CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Brick
After about aforty-five-minute drive west on Interstate Twenty, Shorty pulls into a parking lot in Marshall, Texas. The landscape is flat with lots of trees, and the blazing sun isn’t doing me any favors. Still on my bike, I reach over and grab a bottled water from my saddle bag. I empty the bottle in two drinks, still thirsty.
“What are we doing in the middle of nowhere?” I ask as Shorty as he climbs off his bike.
“Here to meet a client.”
“Client?”
“You’ve been too distracted, brother. Time to put your skills to good use. Our charter doesn’t just run guns and money for the cartel. We actually have a reputation to uphold for doing other things.”
Other things…That part has yet to be completely defined. A black Hummer turns into the lot and I join Shorty, watching as the lone occupant parks and waves. He’s a cowboy, a mile tall, and wearing faded jeans.
“Mornin’, Shorty,” he says.
“Lane Bullock, this is Brick,” Shorty introduces us.
Lane extends his hand and I take it, returning the solid shake and wondering what in the fuck this is all about. The cowboy has a file in his left hand and offers it to Shorty. “Everything you need on Dwight is in there.”
Shorty opens the folder and scans the papers. “Dwight Malcolm. Twenty-eight. This the latest photo?”
I take a look at the picture.
“Yeah,” Lane assures us. “Sonofabitch likes to seduce fifteen-year-old girls—my daughter, his latest victim.”
“Jesus Christ.” I snatch the file from Shorty and take a closer look. There’s a photo of who I guess is Lane’s daughter, pretty little thing with an innocent smile. The very thought of the piece of shit predator getting his hands on a baby like her makes me sick. All I can think about is Starlet and what she went through. Makes me want to kill someone really bad. “What do you want us to do?” I ask Lane.
He gazes at me, his friendly demeanor changes instantly. “Make him disappear.”
I look at Shorty.
“Thought this would be the perfect job for you.”
He thought right. My blood sizzles at the chance to make a difference for once. I nod, close the file, walk to my bike, and tuck the papers in my saddle bag. Shorty shoots the shit with Lane for a few more minutes and then the cowboy gets in his vehicle and drives away.
I light a cigarette and take a deep drag. “You set me up.”
“Nah.” He shakes his head. “Eagle gets all the credit.”
“We’re vigilantes now? Murder for hire?” Not that I mind culling the population, I’d just rather do it on my own terms.
Shorty digs a smoke out of his vest pocket and lights it. “What do you think we are?”
I motion between us. “Me and you?”
“No dumb shit, the club.”
I ignore the insult. From as early as I can remember, I had an obsession for motorcycles. My father bought me my first dirt bike when I was five. As for the charter, MCs were on my radar from the age of fourteen. In the absence of my own family, I was attracted to the idea of brotherhood. What teenage kid wouldn’t be? “Don’t lecture me, old man.”
Shorty laughs. “Still haven’t answered my question.”
“Told you before it’s about the patch… brotherhood.”
“Yeah, that’s a big part of it. It runs deeper, though. And with every Louisiana original that bites the bullet, a piece of the club dies with him.”
“Getting sentimental on me, Shorty?”
