Page 1 of Gonzo’s Grudge (Saint’s Outlaws MC: Dreadnought, NC #1)
Gonzo
T he call came like thunder on a clear day—unexpected, jarring, full of static.
Pop Squally sent out the alert for officers and full patches within range to report in.
Church.
Nonnegotiable unless on a run. Not unusual, not exactly rare, but the timing was all kinds of fucked.
Half the club was out on the road, running a truckload of ARs toward Arkansas.
Wrath and his Bella Vista boys had put in their order weeks back, and when Wrath called, you answered—because Wrath didn’t play.
Luckily, we had more than enough firepower stashed in reserve to cover it.
That wasn’t the issue. The issue was why Pop was calling us in now, with half the table riding as dirty as can be across state lines.
They get caught out of a protected territory our guys would be facing some serious time.
He wouldn’t take on another job with so many brothers out.
There was this little kernel of curiosity that gnawed at me the whole ride in. While we had random needs to call church sometimes, there was something in my gut that felt heavier this time. I couldn’t explain it.
I killed the engine outside the clubhouse and went through the ritual to get in my seat. Our setup was unique, but the shit was rock solid.
Phone in the basket by the vault entrance door—electronics stripped off everyone like sins at confession.
Step inside the first room and remove firearms. Gun in the assigned safety deposit box.
My pistol clinked against the steel and suddenly I felt naked, but that was the whole point.
Inside church, there were no distractions, no firepower.
We were safe together inside this space, no weapons were needed.
Just brothers, words, and the storm of whatever the fuck Pop was about to drop.
The vault swallowed us one by one. Concrete and steel muffled the outside world, pressing it away until it was just us and the hum of recycled air.
The old bank was a gem Pop had snapped up years back.
Apparently when a bank closes a branch, the building gets sold with a clause that it couldn’t be used as a bank for five years post-sale.
Due to the set up for banking, it wasn’t a prime building for many types of businesses without needing remodeling to remove the vault.
For us, the bank would never be owned by anyone other than the Saint’s Outlaws holding company.
We worked all of the brick building’s features to our advantage.
Especially the security measures, the vault as our armory and table.
Everything was decided locked together in this room.
The camera system was now a closed circuit system, but we had eyes everywhere on the property.
The lobby now had neon lights, smoke, whiskey, and laughter—our playground.
The vault though, that was our cathedral.
No windows, no leaks, no chance for ears that didn’t belong.
Inside here, the weight of history pressed on your shoulders.
It smelled like leather with sweat. The air carried the weight of a thousand meetings where decisions got made that changed lives, ended others, and carved our story into the bones of Dreadnought.
At the head of the mahogany table, Pop sat where he belonged. President. He put brothers above everything including himself. A true leader. Master Sergeant in the United States Marine Corps before, Saint’s Outlaws commander always.
Calm in every storm.
His posture said everything: steady hands, steady mind, steady trigger. He didn’t need to raise his voice—his presence filled the room.
I slid into my spot at his right hand. Vice president. Not by charity, not by accident. I’d earned it. Eleven years under this patch, eight tours under his command before that. If Pop marched into straight into Hell, I’d follow him and light a cigarette on the flames as they danced around us.
One by one, the others filled their chairs. Officers locked in at the table, every other patched brother, stood against the walls or took one of the few spare chairs around.
Tower, our secretary, eyes darting like he was already writing down minutes in invisible ink.
The man had a mind like no other and never forgot a damn thing.
Jester, our sergeant-at-arms, cracking his knuckles and smirking like every problem was just a skull waiting for his fist. He definitely was a shoot first ask questions later type of man.
Burn, the enforcer, solid, quiet, all coiled violence.
Pull, he was Burn’s shadow, muscle and loyalty stacked in flesh.
Disciple, our chaplain, who could quote scripture one breath and snap a neck the next.
Peanut, road captain, wiry, sharp, the bastard you wanted planning your route through hell.
And Loco, Treasurer, numbers man and smartass in equal measure.
Everyone was present that had a crucial role in the club.
The table was full even with so many brothers taking the run for Wrath.
The run had patches but no officers for a change and this gave us all the opportunity to be here.
Another unusual situation for everyone holding rank to be present with an active run in place.
Pop didn’t waste a second. He never did.
“Sorry for the quick call, fellas.”
I gave him a small nod. No apology needed. Not in this room. Not with us. We were men who knew the game. Trouble didn’t send invitations. That shit, it came like a thief in the dark.
“Got word,” Pop said, voice even. “Mayor’s making moves again.”
The whole table tensed. Hampton fucking Stanley. Mayor of Dreadnought. Resident parasite. Our personal pain that never went away. Couldn’t prove the shit, but we all thought he rigged the votes.
“Fuck,” I muttered, pushing back against my chair.
Tower snorted. “Guy’s got serious small-dick problems. Can’t find a hobby that doesn’t involve pokin’ the fuckin’ bear.”
Loco grinned. “Every time he kisses his wife, he tastes Pop’s cock. Hard to focus on hobbies when your home life smells like another man’s balls.”
The table erupted. Even Pop cracked a smile. And he didn’t deny it, either. No need. Everyone knew Mrs. Mable Stanley had warmed his sheets long before her husband started rattling around in our business.
The smile didn’t last. Pop leaned forward. “He’s changing shit up. Managed to get a new district court judge appointed mid-term. Fuck face doesn’t even live in our district. How did he pull that shit off?”
That sucked the oxygen out of the room.
Jester slapped the table. “How? We had Bishop on lock.”
Bishop. Our ace in the hole. Watauga County’s one and only district judge, bought and paid for by us.
We kept him comfortable, padded his pockets, reminded him where his loyalties lay.
He was our firewall shielding us from the law.
If one of us got tangled up in a way we couldn’t prevent being in the courtroom he was the last stop to getting off.
The life of an outlaw didn’t come easy and required always having people in your pockets.
Pop leaned back, exhaling slow. Calm before chaos. That’s why they called him Squally—the storm.
“Bishop’s gone,” he said flatly. “Took early retirement. Family medical leave type of excuse. Left town. No goodbye.”
Peanut cursed, shoving a hand through his hair. Burn’s jaw flexed like he was grinding teeth into dust.
“Dumbass move,” Peanut spat. “Saint’s Outlaws don’t just get left behind. He crossed us. I’ll find him, Pop. Just give me a city.”
“Not yet,” Pop said, sharp. “We play this smart.”
And that was the thing with Pop. He always thought two steps ahead. Where the rest of us were fire and gasoline, he was the matchbox. Calm, measured, but lethal once the strike came.
“Mind your shit,” Pop continued. “Get word out—heads on swivels. No heat until we know who this new judge is and how he plays. Everybody walks the line until further notice.”
We all nodded. Orders received.
“What’s the play, Pop?” I asked, wondering which direction he was feeling this may sway.
His gaze cut to Burn. “Intel on Bishop. Where he went. Why he left. Need as much as we can, make it fast.” He slid a folder across the table. “Once we sort where he is we can determine the punishment for his transgressions.”
Burn caught it, silent. That was his way. He’d burn the world down if Pop asked, but he never wasted breath on words.
“Bishop’s from Utah,” Pop went on. “Only been here two years. Write-in candidate. Never made sense how Stanley moved him in, but he played ball with us. We need to know why he left and who Stanley put in his place.”
Stanley. Always fucking Hampton Stanley.
Man couldn’t keep his nose out of our business.
Maybe it was jealousy, maybe it was his wife’s moans echoing in his skull.
Who Pop Squally fucked wasn’t my business.
If her man didn’t satisfy her and Pop did, that was adult behaviors that weren’t mine to dabble in.
The why Stanley wanted to fuck with us didn’t matter.
He was a problem, and now he’d slipped a new judge onto the bench like a dagger in our ribs.
“Monday’s the switch,” Pop said. “New guy’s name is Walsh. Never on the ballot. There wasn’t a public vote. Emergency poll from the city council. Already sworn in.”
Burn nodded once. “I’ll find him.”
The weight pressed in. Monday was too damn close. Too many unknowns. One of us gets tagged doing some club shit, we go inside without someone in our pocket it could mean hard time.
“Time is of the essence,” Pop said. “We’ve got orders going out. Last thing we need is heat from some judge trying to prove himself.”
He raised the gavel, mahogany and heavy, and slammed it down on the table. Church dismissed.