“Stone.”
“Cade.” I nod at the man who was part of our raid last week. He is the son of one of the older members. He just turned 30, but he already looks hard, his eyes dead, knowing.
The second man approaches me, much less friendly. “You have an appointment?”
“Didn’t know I needed one,” I reply easily, pulling out a cigarette. It’s either that or I whip out my knife.
“You do now. Hadrian’s orders.”
I hold in the urge to choke this bastard, cut off his balls, and stuff them down his throat. “Orders?” My lips curl, and I blow the smoke into the air.
“Yes. Hadrian’s orders. He’s in charge, El Búho,” he says with a sneer, and I outright laugh now.
I hoist my leg off the bike and move my kickstand in place, straightening to my full height. I like the fear I see in his eyes as he steps back.
“Let him through,” Cade barks, crossing his arms.
“But—”
“Shut up, Banks.”
“He’s not going to like it.”
“I don’t really give a fuck,” Cade mutters. The man, Banks, walks away and doesn’t challenge him. Cade is even bigger and bulkier than me, and it wouldn’t be fun getting into a tangle with him.
The smaller man walks away, and I hide my grin at the disgust on Cade’s face. He can’t stand Hadrian, and I know it burns him to follow the man’s edicts, but for now, we all have to kowtow to him on some level.
“You sure I can’t put a bullet in his brain?”
“Not until we find El Jefe. But you may have to get in line. I think Riggs wants that honor.”
I kick up the stand, climb aboard, and cruise past Cade. We try to keep our interactions to a minimum. Right now, I need to get to Riggs and get an update.
I parked my bike behind the large clapboard house. It looks innocent, something straight out of the suburbs, but there’s nothing sweet and innocuous behind closed doors. I study the lawn littered with trash. Members are sitting around on lawn chairs, drinking, laughing, and smoking. The energy is jovial considering the backdoor deals that Riggs’s brother is involved in with Los Mestizos and El Jefe.
Ignorance is bliss in their world right now. As long as they get to fuck, fight, smoke, and drink, they are complacent and cooperative.
Only a handful are fully aware, those being the old timers and Hadrian’s inner circle.
No one stops me as I enter, but I feel their eyes. They know what my cut means. They know I’m one of the originals, and right now I need that reputation to keep them out of my way. The rage is simmering, like always, but with the unfulfilled arousal pumping through my veins, even I know I’m a hairsbreadth away from erupting, needing to hunt and hurt someone.
The smoke clouds the air when I walk down the hall. I glance around for Riggs. Women and other members loiter, playing pool, watching something on the huge flat screen TV. I head to the kitchen and spot Riggs sitting alone at the kitchen table with a bowl of pasta in front of him. He eats methodically, staring off into space. I continue toward him, and he raises an eyebrow, chewing. He sets down his fork and cleans his mouth before leaning back in the chair. He looks exhausted. The last mission took days, and from his reporting, El Jefe is planning on movingcargo further north. Seventy-five percent of their merchandise might be transported upriver and along the less patrolled part of the Canadian border. If that happens, then it will be nearly impossible to rescue the women and children, some as young as four. I can’t imagine what they will be used for. Sex services, black market sales of organs, you name it, I can guarantee Los Mestizos have their hands deep.
“What are you doing here?”
I sit down, and he slides his still-full beer bottle. I pick up the beer and take a gulp. Fuck it. I won’t drive back tonight anyway. It’s too dangerous for me to be around her, with only wood and drywall separating us. Without answering him, I ask, “Where’s Hadrian?”
He shrugs, not the least bit interested in his half-brother’s whereabouts. “Probably fucking some newbie or snorting coke up his nose.”
“Jesus.” I shake my head.
He picks up his fork and finishes his food. He rinses his plate. His mother was a stickler for cleanliness. Before Riggs’s mother passed away, his father was a great president, not allowing drugs in the clubhouse. If you wanted to partake, you did it on your own time. Dean McKnight ran a tight ship. Yeah, the club was involved in illegal activities. Selling and buying drugs was allowed, stolen weapons, and even prostitution were okay, but those were businesses, and they weren’t part of everyday life in the Legion Lords, and they were not to be brought into the house. Murder and mayhem were done efficiently without hysterics beyond the walls of the club.
That would have continued until Dean’s first son, Hadrian, came back into his life. For years, Dean had no idea where his oldest son was. Hadrian’s mother left with him and raised him in California. When Hadrian was 20, he returned to New York and saw his father. He is 7 years older than Riggs, and whenDean lay dying of stomach cancer, his dying wish was for his sons to take over as president and vice president of the club. So far, Hadrian and Riggs have followed their father’s orders. As the oldest, Hadrian took over, but that’s where any loyalty to his father ended. Dean McKnight has no idea that his oldest child is running his once structured motorcycle club into the ground, allowing chaos to fester. It is his youngest child who is trying to upload the legacy of his father.
No one expected that Hadrian would turn out to be a psychotic addict with a hair-trigger temper. I would know, since I also have blood lust for torturing, killing, and then skinning rapists and abusers. But that’s where our similarities end. I would love to teach Hadrian about pain. He has a penchant for roughing up women without them enjoying it. I may hate the man on principle, but there’s been bad blood between him and Riggs, deeper than even I know.
“Are we all set for tomorrow?”
