Chapter Thirty-Two
Montana
“That bitch is bat-shit fucking crazy!” I shouted as I paced Sinclair’s cabin. “You saw the way she was acting, spouting shit that made no fucking sense. How the hell can we believe anything she says now?”
“I agree, Montana, but you must understand what she said makes sense to her. We just need to decipher it all.” Sinclair sighed, picking up the tumbler of whiskey beside him as if this conversation was nothing more than fodder for a Saturday brunch.
“I don’t have time to decipher the rantings of a madwoman.
My brother is hanging on by a thread. He can’t take much more, Sinclair.
Morpheus was fucking crystal clear. If I want Bane back, I have to locate Gabriella.
” Plopping my ass into a chair, I leaned forward and grabbed my head.
“Fuck me. I wish my dad was still alive so I could fucking kill him myself.”
“Would it make a difference?”
“No,” I sighed, shaking my head. “I can’t lose him, Sinclair.
August has stood by me all these years. He never said a word.
He trusted me, believed every promise I made to him.
He never deviated. He kept his end of the bargain, and I’ll be damned to Hell if I walk away from my best friend now. I won’t do it.”
“There is a way to save him without giving Morpheus what he wants.”
Looking at the conniving motherfucker, I barked, “What the hell are you talking about?”
Sinclair’s eyes gleamed with that signature mischief, the kind that always made me question whether he was playing devil’s advocate or simply the Devil himself.
He took a slow sip, letting the silence grow heavy before setting the tumbler down.
“The world is full of backdoors, Montana. You just have to know which one to knock on.”
I leaned in, my patience running thin. “So, what are you suggesting? That I gamble with August’s life on a hunch? I’m running out of time.”
Sinclair shook his head, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Not a hunch—a plan. Gabriella isn’t the only key. There are players still hiding in the shadows.”
My knuckles whitened as I gripped the edge of the seat. “Then tell me, Sinclair. Tell me what I don’t know.”
He stared at me for a long moment, the whiskey glinting amber in the lamplight. Then, in a low, measured voice, he said, “You have to decide if you’re willing to burn bridges that can never be rebuilt. Saving August may cost you more than you’re ready to pay.”
The cabin of the plane felt colder as the walls closed in. I thought about August, about everything he’d been denied and fought for. I thought about blood, loyalty, and the kind of choices that left scars no one could ever drink away.
I swallowed hard. “If it’s bridges I have to burn, Sinclair, point me toward the nearest fucking match.”
“Tell me,” he began, looking directly at me. “What do you know of a man named Brian Buchannon?”
Confused, I stared at the man and said, “He’s the head of the IRA. He’s also the brother-in-law to Daniella Valentinetti and uncle to Massacre and Player, brothers in the Golden Skulls.”
“Anything else?”
I shrugged and asked, “What more do I need to know?”
“What would you say if I were to tell you that Jane Craven wasn’t the biological mother of Jackson Williams, but he was the biological son of a woman named Gretchen Foster, also known as Darcy Murphy, the long-lost sister of Duncan Murphy, the right-hand man of Braesal O’Malley, head of the Irish Mob in Boston. ”
“Jesus fucking Christ.”
“And what would you say if I were to tell you that your recent best friend has information on the woman and knows exactly where she’s at?”
Astounded, I narrowed my eyes. “Wait a goddamned minute. What recent friend? Because if you are talking about who I think you are talking about, fucking forget about it.”
Sinclair simply grinned. “You two really should bury the hatchet.”
“FUCK!”
Sinclair’s words hit me like a punch to the gut. I knew exactly who he was talking about. That son of a bitch, conniving, aggravating, pissed-off good-for-nothing asshole with a chip a mile wide on his shoulder.
Oh, and just for shits and giggles, lately the motherfucker had taken to annoying me by calling me at least once a week just to chew the fat like he was some long-lost relative or something.
He was getting on my nerves. The mere thought of asking that asshole for help had my gut churning and my blood boiling.
Every bad thing that’d happened had been because of him and his motherfucking club.
Okay, not everything, but he was running a close fucking second!
And now he was the key to finding Morpheus’ baby momma and saving August.
“Motherfucking Reaper,” I spat, his name leaving a bitter taste in my mouth. “I should have known he would know where to find Morpheus’ baby momma.”
Sinclair took another slow sip of his whiskey; his eyes, sparkling with mischief, never left mine.
“He knows quite a bit, Mr. Stone. Maybe instead of fighting him every chance you get, you could learn something from him. The man is quite knowledgeable and extremely patient. If you want to save your brother, you’re going to have to put your differences aside and work with him again. ”
I ran my hands through my hair, frustration and desperation warring within me. “This is a fucking nightmare. He’s the Devil, Sinclair. The last time we worked together, we damn near came to blows, and I was arrested.”
He leaned back, his expression unreadable. “Sometimes, Montana, we have to make deals with the Devil to get what we want. And if it means saving August, then isn’t it worth it?”
I thought of my best friend, his life hanging in the balance. “Fine,” I huffed through clenched teeth. “But if he tries to cross me, I’ll make sure he regrets it.”
Sinclair’s signature mischief returned, and he picked up his tumbler. “Just remember, Montana, sometimes burning bridges can set you free.”
Soulless Sinners’ clubhouse...
Sitting in the boardroom, I stared at the phone lying on the table in front of me, as if it were a bomb ready to go off the second I touched it.
As soon as Sinclair’s plane landed in New York, we wasted no time escorting the crazy cunt to the clubhouse, where Malice and Payne were making damn sure she was comfortable in the mailroom.
As far as I was concerned, the bitch had outlived her usefulness and was no longer needed, but Sinclair insisted she be kept alive for the time being.
“Looking at it won’t make it any easier.” Mercy smirked, sitting in his seat next to me. “Just call the asshole and get it over with.”
“When is Torment due back?”
“Sometime later today. He said shit is kicking off in Nebraska fast.”
“Our intern and Sypher?”
“Not an intern anymore, and he’s with the Silver Shadows, for now,” Mercy advised. “Which reminds me, you might want to call King and give him a heads-up and tell him to keep his mouth shut, considering who he has in his club.”
“Fuck,” I groaned, shaking my head. “How in the hell are we going to tell Pippen his cunt of a mother is a fucking psycho bitch who seduced and coerced Bane with the help of my father?”
“I think that’s the least of our worries at the moment.”
“Well, the bitch is all tucked in for the night.” Payne grinned from ear to ear as he and Malice walked into the boardroom, the latter wiping blood off his hands.
“Sinclair wanted her alive, asshole.”
Payne smirked, thumbing his thumb at Malice, who took his seat as if he had done nothing wrong. Shrugging, the volatile fucker simply said, “She always did have a mouth on her.”
Rage entered next, quietly taking his seat.
Looking around the table, I shook my head. “We need Vicious and Fury back.”
Mercy leaned forward in his chair and slid my cell phone closer to me. “Then call him.”
Grumbling, I dialed the asshole, and when it connected, all I heard was, “Not now, fucknuts. Busy.”
“I want Fury and Vicious back.”
“And I want peace on Earth,” the fucker clipped, then quickly added, “You can have them back after you hand over your Alabama club.”
“Not fucking around, Reaper. I need them here. I’ve got shit going down here and I need their help.”
“You are not the only one with shit on their plate, fucknuts. I don’t know if you’ve heard or not, but some fucking Russian piece of shit damn near killed Massacre.
Left my brother hanging in a warehouse on display as if he were some fucking bloody art piece.
To make matters worse, Ravage took off after the fucker, and I have no motherfucking clue where he’s at.
The Death Dogs are gearing up for war, and King has recently learned that Steele and his fucking brother are in bed with Skinner.
Not to mention, the Brotherhood is about to knock down my back door if I can’t find Ravage and get him under control fast. So excuse me if I don’t have time for you and your petty bullshit. ”
“The Brotherhood has Bane, Reaper.”
I heard the man sigh. “I know.”
“I have a plan to get him out, but I need your help to do it.”
Groaning, the asshole said, “I just know this is going to bite me in the ass. Fuck it. Why not? Everything else has gone to shit. You only live once, right? So what’s the plan?”