Chapter Twenty-Nine

The MC waited, hidden around the building at the meeting place. Several unmanned fishing boats floated, moored at the docks. The moon shone down on the slow moving water of Sugar Lake Bayou.

Blood glanced at his watch. One-forty-five a.m.

The sound of tires on pavement reached him, and he peered toward the only road in or out.

A black limousine rolled slowly up and turned into the gravel lot. It parked and waited. The driver and another one of Black Jack’s men got out of the front. One lit up a cigarette, blowing the smoke toward the sky.

The MC quietly waited, their hands tightening on their weapons. When no one else got out of the vehicle, Undertaker gave a hand signal to his men.

Mooch took out the driver and the second man with two pinpoint sniper shots. They dropped like stones. Next, Ghost flattened both front tires of the vehicle.

Blood stepped into view. “Come on out, Black Jack.”

The rear door opened, and he climbed out with his hands in the air. He glanced, not at the dead men, but at the damaged tires. “Was that necessary?”

Undertaker signaled for the men to check the vehicle, and they moved forward, searching it. Shades popped the trunk and pulled out a duffel bag. Unzipping it, he looked up at Undertaker. “Full of cash.”

“Well, that’s kind of you, Black Jack,” Undertaker said as he came forward. He and Black Jack eyed each other as Blood watched the two most influential men in his life face-off.

Undertaker eyed Black Jack with a smirk. “Rules for a gunfight. Bring a gun.” He leveled one at the man. “Preferably two.” He lifted a second pistol in his other hand. “And bring all your friends who have guns.”

The MC all stepped forward, leveling their weapons toward Black Jack.

“You!” Black Jack bit out. “If it wasn’t for you, Etienne would never have left me. He’d be running my business now.”

“Too bad. Instead, he’s running mine.” Undertaker couldn’t help rubbing it in with a grin.

Black Jack huffed out a laugh, his eyes moving to Blood’s. “You left home for this…this two-bit hoodlum? What could he give you that I couldn’t?”

“Respect!” Blood snarled. “Something you’ll never understand. Something you’ve never given me.”

“We are blood, you and I. Family. That means something.”

Blood spit at his feet. “We ain’t shit.”

Black Jack jerked his hand up, a natural inborn instinct to strike his son.

In a split second, Undertaker’s Glock was pressed to Black Jack’s forehead. “Consider your next move very carefully.”

“He’s mine,” Blood bit out.

“By all means, Son, you do the honors.” Undertaker used the term of endearment on purpose—one Blood knew would drive his father crazy. And it did its job. The man’s eyes blazed with fury as Undertaker stepped back.

Blood raised his gun, pointing it at his father’s head.

Black Jack’s eyes shifted from Undertaker to Blood. “You wouldn’t kill your own father.”

“Wouldn’t I? How is it any different from you killing my mother?”

Black Jack stared him down, showing not one iota of remorse.

“Yeah, I know what really happened. You know Big John didn’t follow all your orders. He buried her.” Blood raised his brows. “Your body won’t get the same respect. Gator bait is what you’re gonna be.”

Black Jack’s face tightened.

“Startin’ to sink in yet? It finally caught up with you—the lies, the secrets, the manipulations. Your reign as King is over. You went too far, and now you’re going down.”

Black Jack narrowed his eyes. “The night you were shot in that alley—don’t you wonder why they didn’t let you die? Take a good look at who saved you.”

“You?”

“My name. You being my son is the only thing that kept the Death Heads from finishing the job that night.”

His words mean nothing. Remember what he did. Remember what he is. You owe him no gratitude.

Undertaker spoke low in his ear as if he could read Blood’s mind, and reinforced his very thoughts. “Don’t let him get under your skin. You don’t owe this piece of garbage a thing.”

Black Jack stepped closer, and all Blood wanted was to blow a hole through his smug face. Even now, his old man thought he’d won. The vision of Blood’s mother lying in that bed flashed through his brain, and he couldn’t think straight. A blood red rage took over him. Breathe. In, out. The gun bucked in his hand, and life left his father’s eyes as he crumpled to the ground.

His hand shook as he lowered his weapon and blew out another breath.

Undertaker looked over at him. “You okay?”

“Yeah.”

Undertaker nodded, patted him on the shoulder, and looked down at Black Jack’s body. He shook his head. “Fathers and sons. What is it about fathers and sons?”

Blood shook his head, with no explanation to give on the subject.

Undertaker barked out orders to the rest of the men. “Prop them back up in the car. Gotta make this look like nothing’s wrong.”

They hustled to get the job done.

Ghost looked over at Shades, and they both moved to pat Blood on the shoulder, knowing that hadn’t been easy for him to do. He acknowledged their gesture with a nod. He was good, but it was bolstering to know he had brothers at his back—ones who would drive across two states at the drop of a hat to help him. He watched as the two bent to the body at his feet and hefted his father into the back of the limo. Then they moved on to the driver.

“This one’s a fat boy, isn’t he?” Ghost groaned under the man’s weight.

Shades chuckled. “Guess he ate his Wheaties.”

Blood stood frozen in place, aware of what was happening but somehow removed from it all. Thankfully, he had brothers to take up the slack while he dealt with what he’d just done.

A few minutes later, a panel van crept up the road, slowly breaking Blood from his spell. The men melted back into the shadows.

Undertaker radioed Easy and Sandman who waited upstream in the boat. “Get ready. They’re coming up the road. Radio silence.”

“Roger that, boss.”

Undertaker glanced over at Blood. “You good? Ready to take care of business?”

He nodded. “Absolutely. I’ve got some payback coming for what these assholes did to me.”

Undertaker grinned. “Yeah, you do.”

The van rolled to a stop ten yards from the limousine.

Blood’s eyes cut to the bayou. It was only twenty yards from where the vehicles were parked—a clear shot for the machine gun Sandman had mounted on the boat.

Nothing moved as the van sat idling. Finally, the side cargo door slid open. Four men got out. One approached the limousine and tapped on the window.

At that point the MC opened fire. The sound of automatic weapons reverberated through the quiet night as Blood and his brothers sprayed the crowd of Death Heads, catching them completely by surprise.

They killed the driver instantly, making sure none of them had a fast getaway.

The boat came roaring up, and Sandman lit up the 240 SAW, its muzzle spitting fire and mowing down the Death Heads as they attempted to run for cover.

When the gunfire was over and there were nothing but dead bodies, the quiet was deafening. Soon the muffled barking of a dog began and the sound of sirens whining in the distance carried to them.

“We need to get the fuck out of here,” Shades told his father-in-law.

Undertaker nodded.

Mooch, who was listening in on the police bands, announced, “Got the whole alphabet comin’ boys. FBI, DEA, ATF.”

“Tsk, tsk. Sounds like somebody was under investigation,” Ghost teased.

“You know what to do,” Undertaker snapped.

The men dragged the dead bodies toward the edge of the Bayou and rolled them into the water. There were three from the limousine and six from the van, but they made quick work of it, working in pairs.

“Let’s move!” Undertaker snapped when they were all through, and Blood stood watching his father’s lifeless body submerging.

They jumped in the boat and turned it upriver to where Sugar Lake Bayou flowed into the Mississippi River. Easy’s cousin’s Navy salvage boat raced up the murky dark water carrying them all away in the dark of night like some Special Ops hit squad.

In their wake, several gators slipped under the water from off the bank on the other side of the bayou, heading for the blood soaked waters on the other side. A meal well deserved.

Blood grinned.

There may not be much left to find when the alphabet arrived.

He was good with that.

Cat was wrong about the guilt. He wouldn’t think of his father again. The man was no more to him than just another roach under his boot.

He had one stop to make, then he could put it all behind him.

Blood turned his face toward the bow of the boat, the wind washing over him. He was headed home—back to see what awaited him.

He suddenly realized that when he thought of home now, it wasn’t the clubhouse he thought of. It was Cat. When had she become home?