Page 46 of Reconciling the Consequences

Johnny’s eyes narrowed on his buddy. It wasn’t like him to question his decisions as club vice president. “You want to start a war? Now?” Johnny growled, turning to face his buddy head-on.

Devil shook his head. “If King—”

“King’s locked up, brother.” Johnny growled, getting in Devil’s face. “My dad is locked up.” Johnny heaved a deep breath. “Andthatis exactlywhywe can’t afford to kick shit off with the Psychos. They have more men on the inside. We want our president back alive and whole.” Johnny growled again. “We gotta play the fucking long game.”

Devil paused and eyed Johnny before picking his words carefully. “I get that, man, I do, but they know we’re vulnerable. They know King is our weakness, and they are using him to press us even further.”

Johnny sighed and turned away from his friend and brother. He ran a hand over his buzzed head and tried to think this through. He knew Devil was right, but the club voted across all the fucking charters—it was bigger than just them. They voted to move the trade routes to keep the peace for now, for King’s sake.

Johnny had never been as grateful for the club as he had after that vote. His own fucking father’s life was on the line while he was in the county jail awaiting trial. Johnny was mostly on his own in a gang war that had hard lines and even harder enemies.

The Psychos had so many of their own inside it was unreal. King was outnumbered. And that’s not even mentioning whatever deal they had with the Italians and the fuckingsnakesthat were Las Serpientes.

Johnny was grateful they had managed to get his dad some protection from the Bratva. The fact that they’d worked well with Tarazov’s crew over the years was something that had put Johnny’s mind at ease. With the Russians at their backs and the trade routes shifted to avoid conflict for the time being, it bought them some time to get his father out of county.

Kara was confident that she had what she needed to put her own father behind bars. Between her and Danvers, they would succeed, and Mac Taylor would be home soon. Johnny just had to have faith.

“Look, brother,” Johnny sighed, “I’m trying here,” he admitted because it was Derrick, his brother.

Derrick immediately cooled off and sighed. He too, turned away. Tensions were high, there was no doubt about it. Everyone was getting worked up over the Psychos’ bullshit. Kara’s being targeted by her father and her recovery were only two more things that weighed them down.

“I know, man.” Derrick sighed. “Shit.” He shook his head.

Johnny nodded, already knowing how fucked up everything had gotten.

God, they needed a fucking break already.

Marcoswassleepingwhenthe racket kicked off in the clubhouse, shouting and banging pulling him from a deep sleep. There was a bang on his dorm door before it was opened and Stone pushed his head inside. “Yo, Marc, we’ve got problems. Nickle was just delivered, beat half to death by the fucking Knights.”

“Fuck.” Marcos cursed and rolled out of bed; a quick glance at the clock showed it was going on six a.m.

He pulled on his clothes from the night before. Everything was right where he left it. He didn’t usually stay at the clubhouse, as he had his own apartment, so he didn’t keep much in his dorm.

He slipped his feet into his boots and pulled his cut on as he walked out of his room and into the long hallway that led to the main barroom. Angry male voices grew louder the closer he got. “Those fucking Knights ravaged Nickle!” someone shouted.

Marcos stormed into the fray of angry brothers to see what the hell was going on. Nickle was laid out on the floor with everyone crowded around. Marcos couldn’t see shit. “Move,” he snapped at the crowd of men.

They parted and Marcos could see firsthand how beat-to-hell Nickle was. “Motherfucker.” He growled, his blood boiling as he took him in. “They stapled—”

“Next spy gets the bag,” Stone read from next to Marcos.

“Why the FUCK was he spying on the Knights?” Marcos growled, turning to the room.

“I sent him.” The raspy voice of President Buckley answered from the back of the room as he hobbled into view.

Marcos was quick to school his expression before he turned to face his president.

Buckley was an aging man of sixty-five. His health and body were deteriorating faster than he’d like; some days Marcos thought his mind wasn’t far behind. Buckley was hunched over from a bad back and should be on oxygen but often went without it because, in his mind, it “made him look weak.” His full head of hair was white, along with his beard, and his hair was pulled back into a greasy ponytail. His face was wrinkled and leathery from age and too much sun over the years.

Buckley shuffled in, looking older than shit, a scowl on his face when he saw the state of his spy.“He dead?” he asked, voice hard and emotionless.

“No, sir,” Russel, a prospect, answered.

Buckley grunted and moved closer, taking in the sign stapled to Nickle’s chest.

Marcos caught Stone’s and Dagger’s eyes as they moved closer to the scene. “Why was he spying on the Knights?” Dagger asked Buckley.

Stone caught Marcos’s eye and shook his head subtly. He hadn’t heard about it either, apparently.

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