Fury (Rebel Wayfarers MC Book 11)

by MariaLisa deMora

  So the month had seen Carmela rescued, Juanita reunited with her girls, Bella deciding to stay in Chicago with Tater, Hurley moving to Las Cruces, and that was just the events surrounding Watcher’s family. Within the Rebels, they’d uncovered some oddities with a Las Cruces member. Spider, a long-time Soldiers’ member, and one who had opposed the joining of the two clubs. Opie, so recently forced into the top role in that chapter, was investigating that side of things for the club. And Mason had discovered what looked like a blood sister down in Florida, following clues laid by Morgan.

  Maybe the most shocking piece for Fury was the defection from the Diamante of a large group of men well known to him. One of them, the biggest piece in the puzzle, had saved his ass in an alley long ago. That was what they’d been discussing for the past hour, why Chismoso, who was dead Lalo’s cousin, would drop his full set of patches and roll away from a club he’d been in for years. In leaving, he’d taken fully two dozen men with him, and they’d ridden straight to Chicago, working a meet with Bones to see if they’d be welcomed. Not fuckin’ likely, Fury had thought at the time, but now it was looking like the tides had turned in Chismoso’s favor.

  “Then why would we want to patch them? If we can’t hold guarantees of their sincerity, how do we trust them?” Bear pushed Mason, asking his original question again, clearly hoping for a different answer. “Where do we see this going in a month, or two? What’s the benefit for Rebels?”

  Mason cut his gaze towards Fury, who realized this was his cue to show how he was on the same page with Mason, and could see beyond the immediate to the future.

  “In a month, we’ll have a good idea if they’ll stick. In two, we’ll have broken their clique into smaller and smaller groups, scattering them to the winds, because if their loyalty lies with the club, it won’t matter to them where they are posted. If it’s to the group, then we’ll play a different tune on their ribs.” He took a breath, looking around the room. “Benefit is the addition of more than two dozen men who aren’t prospects, not in the normal sense of the word. They don’t have to try the life on for size to see how it fits, they already know how well that motherfucker rests on their skin. We let them earn trust, giving them chances to fuck up, because you can’t make a splash and gain approval without having a chance to really fuck shit up. In the end, if Chismoso is playing us false and he’s a plant, we’ll eliminate him from the equation and see if we can salvage the other two dozen.”

  “Gonna be a fuckton of work, brother.” Bear had turned to glare at him, and Fury saw the flash of Mason’s smile behind the man. “You sure you wanna back this play, Prez?”

  Fury nodded, and Bear’s scowl broke apart, a smile filtering up like a slowly brightening spotlight. “Okay.”

  “Okay?” Fury glanced around the room, seeing nods all around. “All righty, then. Someone get Bones on the horn. We got shit to talk about.”

  After the conference call, something Fury still had problems getting used to, seeing the crisp images of the men on the screen via video, he dug two beers out of the cooler and went in search of Mason. He found him in a quiet corner of the clubhouse, phone to his ear, clearly on a call with his old lady. “We got a few more weeks, baby. I know you’re tired of it, but you can’t quit on me now. I’ll be home in a couple hours. We’ll watch that fuckin’ TV show you’re always on about.” He paused, and Fury watched as his face transformed, softening in a way that was hard to describe but allowed the love he had for his woman to show to anyone who cared enough to look. His voice was rough when he spoke again, broken by emotion. “Most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen, my Willa is. Precious and loved. Never. Don’t ever forget that.” Another pause, and one corner of his mouth crooked up. “Oh, yeah. Still wanna fuck you. I got my ways to get around that belly, woman. Now stop talkin’ dirty to me. I got work to finish before I can come take care of your horny ass.” Fury chuckled, and Mason looked at him. “And I got company now, so unless you want me talkin’ about your pretty pussy where my brothers can hear, we need to end this now.” He laughed. “Love you, too, babe.” Fury took advantage of Mason ending his conversation, hooking one of the chairs out from under the table and seating himself without waiting on an invitation.

  “You need something, motherfucker?” Mason clipped as he shoved his phone into his pocket, reaching for one of the beers Fury held.

  “I think I need to hit up Little Rock again soon.” He’d been down last week, collaborating with the local president, Stan, on an upcoming national event they were planning to host at the Arkansas chapter’s house. “Make sure we’re good. I know I can call the man anytime, but there’s something to be said for some face time of the real-world sort.”

  “Work it around anything you got going here, and roll. I ain’t gonna question you on shit like that.” Mason tipped his beer up, taking a long pull at the bottle. “Good job earlier. You hit the nail on the head with how you handled Bear. He’s in your pocket now, because he believes in your vision.”

  Fury felt his head jerk back. “In my pocket?” That was usually a good thing, because it meant a member or officer would back any play without any kind of politicking. “You sure about that?”

  “Fuck, yeah. You got a pocketful of posies here, man. I count three officers who act like they’ve already made the leap. Makes me feel good, knowing I picked well.”

  “So you say.” Fury sighed, not quite sure what he wanted to express.

  He was saved from having to decide by Gunny. “Boss?” Fury and Mason turned, both responding with, “Yeah?” Gunny laughed, pointing to Fury. “That boss.”

  “See? See what I mean? I’ll just sit here and pretend to be important.” Mason was grinning as he lifted his beer.

  “What’s up, Gunny?” Fury reached out and tapped Mason’s shoulder with his fist. “Whatcha got for us?”

  “Nothing good, man. This is Kentucky.” The feeling in the room changed, and Fury knew he wasn’t the only one who felt it because Gunny stood straighter, and even across the room Bear and Slate lifted their heads, turning to face the small group of men. Tension rolled off Mason, and every man in the room tuned into it. “You had me looking, I’ve kept looking. I don’t stop looking until I’ve found everything there is to find.” He made a face. “I think I found it.” He flicked his eyes to Mason. “You ain’t gonna like this. It ties to LaPorte.”

  Justine LaPorte was a Fed in Florida who had twice arrested Lalo and cut him loose. Chismoso had shed some light on the encounters, but she’d been a black hole for a time. Not anymore, a picture of her had turned on the spotlights, because she and Mason were dead ringers for the other, given the differences forced on the Mason mold by gender. Or, Morgan mold, as things were looking. Fury knew it was something Mason was struggling with, the idea that Justice Morgan was his father, making him a full brother to Shooter. So Gunny saying Kentucky was tied to LaPorte was surprising, and yet not, all in the same breath.

  “Spill.” Fury didn’t look away, kept his eyes on Gunny, waiting.

  “Told you what I found with Tabby’s wreck.” Fury nodded. “You remember what I found with Deacon’s blood, left in a hospital same night. Note just like Duck’s Brenda?” Fury waited. “Ryan Camp was Deacon.” Bones had killed Deacon in California, ridden him to the ground and beaten his head to a broken, bloody pulp. Backed into a corner, Deacon had killed his own kid during the last few hours before the Rebels found Carmela. From everything Fury heard, the scene had been entirely fucked up, Bones and Opie helping make sense of a senseless mess. “His kid, James Camp. Jimmy.” Gunny angled his chin towards Mason. “You remember the kid from Chicago, right?”

  “Barely. Wasn’t until I pulled out a picture Bones wanted that I even thought of Deacon’s kid. Nearly took us too long to put it all together.” Mason drained his beer, yelling across the room, “Bring me one, prospect.” There were three prospects behind the bar, all three jumped, and Fury was briefly amused as they appeared to tussle over who’d get to take the beer to Ma
son.

  “Deacon’s old lady got pissed off about the French chicks.” Mason nodded at Gunny’s words, but Fury was confused.

  “French chicks?”

  “Canadian whores, Fiends bought and paid for flesh. That was the last straw for me, started me on the path we’re still on.” Mason shook his head, reaching for the beer the prospect held out.

  Fury watched as the kid—they all looked like kids these days—retreated to the bar, one of the only safe places in the room for someone of his level when there were so many heavy hitters in the room.

  “She got pissed and went west, wound up in California. She…liked her some biker, man. Hooked up with Outriders out there. Not Morgan,” Gunny added the last part quickly, in response to some subtle shift on Mason’s part. “But she was around, a lot. Meant Jimmy was around a lot, too. Friends with Shooter. Friends with a lot of the Outriders, which was his intro into the life. It was about that time when Morgan moved one of his many women into residence at the clubhouse.” He gestured at Mason. “Your Justine’s mother, looks like. And Justine came with. That’s about the time Shooter’s old lady took a runner, hiding her and Eddie for a time. Everything’s a muddle in some places, but in others, Mason, I got a clear thread to follow.”

  Mason’s eyes closed slowly and he stood for a minute. Eyes still closed, he said, “Justine LaPorte was living in the Outrider clubhouse?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What else?” Mason’s eyes opened, then narrowed on Gunny. “She and Diamond, Jimmy…they were about the same age, right?” Gunny nodded. “And you found a boy in Kentucky who was abandoned about the same time Tabby died?” Gunny nodded again. “That boy Tabby’s kid?”

  “Nope.” Gunny shook his head, hands on his hips. “I think it was Justine and Jimmy’s kid. Morgan and Deacon’s grandson.”

  “Jesus fuck.” Taking a deep breath, Fury leaned sideways, putting one shoulder against a column. “Is there anywhere those men don’t have their fingers dug deep?”

  “Seems like it, I know. Still, this Christopher Ryan is the right age, has the right name, and, Mason—” Gunny turned slightly. “—pictures of him as a teen? He could be Chase’s big brother, man.”

  “For years, I thought Bethy was the only family I had.” Mason’s voice was deceptively mild, calm, but Fury could see how his clenched fists trembled. “Now, I got blood coming out of the woodwork.” He pulled in a breath, lifting his chin. “Got anything else for us? This Chris is what…thirty now?”

  “Twenty-seven, married, with two kids, and he’s an accountant in Louisville.” Gunny shrugged. “He’s about as vanilla as a citizen can be, brother. I think he got stuck somewhere and then left there, and he’s totally ignorant of his heritage.”

  “So you think he’s gonna be a product of nurture? Leaving nature out of it?” Mason laughed, the sound hard and brittle, breaking against the walls around them. “Fucking shit, brother. I vote we leave him the fuck alone. Leave him to his life.”

  “Seconded.” Fury lifted his beer, making a face when the warm liquid hit his tongue. He swallowed it down, forcing the bitter along with everything else.

  Florida fiasco

  “Jesus fucking Christ.” Fury stared at the screen, watching the video Myron had queued up. They’d allowed only officers in the room, and other than Myron, it was the first time any of them were seeing what had gone down in Florida three days ago. Fury jolted as he watched Bones fall, neck twisting involuntarily to flinch away from what he was seeing. Even knowing Bones was okay, pissed as fuck but recovering temporarily at the clubhouse in Little Rock, this was hard to watch.

  Fury flexed his fists, every bone, knuckle, and muscle in his hands and arms complaining. Things had moved at warp speed over the past few days, and he was still coming to terms with everything.

  He’d spent nearly a week in California, trying and failing to get in to see Shooter. The intent had been for him to deliver a message in the clearest possible fashion, while assuring the club that one of their greatest enemies was still securely behind bars. That visit to a prison wasn’t anything he’d wish on anyone, and just making the walk up to the visitor intake building had nearly sucked his courage dry. Then, when things went sideways, and he’d been detained for three full days, Fury had nearly lost his mind. Not in a cell, things never went quite that far, but just knowing he wasn’t free to leave had played havoc on him. He’d been allowed no calls, so he didn’t know if anyone even knew what was going on. In the end it was for nothing, because not only didn’t he get to see Shooter, the man hadn’t even been in Cali, as evidenced by subsequent events.

  On the screen, the pixels that represented Mason stood over Morgan for a moment. Words were spoken, the sounds indistinct, speakers in the coffee shop blown out by the concussions of the earlier shots. Morgan made a motion towards where Shooter lay on his back, head tilted at an unnatural angle, eyes already turning cloudy. Bones lifted his gun at the same time Mason did, both men reacting to whatever it was Morgan had said, and the speakers clearly picked up the sounds of four shots. Morgan’s body jerked and he fell backwards off his chair, elbow catching and turning over the table where he’d been sitting. Stillness on the screen for a moment, then the speakers picked up the shrill screams of a girl. Fury knew that was the barista, barricaded in the bathroom, at that point already on the phone with the police.

  “Jesus fucking Christ,” he repeated, shaking his head. “We know what was said?”

  Myron nodded. “Mason wants to wait to brief everyone on that when he and Bones are back in Chicago. We’ll be calling a national meet for officers, and he’ll go over everything there.” He stopped fiddling with the laptop in front of him. “I’ve got to get back to Chicago tonight. Ester is with Road Runner, but I promised her I’d be back in a few hours.” Ester was Bones’ old lady, a quirky, flighty woman that Fury found himself liking for the man. Bones’ stick-up-his-ass attitude melted clean away when Ester was in the room, and seeing him like that humanized the myth somewhat. Who knew I’d wind up liking the asshole? Myron got his attention again when he said, “Now we need to hear about St. Louis.”

  Fury clenched his fists again, the ache returning and blooming into a more acute pain.

  “St. Louis,” he repeated Myron’s words with a sigh. “Fuckin’ nuts, man. I was leaving Taft, fuckin’ finally, after they’d jacked with me for too long, and you—” He angled his head, nodding at Myron. “—had me head there instead of back to Mother.” Pain shot through his hands, and he realized he’d been clenching his fists again. “I found a situation I still don’t rightly understand. Pike—” He glanced around the room to see recognition on every face, so they at least knew who he was talking about. “—had crossed over to the deep end of crazy, and made threats to national officers and the club. I investigated,”—he’d searched rooms and pockets, talked to a dozen men, consulted with key Rebel players—“and found the local officers’ concerns were warranted. They’d secured him.” Pike had been held in the basement, in a small room, dark and smelling of old piss and bleach, lights buzzing from behind their cages. “Pike had already removed his patches, tossed them on the floor, and demanded a beatout.” Fury shrugged. “I’d already talked to officers who had indicated that might be expected. So I delivered. Dyno moved from SAA to President, and they’re filling the hole with another local member Mason sanctioned. That’s”—he shook his hands out, tucking one thumb into a back pocket to try and stop himself from the compulsive movement—“what went down in St. Louis.”

  “Did you know about Pike before you went there? What he’d done?” Bear’s distinctive New Jersey accent didn’t show its face often, but it was there now, signifying the tension surrounding this question.

  “What he’d done to his sister’s husband? I think everyone knows about Harddrive, brother.” Fury shook his head. “That’s family, not club. Did not factor.”

  “What he fuckin’ did to you, man. Did you fuckin’ know?” Slate was behind Fury, and he twi
sted in place, turning to face the man, shaking his head.

  “Pike never did anything to me. I didn’t like him, but that was more his attitude than anything.”

  “Entitled asshole, through and through.” Gunny threw his opinion in the ring and Fury nodded. “We’ve all seen how he’d wander in, lording himself over the members and prospects, trying to wow the women. He’s a fucktard, no doubt, but the question on the floor”—with that, Fury realized this had turned from a witness conversation about what had happened on the screen to their national president, and into something else, a niggling trickle of fear curling around his balls, drawing them up tight to his body as he remembered the beating he’d taken in the basement of this building. Will I never move past that? Gunny continued—“is did you know what Pike did to you?” Fury shook his head. “Nothing? Not a clue?”

  “Asked and answered, brother.” Fury squared his shoulders, turning to face the big man. “Spit out what you got to say. You’re wasting my fucking time.”

  “He don’t know.” Slate leaned back in his chair. “Fuck me runnin’, he really don’t know.”

  “Already said that, more than once. You a fan of makin’ me repeat myself?” Now Fury was pissed, crossing over the line from annoyed to angry. “Not sure what you’re talking about, and I do not appreciate the way you’re trying to put me off balance. Spit—” He leaned forwards at the waist. “—it out.”

  “Pike is the one who called Mason. Told him you were a Fed plant. Told him he had papers from Ling in Memphis that named you. Pike twisted shit and twisted shit, and played it out until Mason didn’t have any choice but to call you in.” Myron closed the laptop with a snap, turning it upside down and removing the battery before putting it in a messenger bag. “Pike coulda gotten you killed with what he played. They…we were wondering if you’d put that together before you hit St. Louis.” Myron looked around the room, fingers working to fasten the buckles on the bag. “Pretty clear to me that wasn’t the case. Which I already told all of you. Only six of us knew who had made that call. Damn sure I didn’t talk about it after Mason gagged us. Pretty sure you were the same.” He turned back to Fury. “With it not proving true, it wouldn’t do for there to be division in the club.” He shrugged. “You get it, and Mason knew you would if it ever came out.”