Preacher

by Zahra Girard

  Gunney nods and in a voice that makes my blood run cold, says, “Good. When he gets here, we’ll end this.”

  * * * * *

  Three heavy knocks signal Mason’s arrival.

  The man who’s ordered the killing of every single one of us is standing right outside. My heart swirls with the portent of this moment. Outside is a man who’s loomed large over an entire city, a man who’s been untouchable for years, a man who’s deadly touch has hit every single person in this room.

  He’s larger than life; he’s reduced to our prisoner.

  It feels like I’m watching an execution in slow motion. Soon, every single one of our prisoners — Tracy, her husband, and Mason — will be nothing more than bodies on the floor.

  It frightens me to my core.

  And the only sign I get that anyone shares my feelings of hesitance and disturbance at the oncoming bloodbath is a slight flicker in Preacher’s stone-cold expression. Everyone else — Rog, Gunney, Ozzy, Hazard, Bear — looks ready. Eager. They’ve dreamt about this moment and getting revenge for every wrong wrought against them.

  The knocks thud through the room and Hazard roughly yanks Tracy to her feet and marches her to the front door. Bear follows the two of them, assault rifle held in his soldier’s grip.

  “Tracy, open up, it’s Mason,” comes the voice from outside. It sounds surprisingly human. I hear concern and compassion. He loves his sister. It’s unnerving, thinking about him as anything other than a monster.

  From the spot where I stand rooted to the floor, I watch as Tracy opens the door. I catch a glimpse of Mason’s face and watch the look on his face melt into one of confusion and, then, brutal anger. Now he looks ever bit the evil that’s brought so much hurt to this city for nearly two decades.

  He steps through the doorway. Even now, he’s fearsome. The man is a giant, an inked behemoth with his face a terrifying mask of unconstrained rage. Physically, he is not much taller or larger than Bear or Hazard, but he exudes this aura that dwarfs the two of them. For years, he’s killed people with just a word and, even though his sister is held at gunpoint in front of him, it feels like if we make one slip-up, one mistake, and he will lash out without hesitation and try to kill every last one of us.

  They march the monster by us and he looks directly at me as he passes. In a low voice that only I can hear, he whispers, “I know who you are, Jessica, and you’re as good as dead.”

  They bring him to stand before Gunney, who looks up at him without flinching.

  “Get on your knees,” he says. His voice is quiet, but filled with so much command.

  Mason doesn’t move.

  Bear and Hazard both reach out and, with their hands on his shoulders, force him to his knees.

  My feet feel rooted to the floor and I watch, transfixed. For the first time in what feels like minutes, I pull in a breath. I helped them get Mason here, I helped set this whole thing up, but I can’t go through with this.

  This doesn’t feel anything close to justice; it feels wrong on every single level.

  I reach over and take Preacher by the hand and nod in the direction of the mud-room back in the hallway. He gives me a confused look, but doesn’t resist as I pull him down the hall so we can have some privacy. Behind us, in the living room, Gunney is giving a full-throated condemnation of Mason, the Jackals, and every crime and offense the Jackals have committed against the Kings MC.

  “This isn’t right,” I say, the second we’re away from everyone else. “This is sick. We need to stop it.”

  His confused look gets even more confused. “What the hell do you mean, Jessica?”

  “This isn’t anything like justice. I mean, executing a man in his sister’s living room? In front of her and her husband? And then what’s going to happen to Tracy?”

  He lets out an exasperated sigh. “We have to do this. Do you have any idea the things he’s done to us? Or what he’ll do if we don’t kill him?”

  “I do have an idea. That man is the reason my father’s dead. He’s the reason I almost died. And I am sure he’s hurt hundreds of other people over the years. But I am not ok with this, not on any level, and I don’t think I’ll ever be. This is as wrong as it gets,” I say. “I know you feel some of the same things I do. This isn’t right, Preacher. We need to stop it.”

  “Stop it? Are you fucking crazy?”

  “Am I crazy?” I say, stepping forward and taking Preacher by the hands. “Does any of this feel right to you? Think. I’m not asking you to forgive him, I’m asking you to consider if shooting this man in the head and then killing his sister and killing her husband is the right thing to do?”

  He shuts his eyes. I see his jaw clench and he pulls a heavy sigh. When he opens them again, I see I’ve gotten through to him.

  “What do we do?”

  “How long do you think it is before the FBI takes Mason down? Bryce has Erickson’s statement already, they’ve probably already talked to the FBI down in Vegas. They’re not going to sit on this information — it’s serious stuff, a crime ring that’s undermined local PD and transports drugs through a multi-state area. You know they’re going to move on it fast because it’s a major threat,” I say. I squeeze his hand and step closer to him and look up into Preacher’s eyes. “With any luck, they’re probably on their way here already.”

  Preacher grunts. He still looks doubtful. “We need justice for our VP, Grease, and for everything else he’s done to us.”

  I get up on my tiptoes and put my lips to his. When I descend, I smile at him. “You hate him, right? Don’t you think he’s proud of everything he’s done for himself and for his club? He built it. He’s enjoyed it for almost twenty years. How much do you think it will hurt him if he gets sent to prison and has to watch as it all comes down around him? The cartels will get to him jail, too. He will suffer. Every day. For the rest of his life.”

  A smirk tugs the corner of his lips upwards. “Fuck, that’s cold.”

  “That’s justice,” I say.

  He comes in and kisses me again, long, heavy, the kind of kiss that makes my head spin. “You call in a tip to the feds. If they aren’t on the way here already, they need to know. I’ll handle the rest.”

  “You’ll stop it?” I say.

  He nods. “For you, anything.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Preacher

  She’s depending on me. I couldn’t care less about anything else. It all pales in comparison to one simple fact: I love her. And to her, getting justice the right way is what matters. So it matters to me.

  Lit by the fire of her kiss, I step from the front hallway and walk straight to the spot where Gunney has Mason on his knees. Every eye is on me as I step between the two of them. Gunney’s eyes burn with the intensity of a man on the verge of bloody revenge, and he turns that look on me with fury.

  “What the fuck do you think you’re doing, Preacher?” He says.

  “I can’t let you do this.”

  “What the hell has gotten into you? Stand down.”

  “I want this son of a bitch dead just as much as you-”

  “-So let’s fucking kill him,” Gunney says. “It’s what we came here for.”

  “But this isn’t going to honor anyone that we’ve lost. This isn’t going to bring them back. All we’d be doing is leaving a fucking mess on the floor. I want Mason to suffer. I want him to lose it all. I want his family to lose it all. The feds will have enough to put him away for life. And his sister, too. He’ll spend every fucking day trying to keep his ass safe from the cartels and knowing he’s lost everything. He’ll suffer the way he should.”

  “You want to turn him over to the cops?” Gunney’s hand flexes as he tightens his grip on his gun.

  I roll my shoulders and try to keep relaxed, though every bit of common sense is telling me that Gunney is just an inch away from attacking me, just to get me out of the way so he can finish off Mason.

  This was not how I saw my day going.

&nbs
p; “They’re already on their way.”

  He points his gun at me. “The fuck did you just say, Preacher?”

  “You heard me. If they weren’t headed here from Detective Erickson’s confession, they’re on their way now. We called them.”

  “You son of a bitch,” he spits. Then he turns to the group. “We vote. Now. We can put a bullet in this bloody cocksucker like we planned, or we can leave him.”

  I look through the room. Nobody meets my eyes.

  Life, death, it’s all hanging in the balance.

  One by one, my brothers speak up.

  I keep still, half expecting Gunney to pull the trigger and shoot my ass for insubordination. My heart is racing and I feel on the edge of dying, but I wouldn’t change a damn thing. Jessica’s made the right call, and I’d give everything I got to fight for her, even my life.

  Bear’s the first to talk.

  “Let the feds take the son of a bitch,” he says. “I want this to end. I want to go back to my wife and my daughter. Mason can rot in prison for all I care.”

  Gunney turns from Bear to Ozzy. “Ozzy?”

  “Yeah, I’m good, man. I don’t need to see his brains on the floor. I can imagine that well enough without having it happen in front of me. It’s less messy, that way.”

  “Hazard?”

  “Shoot the fucker.”

  “Rog?” Gunney turns.

  Rog sits up. “I’ve had enough of this violence, brother. It just leads to more and more killing, and, if I’m being honest with you, I’m sick of losing people I care about. Let’s turn him over, let him rot in jail.”

  Gunney lowers his weapon and looks to each member of the club. He seems incredulous. “You’re all serious about this?”

  “Preacher’s right,” Bear says. “I’ve got a family, and I’ll fight like hell to defend them. But if I can do that without the kind of on-your-knees executions that remind me of Afghanistan, I’m happy. Let’s ruin this son of a bitch and then get out of here. I want to hold my daughter with hands that aren’t soaked in blood.”

  Gunney holsters his pistol. I breathe a sigh of relief.

  Mason, from his spot on the floor, laughs. “How did a bunch of limp-dicked pussies even get permission from your fucking cunt women to come down here? Jesus fucking Christ.”

  From behind me, Ozzy steps forward and punches Mason square in the jaw, sending the man to fall sideways to the floor. Ozzy kicks him again, smashing his heel forcefully into the man’s jaw.

  “My wife could kick your ass, mate. You’d better hope I don’t tell her what you’ve said, because she will find you in prison and all those concrete walls and steel bars won’t save you. She makes Liam Neeson look like a bitch.”

  Ozzy finishes his threat by spitting in Mason’s face.

  Bear bellows a deep laugh. “He’s right, you know. His wife could kick your ass. Hell, I’d imagine any of our women could. We fucking pick ‘em right.” Bear looks at me, grin on his face. “You know, I might’ve voted that we turn him in, but he doesn’t have to be conscious for that to happen, and I imagine we got a bit of time before the cops show up, so…”

  He ends his statement by kicking Mason in the ribs.

  I join in, satisfying myself by putting a knee firm on Mason’s chest and hammering him with my fist. His lip splits with one of my punches and another rips open a gash in his forehead.

  It feels good. Cathartic.

  One by one, we rotate, taking turns at beating the man who’s brought so much pain to our family. Gunney is the last to get his licks in on Mason, brutalizing him with a series of punches that turn his fists bloody. By the time we’re done, Mason’s a bleeding, barely-conscious mess on the floor. Through it all, he doesn’t say a thing. Neither does his sister or her husband. They all know they’re done and dependent on our club’s mercy.

  My ears catch the sound of sirens, and I look over towards the hallway. Jessica’s standing there, holding her cellphone, smile on her face. The proud look she gives me makes my heart swell.

  She nods at me, and I grin. They’re coming.

  “It’s time we get out of here, guys,” I say to the rest of my club. Gunney nods and gestures for everyone to get their things and follow him.

  The whole club heads outside, and, while everyone either gets their bikes or heads into the ambulance, Jessica comes up to my side and puts her hands on mine.

  “You did good back there,” she says.

  The smile on her face makes it all worth it.

  “I know,” I answer. “Though part of me still wants to put a bullet in that asshole’s head.”

  No matter how much she influences me, I’ll never be all good.

  “Same,” she says. “But we didn’t. And that’s what matters. You guys are better than that. And when it comes down to it, you’re stronger for making the tough choices.”

  “Maybe,” I say, looking back towards the front door. Part of me still feels doubt. Even in the face of the overwhelming evidence and the approaching sirens, part of me still wants to make sure Mason and the Jackals are done for good.

  Jessica, sensing my doubt, reaches up and puts her hand on my cheek, turning my gaze back to her. “Would it help if I told you that I love you?”

  That makes me grin. The kind of smile I haven’t smiled in a long time.

  “Yeah. A little.”

  She frowns, though her eyes still glitter. “And?”

  I laugh what feels like my first real laugh in ages. Jessica and I have been through hell together, and what I’m about to say to her, I have no hesitation about. “And I love you, too.”

  She kisses me and then moves in to my ear to whisper, “Let’s get the fuck out of here, ok?”

  “Where to?”

  “My place, first. So I can pack. And we can… you know. After, we can leave. I think I need a change of scenery. Where was it you had your cabin, again?”

  “Stoney Shores.”

  She kisses me once more. “Yeah. There. That sounds like that could be my new home.”

  I grin. I like the sound of that.

  Epilogue

  Jessica

  It takes all of a week to settle my things in Reno. My landlord just shrugs when I tell him I’m moving out. With the cheap rent he charges, I’m sure it’ll only be a day or two before he has a tenant to replace me.

  In the police’s investigation into Mason’s organization, I’m barely even questioned. As the daughter of a fallen cop, the police hardly even bother to look at me, much less question me. I like to think of it as just another way my dad is looking out for me. Thankfully, out of what I’m pretty sure is guilt, Detective Erickson leaves me out of the information he gives to the FBI, too.

  As far as anyone is concerned, I’m just someone who happened to get caught in the crossfire of a war between two rival MC’s one fateful night at some hipster bar called Joker’s Wild. I’m going to do my best to keep it that way. I’m starting over. Again.

  “Are you ready, babe?”

  I look up from my cell phone at the sound of Preacher’s voice.

  I’ve got pounding headache from the night before — drinks with Cassie and a few others from work to celebrate my last night on the job. Effective today, I’m unemployed. At least until I get to Stony Shores. The great thing about being a nurse is we’re always in demand.

  “I’m ready.”

  “You think you could give me a little help?” He says.

  The last of my things — boxed up and ready to go — is sitting on the floor right in front of me. After all that’s happened and finally finding out the truth about my father, I’m finally ready to say goodbye to Reno.

  It’s time to move on.

  But it’s not time for me to carry any more boxes.

  I smile up at him. “I’m good. Besides, I have a hangover. I’m sure a big, strong man like you can carry one box by yourself.”

  “Just like I carried the other dozen boxes?”

  “Hey, I helped.”


  “You carried two boxes.”

  “Hangover, remember?” I say, pointing to my head. “I’m a medical professional, I know these things, and it’s best for me to rest.”

  “I told you last night that last Gin and Tonic was a bad idea.”

  “And I told you I’m celebrating all this being over,” I say. “Besides, I’ve got a lot of complicated stuff ahead of me. I’ve got to do interviews, find a job, get a new car. It’s going to be a lot of work.”

  “Fine,” he says, lifting the last of the boxes. “But, come on, we’ve got to get out of here.”

  I follow him downstairs.

  The sun’s high in the sky and heat radiates in waves up from the pavement. There’s a big box moving truck parked in front of my building, with Marcos & Sons Professional Moving written in a fancy script on the side.

  The truck and movers was Preacher’s idea — I wanted to just rent a U-Haul and drive everything up myself, but, he put his foot down. He was adamant that we make this trip up into something more than just a drive with a crappy U-haul. Preacher loads the last of the boxes into the moving truck, then heads around to the driver’s side window and gives the driver one final reminder about where to take my things. Then, he heads to his bike, opens the cargo compartment, and takes out a helmet and a leather jacket.

  With a big smile on his face, he heads over to me, holding out the helmet and jacket. “Put these on,” he says. “We’re going to for a long ride.”

  I take them both and slip them on. They fit perfect.

  Preacher puts on his own gear — his cut and his helmet — and hops on his bike and I slide up behind him. It feels natural. Perfect. Right.

  I reach forward and wrap my arms around him, holding myself in place as he fires up the bike and pulls away from the curb. Soon, my former home fades into the distance. A new journey, a new destination, a new home.

  We drive for around fifteen minutes, riding north up the road and on to the interstate. We keep going until the highway starts a climb up into the mountains. I tap him firmly on the shoulder. I want to pull over.