Page 1 of Stone

Prologue

Stone

“Hurricane, Crave and Rex are covering the back,” I whispered to my brothers, hunkered down around me. “Mayhem, Blackjack, I want both of you to get in position where you’ve a clear sight of the front of the building. Time to make the most of your sniper skills. I’m trusting you guys to cover us. Make sure you take out those fuckers before they get a round off.”

“Got it,” they both respond before they scoot off in different directions to a place where they each would have a clear view of the building from different angles.

Both guys are ex-marines, both highly skilled snipers with nerves of steel and twenty-twenty vision. Worth their weight in gold in situations like this.

“Stone, where’s Ghost?” Edge’s voice is rough as gravel, and when he tries to talk quietly, it comes out more like a croak.

“Doing what Ghost does,” I snigger under my breath. “He’s already in there. Snuck in before we even got here.”

“Fuck,” Wolf tsks. “I don’t know how the hell he does it, but he’s a sneaky fucker. I was out back of the clubhouse the other day and the next thing I knew he was standing beside me. Does he fucking float or something, because the ground is covered in gravel, and I didn’t hear a thing? Shit me up, he did.”

“Not the time, Wolf.” The harsh warning comes from our president, Smoke, cutting him short before he continues with his little rant. “Stone, Edge, you’re with me. We stick to the plan. Walk up like regular civilized Joe’s and knock on the door.”

“They’re going to be carrying,” Diesel adds to the whispered discussion.

“Wouldn’t expect it any other way,” I reply, my hand automatically going to check the Glock that’s tucked safely against my back in the waistband of my black jeans. A second handgun is strapped securely to my leg, along with a hunting knife that might come in handy if it ends up in a combat fight, and I start to run out of steam. Not like it’s going to happen. Even though I say it myself, I’m the fittest I’ve been since my military days.

“Diesel, make your way back to the van.” Smoke takes a long drag from the tab in his mouth. Pollution mixed with words slipped from between his thin lips. “If shit starts, reverse the van up and let the other guys out the back so they can come join the fun.”

“Sure thing, Boss.” Diesel takes off through the undergrowth to hike back to where we’ve left the van, about a half mile away.

“You ready, brothers?” Smoke throws the butt of his cigarette to the ground but doesn’t bother to stub it out. The ground is wet and muddy, so it’s not like it will cause a bushfire.

“Fuck yeah,” both Edge and I say in sync.

When Smoke steps forward, with my hand on Edge’s shoulder, I hold him back just long enough for me to add my own instructions.

“Watch out for Smoke,” I mutter into his ear. “The last thing we need is to lose our president. First sign of those assholes trying to take him out, you bring them down, do you hear me?”

“Affirmative. But for the record, Stone. If anything comes his way, I’ll be the one taking the hit.” Edge responds with a crazed smile.

“Motherfucker,” I chuckle under my breath.

We double-step to catch up with Smoke before he notices we’ve dropped behind.

Edge lives for this shit. The spilling of blood, the ending of life. Not to mention the possible chance of making someone suffer as he tortures information out of them. And his loyalty to his president is absolute. Stupid thing is, every one of Smoke’s men are of the same mind. They’d take a bullet for any of their brothers without giving it a second thought.

The three of us walk towards the brick building. From the outside, it looks like an old bank or police station, but out here, off the beaten track, makes me think it might have been converted from an old homestead that had gone to ruin. The road is nothing but a dirt track, and the roof is as holey as the cheese they sell at the posh downtown deli.

Either way, it wasn’t the kind of place you’d expected to be the hangout place for the Death Valley Irish, currently headed by the Dunne brothers. Most of the gang was blood-related, but that’s no surprise with the Dunnes. Irish Catholics, who rut like rabbits, and won’t entertain using a rubber even if they came with a hundred-dollar bill. Although, if today goes tits up, there could be a swift decline in the number of family members.

We were planning on knocking on the door, but before we hit the bottom step that leads up onto the porch, which would easily fail a safety test, the door creeps open, and a barrel of a shotgun slides through the crack.

“Unless ya’ looking to get yar head blown from your skinny arse,” the high-pitched Irish twang of young Danny Dunne squeaks through the gap, “I suggest ya’ leg it.”

“Gobshite!” the deeper, much older tone of Jimmy Dunne barks from behind his younger brother. “Did ma not teach ya’ any manners now?” The door swings fully open to show Jimmy cuffing him across the back of his head. “And put the fecking gun down before I ram it up ya’ arse.”

Jimmy is a six-foot, red-headed, beard-wearing hard case and the head of the Dunne family who recently started causing us concern here in Nevada. Rumor has it his roots go back to the original IRA, and he still has living relatives back in Ireland that have spent time in the notorious HM Maze prison.

“Gentleman, sorry about the wee lad. He’s a fecking eejit.” He stands tall, head up, looking us over with his green eyes. His expression gives nothing away. With his arms crossed behind his back, a clear sign he’s armed, he smiles, but it’s as fake as fuck. “How ya’ doing? I’ve been expecting you but walking right up to my front door? Now that’s ballsy.”

“So is dealing on our turf,” Smoke growls back at him. “You need to back off, cut your losses and move on.”

“Aw, well, you see, Gentlemen, I can’t be doing that now, because well… it’s not like ya’ own the area now, is it? Ya’ ain’t got no written legal bollocks, now have ya’?” he smirks, rocking backwards and forward on his heels, hands still firmly behind his back. “So, in my book, there’s nothin’ stoppin’ us.”

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