Page 27 of Gonzo’s Grudge (Saint’s Outlaws MC: Dreadnought, NC #1)

Gonzo

T he day my boy walked out of Avery Mitchell Correction Facility a free man, the sun shone brighter.

He stepped through those gates with his shoulders squared, jaw tight, eyes older than they had any right to be.

My gut twisted because he was only half the age he looked.

There was no giving him back the innocence he entered this place with.

There was no taking back the things he did to survive.

But he was out. That was what mattered. The scars left behind we would deal with as they came.

I pulled him into a hug that should’ve cracked bone. “You’re home, son.”

He grunted into my cut. “Feels like I never left.”

It wasn’t true. The scars on his face, the way he scanned the lot like every shadow might bite—he’d left, all right. And some of him was never coming back.

But I swore to myself that the bastards who put him there weren’t going to keep walking free.

The storm came faster than I expected. Loco called a meet that night at the clubhouse. We rolled into the common room, leather creaking, the space littered with eyes that had seen too much and weren’t about to look away now.

Loco stood at the head, arms crossed. “Boys, I called in a favor.”

That got my attention. Loco didn’t call favors lightly. He had connections, the legal kind.

The door opened, and in walked a woman like she owned the place.

Not too tall, but a woman who carried herself with confidence and power.

She wore a sharp navy-blue suit, heels clicking against the worn floor, eyes deep under a crown of braids.

She carried the room without saying a damn thing, and every man in leather straightened like we were the ones on trial.

The thing was, it wasn’t only her stance, she walked with authority and kept her eyes locked to Loco’s with meaning.

I just wasn’t sure if the stare was about love or hate.

“This is Juanita Banks,” Loco said, voice steady but his gaze following her like a magnet. “Old friend. Works in DC.”

She smirked. “Federal investigator. And right now, your ace in the hole.”

Burn whistled low. Tower muttered, “Hot as fuck and hell on wheels. Damn, Loco, she’s the total package and you been hiding that.”

She didn’t reply to the guys, again, her focus remained on Loco.

Dropping a folder on the table with a satisfying thud, she smirked proudly.

“I came with a federal warrant. Hampton Stanley’s being removed from office pending investigation into misuse of federal relief funds, embezzlement, racketeering—you name it, we’ve got it.

As of tomorrow, he’s no longer mayor. As of five minutes after that, I’m back to DC like we never met.

You forget my name and face, and I,” she narrowed her eyes on Loco, “forget yours.”

The room went quiet.

“You serious?” Tower asked.

“Dead serious,” she said. “And before you ask, no—I didn’t do this for free. I did it because Dante called in a favor I owed. And because Hampton Stanley left an easy trail, this is buttoned up, and I am no longer held to anything from any one of you.”

I glanced at Loco. He was stone-faced, but I knew him too well. The way his hand tapped against his side, the way his eyes lingered on her—it was written all over him.

History. Fire that hadn’t gone out. A fire that burned the man once before.

Juanita caught it too. Her lip twitched into the kind of smirk that said she’d seen him bleed out soul deep and tasted the sweetness of his love both in equal measure.

“Fierce,” Burn muttered, shaking his head. “Hell on wheels.”

“Damn right,” she replied before turning and walking out of the space like she was a ghost we never actually saw.

By lunchtime the next day, it was done. Hampton Stanley was stripped of all authority and wearing a set of shiny new cuffs trying to make bail. His wife gone, his name dragged through the mud, and his empire crumbling.

All that was left was the part only we could deliver. So we went to his house once we got the call the next move had been made as expected.

Burn, Tower, Disciple, and me. Four shadows rolling into the lion’s den.

We didn’t kick the door. Didn’t need to. Disciple had it open before I blinked. We made ourselves comfortable in his living room, the place smelling like money and rot, leather chairs too soft, portraits on the walls of a family already gone.

We waited.

When he finally came in, briefcase in hand, tie crooked, face gray from the weight of it all, he froze in the doorway.

His eyes swept over us—four men in cuts sitting in his home like a death squad—yeah, all the blood drained out of him.

“What… what do you want?” he stammered, trying to sound strong.

“This is endgame,” Burn said flatly.

Stanley staggered inside, dropping his briefcase with a thud. “My wife left me. I’m going to prison. What more do you want?”

Burn didn’t answer. He turned to Disciple. “Read him last rites.”

Disciple stood, tall and grim, his cut catching the lamplight.

He looked Hampton Stanley in the eye and spoke, voice deep, steady, full of the kind of finality that comes from years in this life.

“You crossed the line and spat on what it meant to be a man. You broke trust, shed blood, and hid behind power that was never yours. You sit here now at the end of your road. May your lies choke you, may your greed bury you, and may your name rot when men remember who you were. That’s your last rite. ”

He turned without another glance and walked out, boots heavy against the floor.

Tower stood next. He leaned down, his massive shadow swallowing Hampton Stanley whole. “You crossed the wrong ones,” he growled. “We will be the last faces you see. We always held the power.” Then he turned and followed Disciple, heading out front to stand watch.

Burn leaned back in his chair, smirking. “That leaves us.”

Hampton Stanley’s eyes darted to me, desperate. “I didn’t?—”

“Shut your mouth,” I snapped.

He shut it.

I leaned forward, my hands braced on my knees, my voice low, steady, lethal. “You killed Pop Squally. You blamed my son. You threw GJ into a cage and called it justice while you lined your pockets and kept your leash tight around a weak man’s throat.”

Stanley shook his head, tears welling. “It wasn’t me, I?—”

“It was you,” I cut in, sharp enough to slice. “Every step. Every order. Every lie. Pop’s blood is on your hands. My boy’s wasted time is on your hands. And the only way to stop the havoc you’ve unleashed is to end this. Tonight.”

Stanley sagged, broken. “Please,” he whispered. “Please. My wife left me. I have nothing. I’m ruined.”

“You’re still breathing and that’s too much air wasted, if you ask me,” I remarked.

“Not ruined enough,” Burn said, smiling cruel. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Here’s how this works, Hampton Stanley. I can do it for you… or you can do it yourself.”

The words hung heavy in the air, thick with inevitability.

I didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just let him feel the weight of what we’d brought into his house. The Saint’s Outlaws weren’t judges. We weren’t lawyers. We were executioners living life of a different code.

And tonight, the verdict was in.

The silence stretched. The clock ticked on the wall.

Hampton Stanley, the man who’d lived like he owned a county, who’d thought himself untouchable, sat trembling in his own living room with outlaws waiting for him to decide how he’d meet his end.

I thought of Pop. Of GJ. Of the futures stolen. And I knew one thing:

This was justice.

And I was ready to see it through.

Stanley shook like a wet dog in winter. His hands twitched on his knees, his eyes glassy. He looked from me to Burn like a man waiting for a miracle he knew wasn’t coming.

“My wife’s gone. My career’s gone. I’ll spend the rest of my life in prison,” he stammered. “What more do you want from me?”

“You keep saying the same shit over and over,” Burn stated, slow and sharp. “Blood. Always blood. That’s what we want. Yours.”

I didn’t move. My jaw ached from clenching. “You should’ve thought about this when you killed Pop. When you framed my son. When you sold this county to the highest bidder and laughed while spending money meant for families who lost everything.”

He swallowed hard. “I?—”

“Don’t.” I cut him off with a snarl. “You don’t get excuses. You don’t get speeches. You had every chance to walk a cleaner road, and you pissed on all of them. You chose this end the day you crossed us.”

His face sagged, hopeless. “Then… at least let me?—”

Burn was already on his feet, gun in hand.

Stanley froze, his words choking out. “Wait?—”

Burn tilted his head, grinning like a wolf. “Here’s the thing, Stanley. You don’t get to pick your ending. We do. I offered you the choice to do it yourself or me to do it, but you don’t get to pick another method.”

For a moment, the only sound in that house was the tick of the wall clock and the faint whistle of Stanley’s breath. He shook his head, tears streaking his face.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “She loved him. She loved him and hated me. He didn’t care. I’m sorry. I was hurt.”

I stared straight into his eyes. “Not sorry enough.”

Burn raised the pistol, steady as steel. “Time’s up, Mayor.”

The shot cracked like thunder in the living room.

Stanley’s head snapped back, blood spraying the expensive wallpaper behind him. He crumpled sideways in the chair, lifeless before his body hit the floor.

Silence followed, heavy and absolute.

Burn lowered the pistol, exhaled like he’d just finished a job and nothing more. “There it is,” he muttered. “Debt settled.”

I stood, the smell of gunpowder mixing with the copper tang of blood. I looked down at Hampton Stanley, the man who thought he owned us all, now lying in a pool of his own failure.

“Pop’s avenged,” I said, voice flat. “GJ’s free. This chapter’s closed.”

Burn holstered his gun, smirking again. “On to the next one, brother.”

Tower stepped back inside, gave the scene a single glance, then nodded. “Street’s clear. Nobody heard a damn thing.”

Disciple crossed himself out of habit, murmured low, “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. May his name rot with the worms.”

We filed out, boots heavy, leather creaking. No one looked back.

The house stayed behind us, silent except for the tick of that damn clock. Hampton Stanley had thought himself untouchable. Tonight, he found out there’s always someone who can reach you.

And when it’s the Saint’s Outlaws, there’s no mercy.