Page 7 of Gonzo's Grudge
GJ booked. Murder first degree. Breaking and entering. Evidence: fingerprints all over the scene. DNA back already—his, and Pop’s. It’s buttoned up, DA moving forward.
Too clean. Too fast. I didn’t type those words and neither did she.
Scare tactic. Frame job. Didn’t matter what they said—I knew my son. He was twenty-one. He was hotheaded, yeah, but he worshiped Pop. Pop was a second father. He wouldn’t, no he couldn’t kill him.
This wasn’t about GJ. This was about us. About the Saint’s Outlaws motorcycle club. About Stanley finally finding his knife to stick in our ribs because he wanted to feel like he had some power.
A single call later, my world shattered all over again. Our lawyer, Tarte, laid it out like a bullet to the skull. “They’ve got him cold. Enough for life if you don’t prove otherwise.”
Life.
My son. My blood.
No.
I’d fucked up a lot in my life, but GJ was the one thing I did right. The one good thing I gave this world.
Now they wanted to bury him.
No.
I wasn’t gonna let that happen.
Whoever killed Pop. Whoever framed my boy. Whoever lined Stanley’s pockets and pulled Walsh’s strings, whoever had a hand in any of this was about to find out.
They would pay.
For every day GJ sat locked in a cage, someone would bleed.
And when the smoke cleared, the whole fucking town would remember what happens when you come for the Saint’s Outlaws.
Chapter 3
Gonzo
Church.
The call to meet was made. It was time to share the news.
Twenty-four hours had passed, rumors were running wild. Should I have called this sooner?
Possibly. Probably.
But I had to get my head on straight first.
Half the club was gone on the trip to Bella Vista, the other half hungover, yesterday wasn’t the time. I needed to sort through the details I could get from our attorney because no moves would be made without all the facts. While everyone deserved to know, I had to also make sure GJ was secured and safe before taking on the club and what came next.
Somberly, I dropped my firearm in the deposit box before stepping up to the table.
I walked the space unable to put myself in the seat. I knew the role and the expectation that I had to step up in his absence. But moving forward without Pop Squally didn’t feel right. Every patched brother began to file in behind me as I prepare my mind for the next steps. Once the door closed, I took a deep breath.
“Some of you have heard, some maybe have not,” I began pacing the area not able to sit in his seat or my own. “Pop Squally took his final ride.” The words sat heavy in my blackened soul. Nothing about that felt right. Sure, we all had a day to meet the reaper, but this was not supposed to be his dammit. That last ride was supposed to be peaceful or going out in a blaze of glory. Not gunned down in his fucking boxers while sitting in his recliner waiting on a prospect to grab some keys before he crashed for the night. Hell, the man had the water sitting out to add to his damn CPAP machine. He didn’t have time to think much less prepare to die. He was ready to dream about pussy or a new bike, not take a permanent slumber.
There was a stark silence over the room.
“My son.” I blew out a breath. “He’s?—”
Clutch stood moving toward me. “Gonzo, don’t even say the shit. That’s bullshit and every brother in this room knows it.”
