The Sinner’s Tribe Motorcycle Club, Books 1-3

BOOK: The Sinner’s Tribe Motorcycle Club, Books 1-3


Sarah Castille

St. Martin's Press  
  New York


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Table of Contents

About the Author

Copyright Page


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St. Martin's Press  
  New York


To my Harley man

Two bikes, two hearts, one journey



The name of the club shall be the Sinner's Tribe Motorcycle Club.


Jagger skidded his sleek Harley chopper to a stop as incandescent chunks of steel arced across the night sky. Clouds of black smoke engulfed the flaming skeleton of what had once been his clubhouse, now a crumbling beacon at the edge of town.

“Looks like someone wants a war.” Zane, his Vice President and closest friend, dropped the engine of his V-Rod Muscle to idle and pulled his .38 Special double-action revolver from inside his cut, the leather vest bearing the three-piece patch that identified him as a member of the Sinner's Tribe Motorcycle Club. “I know my fires—and that one was accelerated. Hope our arsonist is still around.”

Not likely with fifty angry MC brothers buzzing around the fire
. Jagger parked his bike curbside, and stepped onto the paved lot that surrounded the burning building, converted from a run-down garage into the heart of his outlaw MC. He drew his own weapon, gripping the handle so hard, his knuckles blazed under the streetlight, burning as fiercely as the rage pumping through his veins.

“I'll find him and bring him to you.” Zane's words were a small comfort for Jagger's pain. If the arsonist were stupid enough to stick around and watch the fireworks, he'd never get away alive—not with Zane on his tail. Lean and dark, with the sharpest eyes this side of Montana's Bridger Mountains, Zane was the best tracker in the MC, with the uncanny ability to hunt down even the most elusive prey.

Glass shattered and the flames roared higher into the air, fanned by the dry autumn breeze. The converted warehouse had been a second home for many of Jagger's biker brethren, and its senseless destruction stirred a protective fury in him. As president, Jagger was responsible for his MC brothers. Their pain was his pain. Their loss was his loss. And their revenge … When it came, he would make sure it was the sweetest fucking revenge they'd ever tasted.

“Jag, over here, I found Gunner.”

Jagger walked across the parking lot, following Wheels' voice through the thick, acrid smoke to the forest that bordered the east side of the clubhouse. He spotted the MC's newest prospect crouched under a tree, his golden-blond hair gleaming in the moonlight. The kid needed a haircut bad. Paired with that soft babyish face, the long fringe made Wheels look like a boy band singer instead of an MC pledge. Jagger already had doubts about whether the kid would survive the trials every prospect faced to prove worthy of wearing the Sinner's Tribe full-patch.

Propped up against the tree trunk, one leg stretched in front of him, Gunner grunted a greeting as Jagger squatted opposite Wheels. As a member of the MC's executive board, Gunner could have used his real name instead of the road name chosen by his brothers, but “Gunner” suited him so well he'd decided to keep it. A weapons expert, with detailed knowledge about the construction and use of almost every weapon legal or illegal, he never carried fewer than four guns at any time.

“Took one in the leg?” Jagger's field training kicked in as soon as he saw Gunner's blood-soaked jeans, and he tugged off his bandanna and twisted it into a makeshift bandage for his sergeant at arms.

“Just a flesh wound. Bullet tore the muscle when it grazed my calf. I've had worse. Just need a hand to my bike.” Gunner took the bandanna and tied it around his leg. An inch taller than Jagger, and with a shaved head and pierced ear, Gunner was a slab of solid muscle with strength unmatched by any of the brothers in the club, making him a shoo-in for sergeant at arms at their biannual executive board elections. The man hadn't taken a bullet yet that could put him out of commission.

“What happened?” Jagger helped Gunner tighten the bandanna.
Damn lucky
. He'd seen men lose their legs from a bullet. Hell, he'd seen just about everything a bullet could do to a human body.

“We smelled smoke out back.” Gunner bent his leg, testing his weight. “Cole went to investigate. I heard a coupla shots, so I ran out with a fucking AK-47. Couldn't find Cole, but I saw four guys in cuts in our yard—definitely bikers, but it was too dark to see their patches. One of them was carrying a gas can, and was pouring gasoline along the north wall of the clubhouse. Another was in the woods, and the other two were at the weapons shed unloading our new shipment of AKs into a truck.”

“Fuck.” Jagger scraped a hand through his hair. Could this night get any worse? Not only had they lost the clubhouse, they'd lost the weapons that would have cemented their new relationship with a powerful Mexican cartel who had been looking for an arms supplier in the northern states.

Dry leaves crackled under Gunner's hands as he tried to push himself up. “Yeah, I hear you, brother. And I did my fucking best to save those weapons. I headed into the trees, planning to come up behind the two at the shed. By that time, there was nothing I could do to save the clubhouse. The flames had already spread across the south and west walls. But damned if one of them heard me. He got me in the leg before I could get off a shot.”

“They're gonna be dead twice over when we catch them.” Wheels paled and checked himself when Jagger shot him a warning look.

“I mean you … Jagger … no … the Sinners. And me … I'll be doing what you tell me to do. For the club. Like always.”

Jagger gritted his teeth against the urge to berate the hapless prospect, and gestured for Gunner to continue. Always enthusiastic and eager to please, Wheels had his strengths. Unfortunately, understanding the nuances of biker politics wasn't one of them.

With Jagger's help, Gunner stood, bearing most of his weight on his good leg. “The bastard near the clubhouse finished up with the gas can.” He winced as he tried to take a step. “He was on his way to the truck when a dude on a piece-of-shit Kawasaki Ninja raced into the yard. I heard tires skidding, and then a crash near the weapons shed. I grabbed my gun and just fired blind in the direction of the noise. Then the truck blasted outta here.”

Jagger sent Wheels to the shop to investigate, and then helped Gunner to his bike. The firefighters would be on their way soon, and the cops wouldn't be far behind. Although Jagger had the sheriff on his payroll, not all the local law enforcement were happy to have an outlaw MC in Conundrum. He had to get his men out of here.

Gunner's chromed-out Harley Softail Classic rumbled to life, and Jagger pulled Cade, the club treasurer, from the enraged crowd and told him to lead Gunner and the rest of the brothers to the club's emergency base, a run-down country house on the outskirts of town. From there, they would do a head count, reorganize, and start planning a counterstrike.

“Jag—Jag—Jag—” Wheels raced toward him, his pale face almost translucent in the semidarkness. “Half the weapons are gone, but they caught him. The guy on the Ninja. They're at the weapons shed. Zane's trying to stop Axle from shooting him in the head.”


Fury coiled in his gut as he stalked toward the weapons shed, tucked away in a small copse of trees and far enough away from the heat of the flames that the remaining weapons weren't at risk. His ire wasn't directed just at the Ninja rider whose life he now held in his hands, but at that goddamned son-of-a-bitch, Axle.

He tensed, preparing for a battle that had been festering for over a year. After gaining the support of a small group of dissident brothers, Axle had made no effort to hide the fact that he wanted Jagger's position as president. The fact that he'd dared to draw his weapon on the arsonist, despite knowing Jagger was nearby, was a challenge to Jagger's authority, and even the legitimacy of Jagger's five year run as MC president.

Jagger rounded the corner of the small cinder block shed just as Axle wrenched himself away from an infuriated Zane. With a speed that belied his heavy frame, Axle vaulted across the pavement, skirted the fallen Kawasaki Ninja, and then ground to a halt beside a leather-clad figure sprawled unconscious on the cement.

“Bastard's gonna die.” Axle pointed his .45 ACP semiautomatic Colt pistol at the motionless body and slid his finger through the trigger.

“Drop it.” Rage tinted Jagger's vision red. “Now.”

Axle didn't waver. Violent and vicious, with sharp features and dark eyes, he was a crack shot and always the first to draw his weapon in a fight. And although Jagger shared Axle's need for vengeance and retribution for the wrong done to the club, he couldn't in good conscience condone the execution of a man when there was, as yet, no evidence of his guilt.

“We have to make a statement.” Axle's face twisted in a snarl, and he glanced over at the gathering crowd of angry bikers. “Everyone will expect it—our mother chapter, rival MCs, the Russians, the Mafia, the Mexican cartels, even the Triads. We do nothing, and they'll smell weakness. He's gotta pay a blood price for what he's done to our club, and I'm willing to collect it.” He gave the unconscious biker a hard kick in the ribs, drawing murmurs of encouragement from the crowd.

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