Eternal Temptations (The Tempted Series Book 6) (47 page)

Three days later I got a call from Jones giving me a heads up that Brantley was sniffing around the clubhouse—whatever the fuck was left of it. Technically, it was a crime scene, and we weren’t allowed passed the compound gates but after a call to the club attorney I got us access. The nomads were living at the clubhouse before the explosion, everything they fucking owned was inside and if anything could be salvaged they needed to get to it. Poor bastards came to Brooklyn, got their shit blown to bits, and their asses thrown in some fleabag motel. Stryker got off easy doing a bid in prison, poor Linc needed six surgeries, a metal rod put in his back and fuck if I know how many screws, pins and bolts to keep his fucking spine intact.

Pulling my truck into the compound, I pass the glass enclosure, still splattered with Mack’s blood, and the gruesome reminder we’ll be burying him tomorrow. Disgusted, I throw it into park and climb out before stopping in my tracks and staring at the damage.

The yellow caution tape obnoxiously stares back at me, taunting me, reminding me how fucking hopeless this whole thing is. Jack’s out for the count, leaving this shit on my shoulders, and I don’t know where to begin. This attack differed from the others. This wasn’t anywhere close to the shootout at Pops’ gun range, or the sneak attack drive-by that pussy, Wu, played on us. The Bastards left us in ruins, without a home, half our club in the hospital, some in the morgue and all our bikes blown to smithereens.

Tearing down the tape, I climb over the rubble and debris and stand in the center of what used to be the Dog Pound. I bend down, pushing aside pieces of glass and Sheetrock and pull the corner of a tattered American flag to the surface.

“Yo, Blackie’s here,” Deuce calls out, forcing me to divert my eyes away from the flag in my hands to the three men walking toward me.

Stryker, Deuce and Cobra look similar to the way they did after the bomb exploded—sans the blood—covered in dust, dirt and soot. I watch as something flashes over Stryker as his eyes drift down to the flag I was holding.

“Think this belongs to you.” I offer the flag.

“Shit,” he mutters, taking the worn fabric from my hands, running his fingers over the stars and stripes. Lifting his head, he nods in appreciation. “This flag survived Afghanistan and now this. It’s indestructible,” he says thoughtfully, folding it expertly into a triangle, like they do at a soldier’s memorial. Tucking the final corner away he hands it back to me. “Fix this shit, Black and show every motherfucker from here to the West Coast the Satan’s Knights of Brooklyn are just as resilient as that flag.”

“Deep shit, bro,” Deuce comments.

“And if that’s not enough incentive,” Cobra begins as he glances over his shoulder. “There’s a man hurtin’ over there that is desperate to make that message clear.”

I follow his eyes and spot Pipe sitting on top of what’s left of the bar. Without hesitation, I nod to the three men new to our charter, ready and willing to ride to their death, and it becomes clear, whatever it takes, however it can be done, I will make it right. With a tip of my chin, I leave them behind to continue recovering whatever they can and I make my way to Pipe.

Lifting a silver flask to his lips he notices me standing close but says nothing. He tips his head back and guzzles the alcohol unfazed by presence. I know that look. I’ve seen it in the mirror a thousand times. I know everything Pipe’s feeling, the regret, the anger, the loss, the ache ripping through his heart. The dire need for revenge pulsing through your veins. I felt all of that and more after Christine died and there are days I still feel it.

“Found her body right there,” he slurs, using the tip of the flask to point to the end of the bar. “Her head hanging on by a thread.”

Shoving one hand into my pocket, I step closer to him and bow my head to collect my thoughts. We’re supposed to say we’re sorry, it’s what society deems right when someone loses one they love, but that shit don’t work. It’s not what you want to hear. You want to hear the voice of the one that’s left you broken and alone.

“Pipe, I’ve been where you at,” I start. “Felt everything you’re feeling, brother, and I ain’t going to give you my apologies because it won’t bring her back. It won’t fix you.”

He takes another gulp from his flask, dangling it over his mouth to catch the last drops before he tosses it into the rubble.

“Finally a piece of truth,” he mutters, lifting his beady eyes to mine. “You people all thought my marriage was a joke.”

“That ain’t true,” I argue. “We busted your balls but only a man who knows love could see how much you loved Oksana. I saw it.”

He swipes a hand over his face and I think he’s probably debating on whether I’m being sincere.

“The men who did this will pay,” I vow. “We will torture them with our bare fucking hands, Pipe.”

With a groan he stands.

“The Bulldog ain’t got his ears, and it’s my understanding he won’t be riding,” he says, settling me with a stare. “You got Wolf in ICU, Linc in a goddamn full body cast and two dead prospects. No fucking clubhouse and the only one who still has a bike is Riggs. Don’t be making promises, Black. This shit is over. The Satan’s Knights are done.”

“So, that’s it?” I question, watching as he moves to walk passed me. “We throw in our cuts and call it a day? Let the Bastards get away with murdering your wife? You disappoint me, Pipe.”

“Fuck you,” he hisses, grabbing the ends of my cut. “Don’t need the club to take care of what’s mine, Black.”

“You’re not doing anything without the club,” I warn.

“And who the fuck is going to stop me?”

“You really want me to answer that, brother?”

Stumbling backward, he releases my cut and narrows his eyes at me.

“You’re done, Black, accept that shit and move the fuck on. Be happy you got your life and your woman has hers,” he sneers, his boots crushing the debris as he stalks away from me.

I fist my hands at my sides, itching to punch a fucking wall but there aren’t any left standing. I glance over my shoulder at the nomads, sifting through the dust, maybe Pipe’s right.

“One of you stay with him and make sure he doesn’t do anything stupid,” I order.

“Can you define stupid?” Deuce asks.

“Don’t let him fucking kill anyone,” I growl. “Including himself,” I add. Turning around to I stomp through the grit toward my truck. I pause mid step and divert my attention back to them. “Did you happen to find the table?”

“He’s kidding right?” Deuce asks absurdly.

“Smartass,” I sneer. “It’s there somewhere. Wolf was dragging it before he collapsed.”

“We’ll keep looking,” Cobra says.

I nod before continuing for my truck. Once I reach the car, I toss the flag into the passenger seat and stare at it for a moment, wishing the table was as indestructible as the red, white and blue cloth staring back at me, desperate for a sign that the club engrained into my soul wasn’t dead too.

Sitting still, lying low—it’s not me. But what choice do I have? If I want to hear that baby’s cry I need to heal and as much as revenge is a priority, hearing that baby means more. Seeing Reina through the last leg of her pregnancy, making sure she obeys her doctor’s orders and stays on bed rest—that’s my fucking job.

That doesn’t mean I will allow the Corrupt Bastards to reign over my city and it sure as shit doesn’t mean I will let them get away with fucking with my club. That tear drop sporting prick will pay for what he’s done. He will cry, bleed and wish his mother swallowed him.

Reina stands from the couch, jolting me away from the sadistic thoughts of revenge and how I will cut Charlie’s balls off and feed them to whatever whore is currently sucking his dick.

“Where are you going?”

“The bell rang,” she answers, loud enough for the neighbors to hear.

“Sit,” I bark, standing and pointing back to the couch.

The one good thing about this hearing loss thing is I can’t hear her curse me under her breath as she reluctantly sits down with a huff. Guess who has trouble sitting still too? We’re fucked.

I pull the door open and find Blackie looking all sorts of haggard on my door step, running his fingers through his hair.

“Shit,” I mutter.

“Yeah,” he agrees, holding up a pad and pencil. “We need to talk,” he drawls, waving the pad.

“Cute,” I growl, knocking the pad out of his hand before spinning back around and leaving his ass on the front porch.

As I head for the kitchen, Reina says something I can’t make out and Blackie slams the door. I know he slams it because the whole fucking house vibrates. It’s true what they say, when one of your senses fail you, the others work overtime.

I grab a beer from the fridge, lean against the counter and pop the top off the bottle. I’m guzzling the ale when Blackie stomps through the kitchen and lays his pad on the kitchen island. He shrugs his jacket off and drapes it over the back of the stool, twisting his neck from side to side before he rolls up his sleeves and grabs a pen. Angrily I watch the ink bleed onto the paper as I drain the rest of the bottle down my throat. Lifting his eyes to glare at me, he throws down the pen and pushes the pad toward me.

“Read,” he says, and by the way his jaw tightens I know it’s not a request but a demand.

Holding his gaze, I push off the cabinets and walk to the island. I grab the pad and see the three underlined words.

THE FINAL RIDE
.

Arching an eyebrow, I slide the pad back to him.

“What kind of bullshit is this?”

He grabs the pad, starts scribbling words but I lean over the island and knock the pen out of his hand.

“Talk slow and loud,” I demand.

“Fine,” he starts, sighing heavily. He explains our situation, some words I catch others are difficult, and he uses the pad to jot them down. Piecing together both, I understand what the three underlined words mean. No one expects us to prevail from this, in fact, I’d bet the house the Corrupt Bastards are confident we won’t even retaliate because they have left us on the balls of our asses.

“I rented six rooms at the Motel Six for Stryker and the boys who are temporarily staying there until we figure out what we will do with the Dog Pound. I can’t get a look at the books and where our numbers are because Pipe is in bad way. I don’t know how long I will keep him at bay. The man is thirsty for blood and doesn’t give two shits about consequences. I need to get this plan in motion quickly or else he will tear into the Corrupt Bastards with no one behind him.”

“Riggs can get you hard copies of the club’s finances, make sure you get him put a call into the insurance company. It will take time to get everything up and running so you will need a temporary place to congregate. Pops’ shooting range will do for now, and while your ass is in Jersey, you will need to pay a visit to our friends at the Bergen County charter.”

“I was thinking that,” Blackie says. “I was going to see if they’d lend us their pipes.”

“Fuck that, we’re not showing up at Charlie’s door with a bunch of loner bikes. I was working on a gun deal with Rocco Spinelli, go to him tell him the deal is off the table unless he comes up with the money now, and you replace our pipes with that money.”

“So why am I going to Bergen County?”

“Black, they blew us up, with every intent to wipe us off the grid. Who you going to ride with? Riggs? You two going to be the dynamic duo? You need more man power. You want to avenge this shit then you need an army or this final ride will be
our
final ride and not theirs. You need to roll up to those gates in Boston, deep and wide, headlights for miles.”

I watch as he absorbs my words and nods his head as he takes the pen and makes a list of our men. He’s first on the list, then Riggs, Stryker, Cobra, Deuce and five prospects.

“Pipe,” I add, watching as he hesitates before writing his name.

“I’m worried about him,” he admits.

“I’ve known Pipe for many years,” I start, taking the pen and circling my Sergeant of Arms’ name with the ink. “That motherfucker will be your most lethal weapon.” I cross my arms against my chest and glare at him. “Call Jones and tell him we’re done, not to expect any pay offs. I don’t trust that prick Brantley and we can’t be sure he doesn’t know Jones is on our payroll. You rebuild and you bide your time, make everyone believe what they want. Charlie didn’t do this to avenge Boots’ death he did it to push through our streets. Let him think he can. Let the whole fucking world think Jack Parrish and the Satan’s Knights are finished.”

“Then we get them,” Blackie confirms.

“Then we fucking get them and we hit them hard. They didn’t just go after our club; they went after our families too, no one is safe. Not this time. This time we don’t give a fuck who is innocent and who isn’t. You go in guns blazing, vicious and hungry. When you start to feel your conscience creeping up on you, remember the faces of everyone in that room before the bomb went off. Remember that feeling in your gut, that hopeless feeling when you knew you wouldn’t be able to get to Lacey quick enough, and you fucking shut down that little voice in your head and you do what has to be done. You hear me?”