Rebel Wayfarers MC Boxset 3
Page 96
Watcher froze, holding himself in check, forcing his stare to stay on the screen, not seeing anything, only red. “Whadda mean, he hurt her?”
His tone must have given away his rage, because she sounded way more careful when she answered, “Long in the past, Papa.” In a clear distraction tactic, she asked, “What are they doing with that exhaust system?”
“Mela.” He swung his head to look at her, watching her lips press tightly together. “This Suches, he hurt her?”
“I took care of it.” She blurted the words and clapped a hand over her mouth. “Bella never knew.”
“How’d he hurt her, Mela? What did you take care of?” Everything around him stilled until the pounding of his blood was all he could hear, all he could feel, smashing through his heart, keeping pace with his rage. “What. Did you. Take care of?”
“He pushed her down. Grabbed her arm and pushed her down. I saw it. I was on my bike at this taco place. She was meeting him there. She didn’t know I knew. She didn’t know I saw. She wasn’t hurt, not really. She got up and ran to her car, tore out of there and came home.” Mela leaned forwards. “But he put his hands on her in a way I didn’t like, Papa.” She leaned back and took in a deep breath, blowing it out through her nose.
“I took care of it. He didn’t call her again. Nothing left to teach him because he learned his mistake. Right in front of his boys, learned he made the wrong move, Papa. Don’t mess with the Oteys, we mess back.” She stared at him, then tipped her chin. “I remember what you’ve taught us, Papa Watcher. Club. Family. Honor.” The emphasis she put on the words made them sound as if they’d come from his mouth. She had learned his motto early on, adopting it as her own.
“When was this, baby?” Struggling to stay seated when every cell of his body demanded he go find the motherfucker and kill him, Watcher tried to correlate the timing with anything to figure out where he’d been, why he didn’t know his girls needed him. “Where was I?”
“You were with my papá.” She smiled, one corner of her mouth lifting her lips into a crooked grin. “Hangin’ out down in old México. Downing his special reserve cactus juice.”
“You’ll tell me if anything like that happens again, right?” He kept his gaze trained on her, seeing her mouth quirk sideways, knowing she was about to lie. Her tell, and pray Jesus she never figured it out. Teasing, her crooked smile. Lying, that cheek-chewing quirk.
“Sure. Absolutely, Papa. I will.” Tipping his chin down, he glared, and she blinked, recognizing how serious he was about this, and her expression changed, accepting her role. “Of course, Papa Watcher. I would tell you.”
“Good girl.” Gaze to the TV, he told her, “Turn it up, I can’t hear this fucking idiot.”
***
Watcher was scrubbing at the chain grease under his nails, knowing from experience it would take time and patience to get it all and for a moment he was struck by a memory. His mind cast back to when Mela first came to live with them. They’d been sitting in the yard out by the bikes when she’d asked if she could stay forever. Make you clean again, he remembered telling her, wiping his hands with a greasy rag. Mama’d like her, he thought, smiling down at his hands as he scrubbed them together under the running water.
Would Ma be proud of me?
The thought came out of left field, and he glanced up, catching his own startled gaze over the half-glasses he wore to read the Sunday paper. Would she be proud of the man I’ve become? He took a breath. Would Darrie? Tabby? Would Pa? Would he understand how I got to where I am?
Looking down, he finished washing his hands and picked up the cotton towel laid on the edge of the sink, slowly drying them. No longer thinking of the bikes or the grease or even Mela, he was stuck on the ideals his father had left with him. The lasting legacy of a man he revered more than anyone else on this planet. Family and honor. Something Watcher had stretched to also cover his claimed family, the brotherhood on which his life was built. Club.
Watcher idly finished wiping the last droplets of water from his hands and leaned back, shoulders to the wall behind him. Staring into the mirror, he crossed his arms over his chest. The stark white of the towel loosely gripped in his hand contrasted strongly with the dark tan of his arms. The things I’ve done, I’ve done for the right reasons. His mother, always pushing him to be more, to do more, to strive for something higher.
He remembered the framed diploma over her desk, wondering not for the first time where the desk had gone once he had to leave for the military. Aunt Loretta made sure Tabby had everything from her room, and saved some of the pictures which had survived the destruction of their home, but he didn’t know about things like his mother’s desk or rocker. Still, he had the memories of her sitting in the rocker, laughing out loud as she read letters from home. Memories of her seated at the desk, looking out the window at Tabby playing in the yard, smiling as she composed her own letters he hoped had been filled with contentment.
I did my best, he thought, shifting uncomfortably. For Tabby. Did everything he knew how to do to keep her safe. Might not be an accident, Preacher’s voice ran through his thoughts, and he shook his head, dislodging the idea. Done right by Juanita. Chin lifting, he stared at the reflection of his eyes. And by Mela. My Bella. The near-on thousand women and countless children rescued on his orders. Family. An honorable legacy.
Pa would understand about the club, too. Watcher sighed. Pa had made his own hard decisions back in the day, and Watcher remembered more than one moonlit trip through the hollers with him. Sitting in the back of the truck, Mikey would hold the clear bottles upright. Stopping at bridges and mailboxes, shadowy figures coming into view. Pa would swing out of the truck, leaning over the side rail and passing along the order for one or two bottles, straight shine or apple pie. Exchanging mountain liquor for hard cash which could be spent in places the bank’s checks weren’t welcome. Paying for Tabby’s midwife with hours of patient tending over a still. Cash crops, wherever we could find ‘em. Tobacco. Morels. Shine.
Leaning forwards, Watcher untucked his arms, hands to the sink, staring into the mirror. Craggy features he would never label as anything except hard. Scars trailing through his beard, now more gray than ever, the dark it had once been giving way to the advancement of age. Each mark a reminder of a mistake or misjudgment, each a reminder he was still alive to talk about it, which meant it was a story from the past. Got the Otey hairline, he thought, lifting one hand to ruffle his still-full head of hair. Also graying, but there. Lucky as hell Juanita wanted me. He tossed the hand towel to the back of the sink, turning as footsteps came running up the hallway past the door.
Mela’s voice lifted, sweetly shouting, “I’m out, Papa. See me latah!”
He grinned, pausing to see the reflected expression of joy on his face. Shaking his head, he grabbed the handle and yanked the door open, yelling, “Put your helmet on, Mela. Love you, honey.”
He got back the one thing he never took for granted, the one thing that kept him going. Didn’t matter which of his girls said it, it always hit him the same way. “Love you, too, Papa.”
If it were me
Watcher separated himself from the group of men standing outside a military bunker in the mountains of Utah. “Need a minute,” he muttered, hearing Bones’ grunted response. So much had happened in only a few weeks, and then today had been chaos from beginning to the end he’d witnessed only minutes before. A noise he recognized came through the open doorway behind them, that of a heavy load being dragged across cement, the scrubbing sound of fabric marking the movement of a body.
He’d been present when family turned on family before. Stood there when Raul finally cornered Carlos. Did not judge the man for taking it slow, taking his time. Knowing what Watcher knew about the betrayal Carlos had done to Carmela, he would have been disappointed if Raul hadn’t spent the hours he did gutting and killing the man. Given the chance to get retribution for the hell Juanita survived, he would have dealt the man the same.
Honestly, he didn’t know if he could have held himself together like Mason did, taking care of needed business with no more than a single bullet. He knew it was only because Mason hadn’t seen the video, believed that was probably Judge’s salvation. Watcher shuddered, his mind unable to release the idea of Juanita and Carmela suffering the kind of torture Shooter’s son had put Mason’s woman through. Willa was strong. Watching the video where she faced down her rapist and shot him, then shot him again, proved her strength beyond a shadow of a doubt.
It was hard to reconcile the kid he’d met in the back room of a business in New Mexico with the hard-faced man from today. Harder still to reconcile the stories that Morgan had told all those years ago about his grandson, a sweet boy from the tales, and one that Morgan had doted on. What he did to Willa…hell on earth. Willa was lucky Judge didn’t understand her strength.
Her fate would have been certain. Every man present knew it, based on what they’d found in one of the other cells. Carrie Sosa. Dead. Not even at rest, but stinking and dismembered, dead for days and thrown into a heap on a bed, the mattress sodden with decomposing fluids. No one deserved that. Watcher realized his head was shaking back and forth, the movement involuntary. Not even Sosa.
Two more cells empty. Inhabitants unknown, because the camera had been trained solely on Willa’s prison. Judge had stacks of tapes from the days he’d held her prisoner. Sosa, who the hell knew when he’d taken her. Willa had been missing, but not really on the radar as taken. Mason had called a dozen times over the past week and a half, searching for any news of her. It had taken Mica’s abduction to stir Mason’s ass from Fort Wayne, he’d been so certain Willa was running from what he wanted to build with her. Man picks some fucked-up broads, Watcher thought, remembering Mason’s voice telling him Juanita was damaged.
Watcher had been staring at the wall of trees for a while when he heard Bones behind him. “This, my friend, is not something any of us will easily forget.” Watcher shook his head, agreeing with the words. “They are preparing the building for disposal.” Fire, a way to sweep things away cleanly. “I think Mason will want the tape.”
“Jesus.” Watcher twisted to look down at Bones, surprised as he always was that this man who was a force to be reckoned with lacked the stature his presence demanded. “Even if he wants it, if that shit’s ash, he can’t fight it. Burn it, Bones. Don’t let him see.”
“If it were me, I would want to know,” Bones counseled quietly, stepping in front of Watcher and turning so they were face-to-face.
“It’s been me, and I’m here telling you I do not want that kind of shit in my head. And I don’t want it for Mason, either. Gonna eat at him if he knows what Judge did. He hears her voice crying out as we heard? Gonna eat him up inside, because he’ll know”—Watcher leaned an inch closer—“he should have taken his time killing the motherfucker. Taken a fingers width of skin for every second she suffered.” Watcher straightened. “If I could do that to the men who hurt my Juanita, I would. And that’s with only her stories as fuel to the flame. If I’d seen it? Heard that? Wouldn’t be any stopping me. And if I couldn’t deal out my anger on their asses? Would eat at me. Eat and eat and eat.” He took a deep breath. “Burn it.”
“I think he should have the choice.” Bones tipped his head to one side. “He carries a lot. So much. I do not think he would want us taking this from him without his voice.”
“Well, you do whatever the fuck it is you have in your mind to do, then. Because you clearly got an agenda here, friend.” Watcher turned, looking away, seeing movement in the trees at the same time Duck called softly, relief clear in his tone, “Hoss found them.”
“Thank fuck,” Watcher muttered, turning his gaze to Mason, seeing the man’s singular focus as the little group came out of the woods and into the sunlight. If a person didn’t know him, they might think him impassive, uncaring, but the tension in his stance sang through every muscle of his body. It was torture for him to stand in place, but Watcher understood the need. Willa had to want to come to him. Had to want to be comforted. Mason was strong enough to let her set the pace, understanding in this space of time it wasn’t about what he needed. Without looking, Watcher told Bones. “You’re right. Bring the tape.”
No response, just the sound of retreating footsteps marking his friend’s movement.
Watcher looked back at the women, seeing first Willa, and then Mica. They knew Willa’s identity from the evidence in the building. Mica they’d anticipated, because of how she went missing. But the third woman was a blow Watcher hadn’t been expecting. Worse, somehow, than Carrie Sosa, was recognizing Bethany walking behind the other two women, head held low, hair in her face, a defeat he’d never seen in her posture. Not even when she’d stood in front of Zonder, confessing the things she’d suffered with the complicit approval of her father. “Jesus.”
All these women intimately connected to Mason through blood or love. He glanced at Mason and saw the same knowledge had settled on his shoulders. Looking back to the women sandwiched between men loyal to Mason, Watcher knew this alone would eat at Mason. His nephew, dead at his hand. His woman, his boy’s mother, his sister, and a woman he had vowed long ago to protect, all damaged through their association with him. That’s how Mason will see it, he thought. How I’d see it. Gonna have to steer him differently, make him see he can keep what he’s got in Willa. Otherwise, he’ll turn her away, afraid of all the what might have beens.
A month ago Watcher had called, talked around the edges of what he wanted to say, knowing Mason would see through to the heart of it, and his friend had. Had told Watcher exactly what he needed to hear, and listening to his idea put to words cemented it in his head how this was the right thing to do, eventually. Not right then, and hell, not now, but at some point in the near future he would hand over the charter papers he and Darrie had worked on side-by-side, bent over a piece of plywood laid on top of sawhorses in the barn. Mason had spun up a Rebel Wayfarers chapter in Oklahoma a few months ago, and Watcher saw the benefits of their close association immediately. It would only be a matter of time before the patch on his back changed, and the Southern Soldiers were no more.
That wasn’t today, though. Today was for celebrating the win they were taking home. Three healthy women, one solemnly carried bundle, and near a dozen men who claimed the tightest bonds of brotherhood which existed on the planet. Today was also for what they left behind, a black plume of smoke rising into the sky, marking the end of a dynasty.
On the plane headed to Fort Wayne, Watcher was pleased and surprised to see Bethany already bouncing back. After settling her in Nashville, he had been determined to keep ugly at bay for her. At least I helped give her a firm foundation, so when things got rocky, she was still standing at the end of the day. He could tell from the set expression on her face she was determined to beat it back. “You keep doin’ that,” he whispered to her, knowing she couldn’t hear him. With a thankful heart, he took in the loving interaction between brother and sister, grinning when she broke into laughter. “Beat it back.”
Only for you
Opie walked into the barn and stood in front of the desk, staring at Watcher, not moving for a minute. “What?” Watcher asked, bending back to the laptop in front of him. Opie didn’t respond so Watcher lifted his eyes to his brother’s face again, seeing a peculiar expression lay uneasily on his features.
“I wanna look at your sump pump set-up.” Opie nodded like he was trying to convince himself. “Monsoon weather is coming.” Watcher tilted his head, staring in
confusion. It was months to monsoon season. “You’ve never had problems with yours. Do me a favor, come show me the sump pump, Watch?”
“Right now?” Watcher asked, incredulous. He glanced back at the laptop in time to see it closing, moving his fingers before they were pinched by the clamshell as it clicked into place. Opie nodded without responding, so, shaking his head, Watcher stood and walked around the desk. Once outside, he turned and opened his mouth to ask what was up, but Opie shook his head, eyes darting to the eaves of the roof before he walked across the yard.
The building that housed the pool equipment as well as the sump pump was on the other side of the property. An area Watcher didn’t frequent except to mow as needed. Once they rounded the corner of the house, Opie reached out, plucking Watcher’s phone from his vest pocket, finger to his lips as he bent and laid the device alongside his on the ground. Then across the remaining distance quickly, through the door of the equipment shed where Opie tugged at the string to turn on the overhead light.
“Cameras,” Opie said before Watcher could ask anything. “I found five of ‘em, boss. Not ours. They’re piggybacking off our signal, but I got Mason’s guy to run a check, and they are feeding back to an outside source. Myron’s still digging, but I had him go gentle. Whoever it is, we don’t want them to know we have a fuckin’ clue they’re watching us.”
“Fucking hell. Where?” Watcher didn’t bother questioning if Opie was sure because if he weren’t sure, he wouldn’t have said anything.
“In the office, outside the barn, near the pool”—Opie hesitated, then continued—“and two in the house, boss.”
That hesitation told the tale, and Watcher was sure he wasn’t going to like this. “Where?” This time, the one-word question was husky. Watcher felt his throat quivering with rage. Eyes in my house? Opie hesitated again, which told Watcher exactly how much he wasn’t going to like this answer. “Where in my house, Opie?”