Page 5 of Gonzo’s Grudge (Saint’s Outlaws MC: Dreadnought, NC #1)

Gonzo

“ T his shit can’t be real, Dad,” GJ muttered, disappointment laced in every word.

The words bled out of him, slow and heavy, like a wound that was bleeding out.

He sat across from me, swallowed whole by the county’s ugly orange jumpsuit.

The Plexiglass barrier between us felt thicker than steel.

I could reach out, flatten my palm against the cold surface, but it didn’t matter—I couldn’t touch him, no matter how hard I tried.

I couldn’t grip his shoulder, couldn’t give him the kind of reassurance a father should.

The only thing I had was my voice, and right now, even that sounded like nothing more than words that couldn’t be backed up.

I knew I would do everything to get him out of this mess, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t feeling the weight of being stuck behind bars.

And I couldn’t be sure I would be successful given the way things were going.

Men like us weren’t meant to be caged.

His eyes were bruised by exhaustion, sunken, with dark bags underneath that no young man should carry.

“We’re workin’ on it, GJ,” I said, knowing damn well the words meant nothing to him.

Didn’t matter if they were true. Didn’t matter if I had half the club pulling strings and burning favors.

What my boy needed was freedom, his life back.

And right now, freedom looked like a fantasy, so far out of reach it might as well have been a fairy tale.

Tarte had tried—Christ, she had tried like hell.

Our attorney was a shark on the hunt, the type who’d shredded every man who dared sit across from her in law school.

She was at the top of her game. But even she couldn’t move the mountain that was this new judge.

Weeks of arguing, digging, throwing everything she had into fighting the bail refusal—wasted.

How the fuck could they claim he was a flight risk?

My son. My boy who hadn’t been further than Okinawa when I was stationed there.

And hell, he was so little then, he didn’t even remember Japan.

For the last eleven years, he’d been rooted to the same damn house in Dreadnought.

Didn’t even have a passport. Never taken a trip out of state.

Never even been on a plane since he was a toddler.

The boy was twenty-two and half his life had been in this small town.

But according to this fresh-faced prick of a judge, my boy was a risk to vanish into thin air. By what fucking standards could someone explain that?

“Burn, he dug into it.” My words came out hard, clipped with the bitter sting of our reality. I hated saying them, hated what they meant.

Burn was our enforcer, the man who knew how to dig graves or find secrets depending on the job.

His contacts went deeper than the roots of this town, and he’d uncovered the kind of shit that didn’t leave much room for fixing.

But I couldn’t tell GJ all of it. Couldn’t let him sink under that weight.

He needed some form of hope, even if it was paper-thin.

“Always follow the money,” GJ interrupted, parroting back the advice I’d given him since he was old enough to start sniffing out trouble.

His lips twisted, his jaw tight. “Money ain’t shit where I sit, Dad.

Word inside here is the powers that be have pockets lined deep. There has to be something out there.”

“I know, GJ.” My throat was tight. “But I can’t knock the fuckin’ walls down and drag you outta here. Even though I want to.”

His mouth pressed flat, his face hollowed out with a pain I couldn’t touch.

“Devyn told Mom they’re pushin’ shit through too fast. Said maybe I got a shot on appeal, once we get out of this district.

” He shook his head, let out a bitter laugh.

“Fuckin’ should’ve paid better attention in government.

Or history. I don’t even know what the fuck a district is.

Or how many appeals I get. All I know is I’m lookin’ at life, no parole, unless I somehow get twenty-two years in because of some loophole that does allow non-parolees a chance if they serve over twenty years without one infraction.

How am I supposed to survive without getting an infraction when I gotta watch my own back?

Tell me, Dad, how am I supposed to do this shit? ”

Every syllable dug knives into me.

“I know the sentence you’re looking at, GJ,” I rasped. My fists tightened on the table in front of me until my knuckles burned. “I’m doin’ every fucking thing I can. You hear me? Every fucking thing. Just… keep your head down. Hang on.”

He slammed his palm against the Plexiglass so hard I flinched. His voice cracked as he yelled, “Keep my fuckin’ head down? Fuck, Dad! I gotta keep my head on a fuckin’ swivel.” He eased back into his seat calming his breathing, but barely. “The men in here are monsters.”

The sound of his voice, broken and raw, was worse than any bullet wound I’d ever taken.

It was his mother’s worst fear come true.

Her son, the one she raised with Sunday dinners and clean sheets, the boy she fought to keep untainted by my world, now surrounded by the predators of society.

The wolves, the snakes, the ones who thrived on blood.

How long could a kid raised on integrity survive among the lowest of the low?

I forced my voice steady. “Shanks is workin’ on protection inside. Waverly’s keepin’ you here in county as long as she can. Keepin’ you off the yard.”

He laughed, bitter and hollow. “Don’t know if I can do this, Dad. Feel like the walls close in more every day.”

My chest caved. I looked my boy in his eyes, the same eyes that used to light up when I tossed him a baseball, the same eyes that had stared up at me from his crib when I swore I’d never let this world touch him.

Now those eyes were broken glass, sharp and jagged, threatening to cut both of us open.

“GJ,” I said, my voice a growl of desperation, “don’t you give up. Don’t you fucking give up on me. Don’t you give up on the club.”

He nodded, slow, reluctant. But the pain didn’t leave his face. Couldn’t.

The memory hit me like a freight train. The day he came screaming into the world, slick with blood, barely breathing. Eight pounds, six ounces of fight. I’d held him, whispered to him, promised him I’d keep him safe. Always.

I meant that promise then. I meant it now.

I needed him to hold on. Needed him to believe. Because I wasn’t stopping until I leveled this playing field.

I had a grudge now.

And every motherfucker who had laid a finger on this—who had orchestrated this frame-up, who had shackled my boy in chains—was going to pay.

My son was a saint.

Me? I was a fucking outlaw.

And I would cross every line, break every law, burn every dream to ash if that’s what it took.

GJ would see freedom again.

Everyone else be damned.

The guard banged on the door, breaking the moment. “Time!”

I wanted to tear the steel door off its hinges. Wanted to buy just one more minute to tell my son something that would put the fight back in his bones. But the system wasn’t built for fathers like me. It was built to strip men down, keep them powerless.

Break them.

I stood, my palms flat against the Plexiglass one last time. GJ mirrored me, but his touch trembled.

“Stay alive,” I told him.

His lips moved around the words I knew before he even said them: “Always, Dad.”

Then the guard hauled him away, chains rattling, jumpsuit glaring orange against the gray concrete walls. I watched until he disappeared. Until there was nothing left but the hollow ache inside me. Every second of worry he lived through, someone was going to pay in their blood.

It was a silent vow.

Outside, the air was hot, thick, unusual for the mountains this time of year. Burn leaned against his bike, sunglasses shielding whatever truth he carried in his eyes. His presence was steady, a wall I needed.

“Well?” he asked.

“He’s breakin’,” I admitted, the words like ash in my mouth. “We gotta move faster.”

Burn nodded once. He didn’t waste words. “Then we burn the motherfuckers down.”

The ride back to the clubhouse was nothing but wind and fury. My bike roared beneath me, every twist of the throttle an outlet for the rage I couldn’t unleash in that visitation room. By the time I pulled into the lot, my hands ached from gripping the bars too tight.

The curves in the mountains were not a match to the fury inside of me. I tested their limits and my own on this ride home.

Inside, the brothers were waiting in the common room.

The air was heavy with cigarette smoke, whiskey, and tension.

Shanks leaned against the pool table, arms folded, a storm brewing in his eyes.

Waverly sat off to the side of the bar, flipping through court papers like they might suddenly sprout answers.

“Kid’s not doin’ good,” I announced, blowing out a heavy breath. “He’s hangin’ on by a thread.”

“We’re workin’ protection inside,” Shanks said. “Got a couple county boys we can trust. But it won’t hold forever.” Waverly nodded that she was on board with this. Hell, she probably organized the detail on the inside for Shanks.

She was a good woman. A good cop even. But she wasn’t for me long term. Our desires for life simply didn’t align.

“Forever is not the fuckin’ plan,” I snapped. My voice echoed through the room, sharp enough to cut glass. “We get him out. Period.”

Waverly looked up, her expression grim. “They’re pushing this case fast. Too fast. Somebody’s greasing wheels.”

“The new judge pulling the strings?” Burn asked.

“Judge, DA, hell—maybe the feds are involved. Someone’s making moves and doin’ it quick.” Waverly shared. “There is some money involved. Tarte is sorting what she can find but the money trail is twisted and runs deep.”

Always follow the money . GJ had been right. I clenched my fists. “Find it. Every dollar, every transfer. I don’t give a shit if you gotta hack the IRS. Someone’s paying to keep my boy in chains, and I’m gonna know who.”

Burn gave one sharp nod. Shanks muttered something about blood and retribution.

But beneath all the rage was fear. Not for me. Not for the club.

For GJ.

Devyn Tarte showed up later, her sharp heels clicking across the hardwood like gunfire.

She carried herself like a warrior dressed in a suit instead of leather, her briefcase snapping open like a weapon.

“The evidence they have is flimsy, but it’s enough for this judge,” she said, laying out papers.

“No murder weapon on scene. DNA on-site can be explained. Witnesses who can’t get their stories straight.

But it doesn’t matter—the judge is in someone’s pocket and ready to use the weight of his robe to see this through. ”

“Who’s paying the bill to this man?” I asked, expecting her to say Stanley.

She hesitated. “That’s what I can’t pin down yet. It goes deeper than the mayor. But someone with pull. This isn’t random.”

Of course it wasn’t. Nothing in this world ever was.

“You get me a name,” I told her, my voice low, dangerous. “One name. I don’t care what it costs.”

Her eyes flickered, sharp and assessing. She knew exactly what I meant.

By the time I stumbled to my former home, dawn was breaking. My ex sat at the kitchen table, her face pale from crying. A mug of coffee sat untouched in front of her.

“You saw him?” she whispered.

“Yeah.”

Her hands trembled. “Is he…?”

“He’s scared,” I admitted, sinking into the chair across from her.

“But he’s fightin’. For now.” I wouldn’t lie to her.

I wouldn’t give her some kind of false hope.

I spent twenty-two years feeding her bullshit as her husband.

I wouldn’t do her dirty now when there was so much at stake.

She was stronger than I ever gave her credit for. But we all had our breaking points.

Tears spilled down her cheeks. “He doesn’t belong in there.”

“I know.” My voice cracked, something it rarely did. “But he’s strong. Stronger than either of us imagined.”

Her eyes met mine, full of pain and fury. “Fix this. Whatever it takes. Fix it.”

I reached across the table, gripping her hand. “I will. You have my word.”

And I meant it.

Back at the clubhouse, I gathered the brothers. I looked each man in the eye, felt the weight of their loyalty, their trust.

“This ain’t just about my son anymore,” I told them. “This is about all of us. Somebody thinks they can put one of ours in chains. Somebody thinks they can use the system. They’re wrong.”

The room erupted in agreement, fists slamming tables, voices rising.

In that moment, I knew: the storm was coming.

And I was the one who would unleash it.