Page 11 of Gonzo's Grudge
His lips moved around the words I knew before he even said them: “Always, Dad.”
Then the guard hauled him away, chains rattling, jumpsuit glaring orange against the gray concrete walls. I watched until he disappeared. Until there was nothing left but the hollow ache inside me. Every second of worry he lived through, someone was going to pay in their blood.
It was a silent vow.
Outside, the air was hot, thick, unusual for the mountains this time of year. Burn leaned against his bike, sunglasses shielding whatever truth he carried in his eyes. His presence was steady, a wall I needed.
“Well?” he asked.
“He’s breakin’,” I admitted, the words like ash in my mouth. “We gotta move faster.”
Burn nodded once. He didn’t waste words. “Then we burn the motherfuckers down.”
The ride back to the clubhouse was nothing but wind and fury. My bike roared beneath me, every twist of the throttle an outlet for the rage I couldn’t unleash in that visitation room. By the time I pulled into the lot, my hands ached from gripping the bars too tight.
The curves in the mountains were not a match to the fury inside of me. I tested their limits and my own on this ride home.
Inside, the brothers were waiting in the common room. The air was heavy with cigarette smoke, whiskey, and tension. Shanks leaned against the pool table, arms folded, a storm brewing in his eyes. Waverly sat off to the side of the bar, flipping through court papers like they might suddenly sprout answers.
“Kid’s not doin’ good,” I announced, blowing out a heavy breath. “He’s hangin’ on by a thread.”
“We’re workin’ protection inside,” Shanks said. “Got a couple county boys we can trust. But it won’t hold forever.” Waverly nodded that she was on board with this. Hell, she probably organized the detail on the inside for Shanks.
She was a good woman. A good cop even. But she wasn’t for me long term. Our desires for life simply didn’t align.
“Forever is not the fuckin’ plan,” I snapped. My voice echoed through the room, sharp enough to cut glass. “We get him out. Period.”
Waverly looked up, her expression grim. “They’re pushing this case fast. Too fast. Somebody’s greasing wheels.”
“The new judge pulling the strings?” Burn asked.
“Judge, DA, hell—maybe the feds are involved. Someone’s making moves and doin’ it quick.” Waverly shared. “There is some money involved. Tarte is sorting what she can find but the money trail is twisted and runs deep.”
Always follow the money. GJ had been right. I clenched my fists. “Find it. Every dollar, every transfer. I don’t give a shit if you gotta hack the IRS. Someone’s paying to keep my boy in chains, and I’m gonna know who.”
Burn gave one sharp nod. Shanks muttered something about blood and retribution.
But beneath all the rage was fear. Not for me. Not for the club.
For GJ.
Devyn Tarte showed up later, her sharp heels clicking across the hardwood like gunfire. She carried herself like a warrior dressed in a suit instead of leather, her briefcase snapping open like a weapon. “The evidence they have is flimsy, but it’s enough for this judge,” she said, laying out papers. “No murder weapon on scene. DNA on-site can be explained. Witnesses who can’t get their stories straight. But it doesn’t matter—the judge is in someone’s pocket and ready to use the weight of his robe to see this through.”
“Who’s paying the bill to this man?” I asked, expecting her to say Stanley.
She hesitated. “That’s what I can’t pin down yet. It goes deeper than the mayor. But someone with pull. This isn’t random.”
Of course it wasn’t. Nothing in this world ever was.
“You get me a name,” I told her, my voice low, dangerous. “One name. I don’t care what it costs.”
Her eyes flickered, sharp and assessing. She knew exactly what I meant.
By the time I stumbled to my former home, dawn was breaking. My ex sat at the kitchen table, her face pale from crying. A mug of coffee sat untouched in front of her.
“You saw him?” she whispered.
“Yeah.”
