The Blood of Brothers: A Sycamore Moon Novel (Sycamore Moon Series Book 2) (17 page)

 

 

 

 

The cool breeze on the patio felt good, but Gaston Delacroix wouldn't feel a hundred percent until he jumped in the shower back at the clubhouse. For most of the last two days, if the MC wasn't riding, they had been locked up. Their release had finally come on what was maybe the hottest day of the year. That wasn't what spoiled the ride back, of course. It was the call they'd gotten about Omar.

To add insult to injury, their clubhouse had been a crime scene. Gaston had only been allowed entrance to check his possessions, but Teresa Banks had done her job: the club's private effects remained untouched. Gaston's safe hadn't been broken into. Nothing had appeared ransacked, by the police or otherwise.

The president of the club leaned his back against a column next to a wooden booth set into a stone alcove on the patio. Two more booths were in the area but they were empty. Most of the patio crowd huddled by the fire pits as it got later.

It was just about that time, he thought. Time to call it a night. To lick wounds. To recover.

Clint came back outside holding four bottles of Miller, two to a hand. "Keg's busted."

Gaston downed the last of his glass and set it on the table. Clint handed him a bottle, put the others down, and slid into the booth. Gaston remained standing, peering through the open door. He was keeping an eye on the girl.

"She don't look to be incitin' trouble," said Clint through his thick beard, offering his opinion even though it wasn't asked for.

"That doesn't tell us what she
is
here for," he stated matter-of-factly. Gaston took a sip of the beer. It was good, much colder than what came out of the keg. The big man sighed and closed his eyes for a second. No, he thought, he couldn't rest yet. Tonight. At the clubhouse.

Gaston opened his eyes and swept the bar again. His guys were scattered. Curtis and Trent played quarters. West moped alone at a table. Diego hung with Maxim and the bitch. It was bad enough she was here, but the cop was giving him a hard time too. And now Diego wanted out of the MC.

Gaston had put up with West's complaints for six months about the man. Not only was he not a wolf, but he had been a wolf hunter. But Curtis and Trent were cool with him. He'd been tight with Omar. With recent events, Diego actually stepped up. Proved himself. West was finally coming around. All that, just so Diego could quit?

Fuck it. Maybe it was for the best. Melody had been half out like Diego was; her mother had tried to shield her from the mud. Things had been much smoother since. Maybe it would be a good thing for Diego to leave.

But Gaston's pack kept getting smaller. The whole reason he usurped Deborah was to prevent that from happening. To protect the MC. With the Pistolas and the problems sure to come from El Paso, keeping together was more important than ever.

The Pistolas. Gaston still didn't think they were involved. They didn't know shit about wolves. There was no way one of those Mexicans killed Omar. No way.

Hotah Shaw was here the other night. Kayda Garnett tonight. The Yavapai were working something, and Gaston would need to prove it to everybody else somehow.

"Well, fuck me," said Clint, rising from the table. Gaston shook away his troubles to address the newest one: a lone man hiked up the road, straight for Sycamore Lodge. A Yavapai with short, buzzed hair.

"That's Kelan," said the president, narrowing his eyes. Without hesitation, Clint rushed towards the patio steps. "Wait!" called Gaston, gripping the man's arm. "This is too public."

The bearded man stewed in his boots. "That boy knows better than to come here.
Especially
now."

"Maybe he's picking up his sister."

"Fuck that." Clint James brushed the bigger man away and marched out to meet the Yavapai in the dirt.

Gaston took a step after him but stopped and checked the bar. The others were inside. So was Maxim. Gaston couldn't just run to the police—no self-respecting biker would ever do that—but he couldn't let this happen.

The big man's indecision was only momentary. He decided to keep the peace himself. Leaving Clint alone would be a mistake. Gaston hopped over the alcove wall and landed in the dirt with a thud.

The two men bore down on each other, neither slowing their pace.

"So I see the police in this town are bought and paid for," said Kelan with a sneer. His hatred for Clint seemed ready to tip him into a rage. "You kill my brother and you're out drinking the next night. All in a day's work, huh?"

"You son of a bitch," shot back Clint after a long chug of his beer. "They didn't lock me up because I didn't kill nobody." The biker swung his arm down fiercely and the brown bottle exploded into the gravel next to him, unenjoyed beer soaking the shards.

"Calm down, Clint," urged Gaston. He arrived behind his friend just as the two stopped in front of each other. Kelan's face was smeared unevenly with black makeup, calling to mind war paint. "And you," he said, two firm fingers pointed at the Yavapai, "you shouldn't be here." Gaston almost spit in the dirt at the man's feet.

What was Kelan thinking? This wasn't Yavapai turf. They weren't welcome in Sanctuary.

The intruder paid no attention to the president. He eyed Clint with cold regard, enjoying his hate. "We all know you played a part in it," said the Yavapai. "We know about your knife."

Shit. Gaston wondered how the tribe had gotten that information. Had the skinning knife been mentioned in the media reports already? Did they have someone inside the marshal's office? Fucking Maxim said he would contain this.

"It was your boy," said Clint, looking to the gathering crowd. "The one who I whupped for three minutes that night. He must have stole my gear after he ran off, licking his wounds." Clint spoke loudly and proudly and drew some applause. Gaston thought maybe some of the men here had witnessed the fight.

Kelan spat. "The cops believed that bullshit, huh? Hotah's twice the wolf you are. It would take more than you to beat him."

That rang true to Gaston. Clint was an aging biker who carried most of his mass around his waist. Hotah was a tough guy. Squat. Solid. Built. As much as Gaston hated to admit it, he couldn't see Hotah losing a fistfight to Clint.

"Fuck you," said the hillbilly. "If you were any smarter, you'd realize I was locked up when your brother's skin showed up at your fancy casino."

Kelan's eyes danced over the crowd wildly, sizing everybody up, gearing for a fight.

Gaston felt the thrumming of his heart in his chest. It was beginning. The adrenaline. He could feel the wolf screaming to break free. None of them could change now, of course—it wasn't the right moon tonight—but their strength was deep in their blood. It was a part of them, no matter their form.

"You obviously didn't do it by yourself," accused Kelan. "My brother was too strong for that. Somebody helped you."

"Help?" asked Clint. "Is that why you killed Omar?"

Gaston's people were usually easier to control, but Clint had always been the wild card. The laundromat was an embarrassing case in point. This time, with the kid dead, there was no way to arrest the boiling blood.

The other night, when Clint was here by himself, he'd confronted one of the Yavapai mercenaries. It had been orderly and disciplined, as much as a brawl could be, but it was against club policy, and Clint had tried to hide his involvement. But Gaston knew his men. He was keeping more to himself. Clint's extra bout of defensiveness was a cover for something.

"You sack of shit," shrieked Clint. "Omar was my brother!" He lunged forward at the Yavapai. Gaston hugged him from behind and tore him away.

"Not here," said the president. "Not like this. The last thing we need is more police."

Kelan smiled. "No problem. You want a three-minute bell? I'll only need one."

"That's what your best friend said," replied Clint gruffly. He pulled off his red leather jacket.

Gaston had seen the three-minute bells before. He'd taken part in his share of them. But times were different. Even under equitable terms, Maxim wouldn't appreciate the street justice. Besides, a fight like this, with the current stakes—somebody was bound to go too far.

"Kelan," growled Gaston, stepping authoritatively between the two men. "You've caught me in a very understanding moment." Gaston swallowed quickly. He hated what he was saying to this motherfucker. He hated looking weak. He hated that his club was vulnerable now. "I'm not gonna put you down this time," he continued, putting on a show for the others. "Just get your sister and get the fuck out of here!"

For the first time since he'd arrived, Kelan was taken off guard. He'd never been fully in control of himself, of his rage, but his twisted smile and face paint proved his intentions. He was looking for trouble and came to the most perfectly unfortunate place. Now, however, there was a chink in his armor.

"Kayda's here?"

Gaston saw the opening. He saw the answer to the delicate situation. Shit, it was getting rid of two birds with one stone. "I'll get her," he said. "You can talk some sense into her. Don't start anything."

The big man spun on his heels, watching the two wolves puffing out their chests and refusing to back down. Seeing the momentary lapse in action, Gaston raced to the patio.

It didn't matter. Once he was away, the yelling and the pounding of fists began. The fight was on.

Gaston stopped at the threshold and saw the three standing at the bar. "Hey bitch," he yelled. His voice was so strong that it overpowered the guitar piping through the speakers. Kayda turned to him. The entire bar did. "Control your brother. Outside." Maxim and Diego and the other Sons immediately rose to full alert. The cop pulled out his cell phone, and Gaston already dreaded their next conversation.

He turned around and saw Clint and Kelan squaring off, a brief lull between punches. Gaston turned on his boot and leaped at the men. His muscles tensed and swelled in his skin. The president was pissed off now.

"This is Seventh Sons turf!" he yelled, stomping towards Kelan.

So much for Mr. Nice Guy.

The next moment was a blur, but Gaston's senses, already primed by the adrenaline, took them all in with ease.

A dark van passing on the street suddenly pulled closer. It skidded to a stop, sending a cloud of dirt over the crowd. The side door slid open with a heavy thunk and two men wearing latex wolf masks lunged out. They had Adaptive Combat Rifles in their hands—the same illegal rifles Doka and the Yavapai had used, the same ones the Sons had purchased from them.

"Gun!" yelled Gaston. He immediately darted to the side and squeezed behind a car, reaching for the pistol in the small of his back. The masked gunmen were faster. A battery of muzzle flashes teased his eyes.

Kelan ducked away. Clint spun around but the gunfire ripped through his back. His feet still carried him from the fray. For a moment, his escape seemed likely but, inevitably, his legs gave out. He collapsed twenty feet away.

The sparse crowd broke into a wild frenzy, some running inside, some to their cars, some even crossing the firing lines. Gaston held off so he wouldn't shoot a bystander. Frustrated, he fired into the air.

The two gunmen flinched at the sound of opposing reports. The wolf masks darted from side to side and quickly located him. The ACRs swung around and Gaston hit the dirt as they pelted the car with bullets, each a resounding metal clunk.

The rest of the MC took cover in the Lodge. Most of them were armed as well. Maxim, holding his pistol, stood by the door and screamed into his phone.

Behind the shredded car, the president took a few hurried breaths and peeked above the trunk. One of the gunmen stood in the middle of the clearing, scanning the crowd. The other let his assault rifle swing down on its strap as he pulled a long knife from a sheath on his leg and advanced on Clint.

The silver light of the moon was weak tonight, barely there, but the glint on the blade was unmistakable. Gaston felt his heart tremble again, but this time it was fear that threatened to overtake him.

Werewolves had little concern for long-term injuries. The wolfskin healed all maladies, removed all pain. But silver retarded that change. It inhibited whatever in the blood made the body strong. Because of Gaston's accustomed immunity, it was quite possible that he was more afraid of that knife than the regular patrons of the roadhouse.

But the gunman was closing in on Clint, and he had to do something.

"No!"

With agility normally impossible for a large frame, Gaston leaped over the vehicle, boots firmly catching the dirt and pushing him forward. Gaston's pistol discharged so fast that he couldn't count the bullets. He charged the midpoint between the gunman and his downed brother, hoping to intercept him. The blitzkrieg was so vicious that the other men, who had heavier firearms, retreated several paces.

As Gaston barreled forward, rifles rose to meet him. More reports, this time from behind Gaston, cut through the air.

"Police," screamed Maxim. "Put your weapons down!"

Nobody listened. Gaston pressed ahead to defend his man, and the two attackers fell back and jumped in the van.

"Everybody get down!"

Gaston's gun emptied uselessly into the vehicle. As its wheels screeched, Gaston's boots skidded in the dirt to stop his wild charge. The van sped away and he moved to Clint.

Maxim barreled past the president as if he were a dog chasing a truck. Gaston could only assume that he was trying to catch the plate number in the low light. The detective was on his phone again, requesting backup that would arrive too late.

The president kneeled over his downed brother. Clint moaned on the floor. He was shot up badly, his backside matted with wet blood. It looked painful, but survivable—at least for them. Curtis and Trent joined him.