Skulls and Lace (Book of Legion: Badlands MC #5)

Chapter 1

The clubhouse door hits the wall as I shoulder it open, the familiar smell of cigarettes and spilled beer doing nothing to mask the iron tang of blood.

Blood on my hands. Blood on my shirt. Blood trailing behind us like breadcrumbs through the fucking forest. One month back with my brothers, and already everything's gone to shit.

"Move!" I shout, kicking a chair out of the way as Crow and Dusty struggle through the door behind me, Butch's weight sagging between them.

His head lolls forward, chin touching chest. Too much blood loss.

Too much time in the truck getting back.

The prospects' faces are ghost-white under the fluorescent lights, eyes wide with panic.

Kids playing at being outlaws until the bullets start flying.

"Jesus fuck," someone whispers from the bar.

"Not helping," I growl, scanning the room. Too many eyes watching. Too many mouths that'll talk later. "Everyone out. Now."

The bar empties in seconds—hangarounds and weekend warriors all scrambling for the door. Only patched members remain, frozen in place like they're watching a movie they can't pause.

Butch groans, a wet, rattling sound that means there's blood in places it shouldn't be.

"Put him down," I order, clearing empty bottles and ashtrays from the closest table with a sweep of my arm. "Here. Don’t rock him, Dusty! Be careful!"

The prospects lay Butch down, his body heavy and unresponsive as he bleeds out on the table.

I've seen enough gunshot wounds to know this one's bad. The entry wound is a small. A nice, neat hole just below his collarbone. But the exit wound is a ragged crater of flesh.

His skin is gray, his lips blue at the edges.

Fuck. He’s not gonna make it. He’s not gonna make it.

"Where's the fuckin’ doctor?" I demand, pressing my palm against the wound. Blood seeps between my fingers, warm and steady.

Crow shakes his head, swallowing hard. "I’ve called him three times. He didn’t pick up."

"Try again," I snap, meeting his eyes. "And keep trying until he does."

Crow nods, stepping away with his phone pressed to his ear.

"What happened out there?" Ledger asks from somewhere behind me. "That route was supposed to be clean."

Clean. That’s almost funny at this point.

I reach for clean bar towels, packing them around the wound.

"Ambush. Three trucks came in, no lights on. Like they had night vision. They knew exactly where we'd be. We were in the middle of the drop, piling it up under the tarp behind the gas station on Route 12, when they came burnin’ in. Butch had to abandon his bike and hop in the damn truck. That’s how he got shot. ”

“What did they take?” Diesel asks.

“All of it,” I snap. “All of it, Diesel.”

"Well…” Roach shrugs. It could’ve been a coincidence.”

"Bullshit," I scoff. "This is the third time this month something's gone sideways." I press harder on Butch's wound, and he groans. "Someone's feeding information. We’ve got ourselves a fuckin’ rat."

The room goes quiet except for Butch's labored breathing and Crow's desperate voice in the corner, still on the phone.

"Got him!" Crow shouts. "He's twenty minutes out."

"Tell him to make it ten," I order.

Diesel meets my eyes, sighing. He knows it’s true. Things are… not OK here in Badlands. Haven’t been since I got back. “Let me take over,” he says, pushing my hands away from Butch’s wound. I let him do it because I’m so fuckin’ pissed, I might explode if I don’t walk it off.

Diesel places his big hands over the towel that’s already wet with blood while I play the ambush on a loop in my head.

We were loadin’, then… we heard them. But it was fast. There was no time to get out. Then the lights flashed, lit up in three directions. They started shootin’ immediately.

I cannot even believe that Butch was the only one shot. At least a dozen bullets went whizzin’ by me, missin’. But just barely.

I’m lookin’ at the clubhouse door, still lost in the memory, when it swings open and Brick walks through.

Well… finally. “Where the fuck have you been,” I snap. “I’ve been callin’ you for twenty fuckin’ minutes.” I point at Butch on the table.

Brick approaches, unhurried. Like our guys bleed out on tables every day of the fuckin’ week. "Church at noon," he deadpans. “We’ll discuss.” He doesn’t even look at Butch. Doesn't ask what happened. Doesn't offer to help.

What the fuck is happening here? "Did you hear me? I’ve been callin’ you. We were ambushed. Someone knew the route."

Brick's face remains impassive. "Bad luck."

"Bad luck?" I echo, incredulous. "Three times in a month isn't bad luck, Brick. It's a fuckin’ pattern."

Brick’s eyes go narrow. “Are you tryin’ to say somethin’ here, Legion?” His voice is dangerously soft.

The room goes still. Diesel's hands remain steady on Butch's wound, but I can feel the tension radiating from him. Everyone is watching. Waiting to see what I’ll say.

Not everyone is happy these days. I’ve heard lots of grumbling over the past few weeks. Lots of questions about Brick’s new attitude. And all the ‘bad luck’ as he calls it.

Maybe not half, but close to half of the patched members are starting to think… maybe we need a new leader. Maybe Brick’s time has come.

Diesel would never go against Brick. Ever. But… he’s not happy, either. And if the men put it up for a vote and his name came out on top, he’d step up. I know he would.

Problem is, we’ve already got a fuckin’ Prez.

And he’s been the Badlands Prez for nearly twenty years now.

That’s a lot of earned allegiance. A lot of history.

But that shit runs out quick when you start making mistakes like this.

So I pull myself up to my full height and narrow my eyes right back. “Yeah. I’m doin’ more than just sayin’ something here, Brick. I'm questioning why our prez doesn't seem concerned that one of his brothers is bleedin’ out after a setup."

Brick's expression doesn’t change. "As I said, church at noon. We’ll discuss it then." He turns, like he’s just gonna walk out.

"We need to discuss it now," I press. "Someone sold us out. Someone who knew the route, the timing, and the exact location of the exchange."

Bricks stops. Kinda side-eyes me over his shoulder. "And you think you know who, do ya?" The challenge in his voice is clear.

I take a step toward him, hands sticky with dryin’ blood. "I think it's interestin’ that comms went down right before the ambush. I think it's interesting that you weren't on the channel when we called for backup." Another step closer. "Where were you, Brick?"

The silence that follows is absolute. No one breathes. No one moves. It's the kind of silence that precedes violence—the moment before a storm breaks.

Brick's eyes go dead. "Careful there, Legion. You're a baby patch around here still. No one cares about the thirteen fuckin’ years you wasted as a prospect doin’ God knows what. In fact, what the hell were you doin’ all those years you were here, but not. You were one of us, but not.”

“Well, I know where the fuck I was for three of them.”

“Ah, right,” Brick sneers. “Your fuckin’ prison time.

My God. If I had known that you’d canonize yourself for three short years in the hole, I’d have chosen someone else to take the heat.

You never shut up about how you did time for us.

Even that fuckin’ whore sister of yours had to mention it when she was at the gate holdin’ her shiny, new Ashby baby.

” Brick turns to look at the club. He throws up his hands.

“Am I right, or what? Raise your hand if you’re sick of hearing how Legion sacrificed for us. ”

No one raises their hand. At first. But as Brick waits, they realize… he’s lookin’ for support here. He wants to know who’s still got his back. And he’s takin’ notes.

Lots of hands go up.

Diesel’s doesn’t.

Brick looks at him, chortles. “Come on, Diesel,” he says. “You’re sick of it too. You’ve said as much.”

I don’t look at Diesel. He’s allowed to have his own opinion. And sometimes people say shit just because they feel like they have to.

Like most of the members in this room right now.

I know damn well Dusty and Brick do not get along. Dusty is about ready to call it quits. After being here almost eighteen months as a prospect, he’s ready to say fuck the Badlands patch, pack up his woman in the laundry, and try his luck with another club farther west.

But his hand is up.

I don’t look at him, because I know Dusty now. And the regret he feels for playing along to Brick’s bullshit will show all over his face if I look him in the eye.

Men do what men gotta do.

But that don’t mean that some of these guys wouldn’t have my back if it came down to it.

Brick looks back at me, his anger stowed, but present. "Remember who brought you in, Demon. Because it’s the same man who can put you out."

We stand there, locked in a stare that says more than words ever could. Three weeks ago, I would have backed down. Three weeks ago, I still believed in brotherhood above all.

"Doc's here!" Crow calls from the door, breaking the moment.

Doc Simmons shuffles in, medical bag in hand, reeking of bourbon. His eyes dart between Brick and me, sensing the tension but wisely choosing to ignore it.

"Move," he orders, pushing past me to reach Butch. "Everyone back. Give me space."

Diesel and I step away from the table as Doc begins his work, muttering to himself as he cuts away Butch's shirt.

Brick turns without another word, walking toward the back hallway that leads to his office. His shoulders are relaxed, his pace unhurried—a man without concerns. A man certain about his place in the world.

I stay behind, watching as Doc works on Butch, barking orders at the prospects to fetch water, towels, his spare kit from the truck. The blood pools on the table, drips to the floor, spreading in a dark stain across the concrete.

I look down at my hands—red and sticky, already drying at the edges. Then back to the door where Brick disappeared.

The math isn't complicated.