Rough Justice (Sinner's Tribe Motorcycle Club #1)(2)
“They’re gonna be dead twice over when we catch them.” Wheels paled and checked himself when Jagger shot him a warning look.
“I mean you … Jagger … no … the Sinners. And me … I’ll be doing what you tell me to do. For the club. Like always.”
Jagger gritted his teeth against the urge to berate the hapless prospect, and gestured for Gunner to continue. Always enthusiastic and eager to please, Wheels had his strengths. Unfortunately, understanding the nuances of biker politics wasn’t one of them.
With Jagger’s help, Gunner stood, bearing most of his weight on his good leg. “The bastard near the clubhouse finished up with the gas can.” He winced as he tried to take a step. “He was on his way to the truck when a dude on a piece-of-shit Kawasaki Ninja raced into the yard. I heard tires skidding, and then a crash near the weapons shed. I grabbed my gun and just fired blind in the direction of the noise. Then the truck blasted outta here.”
Jagger sent Wheels to the shop to investigate, and then helped Gunner to his bike. The firefighters would be on their way soon, and the cops wouldn’t be far behind. Although Jagger had the sheriff on his payroll, not all the local law enforcement were happy to have an outlaw MC in Conundrum. He had to get his men out of here.
Gunner’s chromed-out Harley Softail Classic rumbled to life, and Jagger pulled Cade, the club treasurer, from the enraged crowd and told him to lead Gunner and the rest of the brothers to the club’s emergency base, a run-down country house on the outskirts of town. From there, they would do a head count, reorganize, and start planning a counterstrike.
“Jag—Jag—Jag—” Wheels raced toward him, his pale face almost translucent in the semidarkness. “Half the weapons are gone, but they caught him. The guy on the Ninja. They’re at the weapons shed. Zane’s trying to stop Axle from shooting him in the head.”
Fuck.
Fury coiled in his gut as he stalked toward the weapons shed, tucked away in a small copse of trees and far enough away from the heat of the flames that the remaining weapons weren’t at risk. His ire wasn’t directed just at the Ninja rider whose life he now held in his hands, but at that goddamned son-of-a-bitch, Axle.
He tensed, preparing for a battle that had been festering for over a year. After gaining the support of a small group of dissident brothers, Axle had made no effort to hide the fact that he wanted Jagger’s position as president. The fact that he’d dared to draw his weapon on the arsonist, despite knowing Jagger was nearby, was a challenge to Jagger’s authority, and even the legitimacy of Jagger’s five year run as MC president.
Jagger rounded the corner of the small cinder block shed just as Axle wrenched himself away from an infuriated Zane. With a speed that belied his heavy frame, Axle vaulted across the pavement, skirted the fallen Kawasaki Ninja, and then ground to a halt beside a leather-clad figure sprawled unconscious on the cement.
“Bastard’s gonna die.” Axle pointed his .45 ACP semiautomatic Colt pistol at the motionless body and slid his finger through the trigger.
“Drop it.” Rage tinted Jagger’s vision red. “Now.”
Axle didn’t waver. Violent and vicious, with sharp features and dark eyes, he was a crack shot and always the first to draw his weapon in a fight. And although Jagger shared Axle’s need for vengeance and retribution for the wrong done to the club, he couldn’t in good conscience condone the execution of a man when there was, as yet, no evidence of his guilt.
“We have to make a statement.” Axle’s face twisted in a snarl, and he glanced over at the gathering crowd of angry bikers. “Everyone will expect it—our mother chapter, rival MCs, the Russians, the Mafia, the Mexican cartels, even the Triads. We do nothing, and they’ll smell weakness. He’s gotta pay a blood price for what he’s done to our club, and I’m willing to collect it.” He gave the unconscious biker a hard kick in the ribs, drawing murmurs of encouragement from the crowd.
Jagger cursed under his breath and holstered his weapon beneath his cut. He maintained his leadership position by using coercion and power to impose his will on his brothers. Drawing his weapon on Axle, as he was tempted to do, would suggest he could no longer control Axle by force of will alone—an admission of weakness that could cost him his presidency, even his life. He fisted his hand at his side and glared “My club. My call. If you shoot him, it’ll be the last f*cking thing you ever do.”
Axle stood motionless above the fallen biker, sweat beading his brow as he toyed with his gun, no doubt weighing the chance to be the club hero against the very real possibility Jagger would make good his threat.
Jagger’s pulse pounded out each second of delay. Axle had been a thorn in his side far too long, but until now, he’d been smart enough never to openly defy Jagger, preferring instead to skulk resentfully in the shadows, making underhanded attempts to erode Jagger’s power base. Tonight, however, the emotionally charged situation was clearly an opportunity Axle couldn’t pass up. He had finally shown his hand. But Jagger hadn’t held the presidency for five years without knowing how to deal with snakes like Axle.
“Step away. I’ll deal with him.” Pointedly ignoring Axle’s weapon, and without waiting for Axle’s compliance, Jagger crouched down beside the unmoving figure. Small for a Ninja rider and thin … almost delicate. He carefully rolled the unconscious biker to the side, and his fists convulsed with suppressed rage when he saw the Black Jacks MC patch, a jack from a deck of playing cards with a skull for a face.