Start a War (Saint View Psychos #1)(84)

People called out to me as we passed the clubhouse. I waved or nodded at them in acknowledgement but ignored their offers of drinks, smokes, food, and pussy.

Drinks, smokes, and food would be plenty tomorrow after the funeral. I’d socialize then.

As for pussy, unless it was Bliss’s, I wasn’t interested.

Fang grunted in our direction when we arrived at the gate and pointed at the short, weedy-looking guy on the other side. “I gave him the option to leave. Multiple times. He’s still here.”

“You check him for weapons?”

“Yeah, he’s clean.”

I nodded, letting myself out of the gate, my boots crunching on the gravel. “You’re either a very brave man or a very stupid one. What’s your name?”

The guy hurried forward. “Winger.”

He was at least five inches shorter than me and thin as a reed. The track marks up his arms were a dead giveaway for the reason he was so twitchy and agitated.

“If you’re hoping to score, we ain’t selling nothing,” Hawk spat out from behind me.

He always had my back, and I knew Fang did too. Not that I would need backup if this guy was dumb enough to try something. I was itching to punch someone after Vincent had got his lucky hit in on me. If it wasn’t going to be him, this guy would do if he gave me a good enough reason.

But Winger shook his head. “I got information.”

I glanced at Hawk and then back at the Sinner. “Go on then.”

He shook his head, his greasy hair hanging limply around his ears. “It’ll cost you. Money up front. Two K.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Or I could just beat it outta you for free.”

The man stopped his twitching. “Come on, War. I need the fucking money.”

“To inject into your arm?”

“What’s it to you?”

I shook my head and turned around, striding back toward the gate. “Not interested.”

Fang and Hawk followed close behind me, and the gate was almost shut when Winger yelled out.

“It’s about who killed your dad.”

I froze. “What did you say?”

“Your dad. I know who killed him.”

I was on the runt of a man before he could blink, lifting him by his shirt and dragging him up against the fence.

He yelped like a little bitch. “Two K and I’ll tell you everything!”

“You tell me everything and I won’t leave your body cold and dead on your mama’s lawn.”

He blanched. “I need the money.”

My fingers crept around his throat. “Your mama need a new lawn ornament? Start talking.”

The fight went out of him. “Fine. I don’t know who set it up. But I know who carried it out.”

“I’m waiting, and my fingers are getting the urge the snap something. Considering the nearest something is your neck, you’re gonna want to give me a name.”

I let my fingers flex tighter around his neck, eyeing the bluing color of his lips as his oxygen supply was cut off.

Fuck, that was satisfying.

Winger scratched and grappled at my fingers, and eventually, that was annoying enough for me to drop him back onto his feet. He coughed and wheezed, staring at me with big bloodshot eyes.

Hawk blew out a plume of smoke from his cigarette. “A name, asshole. Or start digging your own grave, ‘cause you ain’t walking out of here alive.”

Winger’s big eyes darted between us while he rubbed his rapidly bruising neck. “The hitman the club uses when they want someone gone.” His voice was raspy and weak.

I could barely hear him. But when he uttered out the name of the man who’d taken my father and left my mother in a coma, I committed it to memory, carving it into my heart until I could carve their names into his.

“Scythe.”





It rained the morning of my father’s funeral. Which was fitting, ‘cause the old bastard had actually liked it. Nobody else did though, and the service we held at the cemetery was full of black leather jackets, umbrellas, and somber faces.

I let the rain drip down the back of my neck, staring blankly at the minister in front of me who’d fucking promised not to drone on with religious bullshit and yet didn’t seem to be able to help himself.

“Allister ‘Army’ Maynard, was a friend and brother to his club members. A doting father to Warrick—”

Somebody behind me let out a guffaw of amusement at the use of my full name, and I cracked my knuckles.

“And a devoted husband to Alegra.”

“Who the fuck is Alegra?” someone commented none too softly.

“He means Fancy, you moron,” someone hissed back.

The minister tried to get control back of the large crowd, but something off to the left caught my eye.

Bliss.

She stood at the very edge of the graveyard, a black dress skimming her knees, a black umbrella clutched in her hand. Her auburn hair was pulled back in a low ponytail, which hung over one shoulder.

I waved her over.

She shook her head.

I frowned and waved her over again.

She bit her lip uncertainly.

“Fuck this,” I muttered. “Can we get on with it. We’ve got a party to have.”

A cheer went up around me.