“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 fucking 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 fucking 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.”
“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.”