Property of Short (Kings of Anarchy MC: Arizona #2)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

SHORT

This is the life. The road ahead of me is clear, no traffic for miles.

It’s a beautiful autumn day, the sun warming rather than the roasting heat of summer.

Pavement rumbles under my wheels, and my Harley thunders beneath me.

I’m thoroughly enjoying the ride out along with two of my brothers, when suddenly the day takes an abrupt turn for the worse.

Shots come from out of nowhere. Before I can react, ahead of me, Paint shouts, loses control of his bike, and goes down.

Sparks fly as the metal slides along the ground.

Inertia having taken us past him, braking hard, Winchester and I come to a halt, kick down our stands, pull our guns out of their holsters, and run back to our wounded brother. Paint’s already sitting up, his left hand clutching his shoulder from which blood is pouring.

“You’ll live?” I ask, as Winchester and I move so we’re back-to-back, weapons pointing around us. As one, we slowly turn in a circle, trying to work out where the bastard is who’d taken those shots.

It’s not a good area. We’re riding through woodland full of good hiding places for anyone on the attack.

Winchester and I do a second three-sixty-degree turn, but the shooter doesn’t identify themselves.

I risk another look down at Paint, who’s risen to his knees, shaking his head as if to clear it.

He attempts to right his bike, but with his injured arm, he can’t get a grip.

Win goes to help him, and soon they have the bike up.

It’s scratched, got a nice dent across the tank, and the front fender is twisted.

As Winchester uses both his hands to straighten the fender, keeping a vigilant lookout, I ask Paint, “You gonna be okay to ride?”

“We’re going to have to stop the bleeding, or at least slow it down,” Winchester answers for him. “Got you good there, Brother.”

“Either of you got a first-aid kit in your saddlebags?” I ask, knowing I haven’t for sure. Taking my eyes off the bushes for a second, I see Winchester gesture in the negative, and then Paint makes the same action.

Winchester groans, then takes off his cut and whips his t-shirt over his head.

Using his Ka-bar, he cuts it into strips.

Paint groans but allows Winchester to go to work, wrapping the makeshift bandage around his shoulder and tying it off.

My attention is on assessing Winchester’s work, and whether his make-do dressing is going to be sufficient for Paint to ride back to the club.

Later, I’ll curse those few seconds where I took my eyes off my surroundings, as just when we aren’t expecting them, six bikers launch themselves out from the trees that had camouflaged them, and head straight for us.

They’re so close, by the time I’ve realised what’s happening and raised my gun, I have two weapons pointed straight at me, and four more are targeted at my brothers on the ground.

It’s only when I see the back of a cut that’s turned away from me that I realise how much trouble we’re in.

They’re members of the Mojave Devils MC.

The very club that’d recently sent one of their members to con his way into the Arizona Kings of Anarchy as a prospect.

Once we’d identified him as an MDMC plant, we’d quickly dispatched him to meet his maker.

Unable to think of any other reason why we’ve been ambushed in our territory, I’m certain it’s about him.

We knew the man as Griz, but he went by Skunk when he’d ridden with the Mojave Devils.

Fuck. Ten to one, they’ve come looking for him.

My analysis of our situation is fast and not encouraging. There are six against three, well, two and a half when taking into account it’s Paint’s shooting arm that was put out of action. Not great odds.

Seeing as Winchester’s still kneeling on the ground beside our injured tail gunner, and I’m the only one standing, I take the initiative to ask, “What the fuck’s going on?

” There’s no way they can know for sure we disposed of their missing member.

No evidence I can think of, except one day he was there, and one day he was not.

And there is no evidence to show we ever discovered he’d been sent to infiltrate our club.

I decide to play dumb and snarl, “What the hell are you doing? Didn’t know Kings and Mojave Devils had a beef with one another.

” Eyeing the front of their cuts, gathering all the information I can, just in case there’s a chance we get out of this alive, I note they’re wearing simple name patches, and nothing to denote they are officers in their club.

Perhaps they are just on a fishing mission?

Hopefully, if so, one unsanctioned by the rest of their MDMC.

In which case, their objective might not involve leaving bodies. I hope.

“You’re the fucking Kings of Anarchy.” The speaker, with long, lanky blond hair and a matching beard, seems to have appointed himself the leader. He punctuates his words by spitting on the ground. “You just breathing offends us.”

Frowning, I tell him, “Can’t remember crossing swords with your club before. No reason why you should shoot a brother.”

“Just getting your attention. Would have killed him if that was what we intended.” He shrugs, as if it’s of no consequence that Paint’s blood is already soaking through his makeshift bandage.

Growling now, I ask again, “What do you fuckin’ want?”

“Skunk.” He gets to it at last.

Letting not even a flicker of recognition cross my face, I sniff the air, then look over into the bushes. “Skunks? Spotted, striped, hog-nosed or hooded?” Holding my hands out, I grin. “We’ve got them all in Arizona. You out to trap one? ‘Cause I’d strongly advise against it.”

“Got too close to one once,” Winchester chirps. “Fuck, took days to get that smell out of my boots.”

Too fast for any of us to respond, a bald-headed Mojave Devil smartly steps forward and pistol whips Winchester across the face.

“What the hell?” Winchester roars, but as he makes to get up, the safety snaps off the Sig Sauer that’s pointing straight at him.

“Not the fuckin’ animals,” the original person I was talking to barks. “Skunk, one of ours.”

“Skunk?” Hopefully convincingly, I again shake my head and look down at my brothers.

“Far as I know, I’ve never met anyone called Skunk, or, come to think about it, no one wearing your patch.

” Which is the complete truth. Even Griz wasn’t stupid enough to try to infiltrate us wearing our enemy’s colours.

Now two of them move closer, weapons aimed right at my head. “He also goes by Griz.”

Wounded though he is, Paint gets into the conversation.

“Sure, there was a Griz who prospected with us. Cocky fucker.” Then, after he’s damned the ex-prospect’s reputation, he adds, “Didn’t mind him myself.

But he up and left us, disappeared one night.

” He makes a poofing sound, then kisses his fingers.

“Gone like a puff of smoke. Never seen hide nor tail of him since.”

“He wasn’t going to get the patch,” Winchester chimes in. “Reckon he saw the writing on the wall and jumped ship before push came to shove.”

“Yeah, his number was up when he got handsy with the VP’s woman. He must have realised he’d overstepped the mark. Stupid fucker.” Paint and Win are doing one hell of a double act.

“Your Griz was our Skunk,” the leader spits out.

“What?” My oh my, Winchester’s and Paint’s exclamations of horror are so well matched and synchronised, I can’t help but be proud of my brothers.

Irate, I start to step forward, only stopping when I reach the barrel of a gun. “You saying what I’m thinking? You put a plant in our club?”

I get a smirk as well as an answer. “Nah,” he blatantly lies.

“Fucker wanted a change of scenery and to be closer to his mom.” Yeah, that was the excuse he’d given to us as well, though, as it turned out, his mom wasn’t even still breathing.

His eyes take on a sly expression as he adds, “He couldn’t continue using his road name when he stopped riding with us. That’s why you knew him as Griz.”

It would be a halfway plausible explanation if Pippa hadn’t managed to discover their plan, and of course, we’d tortured the truth out of him.

With six guns pointed my way, however, this is not the time to tell them I last saw his brother bleeding out and begging for death. Or, at least that’s what I remember.

Trying hard to keep my face neutral, though it’s hard to hide my anger and disgust, I ask, “So why look for him now?”

“Just got a hankering to check up on our old brother, seeing as he wasn’t answering phone calls. He wasn’t out bad, just left in good standing. No reason why we shouldn’t want to keep in touch.”

Yeah, like that adds up. They could simply have turned up at the clubhouse and asked for him. I call them out. “Sounds suspiciously like you put Griz, Skunk, or whatever his fuckin’ name is, into the KOA to spy on us.”

Suddenly, Winchester’s on his feet. “You fuckin’ bastards—”

His earlier pistol-whipping was nothing compared to what comes now. Stumbling, he attempts to shake off the effects of the vicious blow. Unsteady, he loses his hold on his gun as it’s wrenched away from him.

As if that was a signal, two of them leap forward and grab me, disarming me at the same time. They also take Paint’s weapon, a useless action. Fucker isn’t ambidextrous at all, and his dominant arm is injured.

Fuck. This is getting serious.