Page 65 of Biker's Conquest: Property of Rage

Deacon

Ruger gets the call about my house when we’re about five miles away.My crazy ass wife threw a grenade through your front door!He screams his head off at the gas station about how “that woman will be the death of him” and how he ought to “tie her up until she learns to stop putting him under duress”.

Wyatt patiently allows him to rant and rave, but I’m still hyped up on adrenaline knowing that Keyshawn is safe and even more agitated because I don’t have my arms around her. After the hell I’ve put her through, I wouldn’t blame Keyshawn if she tried to run away properly. And succeeded.

I would feel better if I could have her in my arms or better yet, take her to bed again and show what I feel for her in the best way I know how. I was never good with words, or emotions, but the feelings I have for Keyshawn might actually end me if I can’t experience the satisfaction of holding her again.

She is more important to me than anyone. I waited my whole life to understand what men were going through when they wanted to give up every damn thing just for a woman.Keyshawn isn’t just a woman. She was made exactly for me, from the shape of her lips to the curve of her hips, so the way our lives fit so neatly together, I can’t imagine years passing without having her in my home and in my bed.

Wyatt lets Ruger get his rage out, then gives him a 6mg cinnamon flavored Zyn for the road. Ruger prefers “manly tobacco”, even if it’s more likely to kill you, but nicotine doesn’t care about his preferences. It just works to get his ass down to a manageable level before we have to unleash him on Zayna.

We ride to my house first to assess the damage. Based on Ruger’s ranting and raving… there should be bodies. I bought my house in a town that doesn’t have a fire department, but somehow the fire isn’t raging when we get there. It burned out most of the house, and appears to have mostly gone out on its own. Considering how hot and dry it is in this part of the country, that’s a damn miracle.

When we stop our bikes, Ruger has a broad smile on his face.

“Smells like a fucking barbecue in there!”

Wyatt and I exchange glances. Anyone who spends time with Ruger has that weird gut feeling about how he responds to the shit that goes on in life.

“Gasoline. Burnt plastic. Dead bodies,” Wyatt says. “It’s been a long time since I’ve been involved with dirty work.”

“You could leave it to Hunter or better yet, pull Ryder out of his marital bliss.”

Wyatt laughs. “This is partly my fault for being paranoid and losing trust. Nothing like your enemies to remind you that ultimately, we’re a club.”

He thumps me hard on the back and gestures towards the house, which sits on a slightly elevated hill. The doorway looks charred from a distance.

“Where did she get a grenade?” Wyatt asks.

“No fucking clue,” Ruger says. “I confiscated the fucking thing, twice.”

“But you kept it?”

“You never know when you might need something like that,” Ruger says.

Him and thatZayna woman are more similar than they realize, I think. We walk inside of the house together, Wyatt leading the way with his weapon drawn. It stinks. Ruger can barely contain his excitement, even if he tries to hide the way death makes him feel.

Ruger spots the first body, lying in the hallway. Technically, it’s just a leg.

“Oh fuck,” Wyatt growls. “Disgusting.”

The entire housesmells burned and grotesque. It’s no longer my dream refuge but a blacked out failed crematorium. I steel my nerves against the horrific scene and we comb the house for dead bodies and evidence of how many bikers were in my home and who might have been responsible for this.

Ruger finds a black cut attached to a torso. Thick splinters jut out of the center of the man’s torso, but Ruger lifts the cut to the light coming through a hole in the wall and we can make out the patch –Midnight SS.

“Fuck,” Wyatt growls when Ruger gives him the news. “The last of the roaches.”

“Unless one of them escaped,” Ruger says, tempering Wyatt’s optimism with potential bad news.

“We have men hunting every one of those bastards down… How the fuck did they find your house?”

“I don’t know,” I answer honestly. My house. It’s my problem now — and I have another, even bigger problem. Where will Keyshawn and our baby be safe?

We comb through the house and find three identifiable bodies. Two of them are blown to shreds. The third died from explosion shrapnel. I’m not satisfied with this. Ruger has good instincts about death and destruction. Someone could have escaped…

But we find no evidence, and the bodies are starting to bug the shit out of me. Ruger volunteers to handle the bodies, but I don’t want them buried on my land, which makes the project a lot more difficult. This is a shit show, that’s for sure.

By the time we’re done working on the house and getting a team together to finish cleaning up for the next couple days, it’s late. We have to drive for a couple hours to get to Ruger’s, but neither of us can bear waiting any longer. Wyatt stays behind at my house, waiting for Gideon, Tamiya and the rest of the private investigation crew to comb the house for possible clues about the bikers.

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