Shelter (Red Rebels MC Book 5)

by C. D. Breadner

  The Rat, eyes flashing angry, stilled, and raised his chin, defiant.

  “What are you doing in Markham?” Jayce asked, calm as anything.

  “Fuck you.”

  While this pointless interrogation went on, Fritter nudged Knuckles with an elbow. “You want me to go check on the girls?”

  Shit! That’s what he’d been meaning to do. Fuck, he was awful at this. “No, I got it. I can do it.”

  Fritter stopped him, hand on chest. “There’s a reason I’m offering, Knuck,” he said gently, nodding to his arms.

  Holding up his hands, he cursed. His fists were split open again, blood up his arms, and his shirt was crisscrossed with streaks of crimson. Fuck, he’d made a mess. “Shit.”

  “Yeah. let me go check on them, okay? I texted Rusty to grab some plywood for their window. We’ll get that covered for tonight.”

  Knuckles was nodding. Thank Christ someone else was looking out for them, because he was...shit. He was a fucking mess.

  His hands were shaking. It might have been the adrenalin wearing down, but he doubted it. This felt...all wrong. His body ran cold, the night air chilling him through his shirt.

  He almost walked into their home covered in blood, having killed three men only minutes before. What the fuck was he thinking?

  “You stay here, help Jayce if he needs it. I’ll check on your woman.”

  He stayed right where he was, listening to the Rat hurl abuse at Jayce, and the Prez’s frustration was growing. After a moment of thought, he walked over to the shelving along the back wall, ignoring the bike he and Annie had been working on, willing his mind to forget about the hours spent in this garage with a ten-year-old that thought he was a fucking genius. The ache in the center of his chest robbed him of all breath, but he fought the panic down and grabbed a big black trash bag.

  “Fuck you,” the Rat kept shouting. “Fuck you and fuck your fucking town! Just wait! You are all so fucking dead!”

  “He’s not going to talk,” Knuckles informed Jayce, shaking the garbage bag out of its neatly folded square. Like the bag, his rage came back to full size because it knew it still had another task to complete.

  “Fuckin’ rights!”

  “So, he’s going to die instead.”

  The Rat and him locked eyes, then the man nodded. “Suck my cock,” he said calmly, then Knuckles nodded for Tank to pull him away from the door. He did it forcefully enough that the guy stumbled down onto one knee, which was perfect. Knuckles moved into place behind him and wrapped the plastic bag around the Rat’s head, pulling back hard enough to bring the man’s head right against his own stomach.

  The man fought to stand, thrashed to get enough leverage to duck under the bag, but it was pulled tight enough to stretch the black plastic to a duller gray. His hands were screaming in pain from the damage he’d done to that other Rat, but the plastic was wrapped in his fists and there was no letting go.

  Quieter than shooting him in the head, and it took long enough that his adrenalin level started to return to normal. When the struggling stopped, and he let the man fall, his hands were completely still.

  The van arrived, pulled into the garage, they shut the door, and Rusty and Tims—who Rusty had recruited when he returned to the clubhouse—nailed a sheet of plywood over the Prince’s kitchen window.

  A small voice was telling him to check on them. Momma and the girls were likely terrified, but seeing him like this wouldn’t be an improvement.

  The rest of the night was a long blur of procedural normality. They took the bodies back to the clubhouse, and used the stall to remove identifying aspects; tattoos, hands, and teeth. But they left the men with their kuttes on when they drove them out to the desert to bury them.

  When he got back to the clubhouse and saw himself in the bathroom mirror he nearly broke down and wept. Blood everywhere, with dirt and sweat cutting through where it had run down his face and neck. His hands were starting to feel hot and swollen. Fritter told him to shower. The bastard was following him around like he expected Knuckles to break down at any moment.

  He dropped his clothes on the bathroom floor and climbed under the showerhead, turning the hot on full. He used a nail brush to scrub the mud and blood out from around and under his nails. He even used it on the torn skin of his knuckles, which hurt and made them start bleeding again but he didn’t want it getting infected. Nothing cleans it better than blood.

  And it’s close to the joints, which means it’s a hop-skip-and-a-jump to a blood infection. He almost laughed as Danielle’s voice came back to him, then he doubled over and vomited on his own feet.

  His entire body was shaking. He was remembering the night now, without panic, Red Mode, or the urge to protect his property and his town. He was remembering making love to Danielle Prince before all of that, wondering how the hell he could beat a man to death right after feeling her come so sweet on his cock.

  Because I am a psychotic animal, he reminded himself.

  He’d smacked his forehead on the tiles a couple of times, hands on the wall to brace himself, then he fell still, his entire life falling into place in his brain.

  His blood family was nothing to carry around in his heart. They weren’t assholes, they never beat or neglected him. But for all they were really concerned, he could come or go and it would make no difference. Shipping out to Iraq no one saw him off. Coming home, no one was waiting for him at the airport. He was on his own from the time he and his brother learned to ride a bicycle and started hanging with the other kids on the Army base—

  Shit, his brother. Knuckles sucked in a deep breath, eyes burning. Gordon O’Shay. Killed in action serving in Afghanistan, blown apart by an AED. He hadn’t thought the name in ages. Dead for two months before word even got to Knuckles, and they’d been in the same fucking country.

  Even now when he tried to remember what they looked like—his parents, Gordon—it was a nondescript smudge on a poorly developed photograph. He was sure his parents were out there still, but even if they’d passed away he doubted anyone would try to find him. Hell, they wouldn’t have a clue how to find him.

  He was a rootless arrow, shooting off wherever the spirit moved him until the Red Rebels found him in jail. Sent inside for vandalizing a home where he and a few other heroin nodders had been squatting. Jail, surprisingly, threw him a lifeline in the form of Skip, the Rebels’ former SAA, but the Rebels got him sober. They needed him straight, and nearly losing his life falling off a fucking train bridge while high clarified things for him.

  Get sober, or get the fuck out.

  It was the first time anyone had given a shit. His parents hadn’t really disciplined him. He was sure the only smacks he got growing up were from the parents of his friends on the base.

  The club didn’t need him, but they wanted him there. And he did every single fucking thing he could to be invaluable to them, earn their trust and faith.

  It took all he had. Where he could fit the Princes into the mix...he had no idea.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Guidinger showed up the next day, as planned, on schedule. Being asked to appear didn’t seem to please him too much, but his magnanimous ass still sauntered into the Rebels’ clubhouse at the agreed-upon time.

  “Thanks for coming,” Jayce said, offering his hand and doing his best to look just a bit nervous. Or maybe it wasn’t actually acting. “Appreciate it.”

  “No problem.” He shrugged, eyes picking out Knuckles in the group. “I have another project for that man, right there.”

  Knuckles swallowed. Shit, he hadn’t counted on having to play along past entrapping the schmuck today. He’d have to keep his poker face slapped on tight. So, he just nodded and crossed his arms.

  “We have something for you. And, before we show you, we just ask that you understand why we haven’t said anything before now. We took this from a Mad Gypsys mule a while back. We have no idea what to do with it, and we have no use for it.”

  Guidinger waved
his hand. “Yeah, yeah, just show it to me. What do you got?”

  “Right through here,” Jayce said, heading for the entry into the kitchen. One of Guidinger’s goons fell in behind Jayce, then Guidinger, then goon number two, and then the rest of the club.

  The stall was brightly lit and sparkling clean again, no sign of the six men who’d had their hands hacked off and their teeth yanked out. Rusty was getting really good at the scrub-and-bleach routine.

  In the center of the concrete floor sat two dozen economy-sized cans of infant formula.

  “The fuck is this?” Guidinger asked, palms out to indicate the cans.

  “This is an entire shipment of Thebaine,” Jayce said calmly, picking up one of the cans and pulling the lid open to show the Ziploc bag inside. “We’ve been sitting on it. But we feel badly about how the last assignment went with Knuckles—”

  Knuckles looked at his feet, hoping he looked adequately ashamed.

  “—so, we thought, if there’s anything Sachetti can use this for, we submit it for your use. As a gift.”

  Guidinger was squinting at Jayce, then he looked at his goons. Then back at Jayce. “You’re just giving us this?”

  “Honestly, we don’t want to be sitting on it. But we have no idea what to use it for. The Dirty Rats might be after it, which would make sense since we think they’re in the Sunshine trade, but we’re not interested in doing business with them.” Jayce shrugged his shoulder. “You guys want to use it for anything, be our guest.”

  Guidinger looked at the opioid stacked at his feet, then slowly nodded. “Yeah, I can think of a few uses. Pack it up, boys.”

  The Rebels did a good job not reacting when he said it. The goons headed out the way they’d come, and Spaz ran to open the garage door for private loading. A black SUV pulled in, and both goons started loading the Thebaine in the back.

  While they worked, no one said a word. Guidinger lit a cigar, offering one to Fritter and Mad Dog as well, who both declined, and Jayce kept himself from pacing by leaning on the plastic shop sink, hands gripping the edge. His white knuckles were his only tell.

  “All right,” Guidinger said, waving with the cigar as the SUV pulled out of the stall and the door was rolling closed. “Let me talk with Knuckles.”

  He hated that guy using his road name. Some people should earn the right to call him that. Then again, maybe he just hated that the guy even knew him to begin with.

  They all exchanged glances, and Knuckles would have kicked them all if he could. “Yeah, sure,” he said, nodding. “Give me the gory details. Guys, give us a minute.”

  For Christ’s sake, Guidinger, on camera and microphone, telling him to kill one of Sachetti’s allies? Fucking slam dunk.

  Catching on, Jayce clapped his hands and shouted, “Let’s go, let’s give them the room.”

  Guidinger waited until the shuffling bootsteps were out of range, then smiled. “You up for another assignment?”

  Knuckles nodded, crossing his arms again and bracing his feet wide. “I’m ready.”

  “Good, good.” Guidinger inspected the end of his cigar. “Guy is going to be home alone tonight. He usually goes everywhere with his family, but he’s sending them to the opera in Bakersfield tonight. He’s staying home, sick. Not a lot of time to plan this one. We have to move quick. Like I said, this asshole’s never home alone but they’re patrons of the arts and never miss a show. He’s insisting the wife and their three kids go anyway.”

  “No time to delay,” Knuckles agreed. “It’s perfect.”

  Guidinger’s eyes glinted. He loved when people thought he was smart, it was obvious. “Simple job. Just cut his throat. Lot of blood, not a lot of suffering. In and out. We’ve got a guy on the inside that gave us this intel. He’ll make sure the alarm system is disabled, he’s working late tonight. He’ll stay out of your way.”

  Knuckles nodded, that moving part instantly causing anxiety. “Will I know him to see him?”

  “Yeah, he’s the guy outside pushing a lawn mower around.”

  Knuckles forced a cackle. “Okay, fair enough.”

  Guidinger wedged the cigar in the corner of his mouth and reaching around his back. Knuckles went tense, but then Guidinger produced a Ziploc with a hunting knife inside. “Your sword.”

  “Thanks,” Knuckles said, peering at the blade through the plastic. “I trust it’s sharp?”

  “Sharp enough,” Guidinger assured him, but like in all other things Knuckles wouldn’t be taking his word for it. He’d hone the edge on his own.

  “The family always has dinner before the show. They’ll be leaving at six, the opera starts at eight. I’d say your window starts at eight, they’re out of the house for a good three hours after that. And the mark will likely be in bed.” Now Guidinger handed him a business card. “This is the address at the top, the bottom number gets you through the security gate if you want. There’s no camera on the gate, just the code to get in. If you decide to go in that way.”

  Knuckles nodded to show he understood. He’d memorize the address later.

  “The guy’s name is Alfred Hough. Like I said, quick with no suffering.”

  “You got it,” Knuckles assured him. Guidinger put his hand out, and Knuckles shook it. Moved by some kind of cocky ego he added, “Always happy to serve Don Sachetti.”

  Guidinger’s smarmy grin faltered just a bit, but it came back quickly and he clapped Knuckles on the shoulder. “Good to hear, son.”

  -oOo-

  Sitting on the edge of his bed in his dorm room, Knuckles worked a whet stone against the hunting knife. It had been sharp, yes, but cutting a man’s throat required a hell of a lot sharper edge. He would have been sawing that poor bastard’s neck for ten minutes to get through the esophagus.

  The video of the transaction in the stall turned out perfect. Sound was good, and the video was clear. Even Knuckles’ meeting with Guidinger was clear and damning, Guidinger having him stand right in the frame with him like Martin Scorsese had set up the damn shot.

  Spaz was making copies of the video and putting it everywhere: DVDs and thumb drives for Clark, their lawyer, copy at the clubhouse, copy at Jayce’s. Copy in the Prez’s safety deposit box. The more copies the better once shit started going down.

  On the bed, next to him, the business card sat. He’d said the address aloud a hundred times, forwards and back, just to get it in his brain. It was there, all right. But it was fighting for space.

  He hadn’t gone back to his house. There was a shooting next to the Prince’s and he didn’t go back to check on them. He couldn’t imagine leaving their place, then driving to Bakersfield to kill a man after hugging Annie goodbye. It had to happen this way.

  Tomorrow, he told himself. Check on them tomorrow.

  He knew Fritter, Tank, and Rusty had gone over to replace the kitchen window that afternoon after their meet with Guidinger. Luckily, the window was a regular size and the home center in town had a good one in stock. Tank brought Rose and Aurora, which he thought was a nice touch. But he just couldn’t be there. Even though he knew that was the kind of thing he should be doing.

  Along with the address of a man marked for death, three women he’d only known for two months were swimming through his mind. The way his chest cramped told him how much they meant to him, even as he fought to deny it. To everyone else he’d lie. To himself, he let the words form.

  He loved them. All three of them. He was in love with Danielle Prince in all the ways a man seeks companionship with a woman; not only was her home a refuge for him, but her arms and her body protected him from himself. With her, he was calm—well, at least calm by his own standards—and the feeling of normalcy was a soothing balm.

  He was in love with her kids. The way Annie looked to him to learn things made him feel ten feet tall, and the trust she had in him humbled to the point of dropping to his knees. He wanted to watch her grow, and he was absolutely fascinated to see how she’d turn out living her own life once she was grown.
And Grace, as much as she was a pain in the ass and moody as fuck, blew him away with her sudden maturity. Deciding to have that kid and give it to a family that really wanted one? That was strength he honestly couldn’t imagine. He couldn’t remember when he’d ever risked so much to do something so selfless.

  And then, there was him. He killed people, bloody or clean, loud or sneaky, in a struggle or by surprise. Men or women, didn’t matter. He’d cut off fingers, joint by joint, to get information or just to punish. Using ammonia to wake them up when they passed out from the pain.

  He came home after “work” covered in blood and dirt and—more often than not—shit besides.

  Thinking on all the Princes meant to him, he could easily tell that he didn’t deserve them. He wanted it all, yes. He wanted to be Danielle’s old man, and he wanted Grace and Annie to look to him as a father figure. He thought he could be good at that. But the rest of him spelled disaster for them, and he wasn’t going to risk it.

  He had to turn his back.

  Tears stung his eyes as the realization fell over him, and the hunting knife’s edge narrowed to a dangerous point. He couldn’t have them. Staying away was the only way he could protect them from him.

  -oOo-

  “Holy shit,” he whispered to himself, staring up at the white stucco front of the Queen Anne style house that matched the address on Guidinger’s card. The thing was three stories high with turrets on the front, for fuck’s sake. Made him wish he’d asked for a map of the damn thing.

  Guidinger’s standard MO was to have someone leave a back door open. The back of the house sported a huge, multi-level deck with seating, a stone oven, and hot tub. Luckily, at eight-thirty at night, it was pitch black as he stole up the steps between levels, checking the first patio door he came to. It was locked, so he went up to the next one, and it slid open smoothly.

  The carpet he stepped onto was deep, and the entire room was scented with a woman’s perfume. he pushed the sheer drapes off his head, straightened the balaclava, and took in the room. It was illuminated by the hallway light, and it was all so white. The bedding, the canopy overhead, and the walls with a sheen that told him he was in silk wallpaper world. The furniture was also white, trimmed in gold. And that big, poufy bed was empty.