Page 62 of King's Barber
“I just need to get my family back.”
“Tell us everything, Barber. Who is your father?” King asked. I was surprised he hadn’t figured it out. A lot of guys who came into the club had a background check done on them because King needed to know who we were dealing with, but when I’d joined we didn’t have so many enemies.
I ran a hand over my head, sighing. “He’s a district attorney over in LA. He goes for the big players because he’s got this rep for being a shark. He doesn’t back down, no matter who he goes after.”
“Damn.” Scar snorted. “Does he know you’re part of the Kings?”
“Yeah.” I shrugged. “I told him to stay the fuck out of my life. When I first joined, the bastard wanted to prove a point, so he went after the clubs in California. Took a couple of presidents down, too. The criminals over there hate his guts.”
“Sounds like you do, too.” King crossed his arms and gave me a sharp look. “Will he give us trouble?”
“Nah. He stopped caring when he realized I wasn’t coming back to that shithole.” I glanced at the large picture behind King. The first brothers in our club stared back, including King himself, Scar, Jester, and a couple of guys I didn’t know. “I don’t know why he’s got an assassin on me. He’s never cared about me before, King, and my father wouldn’t have anything to do with illegal crap. Why he would go to a contract killer….”
“The Society’s been around for a long time,” King murmured, stroking his chin. “They’re a web of interconnecting people, full of dangerous and powerful killers. The fact that his informant had the balls to give him the number was the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. Anyone who knows about them has sense not to give their number out to a lawman.” He sighed. “Let’s not talk about this right now. We need to get Errol and Sophie back.” King’s mouth twisted in disgust. “As much as I hate to admit it, Beaumont is right. They’ll expect us to come, and they’ll put a bullet in your family if they even hear another bike. Quietly is the best way.”
“Do we trust him, though?” Scar asked, crossing his massive arms.
King turned to Undertaker, who nodded. “If he wanted Barber dead, he’s had a lot of chances. I told you, he’s got a killer’s instinct. He sniffs around after blood and death.” He ran a finger over his bottom lip, smearing some of the black lipstick. “I applaud him. He was undercover for a long time and we had no idea until recently. He’s good at his job.”
“That doesn’t answer whether we trust the motherfucker,” Scar said with a glare. “Give me the word and I’ll slice my knife over that frail neck of his.”
Undertaker laughed, the creepy sound floating in the air like a veil of evilness. “You wouldn’t get near him, Scar. He’d have you bleeding out before you realized what was happening. There’s a difference between the Society and bikers. They kill quietly, with finesse. These people are trained to be silent and deadly. You have the subtlety of a toddler on training wheels.”
I quirked a smile, unable to hide my amusement, even if the fear for my family sat heavy in my gut. The weight of anxiety was never anything I’d felt before. I’d never had a reason to worry about Errol and Sophie.
“All right. So we go with the assassin’s plan.” King stared around at us. “Call our brothers that aren’t here. We’ll wait just outside the city until we get word, and trust Beaumont doesn’t fuck us over. If he does, we’ll bury him with the rest of the skeletons.”
There was a noise of agreement throughout the room.
“And Barber?”
“Yeah?” I turned to King, frowning.
“Youcannottell anyone about the Society. I don’t want you dead, brother.”
As much as I hated the idea of keeping the stupid organization a secret from the other Kings, I nodded. “Yes, pres.”
* * *
We metQuain outside the city like we planned. He had his sniper rifle at the ready and told us he’d come in from the trees. All I could do was trust him because after that, I left my brothers behind. I passed a guy leaning against a black Audi on the way out to the house, which told me Quain was right. They were watching me to make sure I didn’t do anything stupid.
A shower of light rain battered against the smokey visor of my helmet, and I growled in frustration as I wiped it off as best I could.
When I arrived at the house, I slid off my bike and put down the stand. I felt for the gun in the holster under my leather jacket and stared around at the abandoned house. When I was a kid, rumors said it was haunted, so no one ever bought it. But the truth was, it was owned by someone who didn’t want to fix it up. There was a history there I didn’t know or care about, and it was the perfect place for squatters, so everyone knew to stay away. How the Mexicans knew about it, I didn’t know.
There wasn’t anything pretty about the house—it was clad with dirty white vinyl panels, peeling paint and broken walls. The arched windows were broken, shards of glass scattered on the wooden veranda that had holes of its own. The shrubs around the front were brown and overgrown, creeping up over and onto the two steps that led to the veranda. The train trestle we’d fought the Demons on not long ago was over to the right, a river rushing angrily beneath it, the bank stretching out behind the house. There didn’t seem to be any sign of life inside, but I knew differently.
I took the steps fast, the rotting wood creaking under my weight, and went to the front door, turning the knob. The door swung open and right off the hinges, the sound loud and thundering to my ears as it crashed to the floor, splitting on the edges and down the middle. I glared at it and stepped inside carefully. The silence was deafening, but as I reached inside my jacket to feel for my gun again, I kept my eyes front and center.
The sound of a creak had me pausing, and a door ahead of me opened, revealing a stocky Hispanic man covered in black ink. He smirked and gestured me forward. “Welcome, Mr. Booth.”
I hated my real name on his lips. Before I became Luke to him, Quain always called me Mr. Booth, and I enjoyed the sound of it coming from him. But not this fucker. “Where’s my family?” I squeezed the Ruger’s handle and raised my chin. “Don’t make me shoot your ass.”
He laughed, the deep noise echoing around the narrow hallway. “I will need your weapons.”
Two men stepped up behind me, and I tossed them a glare. I didn’t know where they’d come from, but they’d obviously been ready for me. One of them held out his hand with a smirk. There was no misidentifying them as anyone but Reyes’ men anymore. They had the same smug smiles on their face, like they thought they could take on the world while it was on fire and come out unburned. The tattoo on their forearm was another clue. I didn’t know how I hadn’t seen it before when I was fighting the other jackass. It was hard to miss. Reyes meant king in Spanish, which meant the insignia had a crown similar to ours, but it wasn’t on a skull like the Kings of Men’s.
“I’m not giving you shit until I see my uncle and cousin.” I glared at the man in front of me, the obvious leader of this Mexican mariachi band.
