Iron Heart (Lords of Carnage Ironwood MC)

by Daphne Loveling

  “Thanks, man,” he nods. “I appreciate the offer. Hopefully I’ve got it from here, but I’ll let you know.”

  “Sounds good.”

  “Hey,” he says as we walk out of his house. “I’ve got a cooler in the back of the truck with some cold ones in it. It’s about time for me to knock off for the day. You want one?”

  “Shit, I wish I could, but I got somewhere to be. Rain check?”

  “Sure. Hey, my sis said she saw you downtown the other day, riding by on your Harley.”

  “Yeah, I remember that.” Jenny’s a year younger than Bret. Good looking chick. Single mom, one kid.

  “She was asking about you.” Bret gives me a look. “You got anything against dating chicks with rug rats?”

  “I don’t date civilians, man.” I laugh.

  Hell, I don’t date at all. What I do with women can’t be called dating, that’s for sure.

  Jenny and me hooked up once or twice, back in the day. She’s easy on the eyes, and she’s a nice girl. She works at one of the bars downtown. As I remember, she was a pretty decent lay, back in high school. But that was then.

  I meant what I said to Bret. I don’t fuck non-club chicks anymore. On principle.

  The girls who hang around the MC — who know the MC life — well, they know the score. They don’t get any big ideas about hearts and flowers and all that shit. Not the ones who have any fuckin’ brains, that is. And the rest of them should know better to get involved with outlaw bikers if they expect marriage and picket fences, so fuck ‘em.

  I ain’t got time to deal with hurt feelings and fits of jealousy. No piece of ass is worth that, no matter how hot.

  “Why not?” Bret presses me. “I’m sure Jenny could get used to being on the back of a bike.”

  “Dude. You do not want your sister involved with a Lord of Carnage.” I give him a look. “Trust me on that.”

  He frowns. “I get what you’re saying, Dante. But hell, with her record with guys, you’d be a fuckin’ improvement.”

  “Sorry, man.” I shake my head. “Jenny deserves a hell of a lot more than anything I could give her.” Which is nothing but a good time and a wave goodbye.

  I tell Bret I need to get going. He lifts his beer at me as I pull onto the gravel road that leads back toward Ironwood.

  6

  Dante

  When I get to the clubhouse, I’m barely off my bike before one of the prospects comes ambling across the parking lot that separates the actual clubhouse building from the club’s garage, Ironwood Car and Truck Repair. This prospect is a big guy — about six-four, and shaped like a ham. Even though he’s barely old enough to drink legally, his red hair is already receding from his broad forehead. He gives me a giant fuckin’ smile that kinda reminds me of a used-car salesman, right before he’s about to shaft you.

  “Mr. D’Agostino!” the prospect calls in his fuckin’ bullhorn voice. I bristle at his use of my last name.

  “You got a reason to address me, Prospect?” I growl.

  He ought to back off, or at least flinch. But this dumb fucker doesn’t know any better, I swear. He started hanging around the club about six months ago. Shooter brought him in. He’s obedient as shit, but he rubs me the wrong way. Too eager. And too full of himself.

  The brothers are already callin’ him Mensa, on account of him boasting early on about how he’s got an IQ of 140. He even said he’s applied to be a member of Mensa, but hasn’t heard back yet. I’ll fuckin’ bet.

  “Just wantin’ to know whether I can do anything for you,” Mensa grins. “Wash your bike? Grab you a beer? Somethin’ else?”

  “Yeah, as a matter of fact, you can,” I say, not breaking my stride.

  “What’s that?”

  “See that pile of old tires over there?” I nod toward the garage.

  “Yes, sir!” He gives me a mock salute.

  I resist the urge to deck him, and point to a spot about thirty feet away, over by the edge of the lot.

  “Put them over there instead. Nicely stacked. And don’t let me catch your ass takin’ a break until you’re done.”

  I’m chuckling at the look of pain on Mensa’s hammy face as I continue on into the clubhouse. Axel and Rourke, my prez and VP, are standing over by one end of the bar when I walk inside. A couple of empty shot glasses in front of them tell me what they’ve been up to.

  “Dante.” Axel lifts his chin at me.

  “Prez.” I walk over to the bar and slide onto a stool. “Rourke.”

  I nod to the prospect behind the bar and tell him to get me a beer. On the other end of the bar, a loud bark of laughter makes me turn my head. Bear is holding court with a bunch of the club girls milling around him, chattering and giggling. One of them strokes his beard and barrel chest. Another fingers his long white ponytail.

  Next to me, Rourke chuckles. “He sure is makin’ up for lost time.”

  Bear got stabbed in a bar fight at the Viking Bar a few months ago. Shit was bad enough that he had to go to the local hospital for a bit, and then he was housebound for a while to recuperate. He was fuckin’ pissed about the whole thing, and he made everyone’s life around him a living hell to make up for it.

  You’d never know it now, though, by the grin on his face. He looks like he’s in fuckin’ hog heaven.

  One of the club girls surrounding Bear glances over at the three of us, and detaches herself from the group. Tottering over on platform heels that show off her toned legs, she slides one red-nailed finger down the bar as she walks toward us.

  “Hey, Dante,” she drawls. We call her Georgia because that’s where she’s from. Her accent is smooth as silk. “You lookin’ for a little company later?”

  “Could be,” I murmur noncommittally. Georgia’s hair is long and blond, and I know from experience how it feels to wind it around my fist as I fuck her from behind.

  But for some reason, when I look at her now, the image that comes to my mind is that chick reporter I met at Millie and Eddie’s. The one with the ice blue eyes, sunlight in her hair and a body that’s probably gonna keep me up nights for a while.

  “We got church in a bit,” I murmur, giving Georgia the brush-off. “And I might not stick around after that. Don’t wait around.”

  Georgia frowns, but she knows better than to whine. I fuckin’ hate whining.

  I turn back to my prez and vice-prez just as the prospect behind the bar comes up with my beer. Axel is looking tense — but that’s nothing unusual. Our prez is a solemn, somber motherfucker. Don’t get me wrong. He’s a good leader, and I respect the hell out of him. He’s just not exactly Mr. Chuckles.

  Today, though, there’s something else there. His features are stony, his eyes dark and troubled. Something’s up.

  “You heard the latest about Dos Santos?” Rourke asks.

  “No.” I watch as the prospect digs out a shot glass and pours me some whiskey to go with my beer. “What’s the story?”

  “Chaco’s dead.”

  “Holy fuck.” I stop dead in my tracks and stare at both of them.

  Chaco Dos Santos is — was — the leader of the Dos Santos Cartel. They’ve been our main supplier of drug shipments from the south. The pipeline we established goes from them, through our chapter of the Lords of Carnage here in Ironwood, up north to our charter club of the Lords in Tanner Springs, and then onward from there.

  Dos Santos has had a tough time keeping a grip on their territory lately, under pressure from larger cartels further south from them. A few months ago, Chaco’s men and ours were ambushed at a meetup site outside of Louisville. We managed to survive the shootout, and kill the men who came for us. Chaco’s men identified some of the bodies as belonging to Los Caballeros, another gang who were supposed to be their allies. That’s how we figured out that Los Caballeros had turned on them and are now working with one of the larger cartels to take control of Dos Santos turf and put them out of business.

  Chaco Dos Santos got shot in the chest during the ambush
. From what we’ve heard, he’s been clinging to life ever since, but recovery has been slow — especially because he wasn’t about to go to a hospital for his care.

  Now, looks like his fight is over.

  “What happened?” I ask, my eyes flicking from Rourke to Axel. “I thought he was gettin’ better?”

  “I’ll explain in church,” Axel says grimly. “Be in the chapel in five.”

  “Will do.”

  Rourke and Axel grab the bottle of whiskey on the counter and each fill up their shot glasses a final time, slamming them before wandering away toward the chapel. I take a few minutes to drink my beer and chill. A minute later, Matthias and Ranger join me.

  “Brother,” Ranger grunts. “Ain’t seen you in a couple days.”

  “I’ve had shit goin’ on,” I grunt back.

  Matthias looks at me quizzically. “Hey, you got any idea what the fuck Mensa’s doin’ outside with those tires?”

  I don’t reply. I just let a slow grin spread over my face. Matthias blinks, and then barks out a sharp laugh.

  “You’re a fuckin’ asshole, you know that?” he chuckles.

  “Thank you for noticing.”

  “Church!” Rourke yells from the door to the chapel. I haul my ass off the stool and file inside with the others. We each take our designated seats around the heavy wooden table, and wait until Axel bangs the gave loudly on the table.

  “Church is in session. So, here’s the story,” Axel starts. “We need to talk about the Dos Santos cartel. As you know, they’ve got some turf shit goin’ on. There’s a new development, and it may end up blowin’ back on us.”

  “What’s up?” Bear rumbles from the far end of the table.

  “As you know, Chaco wasn’t recovered from getting shot in the ambush. He’s been behind armed guards, out of sight while he recovered. Probably to protect him from the cartel’s enemies, but probably also so no one could see what condition he was in. His right-hand man, Indio, was running the cartel in his absence.”

  Axel looks around the room, briefly catching my eye.

  “Last night, Indio went to where Chaco’s hideout, and found the guards shot to death outside his door. Inside, he found Chaco’s body. He’d been shot in the head.”

  Murmurs of anger and disbelief rise up around the table.

  “Fuck.” I sit for a second, considering. “So Indio’s the new head of the cartel. And Los Caballeros and whoever’s behind them are ramping up the turf war.”

  “Looks like it,” Rourke says drily.

  “Do we know for sure that Los Caballeros were behind this?” Matthias frowns. “I mean, shit. We don’t know much about Indio at all. What if Indio himself did it? Maybe he got sick of Chaco bein’ the only thing between himself and risin’ to the leadership of the cartel.”

  For a second no one says anything as they consider Matthias’ words. I have to admit, he’s got a point.

  “It might not matter one way or another,” I finally say. “But If Indio offed Chaco, he might have made a huge fuckin’ mistake. Nobody knows Indio.” I look over at Axel. “With Chaco out of the picture, Indio’s gonna be seen as a potentially weak leader. Too weak to defend their cartel’s turf. Seems like if I was Los Caballeros, I’d consider this a perfect time to strike.”

  Rourke blows out a breath. “If Los Caballeros take over Dos Santos territory, our pipeline is broken. We got a big fuckin’ Los Caballeros-sized hole in the middle of it.”

  “Unless we cut ties with Dos Santos now,” Bama cuts in with a leer. “And get word to Los Caballeros that we’re not doin’ business with the Dos Santos cartel anymore. Get ahead of the game.”

  “We still need Dos Santos’ product,” I shoot back. “We can’t just cut ties without findin’ another source. No guarantee we can do business with Los Caballeros and whoever’s behind them. Or that we should.”

  “So, what are we gonna do, prez?” Mal asks. “We gonna get involved?”

  “We got an unknown at the head of the Dos Santos cartel.” Axel’s jaw sets. “You’re right about that, Dante. We don’t know whether he killed Chaco. And for our purposes, I ain’t sure it makes any difference right now. For the moment, we made a commitment to sell to them. We honor our commitments.”

  “That’s crazy,” Bama protests. “We committed to Chaco. Not Indio.”

  “We honor our commitments,” Axel repeats, in a tone that invites no argument.

  “We’ll need to change our delivery method,” Matthias points out. “We’re too exposed right now. Los Caballeros knows we do business with Dos Santos. If they’re making a play for their turf, they’re gonna come after us. Try to intercept our shipments. Weaken Dos Santos more, and take the profits for themselves.”

  “We’ll figure it out,” Axel grunts. “It’s a detail.”

  “An important one,” Matthias growls. “There ain’t no guarantee Los Caballeros ain’t watching us right now.”

  “Yeah. But we’ll work it out.” Axel gives Matthias a hard stare, and Matthias is smart enough to shut the fuck up.

  There’s a couple other subjects the club has to talk about, but they don’t take a lot of time. Half an hour later, church is over. I go back outside for a smoke, just in time to see Mensa as he finishes moving the tire pile. He’s sweating and huffing, his thinning red hair sticking straight up on his head.

  “How you doin’, prospect?” I ask him as I light up.

  “Thrivin’ and survivin’, boss!” he puffs. The asshole might be dumb, but he’s smart enough to know I’m fuckin’ with him. And smart enough not to show it.

  But I ain’t quite done with him yet.

  “Good deal.” I make a big show of looking over the tires, which he’s stacked neatly in perfect rows next to the clearing of trees at the edge of the property.

  “Huh,” I grunt, frowning. “Funny thing…”

  “Yeah?”

  “I thought those tires would be better over there, but I guess I was wrong.”

  The dawning realization of what I’m about to say makes his face go blank for a second.

  “Yeah,” I continue with a nod. “You better put them back where they were, Mensa. Then maybe tomorrow, I’ll figure out if there’s another place for them.”

  I leave him to it, just seeing the flash of dismay on his face as I turn away.

  Lesson number one for prospects:

  Don’t fuckin’ speak unless you’re spoken to first.

  7

  Tori

  Two days later — still grumbling about it — I file my stupid Lawn Jesus story with Frank.

  Mildred called me three times while I was writing the damn thing. Once, to make sure I’d spelled her and Eddie’s names right, and twice more to make sure the story would be coming out in the next issue of the Post-Gazette. Apparently, the two of them are going on a trip to visit family next week, and they want to make sure they have time to buy enough copies for all of their relatives before they leave.

  My irritation about the whole thing took a little dip during that conversation, I have to admit. I mean, yeah, the story is still stupid. And Mildred and Eddie are obviously lying about how the face of Jesus just suddenly appeared in their grass one day. But Mildred was so excited about having their names in print for all to see, I couldn’t really muster up all the righteous indignation I had felt on the day I went over there to interview them.

  Thinking about it now, I get a mental picture of Mildred and Eddie passing around copies of the Post-Gazette to all their family members, beaming with pride.

  For some reason, the words of their dark, handsome next-door neighbor resonate in my head.

  Go on. Brighten up ol’ Millie and Eddie’s day. What’s it gonna cost you?

  With a deep sigh, I have to admit he might have had a point. Even though I would never, ever admit it to him if I ever saw him again.

  It’s amazing, really, how different this job is from what I thought I’d be doing when I was a student in journalism school. I was trained
to believe my future job as a journalist would be sniff out a story that wanted to remain hidden — a story that I knew lay below the surface — and to dig until I found it.

  The job I have now is the opposite. Most of the time, I know that there isn’t a story — or not much of one, anyway. But the people involved are dying to tell me about it anyway.

  I remember once, right before I moved here to Ironwood, I was in my bedroom with my mom, packing up my things. I was pretty down about how I would probably never get the chance to cover a big, important story in my entire career, and said so.

  “You know what my acting coach in college always used to say to us?” Mom replied. “There are no small parts. Only small actors.”

  “That’s just what they tell the extras, to keep them from bailing on the production,” I remember grumbling.

  After I file my story, I tell Frank I’m taking off to go get a haircut and grab some lunch. My appointment at Curl Up and Dye is a little reward I’ve been looking forward to — a little bit of pampering time, where I don’t have to think about anything job-related for a while. I’m even smiling a little bit as I leave the Post-Gazette offices and walk toward my car in the parking lot across the street.

  Just as I get to my car, I hear my phone tinkling softly. I hit the unlock button on my key fob and distractedly reach into my leather tote bag. It’s my housemate and bestie, Savannah.

  “Hey,” I say into the phone as I slide behind the steering wheel.

  “Hey, Tor,” Savannah replies, a worried tone to her voice. “So, um, I just came back from Jeremy’s this morning, and the refrigerator was making this weird buzzing sound. Then it just kind of stopped working.”