Page 2 of Gonzo’s Grudge (Saint’s Outlaws MC: Dreadnought, NC #1)
We broke like a pack of wolves spilling from the den, climbing back into the common area, the heartbeat of the clubhouse. Smoke curled in the air, pool balls cracked, jukebox hummed low. The outside world was locked out, but in here the storm brewed in bourbon, whiskey, smoke, and murmurs among us.
I drifted to the bar, grabbed a bottle, and poured heavy. Burn slid in beside me, silent as ever, folder tucked under his arm like an extra attachment that wouldn’t be removed. Jester followed, grinning wide.
“Fucker’s got some nerve,” Jester said, shaking his head. “Stanley’s been trying to climb our backs for years, and now he pulls a magic judge out his ass? Please. Motherfucker’s playing chess while holding the board upside down.”
Peanut joined us laughing sharp. “Yeah, and every time he tries to make a move, Pop’s already in his house banging his old lady. He wants a checkmate that he ain’t ever gonna get.”
The table howled. Even I cracked a smile into my whiskey. But underneath the laughter was steel. We all knew what it meant. A judge in Stanley’s pocket spelled heat. Real heat.
Tower sipped his drink slow, eyes distant. “Remember the last time Stanley pulled this shit?”
We did. None of us forgot.
Two years back, Stanley tried setting us up with a sting on the highway. Claimed we were moving meth through the county. DEA vans, state troopers, all staged like it was fucking Hollywood. What he didn’t count on was Bishop. Our judge.
We had five brothers in cuffs, guns seized, transport impounded. Stanley strutted around like he’d finally put us in the ground.
Then Bishop swung his gavel, case dismissed on a technicality. Evidence tossed. Stanley ate shit in front of his own cops.
We walked free. Brothers back in our fold the same night, sitting in this very bar, toasting Bishop with top-shelf whiskey.
And Stanley? He burned. You could see it in his eyes. That was the day he silently swore he’d bury us. His hate for us ran deeper than Pop fucking his wife. No he wanted to save face. Too bad he kept coming after us because I’d be damned if he ever won.
Back at the bar, I shook the memory off with another swallow. “Stanley doesn’t forget. He’s been plotting this since that day. Bishop was our shield. Now he’s gone.”
“Which means Stanley’s coming harder than ever,” Tower added.
Disciple, calm as always, leaned in. “Every storm has its end. We ride it out.”
Loco grinned, tossing back his shot. “And if Walsh don’t bend, we break him.”
Burn’s silence was louder than any of us. He just cracked open the folder, eyes scanning, brain already chewing through leads.
Pop emerged then, moving through the bar like gravity itself. Heads turned. Respect followed him like a shadow. He didn’t need to raise his voice when he spoke.
“Enjoy tonight,” he said simply. “Monday changes everything.”
He left it at that, disappearing back into his office.
We sat with his words like they were gospel.
The night stretched on, bottle after bottle. Banter filled the air, the way it always did after church. Peanut and Jester argued over pool. Loco kept running his mouth about how Stanley probably cried when his wife moaned Pop’s name.
I sat back, watching my brothers. This—this right here—was why I stayed.
Eleven years, not a single regret. The outside world?
It didn’t make sense anymore. Civilians lived in a perpetual state of stress.
Always worrying about mortgages and PTA meetings.
Out there, respect was just a word. In here, respect was everything, not how much money was in the bank or what kind of ride you had.
Saint’s Outlaws wasn’t just a patch. It was blood, sweat, and bond. It was the only family that felt right after getting out of the Marines. Pop saved me, gave me purpose again. And now Stanley was trying to fuck with that?
He had no idea what kind of storm he’d just danced in.
I tipped my glass up, whiskey burning all the way down, and made myself a promise.
Come Monday, whatever Stanley thought he’d built with this new judge?
We’d burn it down to ashes. For now, I’d enjoy the evening with my brothers and at the dawn of the new day face what came next.
Sunlight had no business prying its way through the blinds, but it did anyway, like an uninvited guest.
The clubhouse stank of stale smoke, spilled beer, and a dozen brothers who’d let the night run them over.
Empty bottles littered the bar, pool balls still scattered like a game abandoned mid-shot.
Peanut was face down on one of the pool tables itself, arm dangling like a corpse, and feet hanging off the back end like he barely hoisted himself onto the felt top.
Jester was snoring in a recliner, boots still on.
Loco had passed out behind the bar, flopped over onto the top of it, one hand still gripping an empty bottle of Jack like it was a lifeline.
Me? I was upright. Barely. My head throbbed in rhythm with my pulse, whiskey ghost still clinging to my tongue.
I dragged myself toward the kitchen, needing black coffee like a drowning man needed air. The machine sputtered, coughed, and finally rewarded me with the lifeline of the gods.
That’s when Pop Squally appeared. He moved quiet, steady, like the hangover never touched him. His years in the Corps had burned that weakness out of him—booze might slow him down, but it never showed. He was already dressed, boots laced, cut on. Eyes sharp.
“Walk with me,” he commanded.
Not a question. An order.
We slipped out the back door, into the cool bite of morning. The mountain air in Dreadnought was crisp, sharp enough to clear the fog from my skull. The town below still slept, unaware that its mayor was playing games with men who didn’t forgive.
Pop lit a cigarette, exhaled smoke real slow. His face was carved stone, unreadable, but I’d followed him long enough to see the cracks. “Stanley’s coming harder than ever,” he shared finally. “This judge move? It ain’t random. He’s got someone backing him.”
I nodded, sipping coffee, waiting.
“I need you steady, brother,” Pop went on. “No heat, no slip-ups. Not from you, not from the table. The patch stays squeaky clean as we can be. We walk the line until we know where the new judge lands.”
He glanced at me, eyes sharp as glass. “But when the time comes? When I give the nod? We take it all. Stanley, Walsh, whoever’s pulling strings behind him. We bury ’em.”
That was Pop. Calm storm. Always thinking three steps ahead.
“You got me,” I said. “Always.”
He smirked faint, just a shadow of a grin. “Knew I could count on you. You’ve been my right hand since Fallujah. Nothing’s changed.”
And just like that, the desert came back.
Sand in my teeth, blood in my eyes, bullets and bombs cracking overhead. We were pinned down together more than once. Eight tours blurred together, but Fallujah stuck.
Pop was my master sergeant then. Calm in the chaos, storm in the waiting, always ready with the next command. He moved through fire like he was immune, barking orders, dragging men back from the edge.
I’d taken shrapnel to the leg, couldn’t move. Thought I was done. Then Pop appeared out of the dust, grabbed me by the collar, and hauled me out while rounds stitched the ground around us.
“You don’t die here, Gonzales, you hear me?” He growled the words in frustration, not at me, but with concern for his men. “You die when I say.”
That was the bond. That was the reason I followed him then, followed him now, and will follow him straight into Hell. Pop wasn’t just a man. He was always the leader.
The memory faded, leaving me with the mountain air, the cigarette smoke, and Pop’s steady gaze.
“We don’t get second chances here,” he explained his concerns. “One slip, one mistake, Stanley nails us to the wall. But we’ve danced this dance before. He ain’t ready for what comes when the Saints push back.”
I nodded again, words unnecessary.
Pop crushed the cigarette under his boot. “Rally the boys when they wake. Keep ’em sharp. No cowboy shit. Monday we see what Walsh is made of.”
And then he left me standing in the morning light, mug cooling in my hand, head pounding but heart steady. Because he was right. Monday wasn’t just another date on a calendar.
It was a fuse, already lit and a wick burning down.
And when it hit the powder, Dreadnought was going to see what a real storm blowing through looked like.