Page 4 of Gonzo's Grudge
Me? I was upright. Barely. My head throbbed in rhythm with my pulse, whiskey ghost still clinging to my tongue.
I dragged myself toward the kitchen, needing black coffee like a drowning man needed air. The machine sputtered, coughed, and finally rewarded me with the lifeline of the gods.
That’s when Pop Squally appeared. He moved quiet, steady, like the hangover never touched him. His years in the Corps had burned that weakness out of him—booze might slow him down, but it never showed. He was already dressed, boots laced, cut on. Eyes sharp.
“Walk with me,” he commanded.
Not a question. An order.
We slipped out the back door, into the cool bite of morning. The mountain air in Dreadnought was crisp, sharp enough to clear the fog from my skull. The town below still slept, unaware that its mayor was playing games with men who didn’t forgive.
Pop lit a cigarette, exhaled smoke real slow. His face was carved stone, unreadable, but I’d followed him long enough to see the cracks. “Stanley’s coming harder than ever,” he shared finally. “This judge move? It ain’t random. He’s got someone backing him.”
I nodded, sipping coffee, waiting.
“I need you steady, brother,” Pop went on. “No heat, no slip-ups. Not from you, not from the table. The patch stays squeaky clean as we can be. We walk the line until we know where the new judge lands.”
He glanced at me, eyes sharp as glass. “But when the time comes? When I give the nod? We take it all. Stanley, Walsh, whoever’s pulling strings behind him. We bury ’em.”
That was Pop. Calm storm. Always thinking three steps ahead.
“You got me,” I said. “Always.”
He smirked faint, just a shadow of a grin. “Knew I could count on you. You’ve been my right hand since Fallujah. Nothing’s changed.”
And just like that, the desert came back.
Sand in my teeth, blood in my eyes, bullets and bombs cracking overhead. We were pinned down together more than once. Eight tours blurred together, but Fallujah stuck.
Pop was my master sergeant then. Calm in the chaos, storm in the waiting, always ready with the next command. He moved through fire like he was immune, barking orders, dragging men back from the edge.
I’d taken shrapnel to the leg, couldn’t move. Thought I was done. Then Pop appeared out of the dust, grabbed me by the collar, and hauled me out while rounds stitched the ground around us.
“You don’t die here, Gonzales, you hear me?” He growled the words in frustration, not at me, but with concern for his men. “You die when I say.”
That was the bond. That was the reason I followed him then, followed him now, and will follow him straight into Hell. Pop wasn’t just a man. He was always the leader.
The memory faded, leaving me with the mountain air, the cigarette smoke, and Pop’s steady gaze.
“We don’t get second chances here,” he explained his concerns. “One slip, one mistake, Stanley nails us to the wall. But we’ve danced this dance before. He ain’t ready for what comes when the Saints push back.”
I nodded again, words unnecessary.
Pop crushed the cigarette under his boot. “Rally the boys when they wake. Keep ’em sharp. No cowboy shit. Monday we see what Walsh is made of.”
And then he left me standing in the morning light, mug cooling in my hand, head pounding but heart steady. Because he was right. Monday wasn’t just another date on a calendar.
It was a fuse, already lit and a wick burning down.
And when it hit the powder, Dreadnought was going to see what a real storm blowing through looked like.
Chapter 2
Gonzo
“Grind down,” I bit out, voice harsh, throat raw from whiskey and smoke. “Cunt’s tight, bunny.”
She smiled as she rode me, all lips and lashes. “New to this.” Her words came out in pants. “Tryin’ Gonzo.”
