Page 11 of Gonzo’s Grudge (Saint’s Outlaws MC: Dreadnought, NC #1)

Gonzo

T he run was supposed to clear my head.

Couple days out of town, wind in my face, wheels burning miles into the blacktop, it always cured what bothered me. That was how I usually bled off pressure. Let the road consume me. Distance had a way of shrinking problems I couldn’t. Most times, it worked.

Not this time.

Every mile I rode, I saw the same two pictures: my boy in shackles behind Avery Mitchell’s razor wire, and the woman who looked at me like I was something other than the monster I knew I’d been for most of my life.

GJ and IvaLeigh—one locked up by men who thought they could control the chaos, one walking a campus never having to worry about life inside of a cage.

We were escorting a load. Nothing glamorous, nothing loud, just the kind of work that keeps a club active and our people fed. We ran heavy and tight, chrome arrowing down the interstate, trucks giving us a wide berth like even they understood what it means when thirty bikes move like one muscle.

We hit a truck stop outside Atlanta. Pipes ticked as they cooled, diesel breath hanging low over the space of the entire lot. I lit a cigarette and leaned into my bike. Loco took the spot beside me, silent a minute, then said, “You look like shit.”

“Observant,” I muttered.

He watched the smoke spin. Loco was built like a telephone pole, straight and tall, and had the personality to match, silent until lightning struck. “You thinking about the kid?”

“Always.” I ground ash off the tip with my thumbnail. “And the woman.”

He didn’t ask which one. He didn’t need to. I told him beforehand I was going to get to Walsh in a way he would remember it. “We’ll get GJ out,” he said, voice flat as a verdict. “As for the girl… warn her twice. If she stays after that, it’s on both of you.”

I snorted. “Warned her three times, and still she keeps coming back for more. Or I keep tempting her because I can’t stay away.”

He glanced at me like I had two heads. “Huh.”

“Sometimes she gets to me, and I don’t think that is a good idea. I’m poison to her passion.”

“Then, brother, best you can do for her is walk away.”

“Can’t do that until her father feels the pain he caused my son.”

Loco shook his head. “Sins of the father always have to be paid by someone.”

We finished the run, turned the trucks over to men who didn’t ask many questions, then split. I hit the motel, stared at the ceiling long enough to feel pathetic and called her.

“Hello?” she said, voice soft, like she was trying to pull the sound back into her.

“It’s me.” I replied, expecting her to know who I was.

A breath, a quiet that wasn’t empty. “You haven’t been around.”

“Yeah. Run. Out of state. Called to check in on you.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I don’t, but I did.”

Silence stretched. I could hear noise through the phone—mutterings of a person, but I couldn’t make out who. “How’s… GJ?” she asked.

The name was a blade every time. “Hanging on best anyone can doing time for something they didn’t do.”

“He’ll hold on,” she whispered. “He has you.”

I shut my eyes wishing my boy was free. “And you? IvaLeigh, how are you doing?”

“I’m managing,” she said, a smile under the words that I could feel but not see. “It’s easier now that you called.”

“Good. Don’t let shit get to you. I’ll see you when I get back.” She seemed to pipe up after that. I let her talk about Darla and Collin and school. Not that I gave two shits about any of it. When she started yawning, I used it as an exit to get off the phone.

Only once I told her good night did I find a way to sleep for myself. No one ever had me this knotted up inside and I didn’t like the feeling.

By the time we rolled back into Dreadnought, my bones hurt from riding. I didn’t go to my cabin. Didn’t go see her. Church had been called, and the club came first. The only way I could keep either of them safe was to keep the table strong.

The clubhouse lot was already full when I pulled in.

The building threw long shadows across the asphalt.

Music bled through the walls, bass steady as a heartbeat.

Inside, the main room smelled like old smoke and new polish; somebody had cleaned while we were gone.

Good. Felt like a place that could hold the weight.

I pushed through to the vault. The oak table scarred by a thousand knuckles, chairs labeled by patches and time, Pop’s gavel waiting at the head like a small hammer that had crushed big problems. His chair will always look too big.

It didn’t matter that I filled it now; the wood still remembered him.

Brothers slid into seats. Shanks. Tower.

Pull. Jester. Loco. Disciple. Peanut. One by one, they kept coming in.

Clutch, followed by Dippy. Lead and Chains were the last in to seal the door behind them.

Burn with a folder so thick it looked like it could stop a bullet was ready to share with the club.

I picked up the gavel and let it fall once. The room snapped tight. “Call to order.”

Burn didn’t wait for me to ask. He stood, the top page of his file clipped to a cardboard back, the rest bound in rubber bands. He looked like a man who’d dug up a body and was about to show it to us.

“Judge Walsh,” he said.

A growl rolled around the table, low and collective.

Burn flipped the top sheet. “We been saying for weeks he’s on the take.

I can now tell you who’s holding the leash and why he wears the fucking collar to toe the line.

Walsh has been having an affair—last two years—with a married woman from Ashe County.

Husband’s a bank VP at Tri-State Southern.

Woman’s name is Darlene Kemp. She runs business arrangements for the bank. ”

Nails snorted. “Of course her name is Darlene.”

Burn didn’t smile. He laid photographs down in the center—blurry telephoto shots of Walsh and a woman with big hair and careful makeup going in and out of a chain hotel.

Receipts followed—rooms at the Belvoir Inn off 18, six times, spaced out like they thought they were smart.

Text prints came next: time-stamped messages from a burner number saved under some idiot pseudonym.

“How’s Hampton factor?” I asked, voice steady.

Burn tapped the corner of a receipt. “Hotel’s on a county vendor card.

Not Walsh’s. Belongs to the Civic Renewal Office.

Hampton’s office administers it. That card got swiped for two rooms, four nights, right before Walsh accepted a ‘temporary assignment’ to the district bench here.

” Burn’s finger moved to another paper. “Private investigator on Hampton’s payroll from last fall—one Ted Malley—caught them together.

Hampton confronted Walsh with photos, told him he’d back his appointment if Walsh played ball in this district.

Ball equals bail denials, motion denials, jury instructions we all saw. ”

“Jesus,” Loco muttered. “Who approved the card use?”

“County clerk’s office. We got a name: Sutter.

Signed off with a forged ‘emergency lodging’ note under the flood relief line item.

” Burn’s eyes went colder. “Which brings me to part two. Hampton’s been embezzling federal and state funds since the pandemic money started flowing.

He set up three shell vendors—Stanley Aggregate & Paving LLC, Cape Yaw Consulting, and a nonprofit front called Douglas & Fine Arts Initiative.

He shuffles grants through change orders, ‘emergency’ procurements, no-bid contracts, then launders through those three.

Out the back end, money hits personal accounts, personal real estate, and debts owed by people he’s got under his thumb. ”

Peanut whistled, the sound sharp. “You got numbers?”

Burn drew a folded paper ledger—handwritten, angry.

“Preliminary. Tri-State Southern accounts ending 6832, 7741, 2209. Over three years: five-point-two million moved through. Of that, one-point-nine to Stanley Aggregate. We don’t see a single load of gravel delivered for half those invoices.

Cape Yaw billed forty-eight grand for ‘consulting’ the same week it formed.

Douglas & Fine Arts claimed they muraled four community centers—two of those buildings don’t exist.”

“Who’s on paper for those entities?” I asked.

Burn smiled, mean. “Not Hampton. He used proxies. Stanley Aggregate lists a cousin, Duke. Cape Yaw belongs to a blind trust created by a law firm called Wex & Elkin—they’re Walsh’s old golfing buddies.

Douglas & Fine Arts’ incorporator is a church deacon who suddenly has a new truck and no explanation. ”

Dippy leaned forward, tapping the photos. “And you’re sure Walsh knows Hampton’s hands are in the till?”

“Positive,” Burn said. “Walsh was at a fundraiser three months back. The bank VP husband to Darlene, Hampton, they were all in the same room. The VP’s loans keep the county flush when the embezzled money leaves holes.

Everybody gets paid. Everybody keeps quiet.

Hampton keeps the receipts and photos in a safe—two, actually.

One at city hall in his office. One in his house under the stairs. ”

Shanks’s fingers drummed the table. “Anyone we can flip?”

Burn nodded at a name on the ledger. “Sutter. County clerk. He’s been forging approval memos. He owes Hampton a favor from a DUI that disappeared. He’s sweating now because the feds started sniffing around misallocations in neighboring counties. He’ll crack if we squeeze him right.”

Jester’s eyes narrowed. “Not with fists,” he warned. “As much as I want to put them all in the ground. We need admissible, not a confession with a broken jaw, for GJ.”

Burn shrugged. “I wasn’t gonna break his jaw. I was gonna break his ability to breathe.”

Disciple cleared his throat. “How does this get our boy out? Don’t tell me about making noise. Tell me about the legal leverage.”