Duck (Rebel Wayfarers MC Book 8)

by MariaLisa deMora

  Things that matter most

  Standing in the mudroom, Duck called, “Brenda, have you seen Eli and Randi this morning?” It was nearly noon and Gill had just told Duck that Eli hadn’t shown for his mid-morning chores. He suspected the kids had hooked out early, something not unheard of for Eli, but certainly more frequent during Randi’s visit these past two weeks. It was unlike him to bail on his responsibilities, though.

  From upstairs he heard her response, “No, they were gone right after breakfast. Horses missing from the barn?” Randi had proven herself a natural rider and General quickly became her favorite, Eli gladly giving up the patient horse to his friend, opting to ride Brenda’s mount instead.

  “Nope, first thing Gill checked.”

  “Then they can’t have gone far,” she called, and he heard her footsteps clattering down the stairs. Looking up, he saw her appear, jeans shorts hugging her hips, the tails of one of his button-down shirts tied at her waist. He grinned at the sound of her sock feet still managing to clump and thump on the steps. “Swimming hole, probably.”

  “Wanna come in the truck with me? Won’t take long to go and remind Eli his chores are still waiting for him.” He reached out, wrapping his palm around her waist, pulling her towards him. “We could stop on the way and neck a little.”

  She grinned, laughing up at him and he smiled back as she rolled up on her toes, pressing her lips to his. “I’ll slip on some shoes. Ride with you.” She reached up, lifting the hair off the back of her neck. “Stir some air around. This Indian summer is killing me."

  They climbed into the truck, hands immediately going to the window controls, rolling them down to release the heated air from the cab. Laughing, he looked over at Brenda where she had leaned against the passenger door, feet in the seat to keep the backs of her bare legs off the scorching upholstery. “It’s a hot one, for sure,” he said and she nodded as he pulled out, headed up the dirt track leading to the upper pasture where the creek ran.

  Ten minutes later, he pulled up alongside the bank of the creek. Gaze sweeping the sandbar at the bottom of the bank, he said, “They’re not here.”

  “Towels and what looks like their lunch is there.” He glanced over to see her pointing and followed her finger, seeing the pile of belongings near the foot of a sycamore tree rooted near the bend of the creek where the erosion had scooped out a large, shallow area, taming the water flowing through so it swirled in lazy, slow circles, perfect for swimming.

  An unexpected thrill of fear flooded through him when he stepped out of the truck, his skin prickling in apprehension. “Brenda, baby, wait in the truck.” Her door slammed before the words cleared his mouth and he knew she hadn’t heard him. Turning to face her, he opened his mouth to repeat himself when the flat crack of a rifle shattered the air, the muted thud of a bullet striking the tree nearly lost in the ringing echoes. “Brenda, get down,” he shouted, turning in place even as he crouched behind the fender of the truck, reaching to the small of his back to pull his pistol, thanking God he hadn’t left it behind today. The words ripped from him again, fear thick in his throat. “Get down.”

  He heard the high-pitched, thin cry of Randi’s scream and his gut clenched hard, lurching sickeningly because she sounded terrified, which scared the shit out of him. And, he knew Brenda wouldn’t stay where she was if the kids were in trouble. Sure enough, her feet pelted around the front of the truck and she launched herself off the edge of the bank just as another shot came, this one punching through the metal only inches from his head. “Fuck,” he growled, throwing himself onto his back, twisting and rolling across the sand to reach the creek as Brenda had done.

  A metallic ping sounded, signaling another shot ricocheting off the truck. Randi and Eli were shouting now, yelling at Brenda from where they were crouched between two beached logs. “The man,” he heard Eli scream and Duck’s gaze jerked up to see his son pointing over his head. He turned and what he saw pulled the breath from his lungs, but caused him to slide to a stop in the sand and stand straight, making himself the largest target in the riverbed as he stared down the barrel of the rifle pointed at him to focus on the face of the shooter.

  “Get the kids out of here, now,” Duck shouted. “Fast as you can, baby.” Lifting his arm, with a steady hand, he aimed his own pistol, and knew the look on the man’s face mirrored the determination on his own. “Go, baby. Go.” Short and thick, the Mexican man was muscled in a way that spoke to genetics, not workouts. There was an old bruise showing through the bronze skin on his cheek and temple, and his lip lifted in what looked like an unconscious snarl. Coyote, Duck thought, the word frightening in his own head.

  “No mames,” the man spat, his thick accent revealing his linguistic roots, “gonna need you to carry a message, estás pero si bien pendejo. Don’t be stupid, Duck.”

  “Don’t think so, fucker,” Duck ground out, calculations flying through his mind as he noted the distance to the shooter. Factoring in the angle, also marking the gusts of wind lifting dust swirls at the surface level where the man stood.

  “Tell Mason I got something he wants. He’s got one of mine, and I want the puto back.” Fuck. He realized this wasn’t a flesh trafficker. It was someone who knew him, knew his associations, which meant it could only be…Club. Who the fuck is this? Knows my name, knows Mason’s. Fuck me. Brenda and Eli. He targeted Eli and Randi, the kids.

  Duck’s finger tensed, beginning a smooth pull on the trigger. Licking his lips, the man shook his head. “Mira que carbón, don’t do it. I read you like a book. Don’t take the shot, güey. If I wanted to kill you, you’d already be dead. I need for you to carry the message.”

  “That’s the message? That you wanna be a titty baby about club business? Planning on going even-steven next? Gonna whine about life’s not fair? Grow a fuckin’ pair, man.” He gestured with the hand not holding the pistol, hearing Brenda’s voice as she moved away, down the creek bed. Her words urging the kids to a faster pace, getting them to safety. He opened his mouth again, not trying to provoke but he wanted to keep the focus on him, so he pushed. “Damn, man, you’re more stupid than I thought. Fuck, sounds like you’d struggle to pour water out of a boot with instructions on the heel.”

  “Fuck you. He’s got one of mine. I want him. I want my man back, gotta get my own from his skin.” The barrel of the rifle dipped slightly as the man took a step backwards. “I left you enough with the girl. Made you the hero. You got to be the man of the hour. Tu gilipollas estúpido, Duck, the big fucking deal.”

  “Lalo,” Duck said softly, finally putting things together and realizing who this was. He watched the man’s chin dip in acknowledgment. “Heard you were DEA’ed in Florida. Locked up, wrapped up, sealed and delivered. Government’s problem now. RICO, chico, man.”

  “You heard wrong, ya valió verga. You gonna call Mason? Gonna tell him I got something he’s going to want to know about?”

  “Phone’s in the truck,” Duck said, his breathing evening out when he realized he could no longer hear Brenda. She had gotten the kids away. They were safe. Not that he was looking to die today, but he would gladly take it on if it meant she stayed upright and safe. Love you, Little Bee.

  He sucked in another deep breath and took a steady stride towards the bank. Climbing up and out of the creek bed he snarled when his head hit the level of the ground and he saw the fluid leaking out from underneath the truck. Fucker had somehow hit the radiator, which meant the truck was out of commission. It wasn’t far to the house and on any normal day, the walk would be easy, but it was scorching hot and he knew the kids probably were in their swimsuits, which meant they would be at the mercy of the sun.

  Reaching through the open window he plucked the phone from the seat, hissing as the metal of the door touched the underside of his arm. He unlocked the screen and tapped a button, then another, placing the dialed call on speaker. They listened to the ringing for a moment, and then Mason answered, humor ringing rich through his voice. “Brother,
save me. Hope like hell you need me. My boy’s been cryin’ for three days straight, I’m about outta my—“

  He cut Mason off hard, saying, “On speaker, Prez. I got Lalo here. Diamante.”

  The difference in his tone distinctive, edges now hard and rigid as Mason ground out his words. “The fuck you say?”

  “Got Lalo standing ten feet away, Prez. Rifle aimed my way.” Mason made a noise and he cut him off again. “My piece is leveled, too, boss.” He snorted, and then laughed aloud, surprising himself. “A real Mexican standoff.”

  “The fuck you want, Lalo. You got balls, man, walking into my man’s place like that. Watcher wants you in the worst way and he ain’t a bit particular about the condition your carcass might be in when it arrives.” Mason’s voice hadn’t softened at Duck’s words. If anything, danger rang through even more pronounced. “Gutted. Flayed. Upright and wheezin’? All the same to him.”

  “You got one of mine. I got one you want. Give me mine, and I’ll do the same.” Lalo called the words across the space separating them. Duck noted his language changed as he spoke to Mason. He was no longer using the North Mexico patois of casual insults, not angling for any comradery. “Trade, straight up.”

  “I got one of yours?” Duck could almost see Mason looking side to side, face as puzzled as the words sounded. “I ain’t got nobody. Who the fuck you think I got?”

  “Fury.” Drawn out, the single word rang with hatred and Duck’s grip on his pistol tightened. That level of anger and frustration didn’t leave a lot of room for sane, and he knew from Lalo’s previous work that while the man could be scary smart, he tripped up trying to walk that line on a good day.

  “Fury’s mine now,” Mason clipped the words, but there was movement and sound in the background from his side of the call now. Duck squinted, thinking about the layout of Mason’s house. He was in the office, probably, and there would be Rebels on the premises, no doubt. “You got nothing of mine, fucker. I haven’t lost anyone.”

  “Yeah, you have. You just don’t know it yet.” Duck’s attention split between the phone and Lalo, listening attentively as he tried to interpret the man’s body language.

  “Who you got? Who the fuck do you think—“

  There was another flat crack of a rifle and Lalo spun in place, staggering as blood sprayed from his shoulder. Duck jumped backwards, rushing to put the bed of the truck between him and Lalo as another shot came. He heard a grunt from behind him, then running footsteps receding. A moment later, he heard a bike start nearby, engine barely audible over fast approaching hoofbeats. Gill rode into sight, rifle balanced across the horn of the saddle in front of him.

  “You okay, boss?” Gaze scanning the area, Gill turned the horse in a circle. “He get away?”

  He nodded as noise from his hand registered and he looked down to see the call to Mason was still connected. Lifting the phone, he took it off the speaker and put it to his ear in time to hear Mason ordering, voice low and threatening, rising to a roar on the last four words, “—takes, you get someone out there right the fuck now.”

  “Prez,” he called, and Mason must have put the call on speaker when things went down because a dozen voices answered him, shouted questions loud in his ear. “Lalo’s gone, man. He’s in the wind.” Shaking his head, he watched Gill slowly riding a circuit around the clearing, rifle at the ready. “Winged, but in the wind.”

  “Need you to tell me what the fuck just happened, Duck.” Mason sucked in breath, then asked, “You okay, brother?”

  “Foreman rode up, clipped him twice. He got to his bike and scooted, boss.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Mason said in disbelief. “Did the fucker tell you who he had?”

  “Nope, he wanted to talk to you. Just told me he had one of ours.” He paused, then said, “Actually he said he had someone you’d want, one of yours, boss. Not ours.” He swallowed hard, his mouth suddenly dry as the dust beneath his boots. “Mason, brother. Your family. They all accounted for?”

  ***

  “You sure?” Mason reached up, rubbing his fingers across his forehead. When the voice on the phone gave an affirmative answer, he disconnected the call, lifting his head and looking at Slate, seated across the room on a couch. With a headshake, he said, “Nothing. No one is missing. Even Willa’s folks are safe. I don’t know what Lalo was talking about, brother.”

  “Okay, so not family. Back it the fuck up. Let’s see what we can find.” Slate leaned back, stretching his arms out and hooking his elbows over the top of the couch. “Not family, that leaves the club. I’ve asked for check-ins from all fucking chapters. They’ve been rolling in for the last hour. But, my take? From what we have so far, it looks like everyone’s covered, Mason.”

  “Lalo doesn’t bluff.” Mason rested his elbows on the desk as he told Slate something they both knew. “If he said he had someone he wanted to trade, then it’s someone I want…” His voice trailed off and he lifted his chin, looking up where the corner of the room met the ceiling. “Someone I want,” he repeated. Without shifting position, he raised his voice, roaring, “Gunny, office.”

  A moment later, the door opened, and the big biker stood in the opening, one arm braced on the top of the frame. “Yeah, Prez?”

  “Enemies,” Mason said softly. “Name ‘em.”

  Taking hardly a moment to think, Gunny started reciting, “Individuals, we got the normal lineup in Deacon, Morgan, Shooter, Lalo, Chismoso…there’s only a couple of clubs that qualify. Sins of the Brother, Outriders, Diamante. Anyone still hanging around from the Fiends, which is unlikely, might be old River Riders if they have a hard-on for your brother, and Devil’s Sins holdouts who didn’t fall for Rogue’s bullshit. Any of the bad outs we’ve had over the past years.” Gunny stepped inside the office, swinging the door shut and leaning against the wooden surface. “What’s up?”

  “We have credible intel Lalo has someone we want.”

  Slate lifted his gaze to Gunny’s face and then dropped it back to Mason.

  “How credible?” Gunny’s voice held a low hum of anger, and the door creaked as he shifted against it restlessly.

  Mason’s lip curled as he growled out, “From his lips to my ears.”

  “Fuck. Let me think a minute. Make some calls.” Gunny turned without waiting for a response and walked out, shutting the door behind him.

  “You agree with his list?”

  “Yeah. And, I’m with you. I think enemies are a good place to look. Fuck knows we’d pay a hell of a lot to get our hands on Deacon or anyone from the Sins.” Slate shrugged. “Ear to the wind on the other side of things, too. I’ll wait for the rest of the chapters to check-in, let you know what we find out.” He paused a moment, then said, “I don’t know him, but Lalo doesn’t strike me as someone who makes impulsive decisions. Him going on Duck’s land, takin’ potshots at him and his old lady with kids there…Mason, that sounds about half crazy. Which don’t sound like Lalo to me.”

  “Agreed,” Mason said, clenching his teeth shut on the word. “Now, you wanna give me a fucking clue why Fury would be in my fucking sister’s hotel room when I called?”

  Can’t we have easy

  Mason wrapped his arms tightly around his brother, holding a sitting Hoss upright as he sagged against him. Raw, painful sounding sobs racked the man, grief almost tearing him in two. The doc had just walked out of the room after delivering news that stripped Hoss of nearly everything he loved. Mason had been one of the first men to reach the couple when Hope crumpled to the floor, taking Hoss down with her. The man’s hands latched onto his wife so desperately, they had to unravel his hold finger by finger until the medical staff could lift Hope to a gurney.

  Mason had stood behind his brother, hand to his shoulder to grip the leather of his cut and hold Hoss upright. They remained like that, Mason standing and Hoss kneeling as the nurses and doctors worked on her. Mason’s eyes continuously flicking between the huddle of frantic activity around the too-pale woman and the clock on
the wall, watching the seconds and minutes tick past. He knew it was bad; recognized expressions of agony and hurt in the despairing faces of the professionals as they glanced over their shoulders. Futility glazed darkness in their eyes when they looked towards the grieving man kneeling on the floor, knees wide to hold his weight, chin tipped to the ceiling, raw and hopeless howls of pain pouring from his mouth.

  A Rebel appeared beside Mason, and the two of them had manhandled Hoss up, off the floor, taking him through a doorway to an empty room nearby. Falling silent as he gained his feet, Hoss hadn’t looked at the gurney surrounded by circles of useless medical equipment and helpless attendants. Hadn’t acknowledged anything. Simply shuffled between his friends, blank stare fixed on the floor. Once they got him inside and sitting, he hadn’t even picked up his head until Mason touched him a moment ago.

  Now Hoss was holding on with despairing strength, Mason trying everything in his power to keep the man anchored in the now.

  Mason knew in addition to the newborn girlchild in the hospital’s nursery, there was a young boy whose spirit had bonded with Hoss. He also knew both of those precious lives needed the man, their dad, to keep it together. To be the strong one, even if he couldn’t see his way there right now. Mason and the club would help him, be there every step of the way. Ready to lend their shoulders, strength, their deep belief in the family and connections they’d created within the club. Their brothers.

  Even as grief for what Hoss was feeling tore through Mason, his imagination was running wild with the knowledge his Willa had been in Hope’s position not long ago, smiling up at him in exhausted pride after pushing new life into the world. Now Hope was gone, and he prayed to God his Willa would never fall.

  Deacon

  Fort Wayne, Indiana

  For a bitch who hadn’t been associated with the club for long, there are a fucking lot of Rebels who came to pay respects to Hoss’ old lady, he thought, watching the steady stream of bikes and black leather heading towards the funeral home. The crowd was big, likely more than anticipated, if the waves of men and women moving into and out of the building were to be believed.