Page 2

Anderson

H e watched as Drake Michaelson paced back and forth. Anderson wanted to ask how the man knew his brother had been shot but observed instead. There was more happening behind the scenes than Ghost or Michaelson realised.

Two more bikers arrived, and Anderson recognised them from their file photographs. Ace and Apache. A father and son duo. Ace was VP for Michaelson and Apache, an enforcer. None of them so far even looked in his direction, apart from recognising him as law enforcement.

An hour had elapsed since his brother had been rushed here and forty-five minutes since Ghost had been whisked away for life-saving surgery. As Anderson waited, more of Rage, those who’d sided with Michaelson, arrived. Amongst them were two women. One an old lady, Marsha, who belonged to Fish, and the other was a woman called Silvie.

Anderson was unsure what Silvie’s role was in the MC. Silvie certainly wasn’t an old lady, but neither was she a whore. None of his team had discovered what she meant to the club, other than the fact the brothers considered her theirs.

“…who carried the hit out?” a huge man boomed. Anderson recognised a founding member of Rage, Axel.

“Gotta be Bulldog’s lot. They knifed Ace, shot Manny, who fuckin’ else could it be?” Apache demanded and saw Anderson looking. Apache lowered his voice, and everyone glanced in Anderson’s direction.

Anderson smirked and walked to the nurse’s station. He began forming an idea and needed to act now. Let Rage worry about why a Fed was present. He showed his badge to the nurse and passed through the doors. As Anderson did, he intercepted a surgeon.

“I’m Special Agent Anderson Walton. A man was brought back here, a gunshot victim, I need his status, please,” Anderson asked.

“Mr Walton’s in surgery. His condition is critical, but the surgeon with him is one of our best,” the doctor replied.

“Doctor, I need a favour. That guy is in witness protection. Tell those men Mr Walton died. Explain his injuries were too severe, and he’s dead. We can’t let them know he’s alive,” Anderson said.

“What’s his name?”

“He goes by the moniker Ghost,” Anderson replied .

The doctor scrunched his nose and asked to see Anderson’s badge again. Carefully studying it, the guy nodded and headed out. Anderson watched through a small window in the doors as he approached Rage.

They got to their feet and crowded round him.

Several moments passed before Silvie released a pained cry and collapsed on a seat. A biker named Gunner crouched by her and wrapped her into an embrace. Fish grasped Marsha and held her tightly as she sobbed.

But Anderson focused on Michaelson. He was astonished when genuine pain hit Michaelson’s expression, and it was mirrored in those surrounding him. Michaelson ran a hand over his face and shook his head. He asked a few more questions before thanking the doctor.

Rage gathered and, supporting the grieving women, departed. Michaelson looked up and caught Anderson’s eyes; he held them for a moment and then left too.

Anderson settled in to wait and prayed he hadn’t just jinxed his brother to death.

Ghost

Fuck. Agony raced through his body, and he let out a cry. Someone shoved something in his hand .

“Hit the button when you need pain relief,” Anderson said.

“Well, shit. I ain’t dead,” Ghost croaked. He blinked his eyes open and gazed at his brother.

“Not yet. You gave it a good try. Took two to the chest, one in your gut, and one in your shoulder. You came within a hair’s breadth of a heart shot,” Anderson explained.

“Damn,” Ghost muttered, puzzled as he looked around the room and then outside. He saw a cop standing on his door and frowned.

“Where’re my brothers?”

“Planning your funeral,” Anderson replied.

“What the hell? Call Drake, asshole,” Ghost snapped.

“Not happening, brother. As far as the world is concerned, you’re dead, and now you belong to me,” Anderson stated.

“Ain’t no snitch, you fuckwit. I’m not working for the Feds. Get the fuck out and fetch my brothers,” Ghost hissed as he hit the button. The agitation Ghost was feeling was overriding the pain relief.

What was wrong with his brother? Why the hell would Anderson do shit like that? It went beyond being the eldest.

“I’m going to tell you a story. You’re gonna shut up and listen, hear me, little bro? If, at the end of it, you can walk away, then I’ll call your brothers. Just remember, though, your blood brother is standing in front of you asking for help,” Anderson said, moving his chair closer .

“Rage MC opened in nineteen-seventy-one. You had five founders: Axel, Spike, Arrow, Fury and Norfolk. Back then, your club was about riding, women, and letting it hang out,” Anderson began.

“Bro, I know this, if you’re gonna teach me to suck lemons, then—”

“Our research showed that as the years ticked past, somebody saw money in doing dirty shit. At first, he did it under the table, but then your original president got ill. Bulldog started making moves to take over Rage, and he was all kinds of illegal. We think someone was behind Bulldog’s actions, but we’ve no idea who. It is definitely a member of the inner circle.

“Around the same time, the FBI began hearing of an organised criminal gang operating out of this area. And suddenly, seven MCs that’d been clean started getting dirty fingers. Satan’s Warriors, The Rider’s of Vengeance, Hellfire, Rage, The Unwanted Bastards, Devil’s Damned Disciples, and Devil’s Scythe all turned tits up within a few years of each other. We suspected this organisation had infiltrated them.”

Ghost interrupted, “Oh, come on, bro, conspiracy theories?”

“What are the odds of seven clean clubs suddenly diving into illegal shit? All turning within two years of each other. And each of them a main MC? The Bureau sent people in, Ghost, and they ended up dead. One of our agents managed to get a name to us. Manticore. That’s what they call themselves. He had a bullet in his brain twenty-four hours later. He was a prospect at Rage,” Anderson said, and Ghost hissed in a sharp breath.

“Runner? He was a Fed?”

“Yeah. And you recognise it. Manticore.”

“Heard a brother mention it before. But Fury’s missing.”

“Manticore was controlling everything around here. Prostitutes, guns, drugs, human trafficking, whoever these men are, they have an operative in each club and are running things. We believe that Manticore was going to combine the clubs into one and spread out, but Chance and Drake began making waves. We’re hearing Onyx has been seen in South Dakota, and half of the Rider’s of Vengeance are looking for him, and the others are hunting him.”

“Onyx is alive?” Ghost demanded.

“Yeah, and bodies are starting to drop over there. Onyx has come to claim his club back. Same as Drake and Chance,” Anderson confirmed.

“Shit,” Ghost muttered, rubbing a hand over his face.

“Bulldog sent eight men to kill you, Brock. He had three in the apartment, two in the stairwell in case you escaped, and the rest outside. You were meant to die, brother, the question is why? I didn’t know until now, but you said you’ve heard of Manticore. I think that is why. In case you began connecting the dots.”

“Manticore needed to silence me. And that’s probably why Fury disappeared, too. No doubt he’s dead. They shut us both up. Fury had been acting cagey before his disappearance. I overheard him tell Bulldog that Manticore would withdraw protection if he didn’t obey. Looks like Manticore was using Fury to deliver a message. They might have threatened him as well,” Ghost said.

“The bureau needs information on Manticore. We’ve discovered a connection. Manticore will continue to be a threat to Rage and your allied MCs. If Michaelson wins this war, Manticore will strive to grab Rage back. Do you understand, brother? Michaelson may think Rage is safe, but it won’t be because whoever is behind Manticore will bide their time.”

“Who is the link you’ve discovered?” Ghost asked.

“Miguel Santos has a son called Romeo. For now, Romeo is working in the background for his father. We’ve not got any proof to bring them in, but we believe Romeo won’t stay under his dad’s thumb for long. The man is already starting to build allies within his father’s team. We want you to join Romeo Santos and discover the connection and use him to gain access to Manticore,” Anderson said.

“You’ve honestly got nothing else to give me? Just rumours of a shadowy group and Romeo Santos?”

“That’s all we have. Other than the fact we understand heavy shit is happening in RC. For each asshole we arrest, ten more take their places. Missing women have rocketed around here, they’re being trafficked. And those fuckers avoid every trap we place.”

“Sounds like the FBI has a leak, brother,” Ghost replied.

“Yeah, we have. Which is why only my immediate boss is aware you’re alive. I’m going to claim your worldly goods, so you’ll have money behind you, but the Harley needs to go. You’d be recognised on it,” Anderson stated.

“Ain’t selling my bike, bro, not a chance in hell. It can go into storage. I’ll buy another one, but nobody touches my Hog,” Ghost ordered.

“Sounds like you’re in,” Anderson said, sounding smug.

“Wipe that tone from your voice. If Manticore were behind Rage’s spiral and were supporting Bulldog, I want to know about it. If those fuckers come at Drake, I’ll be there to stop them. Drake will make the club free. They’re fighting right now, but Drake will win. Don’t doubt him. Rage will get clean. Meanwhile, I’ll hunt this mystical Manticore and bring them down,” Ghost promised.

If Rage still had a threat levelled at them, then Ghost would do whatever was needed to end it. Ghost’s death rendered him invisible. Nobody would expect to see him. He had the best cover.

“Gotta grow my hair out and change the colour, this white is too blatant. I’ll need contacts and to grow a beard to hide the scar on my lower cheek too. Dark brown hair dye will be best to match my beard. That or I go bald,” Ghost mused.

“You’ll have to dye your hair every six to eight weeks,” Anderson said.

“Look at you in touch with your feminine side, bitch,” Ghost retorted, closing his eyes. He was tired, but his mind whirled with everything Anderson had told him. Currently, he was overwhelmed. Hell, Ghost’s brothers were out there right now, mourning his death.

Guilt bit him in the ass. But if Ghost took this story to Drake, could they ensure it didn’t get out?

Ghost didn’t trust everyone that had sided with Drake. Some, he believed, had seen the writing on the walls and chose to cover their own asses. Yeah, there was more than one in Rage on Drake’s side that Ghost questioned the loyalties of…

Sleep crept up on him, and before Ghost knew it, he’d succumbed.

Anderson

It had been five days since Ghost had been shot, and he was getting ready to move him to a safe house. Rage had held a funeral this morning for Ghost even though they didn’t have his body. Anderson believed Michaelson had assumed that Bulldog had stolen and buried it somewhere unknown. Anderson had claimed Ghost’s belongings, including the bike Ghost insisted on keeping.

The war was heating up between Bulldog and Michaelson, although further bodies had yet to fall. Drake was hunting down any leads he could find. Several snitches had disappeared, and Anderson felt that Rage had taken them. Michaelson was rabid for Bulldog’s blood, or so the word on the street said .

As much as Anderson understood Michaelson’s actions, a part of him was mollified that Michaelson was seeking vengeance for his sibling. Even though he couldn’t condone it.

Anderson had an SUV waiting for Ghost outside a side door. He was taking his younger brother to a safehouse near Hot Springs, SD, to recover.

Ghost was moving slowly, but the hospital had agreed he could leave. Ghost had stayed in a private room since the surgery, with a guard constantly posted. Only a select few had been allowed access in case Rage or someone else got wind Ghost was alive.

Ghost had to remain dead for the plan to work. Otherwise, it would be all for nothing. Anderson hadn’t even been able to tell his own partner. He didn’t know who the hell he could trust and who he couldn’t. Ghost needed to stay protected, and Anderson was the one to ensure that.

As much as he wanted Manticore brought down, Ghost was his little brother. Fuck their parents, Anderson had always looked out for Ghost and wasn’t about to stop. Ghost was dressing as he scoped out the hospital path they were taking. Assured it was safe, Anderson returned to Ghost, who was sitting on the bed looking grumpy.

“Is all this cloak and dagger shit necessary?” he demanded.

Anderson raised an eyebrow and threw a baseball cap at Ghost.

Ghost took one look at it and howled. “I’m not wearing that!” he hissed .

“Put it on!” Anderson taunted.

“Fuck no!”

“Put the damn cap on and keep it low,” Anderson repeated and crossed his arms.

“Put a bullet in me now!”

“Don’t tempt me.” Anderson shoved the hat on Ghost’s head.

Ghost’s hands immediately shot to tear it off. “I hate this fucking team,” Ghost snapped as Anderson smacked his hand away.

“Exactly. Everyone knows you loathe them, in fact, you would light them on fire if you could get away with it. So why would anyone believe you’d wear one?” Anderson retorted and helped Ghost into the wheelchair.

“That’s another thing. I can fuckin’ walk out of here,” Ghost snarled.

“Two to the chest, one to the shoulder, and a gut shot. You can’t even shit on your own, brother,” Anderson said glibly.

He handed Ghost a pillow to hug to his chest as Ghost went puce with anger, and Anderson grinned. Job done.

Before Ghost could kick off, Anderson wheeled him out into the corridor. The agent guarding the door fell in beside them, and they headed towards the SUV. As soon as he had got Ghost inside and settled, he hit the driver’s seat and pulled out.

Ghost was pale when they arrived at the safehouse. Anderson had tried to avoid potholes, but there were always some. He gave his baby brother his due; Ghost had barely whimpered, but his pallor proved how much pain he was in.

“Come on, Brock,” Anderson said gently. He knew Ghost was hurting when he didn’t argue about the name.

“Mom and Dad been told?” Ghost asked.

“That you are alive? No. They believe you’re dead. But they were told you died trying to save someone. I couldn’t let them bitch about you, bro,” Anderson answered as they trudged into the house. Only Anderson knew their location. He’d rented it for three months under an alias he had bought off the black market. And it was a damn good cover.

“I’m sure that warmed their hearts,” Ghost bitched as they headed for the sofa.

Anderson gently lowered Ghost down and handed him a bottle of water and some painkillers.

Ghost gulped two instantly. “Guess I don’t get the good shit anymore,” he complained.

“Yeah, you do. That was oral morphine you just swallowed, bro. I guessed you’d need it after having your chest cracked open,” Anderson said.

“Try coughing when you’ve had that done,” Ghost retorted.

“That’s why you hug a pillow, asshole. But I got something better,” Anderson reached behind the sofa and dragged out a bag.

Ghost stared at what Anderson yanked from it before laughing and croaking in pain as he hugged his pillow. Anderson had bought him a huge, cuddly, blue teddy bear .

“Hug that fucker,” Anderson teased.

He saw surprise cross Ghost’s face as the bear helped more than the pillow. “Well shit,” Ghost said, surprised.

“It’s because a pillow can be squished and flattens out. The bear will hold its shape, helping ease the pressure on your chest,” Anderson explained. “A nurse told me.”

“Good to know.”

“Ghost—”

“Ain’t Ghost no more, bro. I won’t use that name until I return to my club. Call me Sharp,” Ghost said.

“What you gonna do about your Rage tattoo?” Anderson asked.

“Theres a guy that does fake tattoos. He keeps his mouth shut, too. I’ll have to have it touched up every six months, but he can cover it,” Ghost—no, Sharp replied.

“Your life will depend on him not talking,” Anderson stated.

Sharp smirked. “His life depends on me keeping his whereabouts secret. He’s pissed off some powerful people.”

“You’ve got the start of a beard,” Anderson stated.

“Bro. I gotta look different. So different that not even you’d recognise me.”

“We need to learn your new identity, good job I didn’t pick a road name for you. But first, let’s get food. I’ll run and fetch Chinese; you still eat the same shit?”

“Yeah. Anderson, I ain’t said this, but thanks. You saved my life. Twice. First from the shooting and then in hospital. If Bulldog had realised I was alive, he’d have sent them after me again. Probably saved quite a few lives, to be honest,” Sharp admitted.

“I may be an asshole, but I’ll always be your brother,” Anderson replied and left.

Apparently, they didn’t do mushy shit.

Sharp

Fuck Anderson, the bastard, Sharp thought, amused. Anderson had never been able to take a show of emotion, and Sharp knew it would make his brother flee. Sharp was starving and wanted proper food. The hospital fed patients swill.

He tilted his head back, ignoring the twinge of pain in his chest. He’d expected Anderson to push on getting his Rage MC tattoo blacked out, but Anderson hadn’t. That was a sticking point for Sharp.

Sharp was going under cover, and he needed something to hold on to. Something of his former identity had to survive. Sharp knew he was about to wade in shit so deep it would come up to his waist. That tattoo would remind him why he was doing it and give him hope to return to Rage. A year or two and he’d be able to claim his place back in the club.

Drake and his brothers would forgive his deception when they heard the reason. For now, Drake needed to rid the world of Bulldog, including those who sided with him and clean Rage up. It wouldn’t be as easy as a president swap. Bulldog had buried the MC into some dark shit. Drake would need a couple of years to extract Rage properly from the darkness they lived in.

Sharp knew Drake would do it. He saw Arrow in Drake and also a lot of Axel. Drake Michaelson was one lucky fucker. He’d had good role models, and Rage would flourish under him.

And when Sharp returned, he’d walk into a clean, free club. That would be a thing of beauty.