Fallen (Redemption Reigns MC Book 3)

by Juli Valenti

“Yep, the one and the same. Going by what little the SL narc gave us, he was the one who knew where we’d be. Apparently he’d gotten one of their men to tap her phone; they knew we would be unarmed, that we would be vulnerable. And, because we were, I got Reagan killed all because I wanted a princess wedding.”

  “Poet —“

  “No. It’s my fault. I thought for one fucking day I could be the princess my dad called me. I thought for one goddamned minute, that we could have something that wasn’t covered in fucking leather and tire tracks. I thought for one stupid, stupid second, that we could be more than just Harley-riding thugs. It’s my fault Reagan is dead, and that Sarah is on her way to the damned hospital.”

  “Poet —“

  “So go fucking kill them. Kill them all, Fallen. I want none of those fuckers breathing. I’m a hair trigger away from going with you - but according to Titan, I can’t, and because I just married the son of a bitch, I should probably listen to him and let y’all take care of something and just stay the fuck out of it.”

  Titan appeared at her side. “Craze is going to go with you. Shakespeare, Artist, and Tonka are going as well. Ride true. We’ve gotta do damage control with Cyrus. As much as we’d both like to join you, we can’t.”

  Fallen nodded and took off at a dead run, not giving a damn that the SUV was parked a good couple miles from where they were. He didn’t have time to wait for a valet to drive him in a golf cart - he had to move, had to get there, had to take care of this problem. He had to do it for Sarah. Had to get it all together, for Sarah.

  He heard footsteps behind him, and, to his surprise, he found the others doing the same - even Artist, who’d apparently thrown her shoes off at some point and was carrying her dress to keep from tripping over it. Shakespeare and the others had shed their suit jackets, and most of them their ties, their guns in their grips as they ran to keep up with him.

  They ran for what seemed like forever, the burn in Fallen’s chest and legs a welcome feeling - it felt good to hurt. He needed it, and relished in it. A part of him wished his bike would be at the finish line for him, that he could hop on and feel the roar of his Harley underneath him as he rode to deal swift justice, but he wasn’t going to take the time to go drop the SUV off. It was black and had tinted windows, and the others could all jump in too - it would be a win-win.

  As they reached the parking lot, he slowed, surprised to find someone he didn’t recognize. He pulled the .9mm from his waistband where he’d tucked it and pointed it, not giving a damn who the fuck it was. He wanted them out of his way, he wanted them to get what was coming to them. Anyone that was supposed to be there already was there - at the reception, or the hospital, or soon to be in a body bag. There was no excuse to be down and waiting at the parking lot.

  He was about to pull the trigger, and say to hell with it, when Shakespeare boomed from behind him, “Fallen, don’t. Who the fuck are you?”

  The older Vice President’s words came out harsh and hoarse, the running taking its toll on the other man, though he didn’t complain.

  “Well that’s a warm welcome,” a female’s voice stated, her tone shaky and unsure, though her posture remaining the same. “My car broke down - I saw a lot of cars over here and figured someone could help me out. Didn’t figure that to be a reason to get my ass shot over ... I’ll just go over ... yeah I’ll just go somewhere else.”

  As he neared, Fallen could see she was a taller woman, probably around five eight or so, with shoulder-length, jet black-hair and eyes equally as dark. Her skin was pale, much like Sarah’s, and that realization had him cringing. Finish this shit, Fallen. Get it all out of the fucking way so you can hold your fucking head up when you see her.

  Without speaking to the mysteriously strange woman who’d approached them, who was now dancing from foot to foot, clearly unsure of what she should do, he stormed past her, narrowing his gaze on his SUV. He unlocked it and climbed in, waiting only a few seconds before throwing the engine over and peeling out of the driveway.

  Shakespeare, Artist, and Craze had made it into the truck and that was fine with him. Fallen sped down the main street, going the only way he figured they could have gone. He knew that while Static Law had begun encroaching on their territory in Socorro, they weren’t staying in town. Pressing a button on the dash, he brought up the number for Detective Soars, the one who’d replaced Branka in his pocket.

  “Soars.”

  “SL. Where they staying?”

  “Fallen? Is that you? How was the wedding? Wait ... why are you calling me about Static Law today? What happened?”

  “Where the hell is Static Law staying. I know they’re not in Socorro.” Fallen didn’t answer any of the questions the other man fired off. He merely wanted the information he was asking for, and, since Soars got a very nice pay bump for information and protection when the club needed it, he refused to bend on the issue. The man was going to give him what he wanted.

  The detective sighed. “‘Bout twenty miles north of Poet’s house in the hills. Now, you wanna tell me why you need to know that?”

  Fallen hung up the phone, turning to Shakespeare, who had taken the passenger seat. “I don’t give a fuck who you take out. Any of you,” he added, waving toward the back of the truck. “But Vinny ... if that little cocksucker is there, he’s mine. Got it?”

  His foot pressed down on the gas, the speedometer showing his speed in the red on the gauge, but he didn’t care. If SL was staying twenty minutes from Poet’s, they weren’t far. As he was driving he vaguely realized he didn’t ask for an address or directions, but it turned out he didn’t need them.

  Abruptly, he brought the truck to a stop, the others in the car bracing themselves as the tires screeched. A clearing in the tree line was plain as day, as well as the many different bike tracks he could see with no problem. Shaking his head, he turned down the road, slightly entertained. Arrogant assholes don’t even realize how well they don’t hide their tracks.

  Fallen killed the engine about a half mile down, the SL clubhouse visible through the path line. Along with their no effort to hide their place, they also had no security - no gates, no barbed wire, nothing to keep anyone out. Obviously they figured they were scary enough that no one would fuck with them. They thought wrong.

  The others poured out of the SUV, all of them taking in their surroundings, surveying any dangers that may exist. And, like it was Christmas, some Static Law men came strutting out of the clubhouse, their cuts on, drinks in their hands, and laughter on their lips. It pissed Fallen off that they could possibly get a happy moment when they just ruined so many other’s moments; he lifted his gun and fired three shots in succession, taking all the men who’d walked in down. More came stumbling out, tripping over the bodies of their fallen brothers. It was Shakespeare and Artist’s turns, the two making quick work of the next few.

  There were five of them: three Hells Redemption, two Bishops Reign. And, the idle though crossed his mind, it was the first time the two clubs were actively working together - both sides equally angry about the same issue. This wasn’t a situation where one club asked for help from the other. No, this was a mutually angry situation. Both Presidents had been slighted. SL killed a club officer’s wife, gravely injured the girlfriend of another; that was only the ones Fallen was even aware of. For all he knew, BR could’ve been hurt more than just by proxy too.

  They moved like a scene in an old western movie, the five marching toward the front of the clubhouse, no attempt at stealth. And yet, every SL member who stormed out the door with guns blazing was dropped with the others. Out of the corner of his eye he watched Artist take one in the thigh, and, while she made an initial intake of breath and a quiet “fuck,” she kept moving, doing her job.

  After at least a dozen dead bodies lay on the porch of the Static Law club house, a yell came from inside.

  “Stop! We want to talk, we’re coming out. Don’t shoot.”

  Fallen couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled out
of his stomach. He clutched at it, the force of it bringing hysterical tears to his eyes. “That’s funny,” he breathed to Shakespeare, trying to stand upright again. “They want to ‘talk’ ... they don’t want us to ‘shoot.’”

  “Luke,” Shakespeare aid warningly, his eyes concerned and not at all smiling. “At least hear what they have to say. Can kill ‘em afterward.”

  He nodded, wiping the tears from his eyes, trying to keep his calm and swallow down his chuckles. It was entertaining to him that the other fucking club thought they could just talk, but his VP had a point. Maybe they’d have something interesting or helpful to say. Or it’d just be more fun to kill them. Either way, it didn’t matter to Fallen. He was going to get what he was wanting: Vinny dead, and vengeance.

  The voice that had spoken emerged, connected to a body as large as Tonka, who was mysteriously missing - he hadn’t made it into the SUV when the others had. This one had long, straggly blond hair with a large bald spot in the middle, and a round beer belly, to where his cut would never close, even if he wanted it to. His meaty hands were held up, his arms raised to show no holster or weapon along his pants or under his vest, and he cautiously stepped forward.

  “I’m unarmed.”

  “So were the guests at our fucking wedding,” Fallen spat angrily.

  The other man nodded. “I know. We didn’t vote to do that - that was rogue shit. Lots of bad going down within our club hierarchy right now. I’m sorry about that.”

  “You’re sorry? I’m sorry ... you’re fucking sorry? You’ve got to be kidding me,” Artist beat Fallen to speaking this time, her hand moving to rub at the spot on her leg, blood staining her hand. Her dress was no longer being held up, rather she’d let it drag the ground, and it was now covered in blood, dirt, and tears. “You killed one of our fucking women. Seriously hurt another - and a couple others have injuries from the crossfire. Yet, you’re fucking sorry?”

  “You say one of your women got hurt ... well, you’re hurt, and you seem to be doing just fine.”

  “I’m not any fucking woman. You killed one of our soft women - I’m a member of this club, have bled for this club, and more than likely taken more lives than you. You killed our weak.”

  “Sarah isn’t fucking weak,” Fallen grumbled. “She’s going to come back even stronger than she already fucking was. I actually feel bad about killing y’all because I’m robbing her the right to, and she has reason.”

  The SL held his hands up higher. “I’m sorry. I am. The men you took out, they were the ones who voted to blindside you. The rest of us didn’t want to even come down here - but they took it to a vote at chapel ... It was unanimous for the officers. Fuck what the rest of us think. It was these,” he said, nodding to the pile of bodies, “that said to do it. Them and the hang-around pussy they’ve got.”

  Fallen’s ears perked up. The hang-around pussy they had was Vinny. He wanted that fucking piece of shit. He wanted him the day he got Sarah arrested because he was too pansy to admit that he was the one hurting her and she defended herself. He wanted him before then, when he constantly fucked with her. She didn’t deserve that, and he didn’t deserve her. He deserved fucking lead in the face.

  “Where is he?” Fallen growled, his grip tightening on the gun. If he had to blow out the eighties reject’s head and follow suit with every other breathing organism in the club house to find him, he would.

  Whether it was the over thousand pounds of bleeding flesh he used to talk to lying on the stoop around him, the look on Fallen’s face, or the sound of his voice, he merely pointed toward the entrance of the clubhouse. Determined, Fallen began striding toward the door.

  “Please, my men aren’t going to do anything - try not to kill them. They’re like me, they didn’t choose to fuck with both your clubs.”

  He didn’t respond; there was no realistic way he could say he would or he wouldn’t. Reason had long since left him; he could feel it, which was one of the reasons he held the office within HR that he did. He was brutal when he needed to be, because there was a really handy-dandy button in his head that flipped his “I don’t give a fuck” off. At the moment, it was more than just off ... it was blown to fucking bits. And if someone so much as looked at him in a way he didn’t like, he’d end the bastard who did it.

  The inside of the clubhouse was dark and looked like a party had been taking place either fairy recently or their housekeeping skills fucking sucked. Several Static Law members went white when seeing his face, spreading their fingers to show they weren’t holding guns. Smart men, for such a stupid fucking club. One pointed toward a room and Fallen inclined his head.

  Sure, he could be walking into a trap. He could walk into that room and get his ass blown away. Hell, the dipshits sitting around could do the same, shoot him in the back while he was preoccupied, but he didn’t care. And, more, he sincerely doubted they would. It appeared either the fucker outside was being truthful - that they weren’t about messing with them - or they were all too fucking scared to do anything about it.

  The only thing Fallen gave a damn about was that Vinny was in that room. And, as he opened the door, he found the little shit.

  Except he was on the floor. Bleeding. A gun in one hand, but a slug in his chest and one square in the middle of his fucking forehead.

  “God damn it.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Fallen

  “You’ve GOT to be fucking kidding me,” Fallen roared, livid. He could barely see through the red tint his vision had taken. “Who the fuck is responsible for this?”

  “I am,” said a confident voice from the other room, and Lukas moved to find it. The man in question stood and he took a moment to evaluate him.

  This Static Law was around his height, standing possibly six-one or six-two, with his hair tied back and falling past his shoulders. He was larger statured, with broad shoulders and biceps that proudly proclaimed his working out ability. His face was etched into a mean frown, darkly colored by the sun. If Fallen was anyone else, he’d more than likely been intimidated by him. But he wasn’t.

  Instead, he was downright pissed off. His vengeance, his revenge, his whole visions had been robbed for him. Sure, Vinny’s end had been one he would have seen to himself ... down to the bullet between his eyes. But he’d had plans, damn it. He was going to make the small boy beg for forgiveness, for ever hurting Sarah, for even breathing. There was going to be pain, suffering, agony for him for ever existing in a world with a woman as pure as his girlfriend.

  In his eyes, that’s what she was. Idly his attention turned to his hands, still covered in her blood. It seemed wrong that it was the crimson staining into his skin; she was snow. She was innocence. She was beauty in its truest form. This blood? It couldn’t be hers. She wasn’t the type to be caught in crossfire; she was the type who saved lives, who got their blood on her, not that they shed hers.

  “I am,” the man repeated, pulling Fallen’s gaze to his.

  “Why?” he asked coldly. His adrenaline was starting to wane, and he shook his head, demanding his brain to clear and his body to stay alert.

  “Son of a bitch brought nothing but trouble. It was his idea, his master plan, if you will, to hit the clubs today. Dipshits outside? They decided his stupid Italian ass had some sort of brilliant idea. The rest of us didn’t.”

  “Why?”

  “We’re not in the market to kill innocents. We don’t hit events where women and children can be in attendance. Those of us who’ve been in this life long enough know that it’s entirely too easy to lose the ones we love...” the man paused, wiping a hand across his face. “Anyway, the hang around came back, bragging he’d actually plugged someone – the someone he’d been wanting to get even with ‘for a long time,’ or so he said. When I heard it was a woman, I killed him.”

  Fallen watched as the man shrugged, the decision for him as easy as breathing. Even in the head space he was in, he could understand the feeling. He was just still so angry, such was deni
ed revenge.

  “Name?” It appeared at this point, he was beyond the point of more than one word sentences. It was taking everything he had to keep himself together, to keep what little was left of the man he believed Sarah loved in him. He didn’t want to be the monster all the time, regardless if he was.

  “Staple. Don’t ask, it’s a long story.”

  Don’t worry, I wasn’t going to.

  Shakespeare and Artist came through the door, catching sight of Fallen and Staple, both raising their guns to also point at the SL biker. Truth be told, Fallen hadn’t even realized he was even brandishing on the man.

  “Fall?” Artist asked, her voice even but cautious. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to hear the uneasiness in her – she was worried he’d gone bye bye Egon.

  “Dead,” and when she merely looked at him he shook his head and tried again. “Vinny’s dead,” he sighed. “And I didn’t get to do it. This fuckface stole that opportunity from me. Jesus Christ, what is it with the pissant people?! I mean, they even have to rob me the pleasure of doing it my goddamned self.”

  “Look, man, I told you —“

  “Yeah, yeah, I fucking get it,” Fallen steamed, suddenly full of things to say. “You killed the sorry son of a bitch who shot my girlfriend. The same fucker who decided it was a good idea to beat on her before that, too. Good job on the whole, ‘let’s listen to the moron wop.’ Because of you, my beautiful girlfriend, someone who is better than all of us in the fucking room, hands down, got shot. More, I had to watch as a brother cut into her fucking ribs, and then I got the jolly fun time to jam a pen barrel into said hole so she could fucking breathe. But yeah, I’m totally grateful you put two pieces of lead into his body before I got the chance. Good job.”

  Staple raised his hands in front of him, placating the other man. “I’m sorry, bro, I didn’t realize your girl was the one he shot. And fuck, I don’t blame you – I’d want the same revenge. But, at the time, it sounded like a good fucking option. Well, that and to shut him the hell up.”