Page 1 of Gonzo's Grudge
Part One
Shattered Saint
After surviving a war zone, Gabriel “Gonzo” Gonzales found himself restless and longing for a connection with his brothers in arms. Having patched to the Saint’s Outlaws MC, he became at ease like never before.
Life was good with people he trusted at his back. Until the person who mattered most in his world dealt with the worst of betrayals firsthand. With his son paying the consequences for someone else’s crime, Gonzo had one focus driving him: revenge.
The grudge would change everything for Gonzo. Needing to change the playing field, he locked in on his target and set his mission for retribution.
Deep in a valley of the Blue Ridge Mountains was a town no one thought twice about. Dreadnought, North Carolina was a quiet place where no outsider dared to enter since the Saint’s Outlaws moved in.
Gonzo won’t lose control. He won’t stop until he’s settled the score. The brothers behind him won’t back down even if it costs them everything.
The Saint’s Outlaws protect their own to the very end.
Welcome to the battle for vengeance.
These outlaws won’t be stopped until the scales are tipped in their favor once more.
Chapter 1
Gonzo
The call came like thunder on a clear day—unexpected, jarring, full of static.
Pop Squally sent out the alert for officers and full patches within range to report in.
Church.
Nonnegotiable unless on a run. Not unusual, not exactly rare, but the timing was all kinds of fucked.
Half the club was out on the road, running a truckload of ARs toward Arkansas. Wrath and his Bella Vista boys had put in their order weeks back, and when Wrath called, you answered—because Wrath didn’t play. Luckily, we had more than enough firepower stashed in reserve to cover it. That wasn’t the issue. The issue was why Pop was calling us in now, with half the table riding as dirty as can be across state lines. They get caught out of a protected territory our guys would be facing some serious time. He wouldn’t take on another job with so many brothers out.
There was this little kernel of curiosity that gnawed at me the whole ride in. While we had random needs to call church sometimes, there was something in my gut that felt heavier this time. I couldn’t explain it.
I killed the engine outside the clubhouse and went through the ritual to get in my seat. Our setup was unique, but the shit was rock solid.
Phone in the basket by the vault entrance door—electronics stripped off everyone like sins at confession. Step inside the first room and remove firearms. Gun in the assigned safety deposit box. My pistol clinked against the steel and suddenly I felt naked, but that was the whole point. Inside church, there were no distractions, no firepower. We were safe together inside this space, no weapons were needed. Just brothers, words, and the storm of whatever the fuck Pop was about to drop.
The vault swallowed us one by one. Concrete and steel muffled the outside world, pressing it away until it was just us and the hum of recycled air.
The old bank was a gem Pop had snapped up years back. Apparently when a bank closes a branch, the building gets sold with a clause that it couldn’t be used as a bank for five years post-sale. Due to the set up for banking, it wasn’t a prime building for many types of businesses without needing remodeling to remove the vault. For us, the bank would never be owned by anyone other than the Saint’s Outlaws holding company. We worked all of the brick building’s features to our advantage. Especially the security measures, the vault as our armory and table. Everything was decided locked together in this room. The camera system was now a closed circuit system, but we had eyes everywhere on the property.
The lobby now had neon lights, smoke, whiskey, and laughter—our playground. The vault though, that was our cathedral. No windows, no leaks, no chance for ears that didn’t belong. Inside here, the weight of history pressed on your shoulders. It smelled like leather with sweat. The air carried the weight of a thousand meetings where decisions got made that changed lives, ended others, and carved our story into the bones of Dreadnought.
At the head of the mahogany table, Pop sat where he belonged. President. He put brothers above everything including himself. A true leader. Master Sergeant in the United States Marine Corps before, Saint’s Outlaws commander always.
Calm in every storm.
His posture said everything: steady hands, steady mind, steady trigger. He didn’t need to raise his voice—his presence filled the room.
I slid into my spot at his right hand. Vice president. Not by charity, not by accident. I’d earned it. Eleven years under this patch, eight tours under his command before that. If Pop marched into straight into Hell, I’d follow him and light a cigarette on the flames as they danced around us.
One by one, the others filled their chairs. Officers locked in at the table, every other patched brother, stood against the walls or took one of the few spare chairs around.
Tower, our secretary, eyes darting like he was already writing down minutes in invisible ink. The man had a mind like no other and never forgot a damn thing. Jester, our sergeant-at-arms, cracking his knuckles and smirking like every problem was just a skull waiting for his fist. He definitely was a shoot first ask questions later type of man. Burn, the enforcer, solid, quiet, all coiled violence. Pull, he was Burn’s shadow, muscle and loyalty stacked in flesh. Disciple, our chaplain, who could quote scripture one breath and snap a neck the next. Peanut, road captain, wiry, sharp, the bastard you wanted planning your route through hell. And Loco, Treasurer, numbers man and smartass in equal measure. Everyone was present that had a crucial role in the club.
The table was full even with so many brothers taking the run for Wrath. The run had patches but no officers for a change and this gave us all the opportunity to be here. Another unusual situation for everyone holding rank to be present with an active run in place. Pop didn’t waste a second. He never did.
