Page 53 of Cassie
We got time
Graeme
Standing near the stage, Graeme Nass scanned the crowd, studying all comers with a close eye for troublemakers. This was his role, and he was good at what he did, working the fringes of every event the Freed Riders put on to ensure things went off like his president wanted: smooth and easy. Graeme—also known as Horse—owed Blackie a blood debt he could never repay, but he kept after what was due from him, chipping away at the feelings of obligation little by little.
Tonight, even with the volatile addition of two very dominant and dangerous clubs, things were going surprisingly smoothly. Mason, the Rebel president was in the center on the rail, his old lady propped in front of him. Her arms were up and waving while he anchored her to his body, holding on and keeping her safe from the crush of the people surrounding her. In concentric circles around them, the crowd was studded through with other RWMC stakeholders, officers and leverage members from a dozen chapters. They’d all converged here to this tiny town in Northeast Texas for a benefit rally. Ostensibly, it was because one of the band members was Mason’s son, but Horse knew differently.
He’d finally gotten Blackie to give him the real lowdown this afternoon, just in time to prep for the evening’s festivities. That’s when he’d gotten the full list of who was in town, and why.
Horse stared at Blackie in disbelief. “Are you fuckin’ kidding me?” Blackie’s head swung back and forth, eyes dancing with the laughter that was never far from his president’s face. “You aren’t kidding.”
“Nope.” Popping the p, Blackie laughed, holding his side as he rocked in place. “Your goddamned face kills me, Horse. Every fuckin’ time. Kills.”
“I wouldn’t get this expression if you weren’t an asshole about shit like this.” Horse sat back on the lightly cushioned bench seat around the table in the RV in which Blackie and Peaches were camping. “Seriously. We’re talking major negotiations happening here, right under everyone’s noses, and you held that shit close to the vest?”
“Fuck yeah, I did.” Blackie’s lip curled and he leaned forwards. “One, we don’t want a fuckin’ war on our hands because of these clubs. We danced through the edges of one years ago, and I do not like looking over my shoulder like that. We do what’s needed for our own shit, sure, but cleaning up like we did? I did not want that in our territory again.”
He studied Blackie’s expression and then sighed deeply, pushing air out with a groaned, “Fuck.” Blackie nodded. “They’re all here, too, aren’t they? Every one of them from that time.”
“Nearly. They’ve had losses, which is another reason I do not want to stir that particular pot.” Blackie reached across and gripped his wrist. Horse turned his arm in the hold, reaching to clasp Blackie’s wrist, too. “We had our own dead to deal with, Horse. We don’t need to take on anyone else’s.”
Still attentive to the shadowed figures along the edges of the crowd, Horse flicked his gaze through the faces and names he knew. Mason and Willa, but back in the day it had been a different woman who occupied that man’s mind. She was here, too, and Mica stood far from the grinding pit of sweaty dancing bodies, leaning her head on the shoulder of a man who looked physically fit, but so well put together Horse wouldn’t expect the man to do anything other than gym routines.
I’d be wrong. He snorted at himself. Daniel Rupert had flown his wife, their two sons, his brother and sister-in-law down in his private jet for the event.Private jet. Rolling his eyes, he studied the couple for another moment. Retired hockey player who still engaged in highly competitive league play, and coached rising star athletes. They weren’t staying on the grounds, thank God. Mica’s family had land only thirty miles away, and Horse had verified that’s where they’d be during down time.Last thing we need is a fight involving citizens.
The RWMC’s international and national president, Fury, rocked and rolled in the pit with his old lady, who happened to be Mason’s little sister. She’d no doubt had a wicked time of it latching herself to a man like him, because Horse assumed Mason hadn’t wanted this for her.Family, they’ll do what they want, every time. Pain from the thought shafted through his chest and he reached up, rubbing his fingertips across the scar just under his collarbone.Fuck family.
Continuing his visual sweep, he marked Duck and his old lady, come in from a western chapter of the RWMC. Horse’s gaze stayed on the man for a long time, marking the scant similarities between this man, a good one by all accounts, and the man Horse had killed all those years ago.
The bull rider stared up at him from the floor of the van, his eyes peaceful as their gazes locked. At least the man was accepting of his fate, not fighting the bonds any longer. They’d picked him up at the Houston fairgrounds, with explicit instructions of how to handle this disposal. It was a coup for the Freed Riders, to be asked for such a marker, and Graeme hadn’t balked at the orders. Not after he’d heard what this piece of filth had done through the years. Serial killers weren’t always who you expected them to be, and a compact, fit, handsome athlete didn’t match the typical stereotype of backwoods loner.Fuck, this guy is scary, he thought, not for the first time.
Turk yelled something from the front of the van and Graeme looked up. By the time he looked back down, the man was writhing on the floor again, mouth chomping on the gag as if he were trying to cut it into two with his teeth.
That had been a watershed moment in his life, a point in time where his morality and beliefs swung freefall over a chasm of doubt, but he’d come out the other side of the crucible stronger than before. Duck’s brother, Ray Nelms, had died in the desert at Horse’s hand, and knowing now what he did, far beyond what had been suspected at the time, Horse still slept easy at night.Does that make me a killer?He sighed.I was a killer. Took his life, but his death was an earned execution.
Cycling his attention back to the stage, he watched the band for another few minutes, then began his visual sweep once more. Marking every known face, and isolating the few he didn’t know for later identification. These were learned skills that he put to use for the club every day. It was what let him sleep at night, and ensured those under his care were safe and protected.
Something moved in the shadows and his gaze paused, settling onto the inky darkness. The outline of a body, an elbow held akimbo from the torso, the glint off something metallic—he was moving within an instant, racing through the edges of the crowd. Crouching carefully, he slipped past members of a dozen clubs, their wives and children, lovers and families intertwined in the pit. It was a killing ground, too crowded to escape easily, and if there were chaos…
Horse came up against the side of a tent, ruthlessly controlling his breathing to listen intently for the slightest sounds. He heard a click, sounding like coins rubbing together in someone’s pocket, then a muffled curse, then, farther away, a footstep.
By the time he rounded the corner, the dark nook was empty, nothing more than the heavy scent of a man’s cologne to indicate anyone had been present. He swept the ground with his gaze and bent over, picking up a glinting talisman. Horse stared at what he held for a moment, then turned to stare out over the undulating crowd with wide eyes. Blackie caught his attention with a questioning shrug and he jerked his head, calling his president over. A moment later he reached out and placed it in Blackie’s palm.
“What the fuck?” Blackie echoed what had been running through Horse’s mind as they stared at the bright brass cartridge of an unfired bullet.
***
Hoss
Hoss looked around the group gathered on the other side of the fire in the RWMC camp, frowning as he watched the Freed Riders members mingling comfortably with the Rebels. Peaches balanced on one knee, Blackie sat near Truck and Mason, who held their own old ladies close. Hoss leaned forwards and swiped another beer from the nearby cooler.Dammit.
Mason turned his head and gave him a look, then with a pat on Willa’s ass, moved her so he could stand. Stalking around the firepit until he was close enough to grab his own beer, he stood with an arm crossed over his chest, bottle to his lips for a long drink.
“What the fuck’s up your ass?” Low, pitched for Hoss’ ears only, Mason’s growled words yanked Hoss’ spine straight. “You been scowling all goddamned night, and I’m not quite sure what’s eatin’ at you, but you needa fix it now. Willa’s worried about you.”
“I haven’t been able to get ahold of Cassie.” He admitted this easily, because he knew she was okay. What he wouldn’t admit was in addition to talking to Sammy, he’d also sent more than one prospect to roll past her house and peer into her garage and windows like fucking stalkers. They’d reported back via Myron that there was activity in the house, and all vehicles were accounted for in the garage. “Bothers the hell outta me that the last words we exchanged were angry ones.” He shrugged. “Fucked up, and I know it.”
“How you gonna unfuck that?” Mason tipped the bottle up again, his neck working as he swallowed. “You’re the plannin’ man. What you got tucked up your sleeve?”
