Page 41 of Bram

Bram

“Who the fuck is it?” I said, glancing at the sleeping Julie, wanting whoever was knocking on my door to go to hell. Like most clubs, the Barstow chapter had rooms for each officer. The rooms were basic bedrooms, and each had a bathroom. I kept mine about as clean as any biker could keep their room.

“We got trouble outside,” Kodiak said. “Looks like the Colonel came for a visit.”

Hearing that name, Julie’s eyes popped open. “The fuck is he doing here?”

She threw off the covers, and Kodiak stared, smiling like a kid in a candy shop.

“Get the fuck out of here,” I said. “I’ll be right there.”

“I’m gonna kill that asshole,” Julie said. She grabbed my Glock from the dresser.

“Stop, Julie.” I eased the gun from her hand. “You’re gonna stay right here.”

“You’re not my father!”

“No, I’m not. But I am your Daddy.” I lifted her chin and waited for a smile. She grunted between clenched teeth.

“Asshole.”

“Me or him?”

“Both.”

I pulled her naked body against mine, my dick hardening against her stomach. I would have loved to fuck her again, but a kill waited. I dressed and shoved the Glock in my back waistband.

“Stay here, babe.”

She nodded, and I didn’t believe her.

The black limousine sat outside our front gate like a hearse with better paint, engine off, desert morning sun turning the windows into dark gold mirrors. Six men in Desert Scorpion colors had fanned out behind it, three on each side, guns holstered but hands low, their formation neat. They didn’t look nervous. If anything, they looked bored, the way you get when you’ve already run through every scenario and none of them end with you walking away.

The Colonel stood out front, silver hair crisp against a suit that probably cost more than any vehicle in the yard. His shoes were polished, the kind of shine that says you don’t ever walk through the same dirt as your men. He stood perfectly still, posture parade-straight, waiting for us to come to him.

Rusty was already on the porch, coffee in hand, scanning the scene with that quick, flat calculation he never tried to hide. The rest of the Jackson Brothers had drifted out in ones and twos, posting up in the yard or at the edge of the drive, each picking their own spot of hardpan. Nobody said a word. You could hear the wind rattle the security gate. Someone in the back of the compound started an engine, then killed it, like a threat that didn’t need to be stated.

“You got about two minutes,” Rusty said. “Then I’m going to walk down there, shove my gun in his mouth, and blow his fucking brains out.”

“Give me five minutes,” I said. “We need to do this clean.”

“Four minutes.”

“Stay here, brother. I’ll handle it.”

I waited until the silence was good and thick before stepping out. No kutte, no colors. Just boots, jeans, and a T-shirt, sleeves rolled up over scars and the new healing line where a Scorpion blade had opened me a week ago. I didn’t bother with sunglasses. I wanted the Colonel to see my eyes.

He clocked me the instant I cleared the porch, but he didn’t move, didn’t raise a hand or tip his head. Just waited, the hint of a smile at the edges of his mouth. He thought he was cooler than the other side of the pillow. That was because nobody had ever properly called him on his bullshit.

I didn’t say anything. I didn’t need to. This was the meeting, and he knew it. I stopped ten feet inside the gate and crossed my arms. Rusty took up a post at my right shoulder, hands visible and empty.

“I told you to stay back.”

“When do you remember me ever following orders?”

“He’s mine.”

“What he did to my daughter. What he did to Julie.” Rusty took a step forward, and I stuck out a hand to stop him. He and the Colonel locked eyes. “Not here, Rusty.”