“How gone?” Beck clipped.
“Chew paid him a quarter of a fortune, he wasn’t exactly kicked back with his feet up before that, no one in Colorado will ever see him again,” Pope answered. “Fuck, probably no one in the US of A will see him again.”
Beck covered the patch in front of him with his hand.
Fuck, Pope felt that.
He felt it.
Then Beck took his hand off and sat back in his seat.
Pope looked at Tack. “Sparkle shared he thinks Chew used everything he had for that hit. And it’s so hot for Chew along the Pueblo to Fort Collins corridor, if he has any brains left in his head, he’s gone. And we already know, you don’t got a pussy or it ain’t dark and you got your back to him and he’s got a tire iron, he doesn’t have the balls to do dick.”
“We can’t take that chance,” Tack replied.
Pope nodded. “Not surprised. Just want you to know, Sparkle himself has communicated he’s out. Don’t know this fuck. He could be lying. Asked around. He’s a professional as in, professional enough to cut and run when shit gets stupid and he wasn’t paid enough for the headache. Almost as much heat on him as Chew, he took out Griller and the way he did. And he ain’t dumb, like Chew.”
Neither Beck nor Tack spoke.
So Pope finished it.
“Just here,” he looked to Beck, “to offer condolences from Range and needed you both,” he looked back at Tack, “to know that state of play. Range is still at your back. Eyes open and ears to the ground and cover if you need it. Send boys down from Boulder, you just say the word.”
“We don’t need any other bikers dead ’cause a’ Chew’s shit,” Tack rumbled.
This was why he hadn’t pulled in their boys from other charters.
Pope understood that.
Those new charters weren’t around when this shit started, so a man like Tack wouldn’t drag them in to finish it.
But even if an apocalypse hit Denver, the work and sweat and blood he put into that Club, Tack would want someone in Chaos left standing.
“Offer stands,” Pope replied.
After Tack nodded, Rush entered the conversation.
“Griller got close, you got anything else?” he asked Beck.
“Only on Sparkle,” Beck grunted, eyes still on the patch. “But all leads to him dried up after he did Grill. Digger’s tapped out on news about Chew, though from what he knew, it confirms Pope sayin’ Chew used everything he had for one last shot at whatever the fuck he’s trying to accomplish with all this shit.” He lifted his eyes to Rush. “But Resurrection is not out. We’re still at your backs when we can be, we’re still on the hunt for Sparkle and we’re still on the hunt for Chew.”
“I’ll say it again, you should bow out, regroup, heal,” Tack advised.
Slowly, Beck turned his attention to Tack.
“You’re right. We should. But that’s not what we’re doin’.”
“Web, Rainman and Spartan got kids, man,” Tack reminded him.
Beck said nothing, just stared in Tack’s eyes, the memorial patch for his brother sitting on the table in front of him.
Pope didn’t have a lot of interest in this club, not when they were Bounty.
Pope was paying a lot of attention to Beck now that he was president of Resurrection.
“I don’t wanna have to have another patch made up, Throttle,” Tack went on.
“Respect. But it’s Beck,” he ground out. “And I don’t want that either. So this has to end. And to do that, we got bounties on Sparkle and Chew. Everything we got left. Everything we could round up. Everything every brother could pour into that pot. We don’t get him, every hunter in eight states lookin’, someone will.”
“Makin’ a desperate man more desperate, you doing that and word gets to Chew,” Tack replied.
“You want us to rescind the bounty on Chew, it’s done,” Beck returned. “But the one on Sparkle stands.”
Tack stared at him, looked over his shoulder at his son, Rush tipped his chin, Tack looked back to Beck.
“The one on Sparkle can stand,” Tack decreed.
Beck’s jaw ticked but he said nothing. He didn’t like that, Chew behind Sparkle killing his brother. But he’d do what he promised.
Tack sat back and rested his linked hands on his stomach.
“Last few weeks, brothers have had tight security systems installed, or tighter ones if they already had them. We’re movin’ our families back home. Appreciate anything you see or hear fed to us.” He looked to Beck. “You boys do what you gotta do.” He looked to Pope. “Time to resume our lives and fuckin’ hope.”
“Hate this for you, brother, and believe it that Range has got that hope with you this ends soon,” Pope said.
“Yeah,” Beck put in.
“Beer before we go?” Pope asked.
“Rosalie out there?” Beck asked Rush, straight up.
Shit.
“Yes,” Rush answered.
“No beer,” Beck grunted. “She needs to get safe home.”
Tack studied Beck closely.
It was uncanny, but Rush was studying him the exact same way.
So Chaos wasn’t going to get a new president.
Just a younger version of the same one.
“Guess we’re adjourned,” Beck decreed.
He then pushed back his chair, yanked out a knife from the table, walked to the brand-new Resurrection flag draped on the wall behind him, held that patch against it and drove the knife through.
He turned, crossed his arms on his chest.
Hardcore went to stand by his brother, assuming the same position.
“Ride safe, men,” Beck bid.
Handshakes were exchanged and the minute Pope opened the door, Range and Chaos were brushing shoulders with Resurrection as what was left of that club filed in.
They closed the door behind them.
Pope did not take that as disrespect.
He just gave his respect to Chaos and the old ladies he knew, and he and his VP got the fuck out of there.
Rush
Three and a half hours later . . .
“God, it’s good to be home,” Rebel mumbled against his chest.
Everyone was home. Kids getting back to schedules. Old ladies getting back to work.
Except Millie.
For weeks, Millie as well as High’s girls by his ex, Zadie and Cleo, and his ex, Deb, were down in Phoenix, hanging with Millie’s parents.
D, Mad and Sixx had all promised to keep an eye on them.
High still called down there seven hundred times a day.
Rush tightened his hold on Rebel, staring at the moonlight dancing on the Christmas balls hanging from her ceiling.
Her body relaxed into his as she fell asleep.
He did not sleep.
Could not sleep.
Because Pope made sense. Chew was out of resources. He was out of options. And he had to be running out of luck.
But Rush knew . . .
This was not over.
Because Chew knew all of that.
And because if it, Chew knew he was running out of time.
Free and Clear
Snapper
Six fifty, Saturday evening, two weeks later . . .
It was raining hard.
He was soaked.
His throat was choked.
His hair was straggling in his eyes, eyes that were blinking away the hair and the wet.
And the blood.
His hands were in fists, including the one with its fingers curled around the butt of his gun.
And Everett “Snapper” Kavanagh stared.
This was it.
The end was near.
And by what he was right then seeing, what had just been done, something that had already been hideously nasty was going to get seriously . . . fucking . . . ugly.
Chew wasn’t going to give up.
That fucking guy was not gonna give up.
The red staining the rainwater was pooling at his boots.
It was Black again.
The asshole had tried to pull the same thing on Snap that his mentor had succeeded in doing to Black.
Just like they thought he’d do.
Take out the brother that everyone liked. The even-keeled one.
The calm in the storm.
Take out the brother that would light a fire under the whole Club that was already a powder keg in an attempt not to blow it sky high, but to force them to scramble to put the light out then toe the line.