Page 25 of Preacher Man

“You’re howling up the wrong tree, sheriff. But I’ll bite. Ask me anything, you’re only wasting your own time. This town is better off without Kyle fucking Williams, you know it,let him stay gone instead of wasting tax payers hard earned cash trying to hunt him down.”

“Hassling my men again, Charlie?” Rider asked approaching from the left. A warning on his angry face. Preacher bit back a grin and stepped up to his president’s shoulder. Brothers in arms. A force to be reckoned with, even against a blonde-haired cake baking fucking nosy as shit cop. God almighty, when was this going to die. “It’s becomin’ a habit I ain't likin’” Rider could act the offended motherfucker like no one else and do it with a stern face masking what he was truly feeling.

Charlie sighed that sad hero-cop sound and folded the sheet of paper he must be handing out to every townsperson in hopes one of them knew the whereabouts of Hades.

Preacher got it, the cop wanted to bag himself the big fish, earn himself a commendation from the mayor, to wear a bright shiny medal on his chest, this was the biggest case Armado Springs had seen in many a year, but as Rider said, the hassling was getting on his last nerve.

He’d only been back in town a week and already his punk deputy had pulled him over twice, doing routine checks, he’d insisted. Fucking liar. Hedging their bets more like hoping to catch one of the MC’s out for the crime. RS were the go-to for every crime in the city. They were only responsible for seventy percent… and absolutely theywereresponsible for Hades' disappearance, but no one was admitting to that, not unless they wanted to do twenty-five to life.

“Routine inquiries, you know that. I won’t take up any more of you boy’s time, but if you remember anything.”

“We know where you’re at, sheriff,” added Preacher. When pigs fly, and eat donuts.

“I’m regretting coming home.” He laughed once the cop had driven off through the gates. Both men watched him leave, making sure he took the winding road away from the compound. Rider turned to head back into the shop.

“We weather it, Preach. It’s what we do.” Preacher often wondered for the things Rider carried on his presidential shoulders, all the weathering he did silently.

It’s what RS always did. It didn’t mean he didn’t want to smack the cop around a little. Oh, no permanent damage, nothing like that, hewasa good cop, after all, few bruises, a little concussion, small amount of memory loss.

Back in his military days as part of a counter-terrorism expert marksmen squad, he thought nothing of following orders and taking out a target, he had been damn good at his job, so much so he’d moved up the ranks fast. He was known to get his mark every single time. Some days he could still feel the metal of his L129A1 Sharpshooter sniper rifle in his fingers. When he woke up in cold sweats, it was always with his arms raised in the position as if still holding his gun.

Unpredictable targets had been his specialty.

They’d hailed him a goddamn hero for killing.

Preacher was no hero. In a lot of ways being a part of MC reminded him of his old squad.

The Renegade Souls did a bunch of weathering that first year he patched in. Sorting out the chaff from the wheat, he never once thought about walking away. He had grown a lot of respect for his president for facing that head on with snapping wolves at his heels. It couldn’t have been easy, as an outsider as he was at that time, still, the new face in town even with Grinder sponsoring him, Preacher saw a lot of which brought about his loyalty for the new president and his MC. This small irritation of Hades' murder/manhunt was testing them all. One wrong word, one crazy drunken word said to the wrong person and it could be curtains for them. They whole club would fry for it.

Just as well he was heading back to Lincoln for a few days more.

Not that he was looking forward to that shit.

Red Light and his anger issues. It was like Oscar the grouch on steroids.

And he hadn’t fucked Ruby yet.

Talk about a bad week.

CHAPTER EIGHT

“So, what? … no making friendship bracelets for each other?” - Preacher

Six Months Ago

It wasn’t as though Preacher presumed to be welcomed with open arms from Red Light on arrival into Nebraska late that night. The nomad was stationed in Kansas but was headed to Lincoln the same as Preacher to sort out some of their financial woes. So, a welcome wasn't exactly expected, maybe a tough-guy head nod, a chin jut. But the death glare was damn well unjustified.

He hadn’t stepped off his bike nor turned the engine off after pulling into the garage port when he was hit in the face with the blue eyed stare of...well, he supposed enemy, not that Preacher held any bad feelings, in fact, he understood precisely why Red Light hated his guts once upon a time, but now? Years later? And still this? For fuck's sake.

He fortified his chest with fresh air stained with the scent of motor oil. His back was killing him having ridden most of the three hundred eighty-five miles, only stopping once for a four-hour nap in a grimy roadside motel, so he really was on a short fuse for it to be Red Light as his welcoming committee.

It was one of those typical November cold winter nights, the kind that froze balls and his eyelashes crusted over with frost, he wanted a bourbon and a warm bed more than he wanted anything.Good idea to ride, dickhead. Planes exist, you know. But a drink and a bed were not in his immediate future. Instead, he was about to have himself a confrontation earlier than anticipated.

Stabilizing his lungs, Preacher got a lay of the situation real damn fast. Far as he was aware Red Light hadn't meant to be arriving in Nebraska until later that week. The later the better for Preacher as he’d hoped once he’d known the fellow RS member was coming to town, too, he couldn’t foresee anything changing between them and he was here to do a job and get the hell out of dodge. He’d told Rider he was down for any out of town trip, fresh pussy was always fun, but damn if his body wasn’t already tired and not up for a bar hunt. Maybe tomorrow.

Spine cracking, he shoved keys into his pocket, casting a look around the bike shop, rather than meeting the glare from Red head on. Tidy place at least, he hated walking into shit-holes, seemed to have everything they needed, but there was only one bike in the five workstations being worked on, he could tell right away H’s shop wasn’t doing so good, it should always be full, he'd check out the booking sheet, see how it lies with jobs, and go from there to know what they needed.

“Well, well. Look what the cat just vomited up.” After two years, it wasn’t the best greeting. Great.Don't punch him, he repeated. Fingers at his sides flexed into fists.