Chapter Twenty-Six
Slaughter
The room they put me in was small—just a bed, a chair, and a single window that looked out over the Diamondback compound.
I sat on the edge of the mattress, every breath sending sharp, stabbing pain through my torso.
My face throbbed. My head pounded. My entire body felt like it had been run through a meat grinder.
Hope stood near the door, her arms wrapped around herself, watching me with worried eyes. Every time I winced, her expression tightened, like she could feel my pain as her own.
Digger leaned against the wall, arms crossed, looking far too pleased with himself for a man who’d just gotten into a brawl with Ghost Miller. Stella stood beside him, her sharp eyes taking in every detail of the room like she was cataloging it for future reference.
The door opened, and a man in his fifties walked in, carrying a black medical bag. He had graying hair, wire-rimmed glasses, and the calm, detached demeanor of someone who’d seen too much violence to be shocked by it anymore.
“Chapman Moore?” he asked, setting his bag on the chair.
“Yeah.”
“I’m Dr. Brennan. Kansas called me in to take a look at you.” He pulled on a pair of latex gloves and stepped closer, his eyes scanning my face. “Let’s see what we’re working with here.”
He started with my head, his fingers probing gently along my scalp. I hissed when he hit a particularly tender spot near my temple.
“Concussion,” he said matter-of-factly. “Moderate, I’d say. You’re going to need rest—no riding, no physical exertion, and definitely no more fighting for at least a week. Probably longer.”
“Noted,” I muttered.
He moved to my nose next, his touch clinical and efficient. The second his fingers pressed against the bridge, white-hot pain exploded through my face, and I jerked back with a growl.
“Broken,” he confirmed. “Clean break, though. It’ll heal on its own, but it’s going to hurt like hell for a while. Ice it regularly and keep your head elevated when you sleep.”
Hope made a small, distressed sound from the doorway. I glanced at her, trying to offer some kind of reassurance, but the look on her face told me she wasn’t buying it.
Dr. Brennan moved to my ribs next. “Lift your shirt.”
I did, slowly, gritting my teeth as the movement pulled at bruised muscles and broken bones. The doctor’s hands were gentle but thorough as he pressed along my ribcage, feeling for fractures.
“Deep breath,” he instructed.
I tried. The pain was immediate and vicious, stealing the air from my lungs and making my vision blur.
“At least three broken ribs,” he said, stepping back. “Maybe four. Hard to say without an X-ray, but given the bruising and the way you’re breathing, I’d say three for sure. You’re lucky they didn’t puncture a lung.”
“Lucky,” I repeated flatly.
“Relatively speaking.” He crouched down, pressing his fingers against my lower back.
I flinched, a sharp, nauseating pain radiating through my kidney.
“Badly bruised kidney. You’re going to be pissing blood for a few days, maybe longer.
If it gets worse, if you start running a fever or the pain becomes unbearable, you need to get to a hospital immediately. Understood?”
“Yeah.”
He stood, pulling off his gloves and tossing them into a small trash bin near the bed. “You’re a mess, Mr. Moore. But you’ll live.” He reached into his bag and pulled out a prescription pad, scribbling quickly. “Painkillers. Take them as directed. They’ll help with the ribs and the kidney.”
He held out the slip of paper.
I stared at it for a moment, then shook my head. “I don’t need them.”
Hope moved before I could blink. She crossed the room in three quick steps, snatched the prescription from Dr. Brennan’s hand, and turned to glare at me.
“You’re taking them,” she said firmly.
“Hope—”
“No.” Her voice was quiet but unyielding. “You have three broken ribs, a concussion, a broken nose, and a bruised kidney. You are not going to tough this out like some kind of martyr. I will make sure you take these meds, Chapman. Don’t test me.”
Digger snorted from across the room. “Damn, brother. She’s got you whipped already.”
I shot him a look that could’ve melted steel. “Shut the fuck up, Dig.”
He grinned, completely unbothered. “Just sayin’. Julie would’ve loved her.”
The room went silent.
I turned my glare on him, my hands curling into fists despite the pain it caused. “Digger.”
“What?” He shrugged, still grinning. “It’s true. Julie would’ve taken one look at Hope and said, ‘Finally, someone who can handle your stubborn ass.’”
Stella smacked him upside the head. “Read the room, idiot.”
“Ow! What? I’m just—”
“Being an insensitive jackass,” Stella finished. She looked at me, her expression softening. “Ignore him. He doesn’t know when to shut up.”
Dr. Brennan cleared his throat, clearly uncomfortable with the family dynamics playing out in front of him.
“Well. I’ll leave you to it, then.” He picked up his bag and headed for the door, pausing to look back at Hope.
“Make sure he rests. And if anything changes, fever, worsening pain, difficulty breathing, call me immediately.”
“I will,” Hope said. “Thank you, Doctor.”
He nodded and left, the door clicking shut behind him.
For a moment, no one spoke. Hope stood near the bed, clutching the prescription like it was a lifeline. Digger leaned against the wall, looking vaguely sheepish. Stella watched me with the kind of knowing expression that made me think she saw far more than I wanted her to.
And then the door opened again.
Reaper walked in, his presence filling the room like a storm cloud. His eyes swept over me, taking in the bruises, the blood, the way I was sitting hunched over to protect my ribs. His jaw tightened.
“I need to talk to Slaughter,” he said, his voice low and commanding. “Alone.”
Hope’s eyes widened, and she took a step toward me. “Reaper, he’s hurt. He needs to rest.”
“I know what he needs,” Reaper said, his tone gentler now. “I’m not here to hurt him, Hope. I just need to talk. Five minutes. That’s all.”
She hesitated, her gaze flicking to me. I nodded, even though the movement made my head throb.
“It’s okay,” I said quietly. “Go with Digger. I’ll be fine.”
She didn’t look convinced, but she didn’t argue. Digger pushed off the wall and held the door open for her, and Stella followed them out. The door closed behind them with a soft click, leaving me alone with Reaper.
For a long moment, he just stood there, staring at me. Then he pulled the chair closer to the bed and sat down, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees.
“You fucking lied to your president, asshole.”
I groaned, trying to shift into a more comfortable position. Every movement sent fresh waves of pain through my body, but I forced myself to meet his eyes. “I know.”
“You better have a plan to fix it before Ghost and Shadow find out that you lied about being married to Hope.”
“Will take care of it once we’re back home,” I hissed as a searing pain ripped up my side.
Reaper sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “See that you do.” He leaned back in the chair, his expression weary. “Fuck, I hate this place. Nothing but bad memories and death within these walls.”
“The Diamondbacks don’t seem to mind.”
He snorted and was quiet for a moment, his gaze distant. Then he shook his head and focused on me again. “I want you and Hope gone from this place as soon as you can ride. Shit is kicking off in Nebraska, and I need you at your best.”
I frowned, trying to process his words through the fog of pain and exhaustion. “Satan’s Angels are in the area, Prez. Two tried to jump me the other day.”
“Yeah, I know.” His voice was grim. “They’re moving closer to Nebraska. Word is they’re joining forces with the Death Dogs. If that happens, we’re fucked.”
My stomach dropped. The Death Dogs were bad enough on their own. A vicious, ruthless MC with a reputation for extreme violence. But combined with Satan’s Angels? That was a nightmare scenario.
“War?” I asked quietly.
Reaper nodded. “Fuckers almost took out Karlyn.”
I sat up too fast, ignoring the way my ribs screamed in protest. “Ravage?”
“Lie back down, asshole,” Reaper said, pushing me back onto the bed with a firm hand. “King’s got him locked down at the clubhouse in Nebraska for now. Word’s out. Everyone knows that Ravage is Morpheus’ son. He’s wanted.”
“Fuck,” I groaned, rubbing my hands down my face. The movement pulled at my broken ribs, and I hissed, but I didn’t stop. “Digger and the others ain’t gonna like that, Reaper. Ravage is one of us. He’s our brother. We may not share blood, but he’s ours. Moonshine groomed him. You know that.”
“Yeah, I do, which is why I need your ass back in Tennessee fast. I need you to make sure everyone there stays fucking there. I can’t have the Tennessee Chapter going off half-cocked.
Leave Ravage to me. I will take care of him.
” Reaper’s voice was hard and final. Then he added, “I also need you to reach out to Ace. Tell him I’m calling in his marker. ”
I blinked, confused. “What marker?” Ace was Moonshine and Roxy’s oldest son.
He’d wanted nothing to do with the club, so when he turned eighteen, he joined the military.
He was now a member of Harbor Security Service.
An elite security firm composed of former special forces.
“Ace left when he was eighteen. He was never patched in.”
Reaper didn’t answer immediately. He just looked at me, his expression unreadable.
My body tensed despite the pain. I forced myself to sit up again, slower this time, my eyes locking on Reaper’s face. “Tell me Ace has nothing to do with this shit, Reaper.”
“I can’t do that, Slaughter.”
“What the fuck?!” I roared, swinging my legs over the side of the bed and ignoring the way my vision swam.
“Jesus fuck, Reaper. Do you know what it did to everyone when Ace stepped away from the club? We all just assumed he had issues with the club and wanted no part of it. Are you telling me Ace was ordered to join the military?”
Reaper’s jaw tightened. “Look, Slaughter, this shit with Satan’s Angels, the Death Dogs, the Society, the human trafficking, the coming war—it’s all connected.”
“What the fuck does that shit have to do with Ace?”
“Everything.” Reaper leaned forward, his voice low and intense. “Ace was good at computers, like Sypher. Ace took that knowledge and joined the military, where he honed his skills. He made rank fast.”
“Get to the fucking point.”
“The point is, Ace was too damn good at what he did because as soon as he found reference to something called Code Helix, he and his entire team were given their walking papers. That was around the same time Lucifer Hawk, the president of Disturbed MC, and the officers were court-martialed and relieved of duty. Luc was sent to prison for twelve years, and the rest were forced to resign. This brewing biker war is just a smokescreen. Something or someone bigger than the Society is out there, watching us and waiting. King thinks it may have something to do with a program that Devlin Scott and Jane Craven were running at the Trick Pony. Something to do with weaponizing kids.”
The words hit me like a freight train. I stared at Reaper, my mind struggling to process what he was saying. Code Helix. Court-martials. Weaponizing kids.
“Jesus fuck,” I groaned, shaking my head. “I don’t want to hear anymore.”
Reaper stood and walked over to stand next to me, placing his hand on my shoulder.
“Look, Slaughter. I know this is a lot, but you are the most level-headed brother in the Tennessee Chapter. You look at everything from all sides before you act. I need your help to contain that clubhouse. Got love for Savage, but he lets his temper rule, and don’t even get me started on Bullseye.
That fucker gets even a sniff of something fishy, he’s gonna go hunting. ”
I looked up at my president, at the man who’d just watched me get the shit kicked out of me for breaking the Golden Rule. The man who’d let me keep my cut despite everything. The man who was now asking me to help him navigate a conspiracy that went far deeper than any of us had realized.
My ribs throbbed. My head pounded.
My entire body felt like it was on fire.
But Reaper was right. The Tennessee Chapter was volatile on a good day. If word got out about Ravage, about Ace, about Code Helix and weaponized kids, they would go to war without thinking twice.
And that would get them all killed.
I took a slow, careful breath, feeling the sharp stab of my broken ribs with every inhale. “What do you want me to do?”