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“No, that’s the last place she wants to be,” Emery curtly replied. Thank God Sadie had Energy on her side.
Focusing on the older man, Sadie recognized Father Nick, the parish priest. Her attention sharpened as she overheard the conversation unfolding around her.
“I need to know where he went,” Sadie said.
Father Nick widened his eyes, really looking at her for the first time.
“You know who I am, Father?” she asked, seeking confirmation.
He nodded, a grave expression settling on his face. “Yes, you’re Sadie White. You’re looking for Silas, I assume?”
“It’s important. Please. I need to find him or … my fiancé will end up killing me,” Sadie confessed.
The church stood as a sanctuary, untouched by the mayor’s influence—or at least Sadie fervently hoped so.
Father Nick said nothing. Sadie couldn’t shake the feeling that she was an unwelcome reminder of a past that had brought tumult to his parish. Five years ago, she had cost his parish another priest—Silas.
“I know Silas and you were good friends,” she said. Sadie could hear the plea in her voice but at that moment, she couldn’t care less.
Her head spun, a dull ache gnawing at her senses. Perhaps Emery was right, maybe she did need medical attention. However, right now, she wanted—no, needed—answers.
“We still are,” Father Nick said, a faint smile touching his lips.
For a moment, she thought Father Nick was going to give her bad news, that Silas had passed away.
“Then, you’ll tell me where he is?” Sadie desperately asked. Hope flickered inside Sadie’s chest.
“Sadie, he’s a much different man now,” Father Nick responded, his tone unexpectedly gentle. “I’m not sure you’ll like what you find.”
Sadie shook her head. It doesn’t matter. To me, he’ll always be…” Sadie trailed off, the unspoken words lingering on the tip of her tongue. She hesitated, unsure whether she wanted Father Nick to know how important Silas was to her both then and now.
“I understand. Just be prepared for what you find,” Father Nick said. Then he gave her an address.
Chapter Two
The acrid stench of stale beer lingered in the air as Priest took one last swig from his beer bottle, the amber liquid burning its way down his throat. The crude jokes, raucous laughter, and the sound of rock music blaring from the clubhouse’s speakers seemed to fade into the background. Priest stood up, the worn wooden chair scraping against the concrete floor.
Priest briefly touched the Death Seekers patch on the left shoulder of his leather cut, a reminder of the brotherhood he would die and kill for. He sighed as he made his way through the bar area, nodding to patched members and associates. Some of the prospects couldn’t meet his gaze. Priest didn’t blame them. Some of them probably knew Larry better than he did and they also understood that Priest did the MC’s dirtiest work. Work that stained the soul and sometimes tested the limits of his loyalty, but in the end, Priest always delivered.
He pushed open the heavy door leading to the back of the clubhouse, the harsh neon lights casting a flickering glow over the compound. Priest’s boots crunched on the gravel as he headed to the shed in the back of the compound. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of oil and rust. He wished he was back in the clubhouse, where it was warm and beer and inane conversation flowed freely, but he had a job to do.
Priest found the grip of the cold metal gun tucked into the holster at his side. The gun felt heavy when he first started out. In those days, Priest was no better than the wet-behind-the-ears prospects who couldn’t meet his gaze earlier. It still felt heavy.
Killing never got easier, no matter how many times he had done it for the sake of the club.
Spotting him, Larry Martin’s eyes widened. He let out a sound of protest, muffled by the gag around his mouth. He looked miserable and pathetic, tied to a metal chair in the middle of the shed. At that moment, Larry also looked young and miserable. What a waste, Priest thought. Then he reminded himself that this prospect was a traitor in the eyes of the Death Seekers. Larry had left a brother to die, a sin that demanded retribution. As Priest approached the task at hand, he couldn’t help but feel a knot tightening in his gut.
Larry looked at Priest unblinkingly, his brown eyes full of fear. He even pissed himself. Priest plucked the gag from Larry’s mouth.
“You thirsty?” Priest asked.
Larry, who he suspected was about to beg or curse him, closed his mouth, surprised. He seemed to think about it for a second, before nodding.
Still holding his gun, Priest took out a flask from his jacket’s inner pocket with his free hand. With the same hand, he uncorked the flask and tipped it over Larry’s open mouth.
Larry licked his lips after. “Thanks,” Larry whispered.
Priest was momentarily transported to a different time and place. Back then, he’d been a different man, one who gave water to the dying before administering last rites.
