Club Justice (6 page)

Kat’s mouth snapped shut and she looked around guiltily before they both cracked up.

“That is trouble over there, brother,” Crux mumbled around his cigarette, his eyes narrowing over his pool cue.

Zeke grinned, watching their women laugh together. 

“That it is, but what beautiful trouble they are. A little challenge keeps life interesting.”

Chapter Five

A dull throb pulsed in his temples; rage building inside him. His mind whirled with cases and dates, numbers dancing in his mind until he thought he would go mad. Adding the final file to the neat stacks of manila folders before him, he took a deep breath, rubbing his fingertips across his brow. Hours had turned to days, days to weeks, weeks to months…soon months would become years…and nothing. A snarl of fury erupted from his lips as he surged upward, flipping the cheap card table, scattering its contents haphazardly across the tiny studio apartment.

Frenzied, he kicked at the falling papers, a maddened roar piercing the silence. Grabbing up the folding chair, he flung it across the room, sending it skittering across the scarred linoleum to crash against the base of the refrigerator. His short nails scored the cheap vinyl, clutching the edge of the fallen table. Twirling, he heaved it after the chair. One of the legs broke free, spinning out of control near the dining room table, like the hands on a clock. 

Panting, Kramer crouched in the middle of the debris, his arms wrapping about his knees. Rocking back and forth, he fought to calm his breathing and settle the chaos of his mind. The chair leg spun crazily, mesmerizing. Closing his eyes, he squeezed the bridge of his nose, counting back from one hundred until his heart rate slowed. He just needed to focus.

It was unfortunate that he hadn’t had more time with Lombardi. He had been the weak link, an obvious chink in Brawer’s armor. With that gone, he had to look elsewhere. The wife was an obvious choice. At first meeting, she didn’t seem the type to break but one never knew and Brawer did seem a bit over protective. He made a mental note. The financials still nagged at him. He was looking at a mortgage with maybe a year left on it, the business loan for the pub, three kids still at home, nice cars, and a mother-in-law in a nursing home, all with minimal credit card debt on a Detective’s salary. Something didn’t jive. That brought him back to the discovery of Brawer’s involvement with the Lords of Mayhem Motorcycle Club. It was a little too convenient that there had been nothing about this part of Brawer’s life in any of the files. Motorcycle Clubs were notorious covers for illegal activities.   

Time was on his side. Brawer was arrogant, cocky, and over confident. Eventually he would make a mistake. He would let down his guard thinking out of sight, out of mind. Maybe his leaving the force was a good thing. Cops protected their own. It was a product of the training, of the environment. By retiring, Brawer was stepping out from behind the security of the blue line. He would be vulnerable. He was alone now, without even his partner to feed him inside information. The loss of Lombardi had rattled him. If he could keep him off balance, Brawer would make a mistake. It was time to step the game up another notch. 

Chapter Six

Sirens and blaring bullhorns pierced the night air, silencing the raucous laughter and jovial banter of those around the bonfire. Dozens of floodlights flashed on, illuminating the sea of tents and bikes; momentarily blinding everyone. Harsh, authoritative voices identified the new arrivals as a mixture of County and State Police. Confusion reigned as club members looked to their presidents, husbands looked to protect wives, and mothers gathered children close. The bark and snarl of police dogs added to the commotion and unease as armed officers flooded the area. Those that did not instantly comply with the orders to lay face down on the ground were assisted with force.

Waving a commanding hand at his family, Zeke conceded as far as his knees, lacing his fingers behind his head to wait. Grinding his teeth, he fought the fury burning through his veins like napalm. For the past three years, the Trinity Rally and Toy Ride, held in conjunction with the County fair, hadn’t had a lick of trouble. The three-day event drew clubs from all over the Midwest, as well as several Southern states. The colors of nearly every East coast club were represented, and still they had managed to keep the peace. Local law enforcement showing up here looked bad for the Lords and worse for Zeke.

“GET ON THE GROUND!”

Zeke looked up at the screaming young man before him and shook his head in knowing disgust. Adrenaline and testosterone were serving up a cocktail this kid had no idea how to handle. His voice shrill with excitement, motions jerky, eyes wide, and hard on humming, the boy was flying high. It was power junkies like this one that had sped his retirement. He met his gaze square, refusing to cower as the punk raised the butt of his rifle in a threatening arc. 

“Stand down, deputy,” a calm voice ordered.

“Johnson,” Zeke greeted.

“Brawer,” The State Officer replied with a nod of respect. “Are you armed?”

Zeke cocked his head and gave him an incredulous look.

“Yeah, dumb question. Stand up.”

Zeke stood, keeping his fingers laced at the back of his skull as the eager deputy stepped forward to pat him down.

“That stays, and the last time it was fondled that ardently my old lady wanted a pair of two hundred dollar boots,” Zeke said with a wince.

“They were two fifty, but who’s counting? Be careful there, junior. I’m sure it’s the same as yours, just bigger,” Ginny piped in. Johnson snorted in amusement. Zeke rolled his eyes.

“Thanks for the vote of confidence, baby.”

“Are you the owner of this property, Mr. Brawer?”

“The Trinity Falls chapter of The Lords of Mayhem owns the hundred and twenty odd acres we are standing on. As club president, I am majority owner for legal purposes. But then I am guessing you know that what with the search warrant and all. Mind if I take a look at that?”

“Not at all.”

Zeke read over the warrant, checking and double-checking the wording. They were screwed.

“For those not reading the document in Mr. Brawer’s hand, the search warrant gives us the right to search every inch of this property and everything on it. That means we will be checking, vehicles, luggage, purses, coolers, buildings, tents, and people. The more you cooperate, the faster and smoother this will go,” Johnson announced.

“The Lords have nothing to hide and I am sure that our guests will be more than happy to cooperate with Ohio’s finest.” 

A grunting squeal sounded somewhere close and Zeke suppressed a chuckle as he shrugged at Johnson.

“I’m not sure if someone is in hog heaven or that was a tribute to your presence.”

“I’m feeling the love,” Johnson muttered, sarcasm dripping from his words. “You know the drill.”

Zeke submitted to a thorough once over by Johnson’s mammoth canine partner and was awarded a glow green zip strip around his wrist.

“Does this mean we’re going steady?” He teased Johnson who just snorted. Zeke’s sense of humor dissipated as the over eager deputy hauled Ginny to her feet. “You get as familiar with my wife as you did with my junk, junior, and we’re going to have issues.”

“Morrison,” Johnson snapped. Getting the female officer’s attention, he nodded at Ginny before turning back to the rookie. “Don’t look so bummed, boy. I just saved your job and probably your life,” he said steering him towards Rhys.

It was well into the morning hours before the last squad car rolled away, leaving tempers short and the camp in disarray. Putting off all but the perishable messes until morning, women and children were ushered to their tents to get some sleep if they could find it.  The remaining men gathered back at the central bonfire, surprisingly only eleven fewer than before the raid. Zeke let his cool gaze run over the assembled, searching out and mentally marking off club presidents. The damage had been in lower ranks, and at a negative shake from each LOM chapter president, he knew his own were safe.

“The assholes could’ve at least dropped off some toys,” he rumbled at last.

Laughter broke the tension for a moment; however the next words wound it tight.

“Sweet deal you worked out for yourself, Brawer. You sell out your brothers and the pigs allow you to retire rather than lose your badge.”

Time seemed to stand still. No one said a word as Zeke rose to his feet. The swarthy Tarantula president suddenly found himself with a few less friends. Clubs stepped aside, clearing a wide berth around the adversaries. Animosity crackled in the air as the two faced off. Somehow the sucker punch managed to catch everyone off guard. In that blink of an eye, Zeke stood with his Glock pressed to the gasping man’s temple.

“My loyalty to my brothers is the only thing keeping you alive right now.”

Ramirez glared, struggling to catch his breath.

“I’m only saying what everyone else is thinking, Brawer.”

Stepping back, Zeke glanced at the men assembled, most met his eye, he made note of the exceptions.

“Is that what you think?” he challenged. 

A strangled scream ripped from Ramirez’s throat as Zeke’s boot connected hard with the outside of his knee, driving him to the ground. The Tarantulas surged to their president’s aide, only to pull up short. Zeke’s steady stare and trigger finger froze them in their tracks, even as his club flanked him. 

A piercing whistle cut the air.

“Temper, temper, boys.” 

“I got your boys hanging,” Ramirez snarled at the older man.

“Shut your tortilla hole, or I will do it for you, boy,” Cutler snapped before turning in dismissal. “Zeke, rein in that temper and put your piece away.” 

Eerily similar blue stares locked. Tension hummed between the longtime rivals. Adversaries or not, Zeke had always respected the New York head honcho. With a nod, he holstered his weapon and waited.

“That’s better. I’ve known Zeke for close to twenty years, practically since he straddled his first bike. He is without a doubt a cold, calculating, ruthless son-of-a-bitch…but he has honor. He guaranteed this rally as neutral ground, and his word is good enough for me,” Cutler said, his firm voice carrying to the various groups. 

Mutters of general agreement met his words.

“Now, I’m not saying that this shakedown wasn’t because of Zeke. On the contrary, I believe it was directly aimed at busting his chops and damaging his credibility.” Cutler raised his hand at the rising murmurs of both dissent and discussion. “Hear me out.” When the voices quieted, he continued. “Bottom line, their beef with Brawer isn’t ours and we don’t let the pigs play us.”

“So we just overlook the raid and what?”

A smirk crept across Cutler’s face.

“We do what we came here to do brothers … we party.”  

For a moment tense silence met his words, and then voices, one by one, rose in a raucous roar of support until the night air rang with their defiant howls.

Dawn’s first rays threatened by the time Ginny woke to Zeke’s shadowy figure slipping into the tent. She wasn’t surprised when he stretched out beside her fully clothed. Caution had served him well this far in life.

“How bad is it?” she asked, rolling to nuzzle into his neck.

“Better than expected. Anything I, or any of the Lords, said would’ve been suspect, but Cutler stepped up and the Clubs listened. I owe the son-of-a-bitch.”

Ginny nodded. Longtime head of one of the largest Clubs in the US, Cutler had the community’s respect and Zeke’s.

“So everything goes ahead as planned?”

“Never let them see you flinch,” Zeke confirmed with a yawn.

“Then roll on we will, stud.”

The roar of Harleys filled the early morning air. Endless ranks of bikes rolled through town, drawing people outside their homes and stores to watch the impressive processional head out. Children and adults alike moved to the roadside to gawk at the diverse group. Clean cut professionals and smooth faced twenty-somethings rode side by side with their stereotypical grizzled, tattooed peers.  The year, model, and paint jobs of the motorcycles were as varied and eclectic as their riders were. Many sported furry mascots, stuffed animal donations strapped on the back or bungeed to the handlebars in honor of the toy ride.   

Ginny blew a kiss and shared a grin with Kat as an excited group of teenagers howled their support of the hometown Lords of Mayhem. Glancing back, she couldn’t help the swell of pride as her eyes landed on Rhys and Mox. They rode side by side, cocksure grins splitting their handsome faces from ear to ear, as they ate the attention up. Her head snapped around, arms tightening around her old man as the pipes roared and the big hog leapt underneath her. The din was deafening as the pack accelerated at Trinity’s town limits and Ginny hid a smirk against her husband’s back as they passed the police station, resisting the urge to offer a salute.      

A successful ride done and a generous donation delivered to Rainbow Babies and Children’s Hospital, it was time for a relaxing evening at the County fair. The long fingers that had been stroking his bicep in open admiration as they strolled among the neon lights and shouting venders paused. Zeke looked down at his beautiful wife and followed her gaze. A plush ebony throw blanket with a deep purple and green dragonfly hung from a nearby booth. The intricate insect was uncannily similar to Ginny’s ink work. The tattoo with delicate floral vines to each side was between her shoulder blades and had been a birthday gift from him years ago. Biker or not, he had never been fond of a lot of ink on a woman. Her only other tat was the fine scroll work and shamrocks that flanked either side of the Lord’s brand at the cleft of her sweet ass,  completing and individualizing the club’s ritual tramp stamp.

“Zeke …”

“I see it. Let’s go get it,” he said to the unspoken question, and walked around to the front of the booth.  He rolled his eyes when he saw it was a dart game. Notoriously the weight and fletching on carnival darts were even worse than tavern darts.  Lucky for Ginny he had spent a lot of drunken nights tossing missiles so battered they were often times missing one or more feathers.