Bethany, Lamesa, Texas

Standing on the elevated porch outside what had temporarily become the media room of the rodeo grounds office, Bethany shook her head. She was in Lamesa to help her most recently signed band work promo stuff with the radio stations before the opening of the rodeo. Taking an early plane into Midland, she’d driven over and was about to walk in on the group. Bethany Mason-Taylor, manager and promoter for Occupy Yourself. I still feel kinda like a fraud, she thought, then plastered on a grin and pulled the door open.

Chase was sprawled on the only armchair in true teenaged-boy fashion, legs over one arm, head tipped far back on the other, tossing corn chips in the air and catching them with his mouth. He paused, and slowly rolled his head to look at the door and then bolted to his feet, “Aunt Bethy!” It only took him two steps to get close enough to wrap his arms around her, picking her up and whirling them both around. Bethy was laughing hard by the time he stopped and put her feet back on the floor. Weaving for a moment, she grabbed the front of his tee for support.

“You swarmed me,” she accused and looked up into a carbon copy of Davy’s face grinning down at her. I’ll never get used to this. Chase had the Mason trademark dark hair and grey eyes, and over the past months, she’d seen a maturing in his face. A defining of his already square jaw, giving him just rugged enough features to ensure he was called handsome and not pretty. He looked a lot like her son, the cousin he’d never get to meet.

My nephew, she marveled. As she had every time she’d seen him. The day they met, he’d been slightly more reserved than today, but only until she had put him at ease by picking on Davy. She hadn’t been aware of the boy’s full story then, and when she’d learned that was his first real introduction to how a family could tease and play, it broke her heart all over again. That’s why I gave Michael up, so he’d have a normal life.

Those had been hard days. Not her darkest time, but close.

And here I am, nine months later, virtually okay. That was her sales pitch to herself, anyway. Her dreams put the lie to that every night, but no one would ever know. Except for Ty, and that doesn’t count. He’s still got his own demons.

“Okay,” she said, slapping her palms together. “Tell me what you’ve done, and we’ll sort out what’s left for me. Get everything lined up.” Swinging the laptop bag off her shoulder, she looked around for an outlet, finding one beside a small table. “Hook me up, boys.” Her energy set the tone for the next several hours, as she took calls and worked bookings around the other things already scheduled. One after the other, calls, e-mails, interviews—the never-ending cycle of promotion for a band relaunching their brand.

Resting her butt on the arm of the couch, she looked around at the group, grinning at the self-imposed labor divisions she saw. Benny Jones, the lead singer, was going over a printed spreadsheet, marking things in pink or yellow. That would be the swag delivered here yesterday. Armbands, beanies, buttons, drumsticks, and a few T-shirts would be handed out to VIP guests, or sold at a merchandise table. They’d been assigned a spot near the concession stand for the table, and that would be Bethy’s focus tomorrow.

“I know there are a few more things I should deal with today, but I’m beat, guys and gals.” Six faces turned and looked at her. “Two more interviews and I’m calling it, going to head to the hotel. This trip piled on top of a few busy days back in Nashville means my bed is calling.”

“You must have been up before daybreak to get to the airport,” Chase said, reaching over and grabbing a handful of chips. “No wonder you’re beyond tired.”

Looking around the room, she noted the band members had all stopped their activities. Apparently, her announcement provided the permission they needed to switch back to lounging around, bottles of water and soft drinks in hand. At least their nerves were eased by today’s early interviews. Benny was an old hand at this, but the rest of the group were less polished. Bethy glanced over at her nephew with a grin, thinking it was a good thing Mason hadn’t told Chase about the gig ahead of time. As it was, the young man looked wrung out. She knew if he’d had even a couple of extra days to worry and fuss, he would be a whole other level of exhausted. She was about to offer to take him to the hotel too when the door abruptly opened.

Bethy’s breath caught in her chest as she watched a striking redhead walk in, complete with a full, thick beard and an attitude of owning all the space around him. It’s just not fair, she thought, assuming he was one of the radio promoters. Why are the good-looking ones always in out of the way places like Lamesa?

Benny stood, hand out, evidently thinking the same thing about the guy, but before she could move forward, Chase was hooting with laughter, yelling, “Fury, dude. Totally didn’t expect to see you here!” He turned to her, a delighted grin in place on his face as he introduced them, “Aunt Bethy, this is Fury. He’s one of Dad’s trusted few in Fort Wayne.” Twisting, he held out a hand to point at her, speaking to Fury, “This is my best Aunt Bethy. She’s the coolest. She runs the record label for Dad, and signed Benny’s band.”

Standing slowly, she took the look Fury was giving her, half-appraising and half-aggravated. She held out her hand to shake, and when he wrapped his fingers around hers, she felt a zinging awareness of him zip through her and watched his eyes widen and then develop a laser intensity as he studied her. Shoulders rising and falling as he pulled in a deep breath, he reintroduced himself, “Fury. Otherwise known as your escort while in town.”

With a nod, she responded, “Bethany Mason-Taylor, otherwise known as the awesome Aunt Bethy.”

He smiled at her, white teeth flashing in the midst of that dark red beard and she found herself smiling back at him. Damn.

***

Fury

Damn, she’s still so fuckin’ pretty, was the thought that trailed through Fury’s head when she introduced herself after the fiasco of Chase’s mouth running ragged. Always so fuckin’ pretty.

It had been the moment of truth, a scene he’d been dreading since rolling out of Chicago, and the weak fizzle of nonrecognition burned. Nothing at all like I thought it might go. It killed him that he so clearly remembered her, had held on to every moment he had with her, and she didn’t recognize him. Not a bit. Again. Her eyes were clear and without guile, and without a single ounce of acknowledgment. A decade and a half was a long time, and he’d changed, sure. Remade the businessman she’d known for that week in Nashville into the outlaw standing before her. Still…shit.

He wasn’t sure what he’d expected and knew even less what he’d hoped for, but it sure wasn’t being forgotten—cleared from her life so completely that she didn’t know him from a fence post.

Pretty, and hella smart, but he already knew that. She’d been running one of Mason’s businesses for nearly half her life. Lifting his chin, listening to Chase being a chatterbox, he tried to convince himself he could pull this off. I’m still a con man, right?

Fury stood at the back of the room for the next half an hour, keeping all occupants within view as Bethy finished the final interviews scheduled for today. He had been pissed when he came through the door, ready to tear someone a new asshole. Chase had flown in early but didn’t wait at the airport for his ride; the resourceful little bastard had grabbed a cab, leaving Fury searching the not-large, not-small airport fruitlessly because his charge had fled the scene. So, he hadn’t been in the best of moods when he walked in.

At least until he had seen Bethany. Seen and watched her, liking everything she showed him. Loving everything he saw. The years had changed her, but in only good ways.

All the hard in Mason had found a soft counterpart in this woman. Lips, cheeks, jaw…the only piece of her that matched her brother were her eyes. As with Mason, when she looked at you, it was with certainty that you would be doing whatever she desired. Those eyes saw way too much; they looked deep inside where you would prefer the shadows remain, but she picked her way around those feelings, giving you an assurance that all would be well.

Chase adored her, that was clear, no matter that they hadn’t been acquainted very long. He’d only known her since Utah, a marker in time that every Rebel club member knew well. Shooter was doing time in Cali right now for kidnapping and damaging his own daughter, while Judge, the nephew, had been put to ground.

“Can I have everyone’s attention for a moment?” Fury swept the group with his gaze, marking each member of the group from the information Myron had fed him. So many more ties to the club than most folks would see at a glance.

Occupy Yourself was an up-and-coming restart band, having done well on the charts and the tour circuit for several years, before imploding because of the addictions of their lead singer. Ben Jones, baby brother to Slate, Fort Wayne’s chapter president, had rolled into town and promptly drank himself into rehab, leaving his brother to clean up his mess. Something Slate seemed good at doing, as if he had a lot of practice somewhere in his past.

Not just fucking up his band, Ben had managed to piss off some important people when he’d borrowed a fuckton of money, bought some heroin, and then skipped town out of Denver before repaying that money. The way the stories ran, there’d been Mexican mob and Chicago mob involved, as well as a big-ass Mexican MC, but somehow Slate had cleared all that shit up so his brother was still suckin’ air, and not doing it through a tube.

This show in Lamesa was to be the kickoff of their relaunch tour, with mostly new members, and entirely new music. Bethany must be good at her job because these days, you couldn’t listen to a rock station on the radio for ten minutes without hearing one of Occupy Yourself’s songs.

So there was Ben Jones, lead singer, not quite two years sober. Sitting on the couch next to him was Lucia Foscan, daughter of a past Rebel member. A jacked-up betrayin’ club member, who also happened to be very dead. That had opened the door for her and her three brothers to be adopted by another Rebel member, Bear. A man whose old lady was Mason’s goddamned fucking niece, the same one whose father saw her as a pawn to his ambitions. The tight pull of family in each of those ties.

The band’s drummer was a good old boy, southern born and bred, Victor Montrose. No one’s high school prom king, all through school Vic worked every spare moment to make enough money to support his crappy garage band. He’d skipped college, gone straight to Nashville and picked up studio gigs where he killed it, his genius finally recognized. Good kid, real straight shooter. He didn’t put up with any of Benny’s shit and would probably be the reason when Slate finally let Ben’s sober companion resign. Until then, they had Mercedes Gruffudd along for the ride, too. She was sprawled on the floor near the wall, legs angled straight up against the surface, ankles crossed primly.

Bonnie Dupont played bass for the band, and she was as nasty as Vic was sweet. Tatted up one side and down the other, her rebellion against everything played out over her skin, and she had a fucking attitude to match. Talented, sure, but from Fury’s perspective, no pussy was worth all the drama she brought to the band.

Dmitri Glass was the only original band member to hang with Benny through everything. He and Vic had kept the gear out of hock while Ben was in rehab. Big, muscled, and tattooed, all that topped with matted and felted dreads, he looked like a fucking badass, but Fury had watched with disbelief as Glass teared up during ballads at one of the band’s gigs in Marie’s in Fort Wayne.

Then there was Bethany, Mason’s baby sister. When Fury had worked her in Nashville, she’d been going by just Taylor, but he’d noted she hyphenated it now, introducing herself as Mason-Taylor. He suspected no one had the full story behind her marriage, but he’d been there at Tabby’s graveside when she exposed enough of what went on in the Mason religious compound for a judge to take action on her behalf. Sixteen at the time, already two years into a forced union.

Jesus, why any man would let that walk away was hard to fathom. As soon as the thought rippled through his mind, Fury tried to clamp it down. Tried and failed. I was that stupid. I had her in my bed, and I fucked up. Had her so close I knew every breath she took. If I hadn’t fucked up, I could have fulfilled every wish, not even making her say them aloud.

“My role here is to make certain you are all safe.” The faces turned his direction were transparent, every emotion and thought showing plainly. Interest, caution, dismissal, and from two, fear. Bethy didn’t surprise him, but Benny’s expression was just short of terror for a moment. Interesting. “I will have another dozen men later tonight, and we’ll be camping out in your space for the duration. You done fucked up and pissed me off this morning,”—he pointed a curled finger at Chase, shaking it for emphasis—“ditching me at the airport. Don’t do that shit again. If you want to know the threat, tell me, and I’ll share with you what I can.” Scanning the group, he noted a puzzled look on Bethy’s face and saw she was intently focused on him. Not what he was saying, but on him. Huh.

The message had to be delivered, so he forged on. “We’ve got two nights until the show, and then you’re all in town for a bit following. We’ve got a couple more folks coming in tomorrow, or the day of the show, and I’ll be adding to the detail at that time.” He reached into his pocket, pulling out the cards Myron had made. “This is my cell number. I expect you to text me in the next five minutes with your name. I can access your info in other ways, but it’s easier like this. Make sure you get me in your contacts, so you know it’s a safe call to answer if I need to get ahold of you.” He twisted his neck, scanning the group again. “From here forwards, at a minimum, you buddy up. Do not go off on your own. My plan is for you to stay at the hotel, and not on the bus. Do not answer your suite door at the hotel without confirmation you know exactly who is on the other side. Do not answer calls from people you don’t know.”

Bethy rolled her eyes, and he scowled at her. “Serious as fuck, Bethany. I get that this is your business, but my business is keeping you safe.” When he said her name, she’d frozen, going stiff as a post, slowly relaxing as he kept talking. “Help me do my job.”

“My brother’s a pain in my ass.” She shook her head. “But we’ll do what you need. I won’t try and make things harder than they have to be, because God knows this gig is going to be hell enough. The heat alone…” She trailed off, fanning her face with one hand, and smiled at him.

Fury didn’t know how he kept it together, how he managed to nod at her, but he did. Beautiful, smart as fuck, sweet…his thoughts stuttered to a stop as he watched her reach over and slide her fingers through Chase’s hair. She pushed it back off his face, leaning in to press her lips to his forehead, eyes closing with what seemed to be sadness.

After dealing with Dion, Fury had made it his business to dig up every detail about that little revelation, finding out all about her son in Nashville. He’d even seen pictures of her with the family the boy lived with. Boy was a Mason through and through, which meant it wasn’t her roommate’s kid. He knew name, birthdate, and how often Bethy saw the kid, which was often. More than you’d expect an adoptive family to put up with, but the Marshalls seemed to welcome every visit with open arms. He’d heard a lot from sources in Nashville. What he hadn’t heard was boo about that boy from Mason. He hadn’t pegged the absence as odd until just this instant, but he realized he also hadn’t heard boo from Chase. Chase, who couldn’t put a filter on his mouth for anything, would have surely said something by now.

The look on her face right now gave so much away, the expression of love and longing exposing her pain. Her features said she was pleased for her brother, happy he had this, a son he doted on, but there was something else there. She wanted this for herself. Eyes on her face, Fury thought to himself, Want that for you, gal. At the idea of her with a child, his cock woke up, fattening in his jeans.

Uneasy, he rolled his shoulders, the familiar creak of the leather vest reminding him of his words to Hoss. Both hands, he thought. Already fucked that up, so many years ago. Ain’t got no chance of recovery at this point.

When the music of her laughter filled the room, rolling across his skin with a stroke he could feel, he took a quick half step towards her. Greedily drinking in the way her head tilted when she laughed again at something Chase said, the column of her throat working with that sound, hair falling down her back. Open and relaxed, easy joy on her face. Fuck, yeah.

So beautiful, and he remembered everything about her. Every sound she made when he slid inside her, the way she’d cried out the time he took her in the shower. How she’d snuggled into him after fucking, drawing circles on his chest while they both tried to control their breathing. Beauty in my hands.

Mason-Taylor.

His next footfall didn’t happen, and he shuffled his boots on the floor, edging back to the wall, leaning into it.

Mason.

Off limits. Not in so many words, but he knew how Mason felt about his baby sister, had heard the man talk about the weight of guilt he carried from pulling her into his world even a little. No way in hell was the man ever going to stand down from protecting her. And if Fury started anything with Bethy, he knew the past wouldn’t stay secret. Everything would come out in the open. Would have to. All the things he wanted to forget. That meant it was not smart to even contemplate what it could be, to think about how it would feel to have a different look directed at him, one that could make him feel as if he held the world. Had that, he thought. I had that and threw it away.

Want that for me, he thought, lifting his gaze from her face with an effort, scanning the room.

Forbidden.

***

On his bike and rolling through town, Fury headed towards the bar he’d been told Watcher owned for the Southern Soldiers. After deploying three Soldiers members both inside and outside the rodeo grounds media room, he’d left them with orders to split the civilians into three groups for transport back to the hotel. While Lamesa might be Duck’s hometown, Watcher owned it in every other way; his club had the region sewn up nice and tight.

His movements on autopilot, Fury’s mind wandered to Mason. From the first stories he’d heard told across tables and bars, he’d been impressed by the man. For years he’d studied Mason, working to build an image slowly pieced together fact-by-fact. Discarding the obvious lies, Fury had dug into each elaborate legend of the man until he found the meat underneath, the real story. Dug until he believed he knew Davis Mason inside and out, understood him better than anyone else did, except maybe the man’s cousin DeeDee, or Tugboat.

Intel on Mason had been the framework half of Fury’s strategic movements, something he had built around for the past five years. Getting a Diamante charter, then moving that charter closer to the Rebel territory. All of that happening at a time when the Rebels were spreading their sphere of influence both east and west of Chicago. Timing is everything, he thought, flipping on his blinker and turning at the next light.

Then Utah happened. Fury had been circling things in Fort Wayne with the Rebels, trying hard to earn his place in a new club. Earn a place for his men, too, those who had followed him for years. Utah, an event entirely orchestrated by one of the men Fury hated with everything inside him. Deacon.

From what he knew, Deacon and Dion had become friends sometime during the period Fury’d been in Riverbend. Cut from the same cloth, they’d latched onto the evil in the other in ways that tore through the North Carolina town Fury had been living in. This was in the days when he was still toying with the idea of the biker life, riding with men who claimed outlaw status, without actually earning it. Deacon horned in and took over the group and Fury watched how he did things first with disbelief and then anger. He’d ripped in two what Fury had tried to build.

Citing police harassment, Deacon picked up stakes and moved the club entire. But taking their show on the road to Florida hadn’t changed anything except the scenery, and it hadn’t been long before the police had been sniffing after them there, too. Sex slaves and labs were how Dion made his money, and Deacon offered not only the facilities to do whatever was needed, but he also organized much of the activity, too.

Deacon had been friends and enemies with Morgan, an old guy from California who had his own fingers in so much it wasn’t funny. Morgan’s son was crazy, Fury knew that for a fact, but had been surprised to find Shooter had a hard-on for Mason that wouldn’t quit. That shit had bled down to his son, Judge.

He’d known something was up in Utah, but not the what. No details. Didn’t keep him from kicking his own ass over how things had shaken out. Thank God Utah had been a cluster from the beginning, and it was definitely one Fury had been glad to see fail. Still, once Bethy had gotten caught up in it, it didn’t matter that she’d escaped relatively unscathed.

Throughout all the rumors flying through the MC community, Fury had found out most people didn’t know Mason had a sister, not until Utah happened. He’d kept his mouth shut because if he’d appeared to know of her, to fuckin’ know her, there might be questions about the how of that. Questions he couldn’t afford at the time. So Bethy became a detail in Mason’s past that Fury simply filed away. He figured he’d sit on it until he had time to consider the ramifications of a hidden relationship, but that time never came, when things just went from bad to worse in the Diamante club. Everything fucked sideways by Shooter and Judge.

Noting the addresses on the street signs, he slowed and moved to the outside lane, seeing his target building coming up on his right.

Fucked sideways hadn’t taken long. Within five months, his chapter was no more, folded seamlessly into the Rebel chapter in Fort Wayne. That was the best move he’d ever made. So much better than their lives before, and he had no complaints about how Mason and the Rebels had dealt with them.

Still, it meant his men were his to command no more, but equal brothers to every patched Rebel. That was how he’d wanted it, but Fury had nearly chewed his tongue in half the first two weeks, biting back orders and arguments, reminding himself he was no longer the man in charge. No longer an officer, no longer someone with leverage. Member. He had stepped backwards into a role that never sat well with him. Just a member, one of the foot soldiers, expected to do as you’re told without argument, without thought, with only a willing acceptance that you don’t know everything, so whoever is giving the orders must have the right of it.

Slowly, gradually, without even meaning to, he had earned his way into meetings. The important ones, where long-term strategic talk happened behind closed doors. Once he was in and tasted the rich wealth of intelligence and planning the Rebels boasted, that’s when he actively set his mind to earning a higher place, determined to regain a position of prominence because that simply was who he was. It had taken months, but he did it. Mostly by demonstrating his dedication repeatedly, and earning respect all through the ranks with his unwavering loyalty to the Rebels. All in. He snorted. Had to be, no goin’ back.

Gunny and Hoss had proven great allies, and with everyone knowing the real story behind how Gunny wound up in his compound—not yours any longer, he thought, surprised the thought still burned, lease canceled, all the shit moved to the Rebel clubhouse—the fact the man was easy with him went a long way to reassuring everyone about everything else. Hoss, too, was an officer in Fort Wayne and was such a respected member in that town, hell in any Rebel chapter, that for Fury to claim his friendship was a big deal. Worked at that shit, too.

He punched the gear lever with his toe, downshifting as he rolled to a stop, hands working the clutch and brake. Chin to his shoulder, he watched behind him as he shoved the bike backwards, walking it to park pipes to the building. Still on mental autopilot, he killed the engine with a flip of his thumb, heeling the kickstand down so he could lean the bike over and stand up. Stepping through the front door of the bar, he scanned the area, nodding at a couple of men who were clearly in the life. Fury couldn’t see their patches, but given where he was, it was probably safe to say they were Soldiers. Then he saw Duck’s dark hair, saw the top rocker of the Rebel patches over the back of the chair he was seated in. Positioned with his back to the room, it spoke to the level of comfort he had with the man seated across from him.

Fury didn’t hesitate, with long strides he moved towards Watcher, his cousin from the mountains of Kentucky. It felt almost like going back in time, the weight of decades lifting, and he felt light, off-balance. Watcher stood, followed by Duck, and both men stared at him. Well, Duck’s was more of a glare than a stare. About to blow your mind, man. Show you something about me even Mason don’t know, he thought, then he’d reached Watcher who held out a hand for a warrior’s grip. So much people don’t know about me.

Watcher’s laughing question clearly shocked Duck, “You’re Fury? Fuckin’ kidding me?” Standing a foot away from the only family he claimed, Fury looked into Watcher’s face, seeing age and a somber heaviness he hadn’t expected. Mike Otey carried profound responsibility, and it was written into every scar and line on his features. Jesus. Shaking his head, he ignored the outreached hand and wrapped Watcher into an embrace, holding tight, feeling gratified as the man’s arms closed around him. Family. Pulling away first, Fury left one arm wrapped around the man’s shoulders, then dragged him into a headlock, knuckles rubbing in what he knew was a painless noogie. Mike struggled, still laughing as he demanded, “Goddammit, Gabe, let me the fuck go.”

And there’s the first break in the dam. Fury watched as wordless questions flowed across Duck’s face. Deflect? I need to delay, at the least. Or, he could put Watcher on the spot, revealing their relationship and see what the reaction was from everybody in the bar. Loudly, as if Watcher weren’t right beside him, he called, “Cuz. Nice place.” Grinning at Duck, he said, “Brother, good fucking mattress, man. I slept like a baby.” With carefully calculated movements, he stepped between the two men, facing Duck as he reached out a hand. They’d gotten into Lamesa last night, and Duck had been up the stairs and into his woman’s bed like a man on a mission. Fury hadn’t even seen him this morning, getting himself out the door early to meet Chase’s plane.

Duck snatched his hand out of the air, grinding down painfully on his knuckles as he pulled him close. Lips to his ear, Duck muttered, “This would appear the exact opposite to fostering good relations, brother. Wanna explain what the fuck you think you’re doing?”

He really didn’t know, Fury thought, laughing as he pushed back to glare at Watcher. Hands to the side, Fury postured and pushed the fake outrage hard, wanting this to be a story told for a long time.

“Watch—” A calculated pause, then he continued with, “—Michael,” Fury called, “you keepin’ secrets, cuz?”

Another few moments of standing and chatting, then Fury wanted to get the meeting back on track. So, beer in hand, he settled into a seat next to Watcher, and traded pieces of stories with Duck. The Rebels had a lot of things going down, and Mason had been clear that nothing was to be held back when it came to Watcher. So much unreserved trust between the two presidents, and even at the member level between the two clubs. With that in mind, Fury asked about something he’d only heard about in passing a couple of weeks ago. Video footage of Watcher’s compound had been found, and technological wizard that he was, Myron still hadn’t been successful in tracking down who was responsible.

Watcher shook his head, lips pressed together in frustration for a moment. Fury noted how the muscles of his arms had tensed. This was not going to be a good story. Watcher said, “Had someone put up cameras at my place.” He continued, telling them about tracking the signal to a truck, equipment in the bed. They’d staked it out for two weeks, waiting on whoever had strung up the equipment to come back and retrieve their investment.

“About two weeks into our stakeout, it took a burst of power from something. Zapped the entire rig. Fried everything.” Fury watched intently, seeing the strain on Watcher’s face as he drank deeply from his beer. “When we realized it was useless, we went to move it. Fuckin’ IED under the wheel. Blew a crater and sprayed my guys with shrapnel.”

Fury opened his mouth, but had no words. He’d been overseas, knew what an IED was from up-close. Couldn’t imagine having that happen on US soil.

Shaking his head, Watcher continued, “Afterwards, we found a battery under there with a sensor. That’s what had fried the rig. It was hooked to the frame. Whoever did it was able to kill the system remotely by opening a connection. Set a trap.” He paused for another drink of beer, draining the bottle, stress twisting his expression into hatred. “Found a room…a cell buried under the truck. Two women. Devil,” he named one of his officers, “figured they’d been dead about four days.” Rage building in his voice, Watcher continued, “We sat on our asses for two weeks while they starved to death. Sat there eating chips and drinking beer, watching a fucking truck in the middle of the desert while two women starved to death in a metal fucking box under the truck. A truck filled with videos of my house, and my wife and daughters.”

Voice harsh with anger, Watcher stood, pushing his chair back, “So no, I don’t consider that shaking out okay.” Fury didn’t speak, and neither did Duck. They just stared at Watcher. After a moment, he said, “Back in a minute, just need…some air.”

Fury waited for him to hit the door before he asked Duck, “You know any of that shit?” Duck’s head shake was slow, angry. “Fuck. He had guys get hurt, but those women. Gonna fuck with him for a while. And vid in his house? His daughters on that vid? Bastards are lucky they didn’t show at the truck. He would’ve killed them.”

“Yeah, and so would you or I. That’s fucked up.” Duck leaned forwards, elbows to the table, eyes intent on Fury. Here it comes. “You wanna explain to me exactly who you are, Gabe?” The emphasis on his government name was telling, and Fury winced.

“Mike’s my cousin. He went one direction, I went the other. Nothing to tell, brother.” Fury shrugged, keeping his gaze level, not looking away. “We weren’t close. He’s older. But we’re blood.”

“Mason know?”

Fury pressed his lips together and shook his head side to side.

Duck ran a hand through his hair. “Fuck, Fury, you know I gotta say something to him before Watcher calls, right?”

“Oh, yeah, I know you do. Ain’t a big deal.” Still holding his gaze, Fury handed him the next piece. “Mason knows my name. Gabe Ledbetter. He just didn’t put it together. Watch’s mom and my mom were sisters, so it’s close. But Watcher’s sister lived with us when he went into the military, so that’s a little closer.”

“Tabitha?”

The sound of her name spoken aloud caused Fury’s head to jerk back. He corrected Duck, knowing she’d always preferred her nickname. “Tabby. Yeah.”

Changing direction, Duck asked, “You get everything squared away with Chase and the band today?”

Fury nodded, picking up his beer again. “Yeah, they’re all tucked in by now, I hope.”

Then Duck made the one connection Fury had hoped to avoid. “Bethy know you?”

“She didn’t recognize me, no.”

“No, I mean did she know you back in Kentucky?” Duck’s question wasn’t hard to answer, because she had. He nodded. “But she didn’t recognize you?”

“Nope. I’d like to keep it that way. I’m Fury. That’s the long and the short of it.” Carefully setting his empty bottle back on the table, he stood and said, “I’m gonna go see if he’s ready to come back inside.”

***

Sitting and drinking a beer after supper, Fury was surprised at how much Duck’s house reminded him of home. The desert had its own set of sounds, but being surrounded by acres and acres of empty space let a silence settle in, just like the mountains of Kentucky. Noises of animals settling down echoed, strengthening the illusion. I could get used to something like this again, he thought, tipping his head against the back of the chair, comfortable in a way he couldn’t fake. Eyes closed, he yawned and relaxed, knowing the home of a brother would be safe.

Brenda, Duck’s old lady, was full of surprises. Things even Duck didn’t know, it seemed. She’d spoken of her early childhood being in Kentucky, not New Mexico, and something she said snagged Fury’s attention. From Cynthania, so close to his hometown, and she’d lost her parents in a car accident. That wasn’t shocking, wrecks happened all the time, especially in the mountains where a moment’s inattention could result in a fall of hundreds of feet. But she survived because a Good Samaritan had pulled her from the wreckage. Not just pulled a little girl out of a smoldering pile of scrap metal, but carried her to the local hospital. Then left her there, making an anonymous deposit onto a gurney in the ER. Fuck.

He’d heard that story before.

Watcher’s sister had taken a dive off a high curve and died. Little Tabby, raised as his baby sister for years. Fuck.

Everyone thought she’d killed herself. Thought she’d had enough of living with the knowledge that her body had been defiled in a way that should never happen to a woman, never happen to a girl—and never, ever happen to a child. Thought she’d sailed her truck off a mountainside to end the pain inside her mind.

Not my Tabby. That had been the refrain he couldn’t shake. Not my Tabby. She wouldn’t have done that to him. Wouldn’t have done that to her best friend, Bethany. Wouldn’t have done that to her brother, Mike. The day before her funeral, Fury had been in the right place at the wrong time, and overheard an enlightening conversation between his daddy and Preacher Mason. That had been the catalyst to getting himself unassed and out of the holler.

Daddy’s voice was solemn and quiet, but Gabe could clearly hear every word said between the two men. He’d seen old man Mason and Daddy walk to the barn, seen the shady looks Daddy had cast around the clearing before he closed the big door. Whatever this was, the men didn’t want to be seen doing it. Tabby’s death was eating at Gabe, and he’d heard Momma on the phone this morning saying the coroner had finally released her body. Funeral was tomorrow, and Gabe didn’t know how he would be able to stand going. Seeing the box that held her body, knowing the light that always shone from Tabby was snuffed out.

Everyone on the mountain knew what she’d suffered. Parents dead, and her mother’s death an unsolved mystery. One the TV shows liked to talk about, reporters and cameras arriving in town every few years to capture new footage of the storefronts and any local resident who’d talk to them. Their somber questions echoing through the streets, “And no one knows who killed Mrs. Otey?” As if the person responsible would be jumping up and down in the background, waving their hand and shouting, “Me, I did it. It was me!”

With everything going on, when he’d seen the men’s secretive movements, Gabe followed. He slipped through the narrow door at the back of the building, walking silently on the loose ground, tracking their voices through the darkness with ease. He’d been hunting and trapping the mountains since he was eight years old. Stalking two old men through a barn wasn’t difficult enough to tax him. Close, so close he could have reached out and grabbed old man Mason’s coattails, Gabe crouched and listened.

“Ezra,” Mason said, his voice a growling slash through the dark, “you better take care of that kid.” He puffed a breath, taxed by his emotions. “We don’t need no repeat of before.”

Gabe tipped his head, wondering what the man was talking about. He didn’t have to wonder long.

Daddy spoke into the silence, his manner obsequious, greasy sounding, like someone with something to hide. “You know that was a fluke, Irving. We’ve got the suppliers under control this time. The boy won’t surface. I fixed it good last time, and you know I’m right.”

Gabe barely had time to wonder, Suppliers? Then his father was speaking again, the words stripping the air from Gabe’s lungs. “Tabby never knew what hit her, right? You did it quick?”

Old man Mason’s tone was dismissive, angry at being questioned. “I told you she wouldn’t suffer. I’m not an animal, Ezra. My man dealt with her with compassion, like I promised. He got the kid out, too, just like before. Innocents shouldn’t suffer for their family’s mistakes. You know I did my part, and now it’s all on you. You park that kid, and you park him deep if you want him to keep breathing.” Mason moved, and Gabe stared through the crack in the wooden wall to see the man’s hands were clenching and unclenching, seemingly frustrated at his inability to do something. “I do what’s needful. Morgan’s grandbaby lived, that’s all he needs to know. You park him deep, and I’ll leave that boy alone. You don’t, and there’s gonna be hellfire to pay. I’ll tear your family to the ground, Ezra. You’ll lose more than you ever thought possible.”

Daddy shuffled closer to the preacher, craning his neck to look up at the big man. His words were half plea, half ultimatum, but full of fear. “And my family, with this, Irving, we’re out of it. I’m telling you we are out.”

Mason’s laughter was dark and filled with humor. “You ain’t never gonna be out, Ledbetter. Dug in deep, you’re stuck with me. We’re in the pits chipping away at the walls around us. You know that, better than most. I’m leaving. You’re just wasting my time with all this bullshit, and I don’t take kindly to people wasting my time.”

Gabe’s father stood silent for a moment, and it was his turn to impotently clench his fists. When he finally spoke, his words were quiet but vibrating with anger. “You done took from me, Mason. You know that. Took from me and mine. I had one slip, one. And you hold that over my head like I was your lackey, setting off to do whatever the king bids. I won’t lose more. Not this time. I’m warning you—”

He didn’t get anything else out. Mason moved so fast Gabe scarcely tracked him, and had his hand around Ezra’s throat in a heartbeat, had him lifted and pushed against the wall. Leaning close, choking him with his strength and weight, old man Mason rumbled the words, “You do not know what’s been taken from me. My wife. My children. That man took them, and took them, and took them. He’s taken the last thing he’ll ever have. His man is bedding my daughter.” Mason’s voice broke, and Gabe’s fists tightened. Bethany, he was talking about Bethy. “Do not speak to me about how much has been lost. That man ain’t going to see the light of day once I get done with him. I’ll bury him a mile deep. And I’ll plant you there beside him, if you buck me on this. Ledbetter, you do what’s needful. You park his grandson where he can’t get at him. You do it in a way that he gets the message. And when I get my wife back, I’ll think about letting you out. Not until then. Not a bit of it.”

Fury pushed to his feet, suddenly unable to stay inside another moment. He muttered something, it didn’t matter what, as long as it got him out and into the nighttime air. He pulled in a deep breath, shocked for a moment at the absence of rich earth and deep woods on the air. Tabby hadn’t killed herself. That was knowledge he’d lived with for a long time. He’d had to see how it ate at Bethy, how it ate at his ma. Tabby hadn’t killed herself, hadn’t taken herself away from them. The knowledge had run him from the mountain and to the military, where he’d found a costly mix of friends, leading him in the end to Dion.

It had run Bethy from the mountain, too, and Fury had been there that day, his mouth closed tight because of fear. The last time he’d allowed himself to be ruled by that weakness. Bethy had faced off against her father, told him she was done, and then she left the graveside of her best friend in tears, Mike Otey’s arm wrapped around her shoulder.

At home that night, Gabe had heard his mother’s cries, heard the smacking of the strap and knew his daddy would be coming his way next. If the man didn’t get what he wanted one way, he’d get it another. He always had. That was when Gabe had packed, taking his knife to the pillow and dumping the feathers on the bed before shoving his sets of smalls and pants into the empty case.

At the last minute, he’d heard his father’s footsteps coming up the hallway, a staggering gait which sent the man running into the walls, bouncing back and forth between them in a telling way. Easing over the windowsill on his belly, Gabe had stared at the turning doorknob as he reached up to silently close the window. Feet firmly on the ground, he’d cast around for a few seconds to find the bag, heart in his throat. Then he’d been running. Barefooted and free, tearing through the woods, crashing down the mountainside and to the road where he’d ridden his thumb to Lexington. Showing up at the recruiting office like he had, the only reason the men didn’t call the police on sight was because he’d thought to grab his papers. With his birth certificate in hand, they couldn’t turn him away. Right hand raised, he’d stared into the eyes of the man in front of him, repeating the words that would take him away from there.

Tabby didn’t kill herself. His daddy knew who had. Even if old man Mason was dead and gone, nothing but ash and dust in the ground, Ezra Ledbetter knew who had killed her, and he was still suckin’ air. Fury turned to look at the house behind him, seeing the shadows of Duck and Brenda come together behind the blinds, then move as a unit deeper into the house. Lights came on in a room on the second floor, and he stared as they came together again before darkness descended on the night. Duck’s a good man. His woman didn’t deserve to lose her folks.

“Park that boy deep.” He remembered old man Mason’s words.

Facing outward again, Fury leaned over and toed a rock out of the dirt, scuffing it back and forth with his boot. Things can be dug up.

The pain on Watcher’s face as he recounted the story about his family today haunted Fury. That was a man who deserved better, too. He needed to know Tabby hadn’t killed herself.

Just gotta dig shit up.

Brenda’s parents hadn’t died in a random crash. She deserved closure.

Fury let his mind go back to today, standing in a room with Bethany Mason, forget her married name because that hadn’t been a real marriage. That had been her daddy selling her for silence. She was Bethy, the first girl he’d ever loved. Bethy.

Tabby’s best friend. The look on Bethy’s face at the funeral had never left him. One of those scars he could pull up at will, ripping off any healing scabs, keeping it fresh because you knew, with one look at her, Bethy wouldn’t be moving past the moment. Not ever. And from talking to her in Nashville, she hadn’t then. After watching her today, it was clear she still bore the pain. She deserved closure, too.

Fury pulled out his phone and thumbed the screen. A moment later the call connected and he waited through the usual pleasantries, then said, “Gunny, got something in Lexington we need to look at.”