Page 2 of Seizing Control: Part One

Rampantly cheating on his gorgeous wife is a recent proclivity.

One that Brutus hasn’t taken any steps to hide from his club brothers.

The cone silence that our brotherhood operates within is being tested by his latest betrayal of his family. No one likes what he’s doing, however, I have been expressly forbidden by my father, the current Shamrocks’ vice president, from telling Scarlett the truth. Carter and Benedict’s fathers, the Sergeant-At-Arms and Road Captain respectively, have laid the same decree on their sons. It goes against my nature to lie to the woman who helped raise me during my mother’s many absences. She deserves my loyalty in a way Brutus never has. At the same time, I can’t imagine a world where I am responsible for destroying Cherub’s picture-perfect childhood by revealing that her father is as faithless as he is feckless.

Rock meet hard place.

Whichever I turn, I lose.

My brothers, the respect of a good woman, or the happiness of the girl I’d die to protect.

“Ask him about the missin’ packages.”

“Sure.” My voice is hoarse from lack of use. I swallow deep, then clear my throat. “What packages?”

“What packages?” Brutus snorts after he verbally mocks me. “Fuck, you’re a slow learner... a right daddy’s boy who can’t see past the end’a his nose.” Breathing heavily, daggers in my eyes, I scan his face for clues to his puzzling comment. When he moves to slap me again, I sidestep his outstretched palm, and he demonstrates his irritation as he scoffs, “Remember those lost—” He makes finger quotes around the last word. “—packages. I might’a found ’em, might’a left ’em layin’ about for the Bishops to find so we could engineer this little meetin’.”

My president’s flippant reply sends a chill down my spine.

The only missing packages I’m aware of are the ones my fellow prospect, Benedict Cherub, was accused of losing on our latest run. He swore, black and blue, up and down, at church that he’d counted right at the start and again at the delivery spot, but Brutus still docked his meagre earnings for the “lost” packages, reduced his paid hours acting as security at the Shamrocks strip clubs, and put him on solo clean-up duty for a month in the compound. Carter and I helped him out when no one was looking, and we did our best to spread the blame between the three of us since we were all responsible for the safe passage of the recent weed crop to our Nullarbor chapter. We deflected the old timers censure from him with the logic. Tried to make them understand that we’d triple counted before leaving, again at the end of each night’s camping, and when we’d handed over the packages.

Our explanations fell on deaf ears because our word was at odds with our president’s.

Brutus Mayberry is king in our world.

Sure, the Shamrocks are technically a democracy, but everyone knows we live under one man’s rule. Normally a benevolent ruler, it now appears that my president set up my good friend to fail. It’s enraging. Grates on my sense of fair play. Pushes me closer to the edge. Where I once hero-worshipped Brutus, I have grown to resent my godfather’s callous hypocrisy in recent months.

First, he tries to limit my time with Cherub.

Then, he lies about Benedict to the club.

I should turn the homicidal tendencies he lauds so loudly on him.

It’d be a well-deserved slice of karma...

“Knew you were bent, didn’t realise your moral compass was all the way broken,” I muse loud enough for our captives to hear. They’re displaying keen interest in our conversation, likely out of some stupid hope that they’ll live to pass on any nuggets of information they glean to their president, Wolf. If they had more than one braincell between them, they’d know that their meeting with the reaper was cemented the moment I captured them at gunpoint this evening. “Next week at church’ll be fun.”

“Sure will,” he tells me with a snort. “’Cause your stoner buddy’ll be scramblin’ to explain how the Bishops got their hands on the packages he lost.” My president shrugs, then angles his head to the side. “Unless...”

It’s clear that he’s angling for something.

Rather than drive myself crazy trying to guess his next move, I ask outright, “What the fuck do ya want?”

Brutus jerks his chin toward the two men hanging from the bunker roof. “Them.”

Following his gaze, I remind myself that the underground room is soundproof. I have no alibi to this situation, and I lack a witness to Brutus’ admission about the lost packages and his threat to Benedict. Cutting a deal with him is the smartest move.

I think...

With my brain moving a million miles an hour, I stare at the ceiling like it holds the answers. As I blindly scramble to determine what Carter would do in this situation, I imagine the party getting started in the main bar above us. My best friends will be setting things up, stocking the fridges, and kowtowing to the demands of the old timers who ascribe to Brutus’ treat ’em like slaves ethos when it comes to prospects. No doubt, they’ll be slipping off every now and then to check for updates about my whereabouts, worried as they’ll be that I’m out in public fucking up my life in response to my mother’s death.

They have no idea that I’m dancing between the devil and insanity.

Trapped underground with our (maybe) dirty president.

I have two options.

Cut a deal with a maniac with an agenda.

---