,” I replied.

It was the first time that I’d been really involved in club business and I wasn’t about to fuck it up.

After a year as a prospect, taking the shittiest jobs at the garage and being the members’ bitch twenty-four hours a day, I’d finally gotten my patch.

I was a full member of the Aces and Eights Motorcycle Club.

I had the least seniority and I’d been called green more times than I could count, but my spot was secure.

I had to just forget all the other shit swirling in my mind and focus on the job at hand.

“You’ll be good,” Mick said with a nod.

We took off, Mick and my dad on bikes with me and Rumi following behind in his truck. As we made our way through town, my uncle Will and cousin Brody pulled out of a parking lot behind us.

“Uncle Mack’s not comin’?” I asked Rumi, stretching my legs out in front of me. “He seemed like he was doin’ alright last night.”

“He’s sittin’ this one out,” Rum replied, glancing at me. “Went up to the hospital this mornin’.”

“Probably better that way,” I muttered with a laugh. “Give his old ass a couple of days to recover.”

“Shit, he could still outride both of us,” Rumi said, glancing in the rearview mirror.

“Maybe you, not me,” I joked. Fuck, I was so jittery my hands were practically shaking. I glanced at Rumi, wondering if I should tell him but immediately decided against it.

“Yeah, right.” He snickered.

“You know it’s true.”

“What do you think the odds are of this thing goin’ off without a hitch like Dad seems to believe?”

“Fuck,” I sighed. “Fifty-fifty?”

“Yeah right.” Rumi laughed. “More like thirty-seventy. Something to remember, baby brother? Shit always goes sideways.”

After that little nugget of wisdom we lapsed into silence.

Rumi had made us a road trip playlist, the psycho, and it wasn’t half bad.

I tried to stay focused as we drove, but I found my mind wandering more than once.

Normally, I would’ve fallen asleep in the car—I always did—but I was too keyed up.

Instead, different shit ran through my head, like the fact that I needed to replace the kitchen sink in my old farmhouse, that my boots needed to be replaced before they completely fell apart, that I’d left laundry in the washing machine again and it was going to smell like ass, that I needed a haircut soon or I was going to look like Micky’s more attractive twin.

I wished I was driving, Rumi was following too closely behind the bikes, and a million other bullshit thoughts.

I let them come, one after another, refusing to let my mind stray to the one thing that was making me nuts.

By the time we turned onto the old gravel road in the mountains, my knees were stiff and my heart started thumping hard. It wasn’t racing, but I was hyperaware of its presence in my chest. I reached out to turn down Rumi’s music and he glanced at me, grinning.

“Rookie.”

“Shut up.”

“Look lively, boys,” Rum murmured to the bikes ahead of us.

I grimaced as they carefully rode around potholes the size of kiddie pools, slowing to a crawl.

“Eyes sharp,” Rumi said a little louder, leaning forward to look around.

We were surrounded by old growth, the trees so tall that you couldn’t even see the tops, and it made me feel a little claustrophobic.

They didn’t feel like they were closing in on us, but the brush was so dense at the base that anything could’ve been hiding in the trees and we wouldn’t see it until it was too late.

“Aren’t you glad we brought my truck?” Rumi asked as we ran over a particularly nasty hole in the road. “Your baby never woulda made it.”

“Good point,” I muttered, my eyes darting from tree to tree. It was the middle of the day, but everything was so shaded it could’ve been dusk.

“There she is.” Rumi jerked his chin toward the windshield and I looked forward to see an old as fuck cabin at the end of the road. The gravel, or what was left of it, went all the way to the front steps.

“Where the fuck would they hide anything?” I asked dubiously. The cabin was tiny, it couldn’t be more than one room. If they had stored the truck full of stolen guns here, they had to have filled the cabin all the way to the roof.

“Oh ye of little faith,” Rumi said, carefully pulling to the side so he could back up and park facing the exit. “You’d be surprised how crafty thieves can be.”

I followed him out of the truck and stood by my door as Uncle Will turned his SUV around and parked on the other side of the tiny clearing.

“Whistle if you see anything,” my dad said to me quietly as we all met at the bikes.

Rumi tossed me his keys and I stuffed them in my pocket.

I’d just turned toward the road, my eyes sweeping over the blackberry bushes and trees when the hair stood up on the back of my neck. I didn’t even question the feeling, just dropped to one knee as all hell broke loose behind me.

“Drop it,” my uncle Will ordered.

“What the fuck?” my dad hissed.

“Whoa.”

“Who the hell are you?”

“Who the heck are you?” a familiar woman’s voice shot back.

I jerked in surprise as I turned, the shotgun in my hand forgotten.

She was standing there, her hair in a scraggly ponytail, wearing a dress that looked like it came from Little House on the Prairie and holding a pistol older than my gramps in both hands.

“Esther?” I croaked, staring. Memory after memory flashed vividly through my mind. Fuck.

Her wide eyes met mine and her hands—not altogether steady to begin with—began to shake alarmingly, considering the fact that the gun she was holding now pointed at my chest.

“Otto? What are you doing here?” she asked in confusion.

“Honey, you wanna drop that?” my dad interrupted, taking a step toward her.

“Whoa,” Micky barked as her gun swung toward our dad.

“A little help here?” Rumi bellowed at me.

“Esther,” I said, trying to keep my voice calm even though I was freaking the fuck out. “Could you stop pointin’ that at my dad, sugar?”

“Your dad?” she said faintly. She shook her head as if to clear it and lowered her arms.

I strode toward the foot of the stairs but felt like I’d had the wind knocked out of me when she moved, letting go of the pistol with one hand to unconsciously slide her hand down the front of her dress, outlining the suddenly visible swell of her belly.

“Oh, Christ,” Rumi muttered under his breath. “Shit always goes sideways. I fuckin’ told you.”