Chapter 15

AUGUST 6

This waiting shit wasn’t for the faint of heart.

Three hours ago Reb had left Emily at his house, and since then had been crouched behind a cluster of pine trees until he thought his knees might buckle. He didn’t remember keeping watch being so fucking painful in his twenties. Or thirties. Old joints plus late night hours meant discomfort to the nth degree. Maybe it was getting old that wasn’t for the faint of heart.

A twig snapped behind Reb and his heart jump-started. He strained to detect anything out of the ordinary, but only heard the typical wind whooshing through the branches. Fuck, of course the Tramps would put their stash house on a remote hillside in the middle of bumfuck nowhere. He’d rather be tipping a few beers back in the True Brothers watering hole or cuddled up close in bed with Emily. And it was his right as president to dictate the job from somewhere safe, but this one with the Tramps was personal. They’d fucked up his house. His fucking sanctuary. He was gonna put the hurt back on them, and losing thousands of dollars in inventory of whatever the fuck the Tramps were running now was really gonna fucking hurt.

Finally he heard the fake owl hoot from Bumper, declaring all was clear.

Reb slowly stood from his crouched position and stretched his aching legs. Yeah, this stakeout shit wasn’t for the over-forty set. Damn, that hurt. Once he had his legs under him, Reb rendezvoused with the guys at the designated spot.

He heard Bumper’s harsh whisper before he made out his shape in the darkness.

“Christ, old man, I can hear you creaking from here.”

Reb would’ve flipped him off in reply but didn’t think the message would come across, since it was still so dark. “Fuck off. Everything in place?”

There was laughter in Bump’s voice as he answered—the guy never took anything too serious. “Their shipment from two days ago is still inside. And our guys are in place down the road. No one can get in or out without us knowing.”

Reb nodded. “You got eyes on the shipment? Know what it is?”

Bump shrugged his large shoulders. “Either drugs or ammo. They’ve got it covered up pretty good, but the boxes take up most of the cabin. I’m guessing ammo.”

So their intel was right. The Tramps were either back in the drug mule business for a cartel, or they were running guns for the Cali branch of La famigghia. Reb really hoped it was ammo. He’d love nothing better than to fuck the Tramps’ deal with the Sicilian mob. Blood would rain down on those bastards from every corner of the world.

“How many inside?” Reb whispered harshly.

“Just one. They’re either getting lazy or arrogant. But judging how high the bastard is, I’d say lazy.”

“Who is it?” Reb needed to know before they lit up the cabin. He had to know the name of the bastard they were gonna kill tonight.

“Scag.”

“Damn, they must really think they’ve got nothing to worry about if they’ve put that sick fuck on guard duty.” Reb shuddered. Scag was the kinda crazy son of a bitch who gave bikers everywhere a bad name. If Scag wasn’t snorting or smoking something, he was finding a way to fuel his fix or terrorizing women. He’d done at least one stretch for rape, and a leopard like Scag didn’t change his spots. Reb really doubted anyone would shed a tear when that fucker disappeared tonight. “When do we move in?”

Bumper pulled out his burner cell and checked the time. “In…two minutes. Here’s your ammo.”

Reb flexed his gloved fingers before accepting the Molotov cocktail from Bump. He couldn’t read the bottle label because of the lack of light. “And everything’s untraceable?”

“Yeah. Bottles came from a recycling Dumpster on Fourth Street, rags are from the Eighth Street Mission, and the fuel’s from a gas can Axle had in his shed. I think we’re ready to dance.”

“Fuck yeah. Let’s go light those motherfuckers up.”

Reb and Bumper crept their way down the hill, sticking to the shadows. At the base of the hill, they paused and waited for the signal. Blood sang through Reb’s veins. No drug could replicate that high feeling right before they pulled off a job. The anxiety, the anticipation, and the knowledge they were going to fuck someone up melded into a euphoria second only to amazing sex. Or amazing sex after a job. Oh hell yeah. Reb couldn’t wait to blow this shit up and get home to Emily.

A few moments later eight men fanned out from the tree line. Each held a bottle in one hand. Reb was the first to move. He pulled a lighter from his vest pocket, lit the rag dangling from the mouth of the bottle, then threw the Molotov cocktail in a wide arc toward the cabin. The bottle smashed against the roof, raining liquid fire down from the shingles.

The others threw their ammo, and in a matter of seconds the cabin was engulfed.

Reb watched the flames lick at the dry wooden exterior. There was no movement from inside. Either Scag had passed out or he was too high to figure out how to escape. Or didn’t know he needed to. Reb didn’t give a shit. It just meant one less Tramp to worry about.

The sight of the burning building and the knowledge that whatever inventory inside would be lost to those fuckers gave Reb a kernel of peace deep in his chest. It was a small strike back at the Tramps for all the shit they’d done to his club and his house, and for the two Brothers his club had lost in the turf war. But right now, it was enough.

“We better make tracks, Prez. We’re practically standing in kindling here.” Bumper clapped Reb on his shoulder. “I think it’s safe to say that the fire won’t leave any witnesses, and it’s burning too fucking close to the propane tank for my piece of mind. I don’t wanna be around when that baby blows. Someone somewhere is sure as shit gonna notice that.”

“There’s plenty of dead space around the cabin. And you guys need to pay more attention to your physics classes. We’ve got a good five, ten minutes before that tank goes.”

“Yeah, well, you don’t exactly look like Bill Nye and I’m no science guy. I wanna get as far from that shit as possible.”

Reb laughed. “Give me one more minute to enjoy the show.”

Bumper twitched next to him, practically vibrating with his nerves. Reb took a deep breath of the hot August night air. The acrid smell of fire overrode the mellow scent of pine. Still no one emerged from the cabin. Soon muffled pops sounded, almost like popcorn popping but louder. The Tramps were moving ammo for the Mafia. Reb knew better than to worry about the bullets coming anywhere near them—without a gun barrel to direct the bullets, they couldn’t build enough speed to do any damage. He waited another beat, then a few more. It was tempting to linger until the relief valve for the propane tank blew and really fucked with Bumper’s head, but Reb decided to play nice. Plus if he played his cards right he’d have the euphoria from the job and make-up sex with Emily.

“All right, Bump. Let’s go.”

Reb didn’t have to tell him twice.

Bumper shot off from their position toward the tree line. As they made their way to the rendezvous point where Zag was waiting with his pickup, Reb heard the telltale whoosh of the release valve letting go. Flames shot twenty or thirty feet above the cabin, easily seen from their position deep in the woods.

Bumper jumped a foot. “What the fuck? You said we had five minutes!”

“We do.” Reb had a hard time holding back his laughter. Fuck, he felt good. Revenge was fucking sweet. “It’ll do that a few more times before it really blows up. Like a fucking mushroom cloud.” Reb heaved a sigh of regret as the flames disappeared. He would’ve loved to see the sucker blow. It would be an amazing sight.

“Shit, I had no idea you were such a pyro. Watch some videos online or something. It’s safer that way. No flying shrapnel to pierce your ass.”

“But then you miss the taste of it on the air. Trust me, Bump, this is better.”

Whatever Bumper grumbled was lost as they beat their way through the underbrush. Reb didn’t care. He was high on revenge. Revenge and the knowledge that he had the best woman waiting for him at home. And regardless of how pissed off she’d been when he left—which he was pretty sure he could talk her out of—he knew she’d be there when he got home.

Everything in his life was finally coming together. He had Emily. In a few short weeks he’d have custody of Tucker, and the bitch would finally be out of his life. And he just got some sweet revenge on those goddamn Tramps. Life was fucking fantastic.

His high lasted through the short hike to the pickup point, over the long drive back to the clubhouse, and during the bike ride home. All the way through his front door.

Until he found Emily passed out asleep on his couch.

She hadn’t waited up for him like she promised. And the real kick in the nuts was the sight of tear tracks still wet on her cheeks.

Every ounce of euphoria drained from his body. His unlit cigar fell from his numb fingers. While he’d been busy blowing up the Tramps’ stash house, Emily had cried herself to sleep. He didn’t know what to do with that. Was she afraid for his safety? Hers? Worried about the consequences if he got caught? Or did their small disagreement mean so much more to her? Or was it all of it? Did she finally realize what a life with him meant?

Reb wasn’t sure he wanted to know which scenario was true. He’d never really had someone who worried about him. His parents never gave a shit, and Lord knew Rhonda didn’t care about anyone other than herself. And like he’d said earlier, there really was no room for discussion when it came to club business. This was who he was. She’d have to accept it.

At least, he hoped she could. He wasn’t done with her yet, and he was nowhere near ready to let her go.

Reb briefly considered moving her but decided against it—mostly because he was too chickenshit in case it woke her up. He didn’t deal well with tears. So instead he covered her with a blanket and settled into an easy chair across from her.

As he watched her sleep, he tried not to worry. Emily was just adjusting to what life with a biker meant. Tomorrow was another day and all that crap.

Just before dawn he fell into a restless sleep.

And when he woke up hours later, she was gone.