Rough Justice (Sinner's Tribe Motorcycle Club #1)
Sarah Castille
To my Harley man
Two bikes, two hearts, one journey
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
To the bikers on the ferry between Harwich and Esbjerg for all the ideas, and my agent, Laura Bradford for knowing I was a biker chick at heart. And to my fabulous editor Monique Patterson for polishing my manuscript and making it shine, and her assistant Alexandra Sehulster for her patience with my questions about turtle soup. To Jill, Donna, and Bev for their sharp eyes and helpful insights. And always to my family, for their patience, understanding, and ability to act out even the most complicated fight scenes.
ONE
The name of the club shall be the Sinner’s Tribe Motorcycle Club.
“Christ.”
Jagger skidded his sleek Harley chopper to a stop as incandescent chunks of steel arced across the night sky. Clouds of black smoke engulfed the flaming skeleton of what had once been his clubhouse, now a crumbling beacon at the edge of town.
“Looks like someone wants a war.” Zane, his Vice President and closest friend, dropped the engine of his V-Rod Muscle to idle and pulled his .38 Special double-action revolver from inside his cut, the leather vest bearing the three-piece patch that identified him as a member of the Sinner’s Tribe Motorcycle Club. “I know my fires—and that one was accelerated. Hope our arsonist is still around.”
Not likely with fifty angry MC brothers buzzing around the fire. Jagger parked his bike curbside, and stepped onto the paved lot that surrounded the burning building, converted from a run-down garage into the heart of his outlaw MC. He drew his own weapon, gripping the handle so hard, his knuckles blazed under the streetlight, burning as fiercely as the rage pumping through his veins.
“I’ll find him and bring him to you.” Zane’s words were a small comfort for Jagger’s pain. If the arsonist were stupid enough to stick around and watch the fireworks, he’d never get away alive—not with Zane on his tail. Lean and dark, with the sharpest eyes this side of Montana’s Bridger Mountains, Zane was the best tracker in the MC, with the uncanny ability to hunt down even the most elusive prey.
Glass shattered and the flames roared higher into the air, fanned by the dry autumn breeze. The converted warehouse had been a second home for many of Jagger’s biker brethren, and its senseless destruction stirred a protective fury in him. As president, Jagger was responsible for his MC brothers. Their pain was his pain. Their loss was his loss. And their revenge … When it came, he would make sure it was the sweetest f*cking revenge they’d ever tasted.
“Jag, over here, I found Gunner.”
Jagger walked across the parking lot, following Wheels’ voice through the thick, acrid smoke to the forest that bordered the east side of the clubhouse. He spotted the MC’s newest prospect crouched under a tree, his golden-blond hair gleaming in the moonlight. The kid needed a haircut bad. Paired with that soft babyish face, the long fringe made Wheels look like a boy band singer instead of an MC pledge. Jagger already had doubts about whether the kid would survive the trials every prospect faced to prove worthy of wearing the Sinner’s Tribe full-patch.
Propped up against the tree trunk, one leg stretched in front of him, Gunner grunted a greeting as Jagger squatted opposite Wheels. As a member of the MC’s executive board, Gunner could have used his real name instead of the road name chosen by his brothers, but “Gunner” suited him so well he’d decided to keep it. A weapons expert, with detailed knowledge about the construction and use of almost every weapon legal or illegal, he never carried fewer than four guns at any time.
“Took one in the leg?” Jagger’s field training kicked in as soon as he saw Gunner’s blood-soaked jeans, and he tugged off his bandanna and twisted it into a makeshift bandage for his sergeant at arms.
“Just a flesh wound. Bullet tore the muscle when it grazed my calf. I’ve had worse. Just need a hand to my bike.” Gunner took the bandanna and tied it around his leg. An inch taller than Jagger, and with a shaved head and pierced ear, Gunner was a slab of solid muscle with strength unmatched by any of the brothers in the club, making him a shoo-in for sergeant at arms at their biannual executive board elections. The man hadn’t taken a bullet yet that could put him out of commission.
“What happened?” Jagger helped Gunner tighten the bandanna. Damn lucky. He’d seen men lose their legs from a bullet. Hell, he’d seen just about everything a bullet could do to a human body.
“We smelled smoke out back.” Gunner bent his leg, testing his weight. “Cole went to investigate. I heard a coupla shots, so I ran out with a f*cking AK-47. Couldn’t find Cole, but I saw four guys in cuts in our yard—definitely bikers, but it was too dark to see their patches. One of them was carrying a gas can, and was pouring gasoline along the north wall of the clubhouse. Another was in the woods, and the other two were at the weapons shed unloading our new shipment of AKs into a truck.”
“Fuck.” Jagger scraped a hand through his hair. Could this night get any worse? Not only had they lost the clubhouse, they’d lost the weapons that would have cemented their new relationship with a powerful Mexican cartel who had been looking for an arms supplier in the northern states.
Dry leaves crackled under Gunner’s hands as he tried to push himself up. “Yeah, I hear you, brother. And I did my f*cking best to save those weapons. I headed into the trees, planning to come up behind the two at the shed. By that time, there was nothing I could do to save the clubhouse. The flames had already spread across the south and west walls. But damned if one of them heard me. He got me in the leg before I could get off a shot.”