Page 82 of True Bastard
My gut twisted into a cold, hard knot as Morpheus pocketed his cell.
Skinner. The name was a brand seared into my soul, a reminder of a past I’d tried to bury beneath layers of leather and violence. He dared to threaten my kitten? He dared to believe he could bargain for her? A guttural roar ripped from my chest, a sound that echoed the primal fury building within me. The smug satisfaction on Morpheus’ face only fueled the inferno.
That motherfucking bastard. He wanted a trade. Me for my woman. Oh, I’d give him a fucking trade he’d never see coming.
Two hours.
The clock was ticking, a relentless countdown to a confrontation I couldn’t afford to lose. My brothers’ gazes, usually a silent testament to their unwavering loyalty, were now fixed on me, their expressions a mixture of grim understanding and unspoken concern.
They knew the stakes.
They knew what this meant.
“The Tumbleweed in Burns, Wyoming,” Morpheus repeated, his voice low and dangerous. He wasn’t just the president; he was a strategist, a puppeteer who pulled the strings of every man in this club. He looked at me, his obsidian eyes holding a chilling glint. “You’re not going alone. Cerberus, make the fucking call.We’re going to make sure those sick fucks learn a lesson they will never fucking forget. You get me?”
His command hung in the air, absolute and non-negotiable.
Yeah, I got him.
I nodded, my words lodging in my throat like shards of glass.
The thought sent a fresh wave of ice through my veins, an insidious fear I hadn’t felt since childhood. Oh, I’d go in and get my woman, but we wouldn’t be leaving any survivors. That motherfucker just threw down the gauntlet, and now he would truly see what it meant to fuck with the Brotherhood of Bastards.
This wasn’t about the Brotherhood anymore.
This wasn’t about club politics or territorial disputes.
This was personal.
My brothers’ faces were grim, their silence a testament to the unspoken pacts that bound us. They knew this was personal. This wasn’t about club business anymore; it was about blood, about vengeance, about the woman who had somehow wormed her way past the granite walls I’d erected around my heart.
Cerberus’s voice, a low growl, broke through the suffocating silence. “We go in hard and fast. No survivors.” His words, meant to be reassuring, only stoked the inferno raging within me. There was no deal to make, no trade to be had, only obliteration.
Skinner had threatened a Bastard, dared to lay a hand on her, and for that, he would pay the ultimate price. The Tumbleweed wouldn’t know what hit it. It would be a massacre, a brutal, bloody statement about the consequences of crossing the Brotherhood of Bastards, and more importantly, of threatening what was mine.
As we sped towards Burns, the miles blurring into a landscape of dust and desperation, I replayed Skinner’s threat in my mind.“Two hours. Two men, and one of them better be who I want or I will make good on my threat.”He wanted me. Hethought he had leverage. He had no idea that by taking Kyllian, he had just signed his own death warrant. He had ignited a fire that would not be extinguished until every last trace of him and his pathetic club was reduced to ash.
He had made it personal.
And the Brotherhood of Bastards always collected their debts.
The town of Burns, Wyoming, was barely a blip on the map. Home to four hundred people, and in the heart of that small town, was the Tumbleweed. A bar and diner that served as the small town’s hub of entertainment. The Tumbleweed was exactly what I expected. A dive bar that looked like it had seen better days a decade ago. The neon sign flickered weakly, advertising cheap beer and bad decisions.
The air outside was thick with stale smoke and desperation as I pulled my bike to a stop beside a lone rider, his face a grim mask in the dim light. I should have known he wouldn’t fucking leave with the others. He might be Disturbed to the core, but the motherfucker would never turn his back on the Brotherhood. Indigo, ever stoic, dismounted without a word, his hand resting on the butt of his pistol. As he walked over to me, he didn’t say much; he never did.
“They are in there.”
“They?”
“Twelve Death Dogs and two hostages. Your woman and a Silver Shadow brother,” he informed just as another rider pulled up beside me.
Shaking my head, I said nothing as he slowly got off his bike and stood. Fuck me, I hadn’t seen him in years, but seeing him now, I couldn’t get over how much he looked like Morpheus. “Got the fucking call. Was in the neighborhood and thought you’d like some help.”
Shaking the man’s hand, I nodded, pulling him into a brotherly hug. “Always, brother.”
Looking around the area, he frowned. “Where the fuck is he?”
“Watching,” I simply replied as Ravage turned toward the horizon and flipped the air the one-finger bird.
