Ravens Ruin MC: The Complete Series

by Marie James

  “Not now, Molly,” I chide as my daughter tries to hand me a baby doll with purple marker lines on its face.

  “I’m like Daddy,” TJ yells, his voice echoing off the walls of the living room as he points the toy gun he got for Christmas at the TV.

  I grin at my youngest son as both Eric and Donna roll their eyes at him. I’ve heard more than once that I’d let TJ get away with murder. The only ironic thing about that accusation is that I’d let Eric and Molly get away with literal murder as well. Only if it was deserved of course. Death is a part of life in this business. Always has been, always will be.

  Opening my mouth to speak, I’m interrupted by a loud bang against the front door. Another hit shatters the wood, spraying the inside of the building with splinters and shards of glass.

  I had a feeling these fuckers would be showing up. I just figured it would be during the big New Year’s Eve party in a few days when we had a higher number of MC members here. A little birdy told me that one of the guys has been leaking information to the DEA. I didn’t have much time but I did manage to get everything illegal out of the house. We’ve always kept the bare minimum here anyway. Dope and guns within reach of young children is never a good thing.

  “What the fuck,” Al yells, but the look on his face doesn’t show a hint of surprise.

  Narrowing my eyes at him, I begin to open my mouth and call him out, but one of the cops is grabbing me by my leather cut and slamming me on the floor.

  “Die pigs!” I look up just in time to see TJ point his little, shiny cap gun at one of the agents.

  The triple burst of bullets force my eyes away, my heart squeezing to the point I’m certain I’ll have a heart attack and die on this floor. All things considered, that may be best.

  “It was a toy gun you piece of shit!” Eric roars, snapping me back to the present.

  Every cell in my body tells me to keep my eyes shut. I rationalize, that if I don’t look up, I won’t see TJ’s lifeless body full of bullet holes. If I don’t look, then it simply didn’t happen.

  “Mommy!” Molly’s scared voice trembles, and I expect to hear Donna sobbing over the loss of her son. I expect to hear her cussing me for his demise, the way Cristina did so long ago before she was silenced forever.

  When I finally manage to open my eyes, I realize I’ll never hear another word muttered from the plump lips of my children’s mother. Her lifeless body only moves slightly when Eric shifts her weight in an attempt to pull her closer to his chest.

  “Mom?” His voice cracks, and for the first time since we came to Massachusetts, I don’t feel anger at the designation.

  “Aw fuck,” I mutter. It’s all I can manage as relief rolls through my entire body at the sight of my six-year-old son staring down at his dead mother.

  “You just can’t seem to keep the women in your life alive, can you?”

  “Jesus Christ,” Manic swears from his facedown position on the floor across the room.

  He doesn’t struggle when a masked SWAT agent cuffs him behind the back. He was the only one in the room who knew this was coming. Had I known things would head in this direction, Donna, TJ, and Molly wouldn’t have even been in the clubhouse. Raising two small children without a woman is a hell I don’t want to experience. I never would’ve put myself in that position.

  I can’t focus on my crying children or their dead mother, even if the sting of losing Donna burns in my chest a little more than I would’ve expected it to.

  The voice addressing me, as he digs his knee into my back, is all too familiar. I didn’t get a good look at him before he took me down, but every other guy holding assault rifles and cuffing my guys are wearing full masks. I suspect my arresting officer is the same.

  Calm should be my middle name because after realizing TJ is okay, my heart rate slows to normal and my breathing resumes easier respirations. My carefully crafted ability to pay attention to detail even in the face of chaos pays off when I see the agent cuffing Al lean down and whisper in his ear. Al nods, giving the masked man a small grin before dropping his head to the floor, fully relaxed like he’s preparing to take a nap rather than being upset that a woman he’s fucked hundreds of times is lying fifteen feet away with bullet holes in her chest.

  “The rooms are clean,” a disembodied voice says from the other side of the room.

  It’s my turn to smile. They could’ve knocked rather than busting down my door, and I would’ve allowed them in to serve their warrant.

  “Impossible,” the guy holding me says, digging his knee deeper into my back with anger. “There are guns and enough drugs to keep New York high for days in this place. Keep fucking looking.”

  “I got something,” another guy says.

  Freezing at the words, my mind races to try and figure out what I would’ve left.

  “You can’t be fucking serious,” someone mutters. “You found a dime bag of pot, and you think that’s going to be enough for you not to get suspended for shooting an unarmed woman?”

  “I was aiming for the fucking kid.”

  I struggle against my restraints. Of all the things that motherfucker could’ve said.

  “That’s even worse,” the guy holding me mutters. “Hold still, asshole.”

  “Those Iraqi kids are killing soldiers all the damn time,” the murderer rants. “How the fuck am I supposed to know it was a toy gun?”

  “This isn’t the time or the place for this shit,” someone mutters.

  “Thomas Jenkins, you’re under arrest,” the agent at my back says as he forces me to stand by lifting my handcuffed arms higher in my back.

  “On what fucking charges?”

  “I’ll think of a couple on the way to the station,” he mutters. “Let’s go.”

  “Piper!” I yell.

  “Prez?” she answers, and I turn in the direction of her voice to find her pressed against the wall, the uniformed officer holding her in place with his hips.

  “Take care of the kids.” She nods, and I turn my attention back to Eric.

  “Dad?” he says softly when our eyes meet.

  “You’re in charge,” I tell my oldest son.

  “Yes, sir,” he answers as a single tear rolls down his cheek.

  I would’ve smiled as they dragged me away if I had known that the tiny drop of water rolling down his cheek was the last one I’d ever see on his face.

  Chapter 7

  “They’re ready for you, Prez.” I nod at Manic and direct my eyes back to the bathroom mirror.

  The lack of sleep the last few days shows on my face. The sprinkling of gray at my temples seems to have tripled in the last week. Running my hand over my long beard, I don’t even register reaching for the straw and bending down with it to my nose for the relief that waits for me on the counter.

  The burn in the back of my throat is familiar, but my nerves don’t calm. The second line of coke hits me right where I’d hoped the first one would.

  With my head tipped back, I wait for the numbness I’d gone without the entire time I spent in the too-bright interrogation room at the police station. My pulse pounds harder, the thumping a sure sign that I’m alive and well, that I have shit to take care of, and the sooner business is handled, the faster we can be back up and running.

  I’m not happy that Donna is gone, but there’s some relief that comes from an innocent woman being killed in a raid gone wrong. The DEA is going to have a hell of a time getting another search warrant for our clubhouse, and after today they’ll no longer have an open door for information.

  Silence falls over the room as I enter and stand at the front. There isn’t a podium, casket, or an overabundance of flowers, but eeriness settles over the group as I make eye contact with every individual in the room before speaking. Some of the women cry silently, their eyes focused on the small urn and picture of Donna on the tiny table to my left.

  The men look as tough as they always do, but I don’t miss the thick swallows of their throats or the stiffness in t
heir backs. There isn’t one member, old lady, or kid in this club that didn’t love Donna. Even the women turned a blind eye when she was warming the members’ beds. Each and every one of them knew sex was all Donna was capable of. They didn’t have to worry about her seducing them away or trying to build a life with them. Donna only had eyes for me. She loved me relentlessly, mothered two of my children, and sacrificed her life to save our son. I’ll always be grateful for her. I’ll always feel the burn from not being worthy of her love, and the relief I felt when I looked over and realized it was her lifeless eyes staring back at me rather than those of our son.

  “Donna is gone,” I rasp. “Murdered in cold blood by a piece of shit working for the DEA.”

  Low murmurs fill the room, but they grow silent when I raise my hand.

  “The asshole who argued that TJ was his target has already been taken care of.” Praise washes over them in a wave, some smiling while others cheer.

  “We protect our own. There isn’t one person in this room I won’t kill for. There isn’t one woman, one child in front of me today that I will not shed blood to protect.”

  Another round of approval.

  “The DEA didn’t show up on my doorstep and kill the mother of my children because they’ve been working an airtight case. Every man in this clubhouse was arrested that night. Every one of us held in custody for less than three days because they didn’t have shit on us. You see these men around you?”

  I wave my hand indicating Manic, Riggs, Gator, and Al.

  “Only one of those men betrayed us more than that piece of shit DEA agent who pointed his rifle at my son.”

  The crowd grows uneasy, eyes darting between my men to figure out what I’m talking about. Al shifts in his seat, suddenly uneasy with the accusation and the menacing anger.

  “Albert Gentry did five years in prison for this club.”

  “Thank you, brother,” one of the prospects says in praise.

  Al nods, taking the accolades like the narcissistic asshole that he is. I can tell by the glint in his eyes that he thinks he’s off the hook.

  “While at Cedar Junction, Al made a couple friends.” Al swallows when Manic and Riggs sandwich him a little tighter in his seat, preventing him from bolting. “He was instrumental in helping us line up some business to help some of our incarcerated friends.”

  It seems everyone in the room knows I’m not done because they haven’t praised him again. They’re well aware the other shoe is going to drop, and it’s not going to be pretty. The prospect who praised him out of turn earlier looks a little green.

  “Al made sure to come back home and tell us all about his time inside, the sacrifices he made for the club, and the new routes of imports he established. What our brother didn’t tell us was that he made lots of friends inside. His closest friend it seems was Dietrich Miller.”

  Manic’s head snaps in my direction, understanding immediately where I’m going.

  “I first met Agent Miller as a homicide detective in Miami the night Eric’s mother was also murdered in cold blood.” My son shifts in his seat, hands wringing until his fingers turn white. “Seems he’s moved up in the ranks.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Al sputters. “I’m not friends with no fucking cops.”

  Ignoring the betrayer, I turn my focus back to my captive audience. What I say is law to these people. I wouldn’t even have to give this long-winded explanation. I could command that Al die and half of them wouldn’t ask questions. They’d trample each other for the honor to carry out an order, and that’s exactly what I’ve been building the last eleven years, but there’s only one person in this room that’s earned the honor.

  “Thankfully for us, Al didn’t give them everything.” I look at Al and smile. “I’m grateful, brother, that you only gave them half-truths.”

  “I didn’t tell them shit!” he roars as he tries to stand.

  Riggs and Manic force him back down, each with a hand on a shoulder.

  “I spent last night looking through the books.” Al stiffens momentarily before his shoulders slump in defeat. “I was suspicious of Al long before he went to prison.”

  “I’ve never trusted the fucker,” a member in the back snaps.

  A few murmurs of agreement fill the room.

  “When he got popped with those rifles in ’95, we went over his work with a fine-toothed comb and didn’t find shit. There were no mistakes, no money siphoning, not one thing that raised suspicion. I chalked my inability to trust him up to jealousy over Donna.” I look over my shoulder at the smiling snapshot next to the urn. “Most of you guys and a few of the ladies have gotten a taste of that sweet honey, so you understand why I’d be a little upset.”

  Uneasy chuckles and a few verbal agreements fill the room. I ignore Eric’s eyes narrowing in my direction. The boy never could accept the promiscuity that came along with club life.

  “Last night’s investigation wasn’t as clean as it was nine years ago. Al has been a greedy motherfucker in the last couple of years. Hundreds of thousands of dollars are missing.”

  “I haven’t stolen a fucking thing from this club!” Al roars. I expect the outburst. What I didn’t anticipate are the tears in his eyes as he confesses. “Miller was blackmailing me. I didn’t take your money, not one single dime, and I only gave him tidbits of information.”

  “Keep going,” I urge. “Let the club know how easy it was for you to betray them. How easy it was to steal from them to pad your own pockets.”

  Chairs shift under the weight of several people as they turn to get a better look at Al. A couple members and two prospects in the back circle around so they can see him.

  “You don’t know what it’s like. Prison is awful. Miller sent people after me.” His head is hung low as he says this, but he looks into my eyes before he continues. “A man can only take so much before he breaks.”

  “I did ten years in San Quinten, lost three fucking fingers, and all the toes on my left foot, and not one fucking word left my mouth about my friends,” Gator seethes. “You don’t rat out your friends because you can’t take a dick up the ass a couple times.”

  Grumbles fill the room at Gator’s admission. A grin tugs at my lips as he shakes off a comforting arm from Dahmer.

  “Get out of here with that shit,” Gator hisses and takes a step away.

  “We’re getting off track,” I hiss and turn my attention back to Al. “What you’ve done is unforgivable.”

  “I made a mistake,” Al cries.

  “Eric,” I begin, but he interrupts before I can get any further.

  “They die.” His voice is steel, leaving no room for argument as he stands from his seat, slipping Molly from his lap and passing her over to Piper. “You got my mother killed for nothing.”

  I take a step back, letting my thirteen-year-old son take the reins.

  “Gator,” Eric calls over his shoulder. “Can you grab my backpack from my room?”

  “You bet,” Gator answers before he disappears down the hallway.

  “He isn’t going anywhere,” Eric tells Riggs as he takes another step closer to Al. “Grab me a chair.”

  My eyes dart to the steel beam overhead, already knowing what’s coming. Warmth fills my gut, pride puffing my chest out.

  Riggs' eyes find mine. I merely nod, giving him the command to follow whatever directions Eric gives him. A prideful smile spans his face as he walks toward the kitchen to do my son’s bidding. Riggs has to be as proud of Eric as I am in this moment. He’s been telling me for years that my son is a solid-gold asset to this club. Today he’s going to prove his worth. He’ll be a cut-wearing member of the Ravens Ruin MC if he doesn’t fuck this up or pussy out.

  “Here you go,” Gator says, walking back into the room and handing Eric his backpack.

  My son pulls a length of rope from the backpack, working the thickness through his hands like it’s a long-lost friend.

  “Piper,” my son whispers. “Why d
on’t you see if TJ and Molly want to play on the Nintendo in the other room.”

  Without another word, Piper stands and urges the smaller children out of the room.

  “Will Mommy be in there?” Molly asks, and my heart clenches at the pain in her voice. No child at four years old should lose their mother. It makes me want to shove Eric out of the way and take care of Al myself.

  “You’ve taught me everything I know,” Eric says addressing his mentor. “Math, understanding numbers, and how the books work. Hell, you taught me how to read, but I can’t think of those things now. I don’t see algebraic equations and accounting statistics when I close my eyes. The only thing I can see is my mother’s blood on my hands, the tears on my brother’s face, and the grayness of her skin as she bled out in my arms.”

  “You don’t have to do this, Eric,” Al sputters as Eric fashions a noose out of the rope and slips it over his head.

  “Oh God,” one of the women cries, but she doesn’t move. No one would dare walk away right now, and it’s something I’m counting on. When you lead a club with a brutal fist, when people see what you’re capable of, they’re less likely to betray you.

  Riggs slides a chair directly under the steel beam that runs the length of the room.

  Eric nods, making me even prouder. A couple of years ago he would’ve told my Sergeant at Arms ‘thank you,’ but I’ve drilled in his head that you don’t thank people for following orders. People don’t get praise for meeting expectations, only when they exceed them and even then, it is done sparingly.

  Al is forced to his feet, and his hands automatically reach up for the rope that’s already digging into the tender flesh of his neck.

  “Please,” he begs.

  “You betrayed the club like a coward,” Eric spits as Riggs and Manic force Al to climb up on the chair. “The least you can do is die like a fucking man.”

  Praise from my guys echoes around the room as Eric tosses the excess rope over the beam. Catching the loose end, he then ties it to the radiator attached to the floor at Al’s back.

  “You’re better than this, son.” Al is forced to his tiptoes when Eric tugs the rope a little tighter. “You don’t have to be a monster like your father.”