Chapter 7

Vapor

Ivolunteered to gather intel on the Hellfire Hounds for two reasons. The first reason is that they are the one percent club that's been shooting at our club members and trying to burn down our shit for years. We've been locked in a power struggle for territory for as long as I can remember. Because the Hellfire Hounds are one percenters, they are possibly our most dangerous adversary.

The second reason is because I'd really like to get eyes on all their bikes so I can figure out whose woman I hooked up with last weekend. I don't know why this has been stuck in my head, but I just can't let it go. Trix is the one piece of pretty that I can't seem to stay away from, no matter how hard I try. I warmed up to her far too quickly, and although she says she's free as a bird, I still can't shake the idea that she turned me unwittingly into her side piece. Tracker just about lost his shit when she showed up at our bar in town a couple of days ago. Even though she swore they weren't together, the man sure as fuck seems vested in her life. I asked him about her as subtly as I could, but all he said was they had history, but not the romantic kind.

Rigs and I have been taking turns shadowing the Hounds with the hopes of figuring out all their dirty little secrets. I'm on the night shift, so I left the clubhouse at dusk to follow King who looks to be heading across town to meet with his longtime supplier. As always, he left the club in the capable hands of his VP, Jinx and a half dozen prospects. The two-story brick clubhouse is located behind a cinderblock tire business. Both are behind a ten-foot-tall chain link fence. Their electronic security alone would make the secret service green with envy—though it didn't stop Zen from hacking into the system. King takes his responsibilities as club president and grandfather very seriously. There are clearly certain things the old buzzard never risks. His family and club are at the top of that short list.

Tonight he's meeting with a contact by the name of Scud, presumably to purchase contraband weapons. Our club tipped off law enforcement about their last shipment and it was impounded as soon as it crossed the county line. King had been pretty damn upset, which is probably why he's seeing to this transaction himself.

I hang back out of sight and follow them using the tracker Rigs attached to King's bike. Zen, our club's IT guy also managed to hack King's phone, so we can hear what's going on as long as his phone is turned on. Our club officers have decided now is the time to start solving the Hellfire Hounds problem and they're throwing everything they've got at it.

I stay out of sight, and it doesn't take them long to stop at an abandoned barn just off the highway. I'm able to get close enough to watch the action through my binoculars without them noticing. Parking their bikes in the back, they wait for Scud. Boone draws his attention by stooping beside him as he keeps watch. His sergeant at arms might just be the best in the region. He's quick and street smart. Protecting the club and his brothers comes as naturally as breathing to this guy.

I turn up the volume on my earpiece so I can hear what they're saying.

"Hey boss, you think Tracker's guy can be trusted?"

"Tracker's my goddamn grandson. He's never gone wrong when it comes to trusting a contact. If he vouches for Scud that means he's solid. The bottom line is we need weapons so we're gonna have to take a chance."

"We're definitely in a fix right now, boss. If the fucking cops hadn't confiscated our last shipment, our armory would be packed with everything we need to take the Legion out. This shipment is half of our last one and we're short of the three club members that got arrested. As it stands now, we're gonna be screwed if the Legion picks a fight with us."

"Stop fucking panicking, Boone. Weapons can be scrounged. Be more worried about our brothers that got pinched." King's voice is tinged with an edge of desperation. This is clearly a man under pressure, pressure our club created.

"Losing that shipment to the police really put us in a bind," Boone says.

King adds, "Yeah, that's why we'd best get to scrounging. On top of needing weapons ourselves our buyer has been calling repeatedly for the merchandise we promised."

Someone said something else, but I couldn't make it out because a truck came rumbling by. It sounded like they were discussing how short they were.

"The problem is," King grumbles, "We don't have enough to fill the order, much less for anything to be left over for our armory."

The Legion has known for a long time that King was running short on weapons. Giving up even one weapon from their personal stock isn't really an option because of the escalating conflict with us.

Shipping another load through their normal network right now was not possible so they resorted to a quick deal with someone they hardly knew. Regardless of the fact that Tracker had vouched for him, making a deal with Scud was a gigantic risk.

I long to take a draw off my vape as I watch King light a cigarette, but I don't want to do anything that might give away my position. After a few quick puffs, King stubs out his smoke and tucks it in his pocket. This old man was meticulous about not leaving behind evidence. He was even wearing black leather gloves.

They all turn when they hear a vehicle approaching. Scud arrives in a beat up pick-up truck, dressed like a plumber in overalls and work boots. Dusting his hand across the front of his overalls, a cloud of dust flies off the pants, causing him to sneeze. I zoom in with my binoculars and adjust my earpiece.

He steps out to greet the president of the Hellfire Hounds. "I was expecting Tracker."

"I know you usually deal with my grandson, but I wanted to meet you myself to establish a working relationship. Guess you heard what went down on Route Sixty?"

"I heard those fucking deputies arrested your men. I hope they don't end up serving time over that shit."

"We've got a damn good club lawyer. The rifles were mostly all legal. They might be able to get on an interstate transportation of weapons charge. Our lawyer is doing his best to work it out for us."

Scud responds wryly, "I hope your attorney told them to keep their stupid traps shut. One person saying the wrong thing can implicate the others. They all might wind up serving time."

"They've been warned by our lawyer to shut the fuck up."

"That's gonna be their best bet for avoiding a long sentence. If there's anything I can do, let me know. You here for the shipment Tracker talked about?"

"Clearly, we need to replace the cargo that got impounded by the police. Like I said, it was all rifles. We need as many used weapons as you can get your hands on. If they're a little dodgy, that's okay. We've got guys who can fix them right up."

"Tracker said you were interested in Colts. I've got fifty of them in my truck right now. I don't know what kind of timeline you're up against, but I can get more later this month. If you're open to different models, I can fill your order faster. Hell, I even have a Remington with a mounted night scope and bump stock attachment but that's not for sale at the standard price."

I watch King scratch the back of his neck as he likely runs over the numbers in his head. Rubbing his chin, he takes a moment. My best guess is the old man is parsing out the details of the sale. Finally, he says, "I'll look over the Colts you have with you today and I'll probably take the one with the night scope. I'll send Tracker to look over whatever else you can dig up for my club brothers. I'll take the rifles you have for sale today as is, on a show of good faith, but my grandson will need to give all the used ones a test drive before purchasing them."

King is smart. He's not giving this shady arms dealer an opportunity to layer junk rifles into the next shipment.

Scud nods at that.

"The deal has to be cost effect or we can't buy from you. Always bear that in mind," King says as he walks toward the truck.

"That makes sense. If you want to come and have a look, I might be able to negotiate a little on the price if you buy them all, but I'm not gonna take a loss."

"My grandson said you were honest, dependable, and always made a fair deal. Unless I find out otherwise, I'm gonna take his word for it."

Scud's body relaxes. It's weird how I can tell that from so far away. It's like he was standing straight as a board one second and the next his shoulders slumped, one leg moved into a more comfortable position and even his arms became looser. "I hope this is the beginning of a long and prosperous relationship between us, King."

There's silence as King starts rummaging through the weapons in the back of Scud's truck. He picks up the rifle with the mounted scope and looks through it. When the weapon sweeps in my direction, I quickly step back and out of sight behind some foliage. The last thing I need is the Hound's club prez catching sight of me. Right now, they have no idea we're monitoring them, and I intend to keep it that way.

"I will see that our relationship is mutually beneficial on my end, Scud. If you ever need to unload weapons or supplies, call me first."

After some more back and forth and a friendly handshake, they were on their way back to the clubhouse. The thing was, King didn't seem happy with the situation. I didn't know whether it was the limited number of rifles, being unable to fill that order they talked about, or the price he'd settled on that didn't sit right with him. Whatever it was, put a frown on his face.

Again, I trail far behind using the tracking app so they don't realize they're being followed. He ends up back at the clubhouse and as soon as the prospects open the gate, King parks his bike and leaves the others behind.

Zen managed to hack into their security, so I pull up the live feed on my phone and watch King stalk into his office and slam the door behind him. He might be a sneaky fucker when it comes to weapons and not leaving any evidence, but he and his club brothers definitely don't have any smarts when it comes to tech. Grabbing a burner phone, he puts a battery in it and dials a number. He was so deep in his own thoughts that he ignores Boone, who has cracked the office door open and slipped inside.

I had turned down the volume on my earpiece after King entered the clubhouse because there was much less background noise to contend with, but when whoever he's calling answers, I turn my volume up all the way back up in order to hear what the caller is saying.

An older male voice with a country twang asks, "King, is that you? You still haven't delivered my fucking rifles, and it's pissing me off. Tell me that you have my rifles, asshole."

"I'll have most of them to you later this evening," King responds roughly.

"I don't want most of them. I want all of them. I paid you good damn money and I want my fucking merchandise."

King huffs out an exasperated breath. His buyer is an old timer who's been calling a lot since we started monitoring King. Every single time he calls, he's belligerent and pushy. I know King must be exasperated, but he if he is, he wasn't showing it.

"Ernest, I have an extra rifle that I'm going to throw in. It's a nice Remington with a mounted night vision scope. I think you'll really like it. Yours for free, because you waited."

"That is mighty fine of you. I look forward to getting my hands on that extra rifle. You getting Tracker to deliver, like always?"

"Yes, I am. I know how jittery dealing with a new person is for ya."

"Great. Catch you on the flip side, asshole."

It's bizarre how he threw asshole onto the end of the conversation, like it was King's name. I'm convinced that old man calls everyone ten times a day to complain about everything they're doing to disappoint him. He probably thinks he's speaking some kind of cool street lingo. It sounds like the Hellfire Hounds prez really has his hands full with Ernest. Then again King deserves the annoyance of having to deal with the fucker.

I keep my eyes on the security feed on my phone but reach up with one hand to dial back down the sound of the earbud.

King stares at his phone for a second and shoves it back into his pocket with more force than necessary.

"I can't believe you let that bastard talk to you that way, boss. The crazy fucker should have been given a dirt nap long ago."

King spins around to glare at Boone. "He's a fucking paying customer. We can't make money off him if we kill him for petty shit."

Boone shrugs. "He disrespected you, prez."

"And the minute he's no longer a paying customer I'll take pleasure in putting a bullet in his head. Right now, he just an annoyance."

King stares at Boone for a brief moment before, asking, "Got any other brilliant bullshit to say to me today."

Boone took a step back. "No, boss."

"Then get the fuck out and don't come back into my office without permission." His right-hand man did an about face and left without another word. Me? I'm just surprised King has security cameras in his own office. It makes me think he doesn't trust his own men not to break in and rummage through his shit.

This old man is ruthless and could be bloodthirsty. I've seen him kill in cold blood with my own eyes. Over the years I've never seen him capitulate to another person. He wasn't the kind of man that anyone would want to cross if they could help it, so seeing him not put a hit on the old man for disrespecting him is almost unbelievable.

The old timer's money is green, and money is King's crucial concern at the moment, so I guess it makes sense. Seeing King put business over his pride feels weird because I'd always seen him as an unhinged lunatic.

Then again, he's survived in the criminal underworld a long time by trusting no one, keeping his cool with arrogant people and then striking back when they least expect it. I'm really getting a feel for how he operates.

King walks out into the main bar area and pushes his way through a throng of brothers who were already getting super drunk. There are a handful of club whores who look a lot older and less classy than the women who hang around our club. One woman is on her knees in front of one of the brothers, from the look on his face it's clear what's going on. For some reason that turns my stomach, not that I'm being a judgmental asshole as I know on some nights our clubhouse can get pretty rowdy—but there's a time and a place for everything.

I keep losing him on the security feed as he walks through his clubhouse because they don't have cameras covering every single area. I have to scan the windows through my binoculars to maintain a visual on him.

One of the club whores calls out, "Where are you going, King? The party is just getting started."

King ignores her but another brother shouts at her, "He's going to check on his fucking grandson. Is that alright with you, bitch?"

I barely make out the last of the sentence because King has ascended two flights of stairs. I see him walk past one window and then another. The thought pops into my head that if I were a sniper, I could take him from this vantage point.

Old intel told us that there are no womenfolk in King's immediate family, no wife, old lady, daughters, or granddaughters. He only had one son. He died years ago leaving two sons behind. King immediately took custody of both his grandsons and raised them up in the MC he founded. I couldn't imagine raising kids in an outlaw bike club, but King was doing just that. We tried to get intel from Tracker, but his grandson wasn't talking. We respected him for that, he was a good kid, working off his debt at our bar in town, so any info we had on King, came from surveillance. King's grandsons—Tracker, and his younger brother, Hark, lived in a shared suite in the attic. King lived in the other attic suite—the entire third floor was off limits to the rest of the clubhouse, and being a private family space meant no security cameras, so I had to rely on visuals from the binoculars and audio from King's phone.

I hear a loud knocking on a door, there's silence and I guess King is waiting for his youngest grandson to unlock it. I hear someone open the door and then it shuts again. Since he had his cell phone on him, I could still pick up what was said. Getting a visual on him was difficult because the window was small and didn't give a good view of the interior of the room.

I see King move back and forth a couple of times as he walks around the room.

"You got your homework for me to review, Hark?"

"Yes, sir."

I hear the rustling of papers and there is silence for about ten full minutes before King speaks again. "Nice work, Hark. I think you probably could have done a little better on the Battle of Gettysburg."

Ah, it's homework. That tracks with what we know about the kid's age. He's in high school.

His grandson mutters, "Who cares about some war with muskets?"

King responds gruffly, "Learning this shit is supposed to make you a smarter and more well-rounded person."

"I get that. It's just crusty, boring reading, Gramps."

"Here. I've got something for you," King says. "It's a book I want you to read."

"It looks old," Hark opines. "The cover is falling off and the binding is coming apart."

"Yeah, it's my favorite book. I read it back when I first started the Hellfire Hounds. Your father read it when he was a prospect and Tracker read it when he was your age."

Hark reads the name out loud, "Zen and The Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. You want me to become a mechanic?"

"I want you to read through this book a little at a time and we'll talk about it over dinner."

Hark asks, "What kind of book is it?"

"It's a philosophical book about life. It's about a guy who takes a road trip, has to fix his bike a lot and learns some important life lessons."

"It sounds a lot more interesting than learning about Gettysburg, that's for sure."

"You need to grow into the kind of right-hand man Tracker will need when he takes my place as club president."

"That won't be for a long time," the kid responds.

"It might be sooner than any of us think," King says darkly.

Without further conversation, King heads back downstairs. I can tell because the front bar area of their clubhouse has a lot of windows, which is strange for someone as security conscious as King. He might think that because his place is far from town and kind of isolated that it makes them safer.

As I watch him sit down at the bar, I make a mental note to check if the windows were made of ballistic glass. That might factor into any attempt we make to breach their clubhouse.

King is a bit of a nut job. He really only cares about two things, his club and his grandsons. I can tell he cares about his grandson because he took time out of his life to check his homework and mold him into the kind of man he thinks the kid should become. I was actually finding myself softening toward the old man, but watching him at the bar, as far as I can tell he is a ruthless asshole to everyone else in his life.

For instance, right now he's snagged an older redhead by the hair and is jerking her around. He's yelling at her for something to do with sucking up all their booze without putting out. The next thing I know he's threatening to run a train on her but ends up getting frustrated with her and kicking her aside. She's out the door and gone in ten seconds flat. This whole situation with the redhead didn't sit right with me. We have problems from time to time with some of our club girls, but Siege, our president, always treats them with courtesy and respect. Even fucking Lori who's been banned more times than I can count on two hands. I'd heard people say that everyone is the hero of their own story, no matter how evil they are on the inside. King definitely fell into that category in my mind.