Page 28 of Trip (Sons of Hell MC #11)

Trip

Minutes turned into hours, and the clubhouse continued to fill with people eager for any news.

While Mike called the Virginia Bureau of Investigation for Missing and Exploited Kids, King ordered everyone back to the clubhouse.

Every time the phone rang, all conversations stopped and everyone listened intently, only to be disappointed moments later.

To make matters worse, King had locked himself in his office and made the uncomfortable call to Steele, the president of the Silver Shadows Mother Chapter, and then to Kingston O’Rourke, also known as King, the president of the Nebraska Chapter, and finally to C.C. ’s brother, Romeo.

Sitting at the bar, I stared into my bottle of beer that had been warm for an hour now, when Whiskey sat down next to me.

“How you holdin’ up, Trip?”

“Not good.”

“C.C.’s smart, brother. If she’s in trouble, my money’s on her.”

I smirked at that.

He was right.

My woman was hell on wheels.

Whiskey leaned against the bar, the faint creak of the wooden stool underscoring the quiet tension that hung in the air. “She’s tougher than all of us combined, you know that,” he added, swirling the amber liquid in his glass.

“I know,” I muttered, my voice barely rising above the muted conversations taking place around us. “But this doesn’t feel right. I can’t explain it. Something is off about this whole thing.”

“What do you mean?”

Turning around on my stool, I found Ansel sitting in the corner, looking at his phone as he typed away.

Something was bothering me.

Something Ansel said.

Getting to my feet, I walked over to my former best friend and asked, “You said you went to go see Russ Deacon, my dad’s old mechanic, over in Clay County.”

Ansel looked up at me and nodded. “That’s right.”

I crossed my arms, leaning slightly toward him. “And what did old Russ say?”

Ansel hesitated, his fingers tightening around the edges of his phone. “Not much.” He glanced away, the flicker in his eyes betraying the casual delivery of his words.

“Not much?” I pressed. “You made a special trip all the way out to Clay County and all you came back with was ‘not much’?” My voice was low, but the edge of suspicion was unmistakable as I heard several chairs scrape against the wood floor.

Whiskey had drifted closer. The quiet shuffle of his boots against the floor snapped Ansel’s attention back to me. “Look, Trip,” Ansel began, pushing his phone into his pocket, “I’m not hiding anything. Russ didn’t want to talk at first, okay?”

“That doesn’t sound like the old Russ I knew,” Whiskey interjected. “That old man could talk the hind legs off a mule if you gave him the chance.”

Ansel shot him a glare, but then sighed. “Fine. He wasn’t happy to see me, okay? Pulled a fucking shotgun on me and told me to fuck off. So I did.”

Whiskey chuckled. “Now that sounds like old Russ.”

“What the hell is going on?” King sneered, walking out of his office.

Grinning at the squirming asshole before me, I clearly said for all to hear, “Told you I didn’t trust this motherfucker, King. Next time, maybe you’ll listen to me.”

“Look, Trip,” Ansel quickly piped up. “It’s not what you think.”

“Why don’t you tell me what I’m thinking?”

Ansel gulped as he looked around the room at all my brothers standing, waiting for him to answer.

Ansel’s breathing grew uneven. His hand instinctively drifted toward his pocket before he thought better of it. The tension in the room was palpable, the weight of suspicion suffocating. King crossed his arms, filling the room with his commanding presence.

“You’ve got about ten seconds to explain yourself,” I said, my tone sharp enough to cut through steel. “Make them count.”

Ansel cleared his throat. His gaze bounced from face to face, searching for an ally he wouldn’t find.

When the fucker stayed quiet, I placed my hands on the table, leaned forward, and got right in the fucker’s face.

“You have a problem, Ansel. A big one. Would you like to know what that problem is?”

“What?” The fucker paled as sweat beaded on his forehead.

“Russ Deacon died three years ago of a heart attack. I was at his funeral.”

Whiskey growled, “So was I, motherfucker.”

Ansel’s face turned ghostly white, and his mouth opened and closed like a gaping fish out of water. “I-I can explain,” he stammered, his voice trembling as the weight of his lies began to crush him.

Moving fast, I grabbed the lying piece of shit by his suit, shoved him against the wall, and roared, “Where the fuck are C.C. and Cameron?”

Ansel’s eyes darted wildly, his desperation palpable as his trembling hands raised in a futile attempt to placate me. “I swear, I don’t know! Please, you have to believe me!” he gasped, choking on his own words.

King stepped forward, his boots thudding ominously against the floor. His shadow loomed over Ansel like a dark omen, his voice low but menacing. “Wrong answer, Ansel. Try again.”

The room seemed to shrink as my brothers closed the distance. A circle of reckoning tightened around the liar. Whiskey’s growl deepened, and his fists clenched at his sides like the promise of a storm waiting to break.

Ansel’s panic reached a fever pitch. “Wait! Wait! It wasn’t my idea. He said no one else would get hurt!” he blurted as his gaze locked onto mine like a lifeline. “I swear! I didn’t mean for it to go this far. I needed the money.”

I tightened my grip on his suit, the fabric bunching in my fists as I yanked him closer, our faces mere inches apart. “Who?” I hissed through gritted teeth, my voice low and lethal.

Ansel whimpered, sweat trailing down his temple as his eyes darted between me and the others, searching for mercy that wouldn’t come. “Mitch!”

The second Ansel said the name, I stepped back, shaking my head. “My dad’s former crew chief? That Mitch?”

“It was all his idea,” Ansel blurted, his words coming fast. “I had a buyer all lined up, but your dad wouldn’t let you sign over your half of the designs.

Mitch and I tried to talk to him, but he fucking flat out refused.

Said it was your design, and I had no right to them. I bankrolled that build. I was owed!”

Rage boiled in my veins like molten lava, but I forced myself to take a step back as my mind raced through the implications.

Mitch.

Of course, it made sense now—his fingerprints were all over this mess. The betrayal cut deep and twisted in my chest like a dagger. Dad had been right to resist them, and now his defiance had cost him, cost all of us.

“The great Calvin Hall, the golden boy of NASCAR, wouldn’t do shit without his daddy’s approval.

It was sickening! That bastard watched me like a fucking hawk after that.

I couldn’t piss without him breathing down my neck.

Then he had that fucking hillbilly redneck Gator look into your contract.

It was only a matter of time before he found out the truth. ”

“What truth?” King growled, leaning closer.

“Motherfucker took out an insurance policy on Trip,” a firm voice said, and everyone turned to find Worm, a brother in the Bourbon Kings, glaring at Ansel.

“Just like he has with every driver since then, including C.C.” Handing Scribe a file, Worm walked over, pulled out a chair, and sat.

Leaning back in his seat, he smiled. “Hello, Ansel. I’m here to collect the debt you owe the Bourbon Kings. ”

Ansel paled and stumbled back as if Worm’s words had struck him like a blow. “I-I still have time,” he stammered, his voice barely above a whisper. “I just need a few more—”

“Spare me the excuses,” Worm interrupted, his tone cold and final. He leaned forward and rested his elbows on the scarred wooden table, the smile fading from his face. “A debt is owed, Ansel. And all debts to the Bourbon Kings are paid one way or another.”

The room quieted. The weight of Worm’s statement hung in the air like a storm cloud about to break. My pulse thundered in my ears. The revelations were piling up too fast to process.

Mitch, the insurance policies, the betrayal—it was all too much.

And now this.

The Bourbon Kings didn’t just make threats; they followed through.

King stepped closer to Ansel, his towering frame casting a shadow over the trembling man. “Where in the hell is my son?” he asked, his voice a low rumble that held no room for argument.

Ansel’s lips quivered. His gaze darted between King and Worm like a cornered animal searching for an escape. “I-I don’t know,” he stuttered, his voice barely audible. “I swear, I don’t know where he is.”

King’s hand shot out and grabbed Ansel by the front of his shirt, hauling him to his feet in one swift motion.

The chair screeched against the worn floorboards, the sound sharp in the oppressive silence.

“Don’t you fucking lie to me,” King hissed, his face inches from Ansel’s, the fury in his eyes burning like a wildfire, which was dampened momentarily by the sound of his cell phone ringing.

Shoving the sniveling bastard away, he answered the call and stiffened. “What? Are you sure? Don’t let them out of your sight. We’re on our way!” Hanging up the phone, he ordered, “Worm, the sniveling weasel is all yours! The rest of you, gear up. We’re heading back to West Virginia.”