Chapter Twenty-Seven
Hack
Looking across Boz’s office, I send a glare in Scout’s direction. He showed up less than two hours after he got Boz’s call. The fucker has to have a set of brass balls between his legs to come walking into our clubhouse without even carrying a piece.
“You do realize walking in here could cost you your cut,” Boz says, leaning back in his chair.
Scout shrugs, a smile plastered on his face. “I’m not wearing my cut now. For some reason, I’m just not feeling the loss.”
Smoke opens the fridge and starts tossing beers to all of us. “It could cost him his life, if he doesn’t tell us why the Saints are threatening our families.”
Round nods in agreement, while Brew pops the top on his beer and asks, “Why aren’t you wearing your cut?”
Not for the first time since the asshole got here, I wonder the same thing. Considering he was invited to the clubhouse, the man should be wearing his cut. The fact he isn’t has me questioning his belief in his club.
“I took it off the day my President ordered those boxes to be sent,” Scout replies then turns to look at me. “You aren’t gonna like this, but your woman is my sister. My Pres knows it, and he still threatened her. I’m not gonna be part of a club that threatens my only family.”
I take him in, looking in his anger-filled eyes. Suddenly, I see the similarities between him and Pru. They’re faint, but they’re there. It’s in the shape of his face and the cut of the cheekbones. Mostly, though, it’s the way his eyes tilt a bit at the outside corner.
“If you cared about her so fucking much, why didn’t you put a stop to it when your fucking club was watching her every move?” I ask, taking a drink of my beer.
Scout’s eyes close for a second, and he pulls in a deep breath. “The Pres promised she would be untouched. He said watching her was the only way we could keep track of you coming and going out of our territory.”
“If Hack wasn’t wearing his cut and wasn’t causing any issues, why’d you need to keep track of his movements?” Boz asks, drawing Scout’s attention.
“Pres is scared out of his fucking mind that you’ve figured out the connection between him and Stone,” he answers, crossing his arms over his chest. “He’s afraid you’re gonna retaliate and wants to be the first one to throw a punch.”
“The punch was thrown when I had his bar burnt to the ground,” Boz says, leaning forward to place his forearms on his desk. “Let me tell you, that is gonna feel like a tickle when I get done with your club.”
Scout shrugs again, as if he could care less. “Not my club anymore, so it’s not my fucking problem.”
“Not sure we should trust anything coming out of your mouth. Any man that would turn his back on his club isn’t worth a shit in my book,” Round says from his spot on the couch.
Scout stands up so fast his chair falls to the floor. “They threatened my niece.”
His words cause all of the air to rush from my lungs, leaving my head spinning. I force my body to relax as I realize this man is not only Pru’s brother. He’s also Scarlett’s uncle. Judging by the tone of his voice and the way his body is vibrating with anger, I’m thinking he’d gladly lay down his life for either one.
“Would you still be wearing a Grim Bastard cut if he threatened your family?” Scout asks Round, jerking a thumb in Boz’s direction.
“No, I wouldn’t,” Round doesn’t hesitate to answer. “Point taken, so sit your ass down.”
“You gonna tell us about your club and Stone?” Smoke asks as he walks over and takes a seat next to his dad.
Scout picks up his chair and takes a seat. “There’re some good men wearing Saints cuts. I fucking hate to see them lose their lives just because their Pres is a stupid motherfucker.”
“Those same men are backing a man that threatened your sister and niece,” I say, knowing that reminding him of my girls will get the conversation moving along.
“Fuck,” he growls, running a hand through his dark brown hair. “I don’t know everything, only got my officer patch five months ago.”
“Tell us what you know,” Smoke orders, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “Right now, we need all the information we can get.”
Scout nods, looking damn near sick to his stomach. “About two years ago, Stone started showing up at the clubhouse. By his third visit, his son started joining him. They’d just hang out, party with the club.”
He takes a drink of his beer before continuing with his story. “I thought the shit was weird. Why the hell would a Grim Bastard be dropping by just to shoot the shit? Brought it up to the Pres, and he told me not to worry about it. I still kept an eye on them, knowing something was wrong with the situation.”
When he stops, Boz loses his patience. “Tell us what we need to know.”
“Suddenly, there was an influx of cash in the club. The Pres wasn’t flashing it around, Ans most of the brothers didn’t even notice, but I did. The liquor we drank was better, more drugs were being passed around, and there were fresh whores coming in every weekend,” Scout explains, still not giving us what we need.
“Where did the money come from?” I ask, even though I already know the answer.
“I didn’t figure it out until I became an officer and realized we were working with Stone,” Scout replies, tapping his booted foot against the floor. “The Pres allowed Stone to hide money in our territory, and he returned the favor by giving our club a ten-percent cut. They stored it in a storage unit in town, and one of the brothers did a drive-by twice a day.”
“Your President was willing to go to war over fifty thousand dollars?” Round asks, sounding as surprised as I feel.
To put your club in danger over such a small amount of money is fucking ridiculous. Granted, every run we make could come with a world of hurt, but we don’t do them for shits and giggles. I don’t remember ever leaving the clubhouse for less than a quarter of a million.
“I told you, the fucker is stupid,” Scout replies with a shake of his head. “But it wasn’t just the money. Stone’s son also connected us with some douchebag named Torch. He started suppling the brothers with meth at a discount.”
Scout stops talking just long enough to run his hand through his hair again. “I still don’t know the connection between Torch and Stone, but I know none of them, not even Stone’s son, have been at the club in a long fucking time.”
Even hearing Torch’s name draws a flinch from both Smoke and Round. Smoke’s sister, Round’s daughter, hooked up with Torch back when that fucker was hanging around in Trenton. He got her hooked on the drugs that ended up killing her.
“Where’s the money now?” I ask, wanting to get back to the problem at hand.
I have searched every account the club and its members have, but still haven’t found a trace. Even the property search didn’t show anything. The club bought a new bar, the one Boz had burnt to the ground, but they owe a fucking load to the bank for it.
“In the basement of the clubhouse,” Scout replies, turning to look at me. “The Pres called me in during the middle of the night about six months ago. He was fucking losing it, said Stone messed everything up. He had me go to the storage unit and move the money to the basement. As far as I know, the door hasn’t been opened since.”
That makes no fucking sense. Taking the cut from Stone was stupid, but holding the money in the basement is fucking insane. Why go to war with our club over money that he isn’t willing to touch?
Before I can ask the question, he starts talking again. “A needle stays in Pres’ arm so often that he doesn’t know whether his ass is up or down. It was bad before Torch showed up. Since then, he’s completely lost. No shit, I’m not even sure if he knows his own name most days.”
“Sounds like to me, it’s about time your club got a new president,” Smoke says, an evil glint in his eyes.
“I wasn’t the first brother to lay down his cut. We’ve lost quite a few members over the last year; they just couldn’t deal with his shit,” Scout says, agreeing with Boz.
“I’m saying we go get our fucking money, and do the Saints a favor while we’re there,” Round says, pushing himself up from the couch. “We take out their fucking President and make everyone happy.”
“The Saints’ patches are handed down from father to son, right?” Boz asks, setting his empty down and motioning for Brew to hand him another.
“Yep, when possible,” Scout replies, taking the beer that Brew hands to him.
After handing Boz his beer, our Sergeant at Arms looks to Scout. “No vote?”
“No,” Scout answers with a shake of his head. “The only time there’s a vote is if there’s no son to take the spot. That’s how I got my officer’s patch. As far as I know, I’m the only officer voted in.”
That is fucked up. Boz’s dad was Pres before him, but he still had to be voted in. Same goes for Smoke taking Round’s patch after he stepped down. Boz picked the rest of the officers, including me, and our rank, but the club backed him. If they had voted against us, we would still be nothing more than a regular member.
“How do you think your club would feel about a new Pres, one they got to vote in?” Boz asks, standing up from his chair.
Scout looks confused for a second. “What do you have in mind?”
“I’m thinking I’d like to see you wearing a Saints cut again, but this time with the President patch on it,” Boz replies with a shrug.
“You got the support for that?” I ask, liking the idea of having Pru’s brother leading the Saints.
“Believe so,” he says with a confident nod. “Especially if we bring in the brothers that have left this last year.”
Boz looks around the room then back to Scout. “You help us get inside your club, without putting my boys in danger, and I’ll see what I can do about getting you the gavel.”