Page 91 of Massacre

“How do we know they are with Massacre?” Colt cautiously asked.

Thumping his fist on his chest, King roared, “I FUCKING KNOW!”

I looked up when the door to church opened and in walked Sypher.

“Sorry. I was with another client. I just got your message,” my brother’s husband said, taking a seat next to Navigator, quickly opening his laptop.

Leaning on the table, King glared at Sypher. “You want to let me in on what you and Reaper left out?”

Sypher looked up, blinked a few times, before he muttered, “What do you mean?”

Taking his seat, King leaned back in his chair and said not one damn word as he stared at Sypher, who quickly began to fidget in his seat. Still, King said nothing as he waited.

Gulping, Sypher cursed, “I fucking told him to tell you.”

“Told who to tell me what?” King grinned slowly as he sat up.

“We learned the truth in Louisiana after the club rescued Remi, Amber, and all those people. I told him the longer he sat on this, the more it would bite him in the ass, but he wouldn’t listen. He said he would tell you when the time was right. But it’s never the right time.”

Jackass leaned toward Sypher and whispered, “I’d make the time right now if I were you.”

Sypher closed his eyes and shook his head. “I can’t tell you, King. Not without his permission. I know it’s not what you want to hear, but there is more than one life in danger if this gets out.”

King said nothing as he looked at Sypher, then a few moments later, he asked, “Tell me this, kid. Does it have anything to do with me or my club?”

Sypher gulped. “I can’t answer that.”

Reaching into his cut, King pulled out his phone and placed it on the table. Opening the screen, he dialed Reaper, who answered on the second ring.

“I don’t care what he’s done, King. Just put a bullet in his leg. He can’t walk with a bum leg.”

“He’s missing,” King growled.

“Of course he is,” Reaper groaned, then yelled, “PLAYER! Call your fucking brother and find out where the fuck he is!”

“He’s hunting Daniel Scott,” King advised, and then there was total silence.

Sitting up, I watched Sypher as he shrunk back into his seat, slowly shaking his head. In the next instant, we all heard a door slam shut followed by glass breaking as Sypher cringed, rubbing his temples.

“I’LL KILL HIM!” Reaper roared as something crashed. “GHOST! Get your fucking ass in here!”

Moments later we heard, “What the hell is going on now?”

“Massacre is going after Daniel Scott.”

“He can’t be that fucking stupid!” the man snarked, then said, “Never mind. Yes, he can be.”

“Call Cerberus,” Reaper ordered as I looked over at Nav, who slowly shook his head at me, “and see what he knows. Then get me on the next flight to Nebraska,” Reaper sighed. “Sypher?”

“I’m here, Prez,” Sypher spoke up.

“Tell them, and then I want you in Lincoln. Get the clubhouse ready. Call in whomever you need. Got me?”

“Yeah, Prez. I got you.”

Reaper disconnected the call, and all eyes turned to Sypher as he sat up and started talking. “Daniel James Scott, born April 21, 1975, in Mobile, Alabama, and the legitimate son of Monica St. James, the youngest sister to the St. James Family, and Devlin Scott. Yes, the same motherfucker who owned and operated the Trick Pony in Miami, Florida.”

“Holy fuck,” Jingles cursed.